The Ghosting of Gods

by Cricket Baker

  Poe perks up. “Do you mean real vampires walked right here where I’m walking?”

  “That’s correct. Before the exile.”

  “Rapture.” Poe struts about in a dramatic way, which I assume is how he imagines vampires walk. I cringe, waiting for another explosion from Bethany, but she’s busy pinching her cheeks and fluffing her blonde curls.

  George throws his weight against the gate. The iron is cold in my hands as I grab hold and swing my weight along with George’s. At last we creak the gate open just enough for all of us to slip through.

  “Is it ever locked?” I ask, marveling at the giant keyhole facing the inside.

  “Almost never. After all, what good does it do? Now, I understand your interest in this historical structure, but we must reach shelter soon. Come along, please. We are vulnerable.”

  18

  the scripture is twisted

  Legions of leaflets blow through the town. They press against windows, stick between cobblestones, impale themselves on briars. I snatch one from the wind as it flies past me. Squinting to read in the bit of light that is left to the day, I elbow Poe, invite him to take a look.

  something polluted this way comes

  Shakespeare altered to suit Memento Mori. The channelers take liberties.

  George cuts down an alley that funnels the wind. My bare face stings. A turn, and we arrive in what seems to be a residential portion of town. Smoke drifts from every chimney, carrying soot that settles in our hair and on our shoulders. It’s created a thick sludge that cakes every surface, every crevice. Streaks of grime give the appearance of prison bars on windows.

  Hugging my arms to my chest, I peer at heavy wooden doors. Miniature gargoyle heads bite down on oversized metal rings. I don’t think I’ll be knocking. Corn husks, stuffed into iron pots, line the cobblestone street.

  “What’s that awful stench?” Ava says, coughing, breaking the silence of our trek.

  Curtains shift at windows. Amber light shows through in slivers.

  No one comes out.

  “Not much farther,” George murmurs.

  Night falls. I feel like I’ve been plunged into a cold pool. Suddenly. The breath is knocked out of me.

  Figures, pale and ragged, materialize to my side. They vanish when I turn to look directly at them. I look away, and they reappear in the corner of my eye. A woman and a small boy. Ghosts.

  Poe stumbles into me. “Did you see that?” he asks excitedly. “Where’d they go?”

  “Properly acknowledge them,” George barks. He presses his palms together as if in prayer and bows his head. Poe immediately follows his lead. Reluctantly, I imitate the gesture.

  The ghosts shift directly into my line of sight.

  Chains drag along after them, clanging against cobblestones. Their faces are mostly hidden, but as they draw near, they pull back their cowled hoods.

  Their eyes are matted shut. It’s as if whatever process made ragged their robes has done the same with their eyes. Wads of…threads…stuff their eye sockets. Jesus. The wads are held in place because they’re sewn there. I can see the stitches in the dark moons beneath their eyes and weaving in and out of their eyebrows.

  It’s like they’re suspended in water. Hair floats, slowly waving out of rhythm with the wind.Their mouths hold a perpetual O shape. Like fish.

  Twitching with excitement, Poe takes it all in.

  The ghost boy waves up at me, then cringes. His mother snatches him back. They vanish.

  George and Bethany urge us on.

  Ava stares hard at each dark window we pass, as if she’s trying to divine whether Leesel could be trapped inside.

  Smaller cottages. Roofs sag, doorways are crooked. This is not the better part of town. We arrive at a sunken cottage that’s filthy black, buried behind an overgrown hedge of thorned vegetation. “Welcome to my humble dwelling,” George says. Raindrops pelt as we duck inside.

  Bethany lights two oil lamps before ushering us into a small sitting room. It’s crushed black velvet. Everywhere. Pretentious, shabby, cliché. A loveseat is positioned between two ripped wingback chairs, which crowd around a stone fireplace. Pancaked cushions are worn and stained, with threadbare tassels. A grate with some of the bars missing leans against the hearth that’s thick with ash. Barely fitting in the arrangement is a low table; George slams it against the hearth so we can all fit in the tiny space.

  A painting over the mantle, done in blues and blacks, shows two men standing side by side, staring down at an empty grave. One of them is George. The artist has given a very realistic depiction of him. It’s odd. The expression on his face isn’t sad, it’s…grim. Angry, almost. The man with him, in contrast, appears grief-stricken.

  Bethany invites Poe to sit down. He pulls up a wooden chair that’s sized for a small child. When he sits, his knees come level with his shoulders. He sneezes.

  “May angels flee your presence,” Bethany says. She hands him a handkerchief and invites me to sit.

  Instead I walk along the perimeter of the room, looking at all the clocks, remembering that George identified himself as a maker of clocks. His creations conceal the walls.

  Examining one up close, I’m surprised that no crystal protects the face of the clock, but the craftsmanship is incredible. The backing of the clock appears to be a mosaic of broken glass, the shards arranged so that they come to a point at center. A tiny hourglass, containing silvery sand, anchors the filigreed hour and minute hands. Ornate carvings in the pendulum box surprise me, given the wood is rotted.

  Strange. The minute hand runs backwards. My eyes rove the walls. All the clocks run backwards, ticking away.

  George sets logs aflame in the fireplace. Bethany kisses his cheek. “I’ll prepare tea and sandwiches,” she says. She disappears through a leaning doorway.

  “Why are the clocks running backward?” I ask George.

  He snorts. “Would you rather I design my clocks to move time forward? Toward death? Better to go backward. Sometimes—tell no one!—sometimes I hold the hands still. Invite the Presence. You admire my work? I antique the wood myself, right in my garden. Burial is the key. Please excuse me before I give away all my secrets! I must see that the guest bedchamber is in order.” He bows slightly at Ava as he passes her. She’s barely in the room, standing quietly, looking lost.

  “We’re safe here,” Poe announces, pulling back a curtain and looking outside. A cold draft seeps into the room, as if he’d opened a window. He shivers. “God is watching over us.”

  “Did you notice my book collection?” George calls. “I am quite a learned man.”

  Short stacks of books litter the floor. Two books lie on the table that’s shoved into the hearth and in danger of catching fire. I pick up the thinnest book and read the cover.

  “Verse, by El Lobo.“ I hand it over to Poe the Poet and pick up a hefty volume. “A History of a New Beginning, by Saint Thomas.“ Hauling it onto my lap, I separate the parchment pages, read aloud.

  In the Beginning there was Separation, and tears, and the people cried out for the Grief to end. And so a New Beginning was given, and Death was forever changed. No burial remained quiet, but the dead did stir and Rise Again to cleave to the living. Nay, no more did the Ghost forsake the decaying body. The bones did arise, Gaze, remember. And it was very good.

  “Twisted religion they’ve got here,” I say, returning the book to the table, purposefully not looking in Poe’s direction. I’m as disturbed as I know he must be. But for different reasons. Their warped scriptures are nonsense. I take no offense at them. Yet it’s exactly the nonsense that frightens me.

  God may not have brought us here.

  I may have brought us here.

  Our hosts return. Bethany serves steaming tea from a tarnished silver pitcher into tarnished silver cups. George follows with a tray of breads, crackers, nuts, and cheeses. It’s not much, but I’m starved. Picking off a bit of mold first, I slap a slim wedge of yellow cheese between two slices of bre
ad and eat.

  Bethany squeezes between me and Ava on the loveseat.

  There’s a loud crash from somewhere back in the cottage. George and Bethany look at one another and snicker.

  “What’s the name of this town?” I ask. My voice is too loud in the small space and Ava cringes.

  Bethany coughs, dribbling her tea. “Our town is not named. If it was, why, then anyone who wanted to find it could do so!” She looks at me like I’m an idiot.

  Poe’s nodding from his toddler chair, like he knew this.

  “Sorry.” Sipping too fast, I burn my lips. The tea is heavy with grounds. Bitter.

  Another crash. Rattles of a chain, and the sound of a body slumping to the floor.

  George compliments Bethany on her eyes by firelight, then suggests we all discuss the matter of Leesel. “Best to leave her with the coven,” he declares. “Take up residence in our town. Stay behind locked doors. We have many books to read to pass the time. Safely.”

  In response, Ava stands. “I’m going after Leesel.” She has a wild look in her eyes. Her cheeks are hollow, the veins stick out on her neck. She teeters on her feet.

  I sit her back down. “Eat, first, Ava,” I say, pressing a sandwich in her palm.

  “Yes, please do,” Bethany urges. She demonstrates by taking a bite of her own sandwich, chewing with exaggeration. “Such skin and bones you are, Ava! You look dreadful.”

  “No, I have to get to Leesel…”

  “There, there,” Bethany coos. She begins unlacing her boots. “You eat, and I will draw you a map of how to find the coven. There you will find a spiritual prodigy.”

  This gets my attention.

  George chuckles, rolls his eyes, shrugs his shoulders at me. Bethany kicks off her boots and goes to fetch a piece of parchment and busily draws with a quill pen. All the while George gives a speech on how Bethany, being of strong character, likes to make herself useful. “Her true value, however, lies in the beauty of her eyes and the silk of her hair. Of course, I shall give her instruction on what is permissible to say in polite company. No hurry. Social gatherings are few in these precarious times.”

  Bethany ignores him, finishes her map, tucks it into Ava’s coat pocket. She sits, looks surprised to see her pale feet, and begins lacing her boots back on.

  “What can you tell us about the coven?” I ask. Ava’s not eating, so I take her hand, make her lift the sandwich to her lips. “What did Bethany mean, that there’s a spiritual prodigy?”

  Bethany peeps up her hand, apparently wanting to answer the question. George winks at me and nods for Bethany to speak.

  “Oh, they believe themselves to be special, keeping to themselves, except for when they come loose from their bodies.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She glances around, speaks in a loud whisper. “They visit us. Mostly at night. Their ghosts crawl into our bodies to drive us insane.” She makes a face. “First Frankenstein, then the witches. It’s one terror after another! Of course, the ghosts have always possessed. But that is only natural. If sometimes fatal.”

  “I’m worried,” Poe says through a mouth stuffed with cheese. “Do you need an exorcist?”

  George gasps, leaning back in his wingchair. Sweat breaks out over his face. He reaches for Bethany, who grasps his hand while staring at Poe with an ashen face. Her tongue is blackened from the tea. Slowly, her eyes move to the window, then to the doorway.

  “George?” she says, her voice small.

  He dabs his handkerchief on his forehead. “We’re closed in tight. No one heard, my love.” His lips press together and he faces Poe. “In this dwelling, you will not speak treason.”

  Poe shrinks, his face flaming red.

  “What are you talking about?” I demand. “Leave him alone. How did he speak treason?”

  “By suggesting that we do violence to a ghost!”

  “Yes. Ghosts that possess people and drive them insane. That’s what Bethany said.”

  “Ghosts are revered in Memento Mori, young man. It is not our place to judge them for their nastiness. I am aghast, suspicious of your character, if you condone the employment of exorcists to cast away what is next to Holiness.”

  Ava carefully does not look at me, carefully does not give me away. Poe, on the other hand, gawks at me.

  George continues. “Young Poe breached courtesy, at the very least, by speaking with such a lack of respect. But I must demonstrate forbearance. You are ignorant. Do you not read the headlines in your world? Certainly our tragic news must have reached there?”

  Wind from the storm blows down the chimney, fanning the fire as Bethany shuffles through a stack of newspapers in a crate by the hearth. She pulls one out and lays it on the table for us to see.

  I read the headline and snap up the paper before Poe can see it. He’s even lower in his chair, knees so high as to block his view of the table. I think. Yes. He doesn’t react; he didn’t see the headline.

  “The Holy Ghost Is Dead. Where is His Clock?” Ava reads aloud. She scrunches her nose.“What does that mean?”

  I sigh.

  19

  identity tags

  “I thought your chapel, flying through the sky, was a sign from the Holy Ghost,” George confesses. Cringing as a roll of thunder rumbles the cottage, he pulls a bottle from his robe. Pours golden liquid into his tea. One long swallow later, he speaks again. “Prior headlines spoke of the haunting of chapels throughout Memento Mori. The City of Sacristies suffers atmospheric disturbances of increasing violence. These are signs, yet…some believe the Ghost is still incarnate, the Weregod, but he’s been missing for so long, there is little hope….”

  “The Holy Ghost Incarnate,” Poe says, like he’s trying out the idea. I expect him to react as his beloved Priest would, in shock and anger at such a claim, but instead awe comes over his face. Not for long though. “What does that have to do with a weregod?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “A weregod…is a god for werewolves, right?”

  “We are monotheistic in this world, young man. There is only one god, our Holy Ghost. In human form, one Weregod. Part god, part human.” George mixes another drink in his teacup. “Of course, perhaps it is time for another Beginning. If the Holy Ghost Incarnate is dead, one wonders if Memento Mori might become more pleasant. Please don’t misunderstand me. If the headline is true, I am bereft.”

  “More pleasant? If He’s dead?” Poe repeats.

  Bethany fans her face, kicks her boots back off.

  “May I speak plainly?” George asks. “I skirted the truth in saying that the Holy Ghost Incarnate has been missing. In actuality, the Ghost has been in hiding. Shame fills my throat to say it. Many have searched for the Presence and have failed.”

  Bethany squeals. “George! I’ve had the most marvelous idea.”

  He applauds.

  “I know who might be able to help our guests,” she says. “William!”

  George’s nostrils flare. He fixes Bethany with an accusing stare. Squaring his shoulders, he nods, if reluctantly. “In regard to our guests’ dilemma, I only wish I had thought of William myself, but I can rarely beat you to it.” He frowns at her. “Nevertheless, my Bethany is correct. Other than the Holy Ghost, if anyone can help you, it is my dear brother, William.” He gazes up at the painting of the graveside funeral.

  Ah. I thought the grieving man at the grave resembled George.

  “Great,” I say. I place a hand on Ava’s knee. “Where is he?”

  “I cannot say exactly. He often travels. However, he owns a lucrative business in the City of Sacristies. He is a dealer of my clocks, as well as sundry antiquities.” He purses his lips together. “By that I mean he consorts with graverobbers and anyone else he meets. Blackened sheep of the family, you know. Terribly embarrassing. Since he left us, he has assumed a most distressing interest in diplomacy! And decomposed fabric. He is quite disturbed, I fear.”

  Bethany fans her flushed face. “
Richly so.”

  “I took up my quill and beseeched my brother to end his unworthy ambitions, lest he find himself dead and in the company of tunnelers.” George mixes yet another drink. “Tunnelers, and their obsession with prophecies of exodus from Memento Mori. Saint Thomas considers this treason, but I cheer them on. Leave us, I say! If they wish exodus, may they get on with it.”

  I don’t care about prophecies of exodus. I ask the questions I want to ask. “George, where do the crystal balls come from? Why do the tunnelers wear them chained to their necks?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Why, in order to remember who they are, of course. Otherwise, they would have no memory of their lives. No identity. The ghost must be tagged to the skeleton and memories retrieved.” He sighs at the sight of Bethany seemingly undecided of whether or not to lace her boots back on. “The crystals are a blessing, of course. Every moment of a life preserved, never to be lost. In this way grief is eased. Of course, I would prefer to keep the crystal of my loved one without the attached bones. Long ago, families removed the crystals and quietly stuffed skeletons in closets, but now the chains are impossible to break. Sadly, if you wish to crystal-gaze, you must skeleton-gaze as well. The horror! But I digress.”

  Poe grins. “Families with skeletons in closets,” he mouths at me, his head grooving.

  All I can think about is Emmy in the crystal. No moment of her life lost. Including her murder. Can ghosts only tell the stories of their pasts? Or can they just be…now? If I can’t connect with Emmy now, but only in the past, it doesn’t seem like she can really be real to me.

  So is she? Real? I shake my head. Of anyone, I especially know the reality of ghosts.

  I never doubt the existence of ghosts. Nor of God.

  What was Bethany saying about a spiritual prodigy? I need guidance. If Leesel is with the coven, and there’s a spiritual prodigy there…“Bethany,” I begin, but George interrupts me.