by Harper, Lou
She sniffled and Denton rummaged around the coffee table shelves till he found a box of tissues to hand her. "It couldn't have been easy for either of you," he said in a sympathetic tone.
She blew her nose and crumpled the tissue in her fist. "I wish I'd done more for her, but I have three teenagers at home, and a job. You can imagine. Frankie is single. He gave up his own place and even quit his job to look after Mother. And then—" She halted, dabbed her nose, and took a deep breath before going on. "It happened the week before Christmas. Frankie just ran out to the store, wasn't gone for more than half an hour, but it was enough. M-mother killed herself. Slit her wrists in the tub. Sh-she left a note saying she didn't want to be a burden any longer, and wanted to be with dad." The tears poured freely from her eyes now.
"I'm sorry," Denton said and he really meant it. He felt impotent in the face of her pain.
But Sarah Martel rallied. She yanked more tissues from the box and dried her eyes. "I'm so sorry to dump this on you. I really didn't mean to. I think of her all the time, in my dreams she's alive, and after waking for a few seconds I don't know what's true. But it's much harder on Frankie. He'd always been such a sensitive boy. Now he blames himself for what happened, even for Mom getting sick. You see, I understand why mother did what she did. I can even accept it, but laying this burden on Frankie, it wasn't right. And now the haunting." She shook her head. "It's so wrong. I want them both to find peace."
"Has your brother thought of moving?"
"I tried to convince him to move but he refuses. He's not listening to me at all. I'm terribly worried about him—I'm afraid he might do the same as Mother. If I lost him too I'd never forgive myself. I don't know why mother can't pass onto the other side, but she's driving Frankie mad. Please, help me make her stop."
"It's all right, Mrs. Martel, we'll take care of the ghost if there is one," Bran said, appearing unexpectedly in the doorway.
She jumped a little and stared at Bran wordlessly. Bran often had this effect on strangers.
This is Bran Maurell," Denton said as way of introduction. "We work together."
Her cheeks flushed as her eyes met Denton's. "Yes, Lyn told me about your…uhm, partner." She turned back to Bran. "I was just explaining to Denton—"
"I heard everything from the other room. Would you like some tea? I have a nice herbal blend to calm the nerves."
"I'd love some," she agreed.
Twenty minutes and a few cups of tea later she seemed in better or at least sturdier spirits.
Bran took charge of matters. "We'll need to visit the apartment first to assess the situation," he explained. "Will your brother be open to a visit and possible house cleansing and ghost removal?"
She bit her lips. "Uh. I'm afraid not. But I could convince him to leave the house for a few hours and you could let yourself in. I have my own keys, I can get duplicates made."
Bran frowned. "That's breaking and entering."
Denton opened his mouth to mention the time they were trespassing in a cemetery to collect graveyard dust at midnight, stopped himself in time.
Mrs. Martel brightened. "Technically, the condo is half mine. I could sign a paper stating you're there on my behalf."
Bran seemed to consider this. "All right. It's a plan then," he agreed in the end.
They exchanged phone numbers and Mrs. Martel left.
"You know for an antisocial old grump you can be really nice when you try," Denton said as the door closed behind her.
Bran stood, facing Denton, and blinked once. "Are you calling me old?"
***
When they got a visitor the very next evening Denton expected it to be Sarah Martel. Opening the door, Denton opened his mouth to greet her but the words stuck in his throat. Standing in the hallway was a short man, not an inch over four feet, but perfectly proportioned, except his overlarge eyes. They were gray like stormy skies. He wore a three piece dark suit, high-collared shirt, bow tie, and a funny, round hat. Bowler hat, the words crawled out from those dark recesses of Denton's brain where useless information dwelled.
The strange little man had a sharp, purposeful way about him. "I'm looking for Dead Man," he said.
"That would be me," Denton admitted, wondering if this was a vampire business. Only vamps called him Dead Man. "What can I do for you?"
The little man tilted his hat. "My name is Hobart Brown. You may call me Mr. Brown. I'm here to deliver an invitation." He pulled a purple envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and thrust it under Denton's nose. "My mistress requests you bring along your accomplice—the one with the tail. And be punctual. She doesn't abide tardiness."
By reflex Denton took the envelope, but instead of opening it, he simply stood there, gaping at the man. All this nonsensical information overwhelmed his brain, and his ability to talk went missing.
Mr. Brown tilted his hat again. "Good day, sir." He turned and headed down the hallway.
Finding his voice, Denton called after. "Hey, wait! What's this about?" But Mr. Brown ignored him.
Denton looked down at the envelope, turned it over and saw red wax seal on the other side—it showed an eye encircled by stars. When he looked back up the little man was gone. Odd, he thought. He hadn't heard the ding of the elevator, and the stairs were in the other direction.
As his habit when in doubt, Denton went to find Bran. "I'm pretty sure he meant you by the accomplice with the tail," Denton finished his account of the encounter.
To Denton's surprise Bran blanched at the sight of the seal. "It's from the Old Crone," he said and slipped a letter opener under a flap. He pulled out a single sheet of white paper. In cursive script and in ink as purple as the envelope it displayed an address, the day's date, and the words: At the witching hour.
"Who's the Old Crone? Is she a vampire?" asked Denton.
Bran slid the sheet back into the envelope. "Far from it. She's…hard to say. Somewhere between an oracle and an enforcer."
"What, like for the mob?"
"Worse. My mother received an invitation like this, after the dalliance with my dad. She warned me never to upset the Old Crone."
"What do you think she wants?"
"We'll find out tonight at midnight." Bran said warily.
***
Denton presumed they'd drive, being the middle of the night, but instead, Bran called a cab. When asked why, Bran simply said it would be more practical. The address where they were dropped off was nothing but a featureless metal door set in a wall barely wider than the door itself, wedged between a used bookstore and a place selling custom signs and rubber stamps. The door had no knob or even a key hole. Lacking a better idea he put his hand against the metal. The moment he made contact he heard the lock click open. "Wicked," he said. He couldn't help but feel giddy. This was like an adventure. He liked adventures.
Bran responded to his thrill with gloom. "Just go."
They climbed a narrow staircase up one floor to a dimly lit corridor. The setting reminded Denton of an apartment building he'd once lived in, except there were no doors. At the far end they found another staircase—going down this time—but this one was spiral and made of dark wood that creaked at their every step. They kept going, through more stairs and corridors, and several changes of direction.
As they went, the wall coverings ranged from peeling paint to velvet wallpaper. Denton suspected some of the lights weren't even electric. He would've liked to stop and investigate everything, but Bran nudged him on. They walked side-by-side, their shoulders brushing. Denton lost all sense of time but when he pulled out his phone to check all he saw was a black screen.
Denton knew they'd finally arrived when he saw the first door since they'd stepped inside. It was an old style wooden thing with a frosted glass inset, like the entrances to private detectives’ offices in old movies. However the gold lettering on the glass stated: Old Crone. Below the glass was a small bronze plaque: No Spitting.
Denton raised his hand and gingerly tapped on the
glass. A short shadow appeared on the other side and a second later Hobart Brown stood in the open doorway. "So you're here," he said in place of a greeting. "Take your shoes off. Socks too,"
Stepping inside Denton found himself in a large, five-sided room. While removing his footwear he glanced around curiously. Four out of the five walls had doors in them, but were otherwise lined with shelves and the shelves were packed with books and…wheels of cheese. They all appeared old and moldy. The books and the cheese. The furnishings of the room reflected an eclectic taste—some of them could've been collectors’ items, others were stuff you'd find next to a dumpster. On one desk Denton spotted an array of plain white paper plates. They all had pieces of cheese on them, some fresh, some dried up, and some growing green fuzz. Every plate had words scribbled on them as well.
"Mistress is waiting for you in the atrium," the little man announced, leading them toward one of the doors.
They walked down a hallway past closed doors to an open one at the opposite end. Their guide stood aside and gestured for them to enter.
Denton and Bran went inside, and through a green tunnel of plants reached a circular clearing paved with stones of many sizes and shapes. Some were as small as pebbles, others as big as dinner plates. Sunken lights around the perimeter illuminated this area but the outer edges of the atrium were lost to darkness. They seemed to be alone. Bran reached out to one of the plants to rub a leaf between his fingers.
Denton looked up and through a glass dome and saw a huge, bright moon and myriads of stars against a black sky. "Wow, I've never seen so many of them." he said.
"You're skinnier than I expected," said a voice, startling Denton so much he leapt back and bumped into Bran. He immediately felt foolish. The woman standing in front of them seemed harmless.
"Are you the Old Crone?" he asked, uncertain in his own words. She wasn't old, thirty-five or so. She wore jeans, T-shirt, and a baggy cardigan with sagging pockets. No shoes. Her hair was in a messy bun, held together with chopsticks and yellow pencils. However, her eyes were the oddest: one gray, the other amber. They didn't look in the same direction either.
Her yellow eye stared unblinking at Denton. "They call me by that name. Are you eating right?"
"It's my metabolism," Denton muttered. He didn't think of her quite as harmless anymore.
"I bet you stuff yourself with junk food," she said.
"Not so much anymore. Bran—" he didn't get to finish.
The Old Crone had already whirled away, toward Bran. She sniffed the air. "You smell familiar."
Bran wore his face solemn. "You met my mother, Layla Maurell."
She shook her head. "It wasn't me. But I remember her well. Trouble maker. So you'd be the apple from the tree. So not surprised." She clapped her hands. "Let's get started, shall we?"
"Started with what?" Denton asked.
"The inquisition, of course." She grabbed the befuddled Denton by the elbow and dragged him to the far side of the clearing. "Stand here," she said prodding him onto one of the bigger stones. She frowned and nudged him again. "No. Over here. On this one. Yes, that's good. Stay there."
She positioned Bran too, then moved to the middle of the space and stepped onto what Denton realized was a perfectly round piece of rock. As she crouched down the lights went out all at once. She whispered words in a language Denton was certain he'd never heard, and it might not have been human either. It had lots of sh sounds. Shounds. He felt the stone under his bare feet become warm—not enough to be uncomfortable, so he stayed still. He didn't dare to move anyway.
Some of the other stones began to change too; unfamiliar markings appeared on their surface, shimmering in the moonlight. And then the stones—except the ones they were standing on—started to move and Denton nearly jumped. His muscles twitched but fortunately his feet remained firmly planted. The Old Crone snapped her head in his direction and gave him a warning look. Her eyes, especially the yellow one, shone bright in the darkness.
Past his initial surprise, Denton watched with amazement as the stones jostled around. It was like a huge, self-solving puzzle. By the time they stopped moving a number of marked stones arranged themselves into three straight lines, one connecting Bran with Denton, and two others connecting each with a third stone, creating a triangle. The glowing signs stood out in the darkness. It wasn't an even-sided triangle though, the one between Denton and the third stone was shorter than the other two.
The Old Crone, who had stood up and had been quietly observing the proceedings, suddenly cried out. "Whattafuck?" She hopped over to the third stone, squatted and cupped her hands over something Denton couldn't see. "Hob! Bring me a jar!" she shouted, straightening up.
The little man rushed in a couple of seconds later, holding a glass jar. She dropped whatever she held in her hands into it and rushed out. The stones stopped shimmering but Denton didn't know if he was allowed to move yet, so he didn't. Neither did Bran.
"You may join mistress in the study," Hobart Brown said, clarifying the situation.
***
In the study, the one Denton renamed to Cheese Room, he, Bran, and the Old Crone came to sit in three very different chairs around a small round table. While he and Bran pulled their socks and shoes back on, she put her left foot over her right knee and joggled it with a nervous energy. She was still barefoot and Denton noticed her toenails had been painted purple. "This…" With a purple fingernail she tapped the glass jar sitting on the table. "…is your doing." Her yellow eye stared at them accusingly.
Denton leaned closer and saw an ordinary Mason jar, the kind his grandma used to fill with pickled green tomatoes. There were no pickles inside, only a frog. Big and translucent. "Uhm." He swallowed. "I've been hallucinating frogs recently," he admitted. "But I don't know what it has to do with this. I'm pretty sure it's an emotional transference thing, since Bran's a witch and he's obsessed with Peter, whom—" he clamped his mouth shut but it was too late.
"Who's Peter?" She asked sharply. She turned her amber eye to Bran but now the gray one was on Denton.
Bran appeared extremely uncomfortable. "A man I had an affair with fourteen years ago. But I'm obsessing. I was concerned. After all, I turned the guy into a frog."
She took his words without surprise. "I see. Why?"
"It was an accident. We were at the lily pool in Lincoln Park. He said something hurtful and I…I don't know what I did, but next thing I knew, Peter's clothes were lying on the ground and a frog hopped out of them. Straight into the water."
"Spontaneous spell throwing. Yes, it's starting to make sense." She turned to Denton. "How long have you had these hallucinations?"
Denton thought back. "Since early January, I think. I've kept them to myself because Bran has been touchy about Peter." He saw Bran raise brow at his words.
"I've seen them too. Frogs that aren't really there," Bran said quietly. "I thought maybe Peter was trying to contact me, but couldn't figure out what to do about it. I even went to the lily pond several times, but nothing."
"And you kept all this to yourself, too, right?" she asked sharply.
"Uhm, yes." Bran admitted. He was sitting very rigid.
The Old Crone rolled her eyes. Both of them, although they were rolling in opposite directions. "Hasn't anyone ever told you curdbrains the key to a good relationship is communication?" She snorted and turned her head. "Hob! Emmentaler!"
There were sounds of shuffling at the other side of the room and a short time later Hobart Brown appeared with three paper plates of cheese. One had several slices piled on top and he handed it to the Old Crone. The other two had one slice each. He held one plate out to Bran, who took one bite out of the cheese slice and placed it back. When it was Denton's turn he did the same. It seemed like the safest thing to do. Mr. Brown retreated to the other side of the room.
The Old Crone slouched in her chair, thoughtfully munching on her Emmentaler. Both her eyes stared off into the distance. There was silence except for an unseen clock t
ick-tocking somewhere. "Salientia," she said and stuffed the last piece of cheese in her mouth.
"Funny, that's what the naasi said," Denton blurted out.
"Naasi? What naasi?" she swiftly leaned forward while her yellow eyes skewered him.
"Err, it's a demonic spirit, who—"
"I know what a naasi is," she snapped. "Where did you come across it and when?"
"In a public bathroom, on New Year's Eve. It was busy possessing Lenny. So we took them home and convinced the naasi to go back where it came from."
"Who's Lenny?"
"Just some guy, who drinks too much and gets himself into trouble, even when he's not possessed."
"Hm." She took a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of her cardigan and pushed them up on her nose. Next she snatched a pencil from her hair and began to scribble some sort of equation on her now empty plate. She muttered under her breath as she did. "If I carry the six to the house of Mercury…no, it's wrong…oh, wait…add the tail…times cemetery…yes, of course, it makes sense now…" She leapt up. "I need to check this against the shipping charts. You can go now, but I'll need you again soon." Without further explanation she rushed out through one of the many doors.
Hobart Brown emerged from behind a large desk.
"She's quite mad, isn't she?" Denton said as he stood up, ready to leave.
"We're all mad here," the little man replied without a trace of a smile. "I'll see you out."
"We know the way," Denton replied.
