by Amy Cross
“What's it going to be like?” I ask. “On the other side, I mean. When we're in our new bodies.”
“I don't know, but I bet it's going to be exciting, don't you think?”
“What's wrong with the bodies we have now?”
“They're coarse.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mr. Kenseth says they're primitive.”
“If he doesn't like them,” I continue, “then why does he make me -”
“They're just old,” she says quickly, as if she wants to stop me talking. “They're remnants of an evolutionary process that has reached a dead-end. In order to...” She pauses, clearly trying hard to remember the exact words that Mr. Kenseth used in his last sermon. “In order to ascend to a new level of consciousness and bond with Attaroth on the astral plane, we have to prove to him that we're willing to move past the flesh and blood phase of human existence and...” Another pause; she's struggling again. “And expand our consciousness so that we fully understand the miracles of the universe.” She grins, as if she's proud of herself for remembering. “We're on the verge of something wonderful, Clay. We're going to fly through the stars with Attaroth.”
Glancing at the door again, I realize I can still see a faint smudge of a person in the shadows, as if a different type of ghost is watching me. I've seen the shadow a few times over the past couple of days, and I can't shake the feeling that I've somehow attracted the attention of something that no-one else can see.
“It might be today,” Mom continues. “Are you ready for that?”
I watch for a moment as the smudge moves, before it fades from view again.
“We're going to explore the universe,” Mom says, hugging me tight. “This is why I brought you to the hospital all those years ago, and now finally we're on the cusp. Praise Attaroth.”
She sounds crazy, but I'm just a kid. What do I know?
“Say it,” she whispers.
I shake my head.
“Say it, Clay.”
I pause for a moment. I hate those two words, but they mean so much to her.
“Praise Attaroth,” I say finally, trying to force myself to smile.
“That's my girl,” she replies, hugging me so tight I can barely even breathe. “This old world is corrupt and painful, but the next one is going to be paradise. That's where we're going, Clay. We're going to paradise, and we're going to spend eternity there together.”
Today
“What the fuck?” the realtor says, standing in the hallway as I make my way down the stairs. “You're lucky I didn't call the cops already. If I wasn't so desperate to sell this goddamn place...”
“It was just one night,” I reply, eying his gun nervously. It's been a couple of minutes since he hurried the couple out the front door, and I was planning to just run out the back; unfortunately, my plans were halted as soon as the asshole pulled a handgun and demanded that I come down slowly. All I want is to get the hell out of here. “I'm sorry if I caused any damage.”
“So are you on drugs?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Show me your arms.”
“Why?”
“Show me your arms,” he says again, waving the barrel of the gun toward me.
Rolling up my sleeves, I hold out my arms so he can see my skin.
“No needle marks,” he mutters. “Fine, but give me one good reason why I shouldn't get you hauled away to some stinking jail somewhere. I'm not generally known as a pleasant man.”
“Please don't call anyone, I can't -”
“Breaking and entering,” he continues, interrupting me, “is not something that I take lightly. This house is hard enough to sell without having some delinquent idiot camping out in the place. At least the Maguires didn't realize you were here, so I have a chance with them, but...” He pauses, eying me suspiciously. “So what am I supposed to do here, huh? Just let you run off into the snow and forget you were ever here? That doesn't seem very fair to me, not after the crap you just put me through.” He eyes me with suspicion for a moment. “What's your name, anyway?”
“Ruth.”
“Bullshit.”
“Annie.”
“Bullshit.”
“Cinderella.”
He roles his eyes.
“Can I just go?”
“And what's in it for me if I just let you walk out of here, huh?”
“Well, I...” Watching him, I realize that his ratty little eyes are staring at me with a hint of expectation, as if he wants me to make him an offer. I feel physically sick at the thought, but at the same time I figure I can probably get something out of the situation too. After all, I need money, and this wouldn't be the first time I've used my body to turn a situation to my advantage. “I can do things,” I say finally. “I can do things cheap for you, way lower than my usual -”
“I'm not paying you!” he replies with a sneer, as if the idea disgusts him. “I'm not paying for some cheap whore, especially when I just caught her breaking into a house. Jesus Christ, do you think I use prostitutes?” He pauses for a moment. “Is that what you are? A whore?”
“I need money,” I tell him.
“No kidding. Who doesn't?”
“It's normally fifty for oral,” I continue, shuddering at the words that are coming out of my mouth, “but I guess I could... If I can just get enough to eat today, I'd be willing to...”
“I'm not sticking my dick in a whore,” he replies, although I can tell that sex is exactly what he wants. “What do you take me for? I'm a respectable real estate agent and -”
Above us, the ceiling creaks.
“Who've you got up there?” he asks, looking up. “Jesus fucking Christ, are there two of you? Are you squatting here?”
I shake my head.
“This is your only chance to tell the truth,” he continues, with the gun still pointed at me. “Is there someone else in this house that I don't know about, yes or no?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
I open my mouth to reply, but at that moment there's another creak.
“Let me guess,” he continues, “that was just the house settling, huh?”
“It's an old building,” I point out, even though I know damn well that the little boy is upstairs. I'm the only one who'll be able to see him, though; I've always been able to see ghosts, even when other people are completely oblivious. “There's not another living soul in this place, I promise.”
“I don't believe you,” he replies. “You go up first and if you've got any sense, you'll tell your friend to come out slowly and not make any sudden movements. This gun's loaded, you know.”
“Please, I just -”
“Move!”
Realizing that there's no point arguing with him, I turn and start making my way up the stairs. As soon as I reach the top, I spot the little boy standing by the door to the master bedroom, but of course the realtor doesn't see him as he joins me. Feeling the barrel of the gun being pressed into the small of my back, I turn to see the suspicion in his eyes.
“Last chance,” he says firmly. “You got a pal hiding somewhere?”
“Well, do you see anyone?”
The little boy makes his way past me and looks up at the realtor, who keeps his gaze fixed firmly on me. Just this once, I wish other people were as good as me at seeing ghosts.
“Fuck, it's cold in here,” the realtor mutters after a moment. “Okay, along the corridor. We're checking every room.”
“There's no point -”
“Move!”
Making my way to the next room, I step inside and show the idiot that there's no-one else around. We do the same in the next room, and the next, and finally we finish checking the entire top floor of the building.
“Must've been a fucking ghost, then,” he says, standing in the doorway with the gun still aimed at me.
“Must have been,” I reply, turning to him. There's no sign of the little boy now, and all I want is to get
the hell out of here as fast as possible. “Look,” I continue, “I know I shouldn't have been in here, and I know it's all wrong, but I just want to leave. Whatever you want, I can -”
“Stop it!” a little boy's voice shouts suddenly.
“You can what?” the realtor asks, having obviously not heard the voice.
“I just...”
“Stop calling my name!” the boy shouts.
As soon as I hear those words, I feel a cold shiver pass through my body.
“Stop!” he shouts again. “What do you want?”
“I'm still waiting,” the realtor continues, waving the gun at me. “I could call the cops, you know. I've got every right. Unless you can think of a reason for me to not do that...” As if to prove his point, he takes his phone from his pocket. “I don't have all day. Believe it or not, some people actually work for a living instead of leeching off society.”
“I -”
Before I can say anything, I hear the boy starting to scream. Instinctively, I take a step back, and a fraction of a second later I realize I can hear flames. I thought this only happened with people who died recently, but the kid's clearly being drawn into the same inferno that came for so many of the other ghosts I've encountered over the years.
“What's wrong with you now?” the realtor asks, completely unaware of the boy's screams. “You just went white as a sheet.”
“I have to get out of here,” I reply, turning and hurrying to the window. The latch is frozen, but I keep trying to make it turn as the little boy continues to scream further off in the house.
“Hey!” the realtor shouts. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”
Ignoring him, I look over at the nightstand, and then finally I spot a chair in the corner. Grabbing it, I turn back toward the window.
“Oh no you don't,” the realtor says, grabbing the other side of the chair. “Listen, I'm just going to-”
“No!” I shout, elbowing him in the face with such force that he falls back against the wall and lets out a cry of pain. Pulling the chair free from his grasp, I swing it around and slam it against the window, only to have it rebound and almost knock me down. I take a step back, trying to ignore both the screaming little boy and the ranting realtor, and this time I plan my swing a little better. For a moment, I'm distracted by the ice crystals on the glass, and I feel as if I'm about to destroy a whole world. Still, I have no choice: when I swing the chair again, this time I strike one of the window's corners, shattering the glass and all the ice. I turn the chair around and use the backrest to knock out the rest of the glass.
There's no room for sympathy here.
“Stop!”
Turning, I see that the realtor is back on his feet. Blood is pouring from his nose and he's got the gun aimed straight at my head. His hand is trembling, but his finger's on the trigger.
“I'll shoot!” he shouts. “I mean it, I swear!”
“Do it,” I reply, staring straight at the gun. “Go on, I dare you.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Do it!” I shout. “Just do it already!”
“Help me!” the little boy screams.
Heading over to the window, I look out and see that there's no easy way down, no drainpipe or overhang. Climbing out onto the freezing cold ledge, I grab hold of the side and try to lower myself down, but the ledge itself is so cold I'm already starting to lose all sensation in my fingers. I look down and see that I'm still several meters above the grass, but as I scramble for some kind of footing I realize that the screams from inside the house are getting louder, which means I only have a few minutes to get away. Of course, I might get shot at any moment, but that's okay, so long as I actually die this time.
“Fucking bitch!” the realtor shouts.
And that's when I lose my grip on the ledge, dropping down the side of the house and landing awkwardly on the grass. All my weight goes on my left ankle, which snaps instantly, causing me to let out a cry of pain.
Ten years ago
“There's a deadline,” Hope says as she stands with us in the main hall. “The police have told Mr. Kenseth to surrender by six this evening or...”
She glances at me, and I can see the fear in her eyes.
“They can give all the deadlines they want,” Mom replies, her voice sounding much firmer and stronger than Hope's. “It's just another example of their stupidity.”
“But they -”
“None of it matters,” Mom continues, interrupting her. “Six, five, four, seven, whenever... In the grand course of things, a couple of hours won't matter. Time is one of the bonds we're going to slip, remember? Time doesn't exist on the next plane of consciousness, Mr. Kenseth told us that.”
Hope nods, but it's clear that she's got doubts.
“It's going to be okay,” I say suddenly, hoping to make her feel better.
“I know,” she replies with a forced smile.
“Clay understands,” Mom explains, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Even at her age, she's so much wiser than a lot of people. She knows the truth. Sometimes I even think she can see a little further ahead than the rest of us, as if she's got a special level of insight.”
“Is that true?” Hope asks, turning to me with obvious keenness, almost as if she wants me to say something that'll bolster her faith.
“I...”
“Tell her,” Mom continues. “Tell her what you see.”
“Sometimes I see things that other people can't,” I say cautiously. “People and stuff like that.”
“From the next plane?”
“I don't know.”
“Of course it is,” Mom says, hugging me tight. “Clay can pierce the veil between this world and the next. That's why Mr. Kenseth values her so highly, and it's why he keeps her so close. He knows that she's special, and Attaroth knows too.”
“Have you see Attaroth?” Hope asks.
“Tell her, Clay.”
“I... No.”
“But you've seen something,” Mom continues, almost as if she wants me to lie. “Shadows, strange faces...”
“Only Mr. Kenseth can communicate with Attaroth from this plane,” Hope says firmly. “No-one else can do it, not even Clay.”
“I know that,” Mom replies, “but... Clay senses things. Mr. Kenseth himself has noticed it, he's even mentioned her in some of his sermons. Clay's special. Sometimes I think she was special from the moment she was born, and somehow the fates have been conspiring ever since that moment to bring us here. Clay's father died when she was so young, but I think that might have been Attaroth's way of steering us to the hospital. He put all the pieces in place and guided us gently, without us even knowing that his hand was on our backs.”
“You're lucky,” Hope says with a nervous smile. “The rest of us have to...”
“To what?” Mom asks.
“To go on pure faith alone. To trust in the miracles and visions Mr. Kenseth describes to us.”
I can see that Mom is annoyed by the questioning tone in Hope's voice, but before she can say anything there's a noise over by the stage and we all look across the room, just in time to see that Mr. Kenseth is being helped through from behind the main curtain. He seems much more frail than before, and one of his nurses is having to holding his elbow, as if he might not even be able to walk unaided. By the time he gets to the chair at the front of the stage and takes a seat, it's clear that something's very wrong, and he takes a moment to settle himself, almost as if he's in pain.
“What happened?” Hope whispers.
“Attaroth has spoken to me again,” Mr. Kenseth announces suddenly, his voice sounding much harsher and more damaged than ever before. “He has appeared to me in three separate visions this morning. Never before have I been granted such access to his audience, but one thing is clear... The time is approaching when the zenith of Attaroth will be reached, which means we must be ready.”
A chorus of nervous excitement spreads through the crowd, with various people muttering to one
another.
“The first of the visions showed me the pathetic fools we are about to leave behind,” he continues. “I saw them floundering, struggling to understand, wallowing in the filthy mud of their ignorance. They think we're fools right now, but soon enough they'll be left in awe and wonder. It's tempting to hate them, but Attaroth told me that we must pity them instead, for they lack the ability to see our true future. Telling them of Attaroth would be like telling a dog about quantum physics. Their brains just aren't built to comprehend such things. The savages we leave behind are not evil, rather they are unenlightened.”
“That they are,” says a woman near the front of the crowd.
“The second vision showed me the moment of ascension,” Mr. Kenseth explains. “I saw all of us rising to the next plane, leaving our mortal bodies and experiencing the wonder of Attaroth's realm. I saw our souls being welcomed into his arms, and the lights... If only I had the words to convey what I saw, but soon words will fall from our minds in favor of direct consciousness connection. The limits of the self will be -” Before he can finish, he breaks down into a coughing fit, and it takes a moment for him to recover, even with his nurse patting him hard on the back. “The limits of the self,” he says finally, “will be destroyed and cast off, much as a snake casts off its old skin when it is done. This is the process that we begin today.”
Looking up at Mom, I see that she's fiddling with her locket, as if she's keen to get the moment over with.
“The third vision,” Mr. Kenseth continues, “can be told only to one person in this room, for it is something of unparalleled importance.” He looks out across the crowd, before finally his eyes fix on me. “Clay. Girl. I must have one final audience with you alone.”
“I don't want to,” I reply, turning to Mom. “Please, don't make me.”
“It's a great honor,” she says with a smile.
I shake my head.
“Attaroth himself commands it,” Mr. Kenseth says. “Come, Clay. Let us retire to my chamber, so that I might impart to you the secrets of the third vision. You, and only you, will understand what it means.”
