The Impossible Coin (The Downwinders Book 2)

by Michael Richan

  “How would he do that?” Deem asked.

  “I’m inclined to direct you to a friend of mine who might know more about your condition. Someone who could help you exploit it.” Carma began picking up the pie plates scattered around the room. “With a little bit of guidance, you may turn what you think is a deficiency into a strength. Just like your fine ability to tell a wonderful story. You delivered it with great aplomb! It had suspense, drama, and a laugh here and there. I told you I would like it, and I did! I want you to come by and tell a new story every weekend.”

  “Thank you, Carma,” Winn said. He felt some heat on his cheeks, and hoped he wasn’t blushing.

  Carma turned to take the plates out of the room. “Let me help you with those,” Deem said, rising from her chair and following Carma into the kitchen.

  “What about Marty?” Awan asked Winn. “Is he still alive? Do you ever see him?”

  “He’s still kicking,” Winn replied. “He and Ida have this thing; it’s kind of on and off. We don’t see each other much, but we do talk on the phone every couple of months. He actually sent me a six pack of lemonade for Christmas last year.”

  “He’s like the father you never had.”

  “He is. When I think of him, I always picture looking down on him from that treehouse, watching him putter in his yard. That yard was tiny and in a shitty little trailer court, but it was so important to him. He always tried to make it look nice, even though there were transient trailers and people who didn’t care how things looked all around him.”

  “That sounds as good of a role model as anyone ever gets,” Awan said.

  Winn nodded in agreement. It had been a few months since he’d talked to Marty on the phone. He resolved to call him tomorrow and see how he was doing.

  “And Brent,” Awan said. “He’s still in your dreams?”

  “Sometimes,” Winn said. “I still feel guilty about it.”

  “I’ve often heard guilt referred to as a shadow,” Awan said. “Follows you, but you make it.”

  “The shadow is a consequence of me standing in the sun, Awan,” Winn replied. “I can’t turn off the sun.”

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  Awan and Deem spent the night at Carma’s. Once Winn was speeding down I-15 in his Jeep, he cranked his stereo, blasting Def Leppard. He found that the older he got, the further back his musical tastes went. His interests didn’t seem to go forward into current bands, like when he was a kid. Older bands appealed more. He’d gone back to the eighties now, and he found it just kept receding. He suspected Pink Floyd and Jethro Tull were next.

  It was a hot night with a half moon when he parked his truck next to his trailer and slowly walked to the door. He saw clouds boiling in the distance – heavy weather brewing. He stopped, deciding instead to enjoy a cigarette in the chair by the cable spindle table. He lit one up, feeling the smoke in his lungs, then exhaled, looking at the stars through the smoke. They reminded him of that attic room, a place that seemed out of time, disconnected from the world, but still residing under the stars. He knew if he closed his eyes he could picture the blue swirling mist with the dark objects, almost as vivid as if it had been yesterday.

  Who were they? he wondered again, for the hundredth time. People who paid more than I did? Adversaries of the vorghost? People who touched something they shouldn’t have touched?

  Maybe he’d ask the next time he was at the house outside of Flagstaff. He knew the lay of the land now, how it all worked. He’d met with Maynard in Toquerville, filled in all the holes in Ida’s story and his own memory. He’d get all the answers he still needed the next time he went back, including the answers that might help him figure out if he wanted to do the same thing – become a vorghost in his next life. Start preparing to become whatever that was. Until then, he’d just have to wonder.

  Actions have consequences.

  He crushed out the cigarette and walked into the trailer, happy that it was nice and cool, unlike the days he’d enter his mother’s trailer. He’d sold her trailer the week she died, not wanting to live in it anymore, wanting to have his own. It was an easy way to wipe away memories, but not all memories. Some didn’t wipe away so easily.

  His clothes felt sticky, so he stripped them off, turned off the light, and laid down on the couch, naked, enjoying the cold air.

  Brent could still come back, he thought. Ida had been wrong about the vorghost obliterating Brent. Of all the interesting things he’d learned while talking to Maynard, this was the most disturbing. The threat to bring him back if Winn didn’t show up when the vorghost requested his return suggested that Brent was still somewhere, waiting for a chance to resume his haunting, held at bay by whatever power the vorghost employed.

  Is the vorghost’s strength contingent upon the vortex? he wondered, or a result of it? If the vortex were to dissolve for some reason, would Brent be released?

  Maynard didn’t think he would, but still Winn wondered. If it might cause his release, that could be a good reason to help out the vorghost when it called him. Not just an obligation, but a necessity.

  He closed his eyes, feeling a slight rocking of the trailer as the wind picked up. It could get pretty windy in Moapa. He’d sunk spikes years ago, and had hurricane straps he could use if it looked particularly nasty. Normally when he felt the trailer move, he’d get up and check the forecast, just to see if setting up the straps was a good idea.

  Today he didn’t feel like it. He decided instead to remain on the couch, ready for sleep, feeling the gentle rocking. In response to his decision, a strong gust jostled the structure.

  The consequence of not strapping down the trailer might be an overturned trailer, he thought. He exhaled. Then he got up and pulled on his pants, heading to the back where he kept the straps.

  If I had known the coin would do that to Brent, I wouldn’t have given it to him when we were sleeping on that platform up in the tree, he thought as he rummaged for the straps, irritated that he couldn’t find them quickly, and that the story he told in Leeds was still alive in his mind, plaguing him. But we’ve been through this a hundred times, haven’t we? If I had kept it, they would have taken me instead of Brent to the cave, and slit MY throat to feed the cave spirit. My bones might still be down there, undiscovered. The whole situation was impossible.

  “We were doomed the moment we crawled in there,” he said aloud while he searched through a drawer for the straps. “I didn’t want to go in. I said we shouldn’t. He went in first. He decided to go in. There were consequences for his actions, too.”

  The straps weren’t to be found, but he saw the envelope, the one he’d tucked away years ago, up against the edge of the drawer. He opened it and let the coin drop out and into his hand. He turned it over, looking at the date and the mint and the etching of Thomas Jefferson. He held it between his finger and thumb, hoping it might come to life and produce the thrill it had done years ago.

  Nothing happened.

  “Why’d I keep you?” he said to the coin. “Why did I decide to keep you? You’re useless. And now you’re just a reminder that I lost my friend.”

  He slammed the drawer shut and walked to the trailer door. As he opened it, the wind ripped it from his hands and it slammed back against the side of the trailer with a bang. He stepped outside, dirt kicking up from the ground, swirling around him. He thought for a moment about his mother, then he walked across his driveway and into the brush. He reared his arm back and threw the nickel as hard as he could into the wind, and he saw it glint for a split second as it traveled up, near the stars, and then back down again, many yards away, somewhere in the desert.

  “Hunting for the mine was your idea, Brent,” he said. “I didn’t kill you when I gave you that coin. You killed yourself when you crawled into the cave. There are consequences, Brent. Not just for me.”

  He half believed what he was saying as he stood in the wind, the temperature slowly dropping, feeling the sand sting his face. He turned and walked back into the trailer
, pulling the door shut. He wanted to sleep, but he knew he had to find the straps and secure the trailer before he’d be able to close his eyes.

  ###

  Michael Richan lives in Seattle, Washington. He was born in California and raised in Utah.

  Receive the novella Residual FREE when you sign up for Michael’s email list!

  ▪ ▪ ▪

  The next adventure awaits!

  The Graves of Plague Canyon is the next book in The Downwinders series. A complimentary first chapter has been included for you to enjoy!

  Pick up your copy at Amazon today!

  ▪ ▪ ▪

  Please leave your review of The Impossible Coin at Amazon!

  The Downwinders series:

  Blood Oath, Blood River

  The Impossible Coin

  The Graves of Plague Canyon

  The River series:

  The Bank of the River

  Residual

  A Haunting in Oregon

  Ghosts of Our Fathers

  Eximere

  The Suicide Forest

  Devil’s Throat

  The Diablo Horror

  The Haunting at Grays Harbor

  It Walks At Night

  The Dark River series:

  A

  All three series are part of The River Universe, and there is crossover of some characters and plots. For a suggested reading order, see the Author’s Website.

  Complimentary first chapter of the next book in The Downwinders series,

  The Graves of Plague Canyon

  Deem climbed the dark staircase, checking each step to make sure it would hold her weight. With the extreme age of the building, and the fact that half of it was demolished, she didn’t trust the rickety staircase under her feet. She was afraid of falling through it to god knows what below.

  Why would someone go into a building like this? she wondered. The entire place is about to fall down!

  Just a half hour ago she received a desperate call from Erin, a friend who lived in Kingman. She asked Deem to check on her friend David, who had called her from the building Deem was now walking through, trapped somewhere on the upper level.

  She pulled a flask from her jacket pocket and let a couple mouthfuls of protection slide down her throat, wincing as it stung. A window in the stairwell appeared on her right, and she glanced out over the zoned-off construction area outside, a chain-link fence in the distance where she’d entered through the opening David made earlier. The lights in the parking lot beyond were bright enough to cast light into the stairwell, and Deem was grateful. Using a flashlight in this place would surely alert security or the cops.

  When she turned the corner at the top, she saw a large, open floor, half gone. The floor was shiny and looked like small strips of wood, especially at the point where the demolition had stopped.

  That’s right, she remembered. This place used to be a skating rink. A very old one, with a beautiful wooden floor. It’s been closed for ages. Why would someone sneak in here, especially in this state?

  She walked out onto the floor. It appeared to be stable. The demolition was about halfway complete, and she could see through the open end of the building to the rooftop of a business next door. Small particles of dust blew through the air as the wind raced freely into the space. Another day, she thought, and this will all be gone.

  Across the skating floor in another direction was a door that had an “Employees Only” sign, with windows that opened onto the rink. She walked silently and carefully over the floor toward it, expecting to feel the wood move under her. With half the floor gone, disappearing into nothing twenty feet to her right, she felt the need to tread very lightly.

  The door to the office was open, and as soon as she walked in she could hear rustling. It was darker, and since she couldn’t see any exterior windows, she felt using her flashlight might be safe. She turned it on, and walked past a desk. The rustling was coming from a room in the back.

  When she reached it, she was greeted with an unusual sight: a young man, crouched on the floor inside an alcove lined with shelves. Above him, in the ceiling, was an opening that led to the attic. The man seemed stuck, his left arm immobile, his right arm extended, holding a phone.

  Deem walked toward him, and he looked up at her. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Get down!” he replied, looking up at the hole overhead. It looked empty.

  “There’s nothing there,” Deem said.

  “There is!” he said. “It keeps popping out!”

  Deem dropped into the River and saw movement in the opening overhead. Something was shifting up there, drifting around just outside of sight.

  She took another step forward, and the image descended rapidly from the opening, face and arms first, reaching for the kid. It was ghostly white and moved very quickly, stretching to touch him but coming up short. Its fingers swiped through the air six inches from his head, moving back and forth in frustration, unable to descend farther. After a while it retreated back into the opening.

  Deem dropped from the River and moved toward the young man.

  “Don’t come closer!” he said, extending his hand with the phone toward her to stop her. “It’ll come out again. It pops out every few seconds.”

  “I take it you’re David?” Deem asked.

  “And you’re Erin’s friend?” he asked in return.

  “Slide out from there!” Deem said.

  “I can’t!” David replied. “My left arm won’t move. It’s stuck against the wall, some kind of trap.” He illustrated by trying to pull himself free, but it didn’t work.

  Deem dropped into the River once again, and saw a faint luminescent glow on the wall where David’s arm was stuck. She dropped back out. “Some kind of glue. I’m guessing it was put there to try and stop whoever is dropping from the ceiling. Like flypaper.”

  “Then why has it trapped me?” David asked, tugging at his arm, trying to pull free.

  The white figure dropped from the ceiling once again, a faint image that filled the alcove with a fog, partially obscuring the shelves. Deem dropped into the River, and it came into view — a long, thin man, his hair tumbled over his head, his face contorted into an angry snarl. His torso was mostly bones, but his face still contained flesh. Deem rose slowly through the roof and into the attic, where she saw that the man’s feet were attached to a similar luminescent substance that had been painted on the floor surrounding the opening. He was trapped, just like David. She returned to her body on the floor below and dropped out of the flow.

  “You entered the River when you were touching it?” Deem asked. “Of course you did.”

  “I guess so,” David replied.

  “It’s not holding your physical body,” Deem said. “It’s attached to the part of you that enters the River. The zombighost’s feet are stuck to a similar substance up there.” She nodded toward the opening. “That’s why it hasn’t sliced your face off yet.”

  “Zombighost?” he asked.

  “That’s what we call ghosts that transform, due to the radiation,” Deem said. “You’ve never heard the term?”

  “No,” David said. “All I want is to get away from it. I’ve been trapped here for an hour!”

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” Deem asked.

  “I came to get something,” David replied. “I think it’s on a shelf up there.” He pointed to one of the shelves lining the alcove underneath the opening. “Do you know how I can get free of this stuff?” He tugged at his arm again, but it didn’t budge.

  The ghost let out a snarl and descended through the hole again, straining to reach him.

  “You realize its fingers aren’t really fingers anymore, not when it’s transformed, don’t you?” Deem asked. “They’re more like claws, with sharp blades. If it reaches you, those fingers will slash into you.”

  “I figured it was dangerous,” David said. “But no, I didn’t know that exactly.”

  Deem looked at him. He was young,
about her age. He had blond curly hair and was wearing his inexperience like the letterman jacket wrapped around his chest.

  “Did you drink protection before you came in here?” she asked.

  “What?” he replied. “Protection?”

  “You don’t know what protection is?”

  “Of course I do,” he said. “Protection is when something is protected. Covered. Uh, sheltered from harm, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Deem said. “Did you drink any?”

  “Drink protection?” David replied, cowering down as the zombighost launched from the hole again, swinging its arms at him for a moment, then retracting back into the opening. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Deem removed her flask and slid it along the floor toward David. “Put down your phone and pick up the flask,” Deem said. “Take two large mouthfuls.”

  David did as she instructed, and he sputtered after the gulps. “What’s in this? Booze?”

  “A little bit,” Deem said. “Make sure you drink enough.”

  David capped the flask. “What now?”

  “Just wait,” Deem said. “It’ll take a moment to sink into you.”

  “You think this will break me free?” David asked.

  “It’s a good bet,” she replied. “I see from your jacket you went to Dixie. What’d you letter in?”

  “Football,” he replied. “Are you from around here?”

  “Grew up in Mesquite,” she replied. “Been staying in Leeds.”

  “You know Erin?” David asked.

  “She and I used to be best friends. I guess we still are. Since she lives in Kingman now, I don’t see her much. How do you know Erin?”

  “We’ve been chatting online,” David replied. “There’s a forum for people who are…” he paused.

  “Gifted?” Deem offered.

  “Yeah, gifted. We met there. She’s been helping me deal with my parents.”