Stolen Ghouls

by Alex A King

  “Your heart stopped.”

  “Yeah, because a poltergeist reached into my chest and squeezed. It’s not like it was an actual medical issue.”

  “So you say, but how about you wait until the doctor gives the all-clear?”

  “He’s got thirty minutes.”

  “Stay where you are or I’ll cuff you to the bed.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise? Almost dying had really put a crimp in my critical reasoning skills.”

  “Yes.” Although he looked tired, his eyes twinkled.

  Toula didn’t relinquish control easily.

  “Open the door,” I said.

  “No.”

  “I have to get out sometime.”

  “Who says so?”

  “I can’t live in your minivan.”

  “Move in with us. We’ve got a spare room.”

  She meant well but I’d rather dine exclusively at Crusty Dimitri’s than move in with my sister and her family. Toula’s spare room was a cupboard. I’d be a taller, girlier, less magical Harry Potter. My apartment was mine and it was home.

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “What if you …”

  “Die?”

  She winced. “Do you have to say it like that?”

  “We all die, Toula. No one gets out alive. The good news is that death isn’t the end. There’s a vibrant community in the Afterlife, complete with games and activities. To be honest it sounds a bit like a cruise, but with judgment.”

  “What about your heart? It could happen again.”

  “It won’t.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. I know you don’t want to believe in ghosts but they’re real, Toula. I see them, and Milos and Patra see them. Provided I don’t go around imprisoning and infuriating ghosts, I’ll be fine.”

  I wasn’t convinced of that. Somewhere on this island two poltergeists were wafting around, waiting to cause havoc. Sooner or later someone would have to point them toward the light. Probably it would have to be me.

  Toula said nothing. The minivan’s doors unlocked.

  “Can I have a hug?” I asked.

  “One hug. But only a small one.”

  We hugged. My sister felt thin and tired, with a rebar skeleton.

  “Wow. That really was a small one.”

  “Told you,” she said.

  Roger Wilson was in his circle, watching Dead Cat lick his ghost balls with one leg stuck straight up in the air.

  “I wish I could do that,” he said woefully.

  “Maybe you can. It seems like physics is less of a problem once you’re dead.”

  “I meant walk around freely.”

  “You can walk around if you like.” My foot hovered close to the salt circle. “Say the word and I’ll break the line.”

  “A good host would make a bigger circle.”

  “Is that what you were, a good host?”

  He stared at me for a good, long while.

  “Hello?” I clicked my fingers in front of his face.

  “What are you yapping about, then?” he said.

  “I know you can see ghosts, just like me. That’s why you can see the Cake Emporium.” I got the empty pink jar around of my bag, the one Kyria Fasoula had helped herself to after Wilson’s death, the one on overpriced loan from Marcia Smith. I popped the cork. “How does this work?”

  “Work? It’s just a jar. Open the lid, stick things in.”

  “Is it really just a jar? I don’t think so. A little birdie told me it’s a Himalayan salt jar.”

  “So?” His voice wobbled out on shaky legs. As a ghost made of whatever it was ghosts were made of he shouldn’t be able to sweat, yet beads formed around his hairline, a soggy crown for the king of doo-doo heads.

  I waved it under his nose. “How did you get them in there?”

  “What are you talking about? What is this fooking shite?”

  “Come on, I know every single one of these little pink jars contains a ghost. You imprisoned them, trapped them without a choice. What kind of jerk face does that?”

  He bloated up with righteous indignation. “You of all people should understand they were plaguing me. Day and night. Talk, talk, talk. Wanting me to do favors for them. Wanting to hold conversations. I couldn’t bloody stand it. Bloody yapping ghosts. Got verbal diarrhea, all of them. They never bloody shut up.”

  “So you trapped every ghost you could find in a salt jar and stuck them on a shelf?”

  “Only the ones who bothered me,” he said in a sulky voice. He was acting as though I’d caught him stealing out of the cookie jar instead of holding hostages.

  “There are hundreds of jars in your house.”

  “They’ve been bothering me for a long time, haven’t they?”

  “Couldn’t you have told them to leave you alone?” The moment I said it I realized it sounded ridiculous. Case in point: Roger Wilson.

  “Have you ever told a clingy ghost to leave you alone? They don’t give up. Get yourself a stalker and you can call the police, but what about when that stalker is a ghost? There’s no escaping them. That’s how it was until my research led me to the la-de-da magical protective properties of salt. At first I trapped them or myself in rings of salt but it wasn’t permanent enough. I had to go to my job, move around, go to the pub for a pint or two, and salt rings don’t last long or do anything to stop all that ruddy chatter. If I wanted someone constantly blabbing in my ear I would have got myself a wife.”

  Charming. “So you discovered Himalayan salt jars.”

  “I knew there had to be a more permanent solution, didn’t I? I couldn’t block them out so I had to lock them up.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “The jar that stupid bint sent me was a defective piece of shite. There was a hairline crack in the thing which rendered it useless. Then I dropped it by mistake and the whole thing shattered and the … the …”

  “Poltergeist?”

  “Yeah, I suppose that’s what it was. Anyway, it came gushing out, pissed off about its situation. The moment I realized what was going on, I ran.”

  “To the Cake Emporium?”

  “Did you know you can go anywhere, at any time in history via that cake shop? I thought I could convince that Betty woman to open a door back to England, where the bugger couldn’t reach me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Betty wasn’t there, was she? So I had to help myself to her shop—not that I wanted to but I was bloody desperate with a pissed off ghost on my arse. I thought once I was inside the shop I’d be safe, but it followed me inside. Why on earth that woman doesn’t have protection around her shop I will never know.”

  Probably because half her customers wouldn’t be able to come inside if she salted the place.

  “What happened?”

  “Bloody poltergeist sailed right through the door like there wasn’t nowt there. And now here we are. I’m dead, and you’re so stupid it took you this long to figure things out.”

  Roger Wilson was a ghost in dire need of a throat punch.

  “Why did it attack Kyria Fasoula?”

  “Probably because she was always there at my place, and so it decided she needed a good walloping. Who knows why bloody ghosts do what they do.”

  “Again, I’d like to point out that you are one, so you’re uniquely qualified to answer that question for yourself.”

  “Of all the daft twats I’ve ever met, and I’ve known some, you’re the daftest twat to ever twat.”

  “I still don’t understand how you got them into the itty bitty jar,” I said evenly, trying to maintain my cool.

  “Even the paranormal is science—it’s just science mankind hasn’t unlocked yet because it’s too busy pouring money into nonsense like sending robots to Mars and snapping pictures of stars. Put one of those jars close to a ghost and it sucks it right up like a vacuum cleaner.”

  “That simple?”

  “It’s not rocket science. Even a dimw
it like you could figure it out.”

  I wiggled the jar in the air. “Good to know. Thanks.”

  His eyes narrowed into wary, watery slits. “You’d better not use my own jar against me.”

  “Or what? You’ll bug me? You’re bugging me now. You’ve been bugging me for days. You’ve got two choices. Buzz off to the Afterlife where you belong, or it’s the genie treatment for you. The way Robin Williams told it, it’ll give you a real crick in the neck.”

  His gaze shot to the high, distant corner of my living room. Gears clicked. The truth slapped me like a Greek grandmother waving a wooden spoon. “You can’t go to the Afterlife, can you? You tried but they won’t let you in because you’re too scummy. I bet trapping ghosts is some kind of high crime in the Afterlife. Like keeping hostages or prisoners of war.”

  “I could go if I wanted to,” he said sulkily.

  I wagged my finger at him. “You can’t or you would have already gone to get away from the poltergeists. I’m curious, how did the first one leave your property? You had a salt ring around the whole place.”

  “Bloody well scuffed it while I was running, did I? Wait—poltergeists? Plural?” His outrage turned to horror. “What did you do?”

  I winced. “Science experiment. A failed science experiment. I opened another jar to see what would happen.”

  “You stupid bloody cow!”

  “Tsk, tsk. Get in the jar, Mr. Wilson. At least until I figure out what I’m supposed to do with you. I bet there’s some kind of supernatural court or something. A paranormal The Hague.”

  I waved the jar at him.

  He opened his mouth to spew more insults, but nothing came out. At that exact same moment, a hole replaced my ceiling, onyx black and swirling. Wilson’s eyes widened until they were all eyeball and no lids. He unleashed a silent scream and waved his arms, obviously being attacked by invisible killer bees.

  My heart thrashed against my rib cage. I cursed my knees for being too wobbly to let me hurl myself behind the couch to hide. Which meant I was stuck to the floor, gawking in terror and bathed in cold sweat as Wilson flailed and swore.

  “You slagging git,” he hollered. “I’m going to kick you in the bollocks!”

  The hole, like most holes, didn’t care. A giant, pale hand with red-tipped fingernails reached down, seized Wilson by the shirt collar, and yanked him into the darkness. Without so much as a whisper, the hole sealed up and my ceiling was back to its flat white state.

  Heart banging around, hunting for the nearest exit, I flopped down on the couch now that my feet had come unglued. I pulled pillows over my head, then stuck my head back out when I realized pillows aren’t conducive to breathing,

  Whoa. Trippy. Of all the things I expected to happen, that wasn’t one of them. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering if the portal had been one of those temporary things or a feature of my apartment. And what about Roger Wilson? Where was he now?

  “They were always going to get him, in the end.”

  I leaped out of my skin. The man in black stepped into view. His hands were buried deep in his coat pockets. As always, he seemed to be moving through the world in his own personal shadow.

  “Were you hiding out in my kitchen? And who is they?”

  He conveniently ignored the part about my kitchen. “What Wilson spent his life doing to those spirits was unethical, criminal, despicable. The dead have the freedom to choose, the same as the living. Wilson deprived them of their choices. Now he has to pay the price.”

  “What price?”

  “Why do you wish to know, Allie Callas?”

  “Maybe it will be useful.”

  “Maybe. With the life you lead that is a possibility. “ With the casual gait of a large cat, he sauntered the window. For the longest time he stood there, watching the world turn. It wasn’t much of the world and it didn’t turn far. “Very well. Wilson will be imprisoned. There will be no more choices for him. He can never come back, in this body or another.”

  A long moment passed while I processed this new information.

  “Are you saying reincarnation is real?”

  He glanced around the room, lingering on nothing. When he answered, he neatly sidestepped my question. “The restless spirit knew you would help. It tried to make contact.”

  “It made a pretty good tornado, but writing a note would have been more effective.”

  “It tried.”

  “Vanquish Wilson? That was the poltergeist?”

  “Poltergeist attacks are imprecise and unsustainable beyond short bursts. It did what it could. Wilson’s jars are gone, except the empty vessel in your hand. His prisoners are free now.”

  “They aren’t still hanging around, are they?”

  “No. They chose to move on. Including the spirit Wilson accidentally unleashed, and the one you set free.” He stood there for a long, thoughtful moment. “I wish to give you something.”

  “Like the salt shaker? That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “A mere token. Here.”

  He reached into his pocket and produced another of Wilson’s jars, intact and unopened, pink and perfect. He placed it carefully in my hands. Despite the coolness of the day the salt was warm, as though lit from within with a small fire.

  “The last of its kind. A memento. A cautionary tale. Call it what you will, it is yours now. You are the caretaker of this soul.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “There are few who would appreciate the contents hidden within.”

  “Why not open the lid and set whatever—whoever—is inside free, like the others?”

  “The soul inside is … unique. I’m curious,” he said, his expression unreadable, “to know if you can resist the temptation.”

  “My willpower is decent. I once went a whole day without eating cake.”

  There was a short pause as if he was deciding whether to smile or not. He didn’t. “Admirable.”

  He left me standing there, choosing to exit via my apartment door, although I’d bet my life that wasn’t the way he had entered.

  A cool breeze wound around my shins. Dead Cat chose the strangest time to stake his claim on me.

  I set the jar carefully on the coffee table alongside the empty container Kyria Fasoula had claimed, the one that had almost become a holding cell for Roger Wilson. Dead Cat jumped up beside me. He stared at the pink containers, unblinking.

  “What do you think?”

  He meowed—a small, delicate sound for a cat who was part pirate.

  “Whatever you said, I agree.”

  Sometime later, there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, Leo swung in carrying a bag of gyros, souvlakia, and two small bottles of retsina.

  “Don’t want to eat alone,” he said, helping himself to my apartment.

  “That sounds like an excuse.”

  “It’s definitely an excuse. Gyro or souvlaki?”

  “Both.”

  “My kind of woman,” he growled.

  He deposited the food on the kitchen table and popped the lids off the retsina bottles. No glasses. No plates. The way takeout should be eaten.

  “Do we have company?” he asked.

  The succubi were notably absent. Nice.

  “None. Not even a ghost.”

  “Did you find Roger Wilson?”

  What could I say? A giant vortex opened up in my ceiling and snarfed him up like a potato chip? “He’s no longer a problem.”

  Leo shot me a questioning look.

  “Karma karma’d him,” I said.

  His gaze cut sideways to the pair of pink jars on the coffee table. “And those?”

  “No longer ghost hotels,” I lied. The man had fought to keep me alive when a poltergeist tried to haul me over the finish line. He didn’t need to know one remained fully loaded.

  Detective Leo Samaras, big bad cop, crossed himself, forehead to chest, shoulder to shoulder. Then he smiled. “Since we’ve got the place to ourselves, let’s eat. Want to make out afterwards?�
�

  My heart fluttered. Suddenly the food didn’t look so good. I wanted something hotter, spicier. “Or we could eat later.”

  A delicious grin spread across Leo’s face. “Eat first. You’re going to need the energy.”

  My cheeks went up in flames. “Ha!”

  “Okay, I’m going to need the energy.”

  We stared at each other across the table. We held hands. A whole lot of no-eating happened.

  Then my cell phone, the big jerk, rang. I listened for a moment, thanked the caller, and stuffed my phone into my bag before slinging it over my shoulder.

  Leo gave me a curious look. “What is it?”

  “Put the food in the refrigerator and the make-out plans on hold. We’ve been invited to a party.”

  Milkshakes don’t bring all the boys to a Greek yard, but shove a spit up a lamb’s butt and men will gravitate to the yard to huddle around the glowing coals until the meat is covered in a crispy crust. Greeks love a party. Good party, bad party, doesn’t matter. They love parties as hard as they can.

  The ingredients for a good Greek party had accumulated in the Fasoulas’ yard in abundant proportions. The people. The food. The tinny sound of Rembetika—Greek folks music. And the requisite dead animal rotating slowly over hot coals.

  “Kaloste!” Kyrios Fasoulas crowed, welcoming us. For once he wasn’t attached to a newspaper. Arms outstretched, he did a sirtaki in our direction. Very Zorba of him.

  “He’s out of jail?” I asked Leo.

  He shrugged. “Kyria Fasoula finally admitted she was assaulted by an invisible presence. Under the circumstances—”

  “You mean me—I’m the circumstances.”

  “I’m trying to get a grip on the ghost thing, but for now let’s say I believe her husband wasn’t the one using her as a punching bag.” He nodded at our oncoming host. “Let’s do this.”

  We slapped on a pair of smiles that, at least in my case, felt real enough. Kyrios Fasoulas took my hand. I took Leo’s. He grabbed someone else’s. Within moments we had formed a dancing chain.

  “Eleni!” Kyrios Fasoulas yelled to his wife or his soon-to-be ex wife. “Put down the food and come dance.”

  His wife—bruised but still alive—was ferrying a mountain of Greek potato salad—potatoes, onions, lemon—to a long table. She set it down, wiped her hands on her apron, and seized the nearest waving hand.