Blood Sisters

by Paula Guran

  The handprint bled, slowly, down the white door.

  She whispered, “Brian.” There was a sound of small feet running. The sound hushed down the carpeted stairs to the basement. And Abbie heard the door swing open and close with a small click.

  There was a silence so heavy that she couldn’t breathe. And then it was gone, whatever it was. She got to her feet and walked to the living room. So there’s a ghost, she told herself, you’ve sold houses with ghosts before. But she didn’t pick up the soggy Kleenex and she didn’t look back to see how far down the blood would go before it stopped.

  She was out the door and locking it as fast as she could and still maintain some decorum. It wouldn’t help things at all if the neighbors saw the real estate agent running from the house. She forced herself to walk down the steps between the yellow flowers. But there was a spot in the middle of her back that itched as if someone were staring at it.

  Abbie didn’t look back, she wouldn’t run, but she had no desire to see Brian Garner’s face pressed against the window glass. Maybe the cleanup crew had done the best they could. She’d have to find out if all the marks bled fresh.

  The house would have to be re-blessed. And probably a medium brought in to tell the ghost that it was dead. A lot of people took it as a status symbol to have a ghost in their house. Certain kinds of ghosts, though. No one liked a poltergeist, no one liked bleeding walls, or hideous apparitions, or screams at odd times in the night. But a light that haunted only one hallway, or a phantom that walked in the library in eighteenth-century costume, well, those were call for a party. The latest craze was ghost parties. All those that did not have a ghost could come and watch one while everyone drank and had snacks.

  But somehow Abbie didn’t think that anyone would want Brian’s ghost in their house. It was romantic to have a murdered sixteenth-century explorer roaming about, but recent victims and a child at that … Well, historic victims are one thing, but a ghost out of your morning newspaper—that was something else entirely.

  Abbie just hoped that Brian Garner would be laid to rest easily. Sometimes the ghost just needed someone to tell it that it was dead. But other times it took more stringent measures, especially with violent ends. Strangely, there were a lot of child ghosts running around. Abbie had read an article in the Sunday magazine about it. The theory was that children didn’t have a concept of death yet, so they became ghosts. They were still trying to live.

  Abbie left such thinking up to the experts. She just sold houses. As soon as the car started Abbie turned on the radio. She wanted noise.

  The news was on and the carefully enunciated words filled the car as she pulled away from the house.

  “The Supreme Court reached their verdict today, upholding a New Jersey court ruling that Mitchell Davies, well-known banker and real estate investor, is still legally alive even though he is a vampire. This supports the so-called Bill of Life, which came out last year, widening the definition of life to include some forms of the living dead. Now on to sports…”

  Abbie changed the station. She wasn’t in the mood for sports scores or news of any kind. She had had her own dose of reality today and just wanted to go home. But first she had to stop by her office.

  It was late when she arrived and even the receptionist had gone home. Three rows of desks stretched catty-corner from one end of the room to the other. Most of the overhead lights had been turned off, leaving the room in afternoon shadows. A thin strip of white light wound down the center and passed over Sandra’s desk. Sandra sat waiting, hands folded in front of her. She had stopped even pretending to work.

  Her blue eyes flashed upward when she saw Abbie come in. The relief was plain on her face and in the sudden slump of her shoulders.

  Abbie smiled at her.

  Sandra made a half smile in return. She asked, “How was it?”

  Abbie walked to her desk, which put her to Sandra’s left, and two desks over. She started sorting papers while she considered how best to answer. “It’s going to need some work before we can show it.”

  Sandra’s high heels clicked on the floor, and Abbie could feel her standing behind her. “That isn’t what I mean, and you know it.”

  Abbie turned and faced her. Sandra’s eyes were too bright, her face too intense. “Sandra, please, it’s over, let it go.”

  Sandra gripped her arm, fingers biting deep. “Tell me what it was like.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  Her hand dropped numbly to her side and she almost whispered, “Please, I need to know.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But I sold them that house.”

  “But Phillip Garner played with the Ouija board. He opened the way to what happened.”

  “But I should have seen it. I should have realized something was wrong. I did notice things when Marion contacted me. I should have done something.”

  “What, what could you have done?”

  “I could have called the police.”

  “And told them that you had a bad feeling about one of your clients? You aren’t a registered psychic, they would have ignored you. And Sandra, you didn’t have any premonitions. You’ve convinced yourself you knew beforehand, but it isn’t true. You never mentioned it to anyone in the office.” Abbie tried to get her to smile. “And get real, girl, if you had news that important, you couldn’t keep it to yourself. You are the original gossip. A kind gossip, but still a gossip.”

  Sandra didn’t smile, but she nodded. “True, I don’t keep secrets very well.”

  Abbie put her arm around her and hugged her. “Stop beating yourself up over something you had nothing to do with. Cut the guilt off; it isn’t your guilt to deal with.”

  Sandra leaned into her and began to cry.

  They stayed there like that until it was full dark and Sandra was hoarse from crying.

  Sandra said, “I’ve made you late getting home.” “Charles will understand.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I have a very understanding husband.”

  She nodded and snuffled into the last Kleenex in the room. “Thanks.”

  “It’s what friends are for, Sandra. Now go home and feel good about yourself, you deserve it.”

  Abbie called her husband before locking up the office, to assure him that she was coming home. He was very understanding, but he tended to worry about her. Then she escorted Sandra to her car and made sure she drove away.

  It was weeks later before Abbie stood in the newly carpeted living room. Fresh hex signs had been painted over the doors and windows. A priest had blessed the house. A medium had come and told Brian Garner’s ghost that it was dead. Abbie did not know, or want to know, if the ghost had been stubborn about leaving.

  The house felt clean and new, as if it had just been built. Perhaps a registered psychic could have picked up some lingering traces of evil and horror, but Abbie couldn’t.

  The kitchen door stood white and pure. There were no stains today, everything had been fixed, everything had been hidden. And wonder of wonders, she had a client coming to see it.

  The client knew all about the house and its history. But then Mr. Channing and his family had been having difficulties of their own. No one wanted to sell them a house.

  But Abbie had no problem with selling to them. They were people, after all; the law said so.

  She had turned the lights in the living room and kitchen on. Their yellow glow chased back the night.

  Charles had been unhappy about her meeting the clients alone, at night. But Abbie knew you couldn’t sell to people if they didn’t think you trusted and liked them. So she waited alone in the artificial light, trying not to think too much about old superstitions. As a show of great good faith, she had no protection on her.

  At exactly ten o’clock the doorbell rang. She had not heard a car drive up.

  Abbie opened the door with her best professional smile on her face. And it wasn’t hard to keep the smi
le because they looked like a very normal family. Mr. and Mrs. Channing were a young handsome couple. He was well over six feet with thick chestnut hair and clear blue eyes. She was only slightly shorter and blond. But they did not smile. It was the boy who smiled. He was perhaps fourteen and had his father’s chestnut hair, but his eyes were dark brown, and Abbie found herself staring into those eyes. They were the most perfect color she had ever seen, solid, without a trace … she was falling. A hand steadied her, and when she looked, it was the boy who touched her, but he did not meet her eyes.

  The three stood waiting for something as Abbie held the door. Finally, she asked them in. “Won’t you please come inside?”

  They seemed to relax and stepped through the door with the boy a little in front.

  She smiled again and put a hand out to Mr. Channing and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Channing.”

  The three exchanged glances and then polite laughter.

  The man said, “I’m not Channing; call me Rick.”

  “Oh, of course.” Abbie tried to cover her confusion as the woman introduced herself simply as “Isabel.”

  It left Abbie with only one other client, but she offered her hand and her smile. “Mr. Channing.”

  He took it in a surprisingly strong grip and said, “I have looked forward to meeting you, Ms. McDonnell. And please, it’s just Channing, no Mr.”

  “As you like, Channing. Then you must call me Abbie.”

  “Well then, Abbie, shall we see the house?” His face was so frank and open, so adult. It was disconcerting to see such intelligence and confidence in the eyes of a fourteen-year-old body.

  He said, “I am much older than I appear, Abbie.”

  “Yes, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “That’s quite all right. It is better that you stare than refuse to see us.”

  “Yes, well, let me show you the house.” Abbie turned off the lights and showed the moon shining through the skylights. The brick fireplace was an unexpected hit. Somewhere Abbie had gotten the idea that vampires didn’t like fire.

  She did turn on the lights to show them the bedrooms and baths. They might be able to see in the dark, but Abbie didn’t think it would impress them if she tripped in the dark.

  The female, Isabel, spun round the master bedroom and said, “Oh, it will make a wonderful office.”

  Abbie inquired, “What do you do?”

  The woman turned and said, “I’m an artist, I work mostly in oils.”

  Abbie said, “I’ve always wished I could paint, but I can’t even draw.”

  The woman seemed not to have heard. Abbie had learned long ago that you didn’t make conversation if the client didn’t want to talk. So they viewed the house in comparative silence.

  There was one point in the master bathroom, when the three had to crowd in to see, that Abbie turned and bumped into the man. She stepped away as if struck and to cover her almost-fear she turned around and nearly gasped. They had reflections. She could see them in the mirror just as clearly as herself. Abbie recovered from the shock and went on. But she knew that at least Channing had noticed. There was a special smile on his face that said it all.

  Since they had reflections, Abbie showed them the kitchen more thoroughly than she had been intending.

  After all, if one myth was untrue, perhaps others were; perhaps they could eat.

  The basement she saved for last, as she did in most of her houses. She led the way down and groped for the light pull cord but did not turn on the lights until she heard them shuffle in next to her. She said, “You’ll notice there are no windows. You will have absolute privacy down here.” She did not add that no sunlight would be coming down because after the mirror she wasn’t sure if it was pertinent.

  Channing’s voice came soft and low out of the velvet dark. “It is quite adequate.”

  It wasn’t exactly unbridled enthusiasm, but Abbie had done her best. She pulled on the light and showed them the water heater and the sump pump. “And the washer and dryer hookups are all set. All you need are the machines.”

  Channing nodded and said, “Very good.”

  “Would you like me to leave you alone for a few moments to discuss things?”

  “Yes, if you would.”

  “Certainly.” Abbie walked up the stairs but left the door open. She went into the living room so they would be sure she wasn’t eavesdropping. She wondered what the neighbors would think about vampires living next door. But that wasn’t her concern; she just sold the house.

  She did not hear them come up, but they stood suddenly in the living room. She swallowed past the beating of her heart and said, “What do you think of the house?”

  Channing smiled, exposing fangs. “I think we’ll take it.”

  The smile was very genuine on Abbie’s part as she walked forward and shook their hands. “And how soon will you want to move in?”

  “Next week, if possible. We have had our down payment for several months, and our bank is ready to approve our loan.”

  “Excellent. The house is yours as soon as the papers are signed.”

  Isabel ran a possessive hand down the wall. “Ours,” she said.

  Abbie smiled and said, “And if any of your friends need a house, just let me know. I’m sure I can meet their needs.”

  Channing grinned broadly at her and put his cool hand in hers. “I’m sure you can, Abbie, I’m sure you can.”

  After all, everyone needs a house to call their own. And Abbie sold houses.

  GREEDY CHOKE PUPPY

  Nalo Hopkinson

  Nalo Hopkinson, born in Jamaica, has lived in Jamaica, Trinidad and Guyana, and for the past thirty-five years in Canada. She is currently a professor of creative writing at the University of California, Riverside, USA. The author of six novels, a short story collection, and a chapbook. Hopkinson is a recipient of the Warner Aspect First Novel Award, the Ontario Arts Council Foundation Award for emerging writers, the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, the Locus Award for Best New Writer, the World Fantasy Award, the Sunburst Award for Canadian Literature of the Fantastic (twice), the Aurora Award, the Gaylactic Spectrum Award, and the Norton Award. A new short story collection, Falling in Love With Hominids, will be a 2015 release from Tachyon Publications.

  In “Greedy Choke Puppy” we meet a supernatural being based on Afro-Caribbean folklore: the soucouyant. Hopkinson’s debut novel Brown Girl in the Ring (1998) also features a soucouyant …

  “I see a Lagahoo last night. In the back of the house, behind the pigeon peas.”

  “Yes, Granny.” Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Jacky leaned back against her grandmother’s knees and closed her eyes in bliss against the gentle tug of Granny’s hands braiding her hair. Jacky still enjoyed this evening ritual, even though she was a big hard-back woman, thirty-two years next month.

  The moon was shining in through the open jalousie windows, bringing the sweet smell of Ladies-of-the-Night flowers with it. The ceiling fan beat its soothing rhythm.

  “How you mean, ‘Yes, Granny’? You even know what a Lagahoo is?”

  “Don’t you been frightening me with jumby story from since I small? Is a donkey with gold teeth, wearing a waistcoat with a pocket watch and two pair of tennis shoes on the hooves.”

  “Washekong, you mean. I never teach you to say ‘tennis shoes.’” Jacky smiled. “Yes, Granny. So, what the Lagahoo was doing in the pigeon peas patch?”

  “Just standing, looking at my window. Then he pull out he watch chain from out he waistcoat pocket, and he look at the time, and he put the watch back, and he bite off some pigeon peas from off one bush, and he walk away.”

  Jacky laughed, shaking so hard that her head pulled free of Granny’s hands. “You mean to tell me that a Lagahoo come all the way to we little house in Diego Martin, just to sample we so-so pigeon peas?” Still chuckling, she settled back against Granny’s knees. Granny tugged at a hank of Jacky’s hair, just a little harder than necessary.r />
  Jacky could hear the smile in the old woman’s voice. “Don’t get fresh with me. You turn big woman now, Ph.D. student and thing, but is still your old nen-nen who does plait up your hair every evening, oui?”

  “Yes, Granny. You know I does love to make mako ’pon you, to tease you a little.”

  “This ain’t no joke, child. My mammy used to say that a Lagahoo is God horse, and when you see one, somebody go dead. The last time I see one is just before your mother dead.” The two women fell silent. The memory hung in the air between them, of the badly burned body retrieved from the wreckage of the car that had gone off the road. Jacky knew that her grandmother would soon change the subject. She blamed herself for the argument that had sent Jacky’s mother raging from the house in the first place. And whatever Granny didn’t want to think about, she certainly wasn’t going to talk about.

  Granny sighed. “Well, don’t fret, doux-doux. Just be careful when you go out so late at night. I couldn’t stand to lose you, too.” She finished off the last braid and gently stroked Jacky’s head. “All right. I finish now. Go and wrap up your head in a scarf, so the plaits will stay nice while you sleeping.”

  “Thank you, Granny. What I would do without you to help me make myself pretty for the gentlemen, eh?”

  Granny smiled, but with a worried look on her face. “You just mind your studies. It have plenty of time to catch man.”

  Jacky stood and gave the old woman a kiss on one cool, soft cheek and headed toward her bedroom in search of a scarf. Behind her, she could hear Granny settling back into the faded wicker armchair, muttering distractedly to herself, “Why this Lagahoo come to bother me again, eh?”

  The first time, I ain’t know what was happening to me. I was younger them times there, and sweet for so, you see? Sweet like julie mango, with two ripe tot-tot on the front of my body and two ripe maami-apple behind. I only had was to walk down the street, twitching that maami-apple behind, and all the boys-them on the street comer would watch at me like them was starving, and I was food.