Ghost Killer

by Robin D. Owens

  All her senses ruffled—a faint, high chime at the top of her hearing, the musky scent of unknown incense, most of all a feeling of déjà vu when she clasped the weapon by the hilt, as if she knew it better than just the few minutes she’d touched it before. As if it knew her, and what kind of strange thought was that?

  She glanced at Zach. He sipped his coffee and held her eyes. “Yeah, I heard the chime, got the smell, too.”

  Enzo had tensed, but he turned his head, snuffling, and projected, Of course the knife will feel right to you. It is yours from Sandra, and Amos before her, and Nuri before him, and Simza before him.

  “An ancestral blade.” Zach sounded amused.

  “Yes.” She continued to look at Enzo. “How did you know all of that?”

  I know a lot that Sandra told me, and sometimes, sometimes, the Other will let me know and say stuff. Not often though.

  Clare nodded. “I’d prefer hearing data from you than it.”

  That got her a slightly lolling tongue before the wraith Lab turned back to the window. His body twitched. I can sense it. The evil thing. Distant, though.

  “Then let’s study the blade fast,” Zach said. “Rather take my time, though.”

  So would Clare. With her left hand, she touched the intricate enamel and gold pattern. “Where did this come from?” She aimed the question at her dog.

  His back hunched smaller. Made special for the blade, old, old, old. Too many questions will bring the Other.

  Zach’s white cotton-socked right foot nudged Clare’s hip. “We don’t particularly like the Other,” he said, though Clare thought the being bothered her more than her lover.

  “No,” she agreed. “We don’t.”

  “Unsheathe the blade.”

  Curling her left fingers around the sheath, she pulled with both hands. The six-inch curved blade came easily and her eyes widened at the ivory of it. “It’s the same bone,” she said flatly. “But the handle is glossier, smoother.”

  “Oils from people handling it more,” Zach said. “Interesting.” He put his mug on the bedside table and scooted to her. “What kind of bone?”

  “Whose bone” is the right question, Enzo said, not quite sounding the Other, though his natural mental tone had deepened.

  “Whose bone?” Clare parroted.

  The ancestress who consented to be a ghost seer for us. The Other turned Enzo’s body to face her, sitting up straight, but his dog ears were lifted and angled as if he still listened for the evil ghost. It is a blade made from Vadoma’s big leg bone.

  “Her femur,” Clare said, emphasizing that for herself.

  “The pommel must be the end near the knee,” Zach said.

  “Okay, that’s creepy.” She removed her fingers from the hilt—and they came reluctantly as if her hand liked holding the knife—gave it to Zach to scrutinize and took the few paces to her coffee that she’d left on the sink counter outside the bathroom.

  “Ouch!” Zach said. She whirled to see him staring at a slice on the pad of his index finger that looked like a paper cut.

  “Why did you test the knife with your finger?” she asked, exasperated.

  “I didn’t.” He scowled at the blade. “I barely touched it. It cut me. And it sucked the couple of drops of blood right up.” He made a loud slurping sound.

  “Ick.”

  The blade is hungry, Enzo said.

  Clare drank coffee that tasted more bitter than it should have. “Why do I think I’m not going to like this next part?”

  You must tune the blade to your personal essence before it will kill ghosts for you, the Other said.

  An atavistic shudder ran through Clare, nearly causing her to spill her coffee. “Let me guess, the blade is bone and it will need blood. My blood.”

  The spectral dog inclined his head. Soaked in your blood.

  “Soaked!” Clare gasped and heard Zach growl a protest.

  You must pay that price, the Other intoned.

  “This ghost seer business is getting more and more expensive,” Clare snapped.

  We have always paid you well. The Other turned back to look out the window, dismissing her. You have not looked at the knife. You should do so. You should know your weapon. The evil ghost feels the blade, is confused about that feeling. It will cast about before it understands how to find it. You have, perhaps, twenty of your minutes.

  “Hmph.” But Clare marched over to where Zach sat, stared at the leg bone of her ancestress, and gulped. “Looks in pretty good shape. No dark spots or soil stains or whatever like . . . like I’ve seen on bones before.”

  “Very clean,” Zach agreed.

  “Pretty steep curve,” she noted.

  It is as we requested her son to make it, the Other commented.

  More ick.

  She sat next to Zach, and he lay the blade across her knees. It was pristine ivory, only about an inch and a quarter wide at the hilt, then was fined down to a blade that began curving to a point at the end. “It’s a . . . powerful . . . looking knife,” she said doubtfully.

  “Yes,” Zach said.

  “If you like that sort of thing.”

  “It’s sharper than a bone knife should be, and I’ll bet it keeps its edge well, too.”

  “Magic,” Clare stated. “It wants my blood.” She sighed. “I don’t know how I’m going to soak the darn blade in my blood. Especially here. Maybe if I had a medical person draw a pint or whatever, but explaining that would be tough.”

  “Yeah,” Zach said, though he had a considering expression as if he were several steps ahead of her in figuring out the process, which wouldn’t surprise her a bit since he knew weapons and she didn’t.

  “I may as well give it a taste,” she grumbled. “Prime it so it knows more is coming.” She set it next to the outside, fleshy part of her arm, not daring to get it near a vein in her wrist. Barely pressing down, the thing sliced deeper than she wanted and she gritted her teeth at the pain and watched the blood disappear around the blade.

  “Give that to me,” Zach said roughly. He wrapped his fingers around hers and lifted the greedy, bloodsucking blade a little.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ve got a first aid kit in my suitcase.”

  Clare sighed again. “The way my cases have been going, I should have thought of that, but I didn’t. Next time.”

  “I hope not.”

  The ghost begins to search. Put the blade away now, said the Other.

  “You have a real bad notion of time, Other,” Zach said.

  It is smarter than I anticipated. Every time the knife is out of the silk shell, the ghost will sense it more quickly.

  “Come to find it more quickly,” Zach said.

  Yes. The Other stared at them, at her, now, with those depthless, judging mist-eyes. That will be true of all evil ghosts in your future.

  “Joy,” said Clare flatly. She curved her fingers around the hilt and sheathed the bone blade. Zach took the long knife from her, slipped it back in the silk tube, and tied the tassels. Clare was glad when she could no longer see it.

  The phantom Lab hopped off the chair and onto the bed with them, no longer the Other spirit, but her companion, Enzo, again. Clare crossed over to the window and pulled the curtains, shutting out the dark and the rain that had turned to spitting hail. Shutting her and Zach and Enzo into the warmth of light.

  She went back and petted Enzo and he dropped his lower jaw in a slight smile at her, licked her icy fingers. “You don’t have to stay, Enzo. Go home to Denver. I give you permission.”

  No, I must stay. The Other was very clear. And I WANT to, because we must WIN. We will NOT be eaten.

  Zach stood next to her with a bandage and a roll of gauze. “We’re not letting any stupid ghost eat you or Caden.�
��

  The Other said it was smart.

  “No. An evil being, whether human or not, isn’t smart if it attracts attention to its crimes. That’s when people come after it to stop it.”

  “To destroy it,” Clare said.

  To kill it. You will KILL it, Clare. Enzo sounded more cheerful.

  Her mouth dried up. “Yes. Sure.”

  * * *

  The rest of the evening, Clare sat next to Zach and watched football and desultorily researched as much as she could find on Creede, Robert Ford, and Soapy Smith, marking dates that she’d like to look up if the archives held the newspapers.

  The History Colorado Center and the Denver Public Library, of course, had the most material and what she found online didn’t seem easily accessed. As much as it pained her, she’d consider hiring a research assistant if necessary, if she could find a good one who’d work fast and efficiently.

  She needed information before she had to confront and fight the ghost. She needed the phantom’s name.

  Whining wind shook the windows along with eerie shrieks. She couldn’t tell whether she was the only one who heard it—well, she and Zach and Enzo, who lay draped over their feet.

  After the game, Clare set aside her tablet to charge and cuddled with Zach, who kept her warm. Even with the lights out, and Zach at her back, she couldn’t sleep. Instead her consciousness descended into a gray state of not-life. That faded into darkness until she shook with the sound of a death cry and the seeping of something—water?—that clogged her lungs then became a flood engulfing her. She saw a thin thread of bright red blood.

  She choked, coughed, woke. Zach lay still and sleeping behind her. Trembling with fear, with cold, she carefully slipped from his loose grasp, crawled from the bed. In the dark, a bar of ivory glowed on the television table in front of her—the knife.

  Enzo? she whispered with her mind.

  I am under the bed, he whispered back. It is not safe for me in the ghost dimension.

  Not if there was real red blood adding color to that place.

  She heard him gulp. Are you going out? It is not safe out there. Nowhere in this town is safe.

  Clare stopped, finding herself at the door, her hand on the handle, not recalling moving there. She didn’t even have shoes on, or a robe over her flannel pajamas!

  Low, persistent growling came from the courtyard of the motel. The hair on the nape of her neck rose in atavistic horror. Inside she trembled. Hell, her hand on the door lever shook. But she could sense it, the evil ghost, how it stalked and paused at each door. How it stopped in front of theirs. Enzo sat in her legs and shivered with her. Perhaps she masked him from the ghost. She didn’t know. She didn’t know too awful much. Universes of things she had to learn before she should fight this ghost.

  Her mouth dried. The handle turned icy under her fingers. In panic mode, she couldn’t move, frozen in every sense.

  High-pitched keening sliced into her mind. Not one muscle twitched.

  Then, screaming, human screaming, young boy shrieking came. “No, no, NO!”

  Whatever threatened outside her door whisked away, zooming in the direction of Caden’s cries, and Clare wrenched free of horror. “No!” she yelled herself, but it whispered out.

  “What’s going on!” Zach’s rough demand grounded her further.

  “It’s after Caden. It . . . it . . . wa-wasss . . . h’r . . . ri-right . . . outs’de . . th . . door . . . bu-but—” She couldn’t speak for the shivering.

  Zach joined her, gun in hand. He looked great, strong, solid, large.

  And he couldn’t fight this, not like her. Then he dropped the gun and grabbed the knife in its ivory silk tube, swept an arm around her waist, and simply lifted her and moved her aside.

  The heat of him snapped her all the way back. She pushed the lever, whipped the door open, gasped at the cold of the night as well as the lingering frigidity of the ghost, and yanked the knife from Zach’s hand.

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! demanded the Other, who’d taken over Enzo.

  She didn’t bother to answer, just rushed over to the LuCettes’ living quarters where lights went on. Caden continued screaming, and some massive gray white swirling mass with black lightning roiled around the door.

  TEN

  SHE SHOULD YELL herself, let out all her fear and her anger and her determination in some war cry. She didn’t know one. She leveled the knife, silk tube and all, and charged at the thing, speared it on one of its frayed edges. Darn it, she must do better!

  HURT! Hurts! What is this? Ghost . . . layer . . . ghost . . . killer. NO! It whirled to her, the mass hit her, the freezing, blinding snowstorm of it.

  Must. Keep. Moving. She couldn’t feel her feet, her hands. Pretend they were there. Slash! Stab!

  Don’t do this! the Other thundered in her mind, all rolling and roaring, drowning out the faint mind wisps of the thing she battled. The whispers that slid across her skin like slime, speaking of sin. Of hunger. She thought she felt the nibble of little sharp teeth gouging into her.

  The door to the apartment opened! Oh, no!

  “What’s going on!” This shouted in male and female voices.

  Zach cursing, really cursing, using words she hadn’t heard from him before. The knife swept from her hand.

  No! No! This time a high-pitched Enzo, pushing out the Other? Would no one shut up so she could fight this thing?

  I will bite it. I will! Enzo jumped into the nightmare snow whirl. Black lightning struck around him, struck him.

  Clare surged into the thing, too, hands clawed. She fought and breathed in ice, and since her mouth was open and snow fell into it, she bit.

  Loud, hideous shrieking or sobbing. Maybe Clare’d hurt it again! The storm moved through her, worse, worse, worse than any ghost she’d felt before. One voice became a multitude, whimpering or furious, or screaming. She doubled over as a sharp shard-like a hook dragged through her. Just closed that visualization down, blanked her mind. The specter wasn’t going to use her own fears on her.

  “Robert Ford, we know you!” Zach’s harsh voice impinged on Clare.

  The icy hook ripped as deep, wild grief flooded her—emotions from the ghost . . . then . . . guilt?

  Then the thing was out of her and she shook, head to toe, and as she did, small icicles fell from her.

  Her vision cleared enough for her to see Caden collapsed on the floor, hands over his ears, shuddering.

  Alive.

  A man scooped him up. Square body type and rawboned, red blond hair cut short, he was younger than Clare and Zach.

  “Clare.” Caden held out his hand to her, tear tracks showing on his face. “Clare, you saved me.”

  Just breathing hurt; standing was a challenge.

  “Clare?” snapped the man.

  “We will talk, Ms. Cermak,” a pale Mrs. LuCette said. “Come in.” Her round chin set. “Bring Mr. Slade and that . . . that . . . thing he is carrying.”

  Clare shuffled in. Zach’s arm came around her waist and it felt like a hot iron bar. Not quite searing, but uncomfortable. Slowly she straightened her spine, bit by bit until she no longer stooped and she could move a little faster, away from Zach.

  Mrs. LuCette indicated a country-style sofa of blue and white plaid and Zach helped Clare control her fall to it.

  “She came to help me. And she did. She made the evil ghost go away.” Caden cried, his tears shading his eyes all the bluer and magnifying them. Snot ran from his nose. Poor child.

  “What are you talking about?” Mr. LuCette asked.

  “Gram sent them. Sent Clare, who sees ghosts like I do and fights them! I’m glad she’s here.” He stuck out his bottom lip.

  “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t talk about this anymore.” Mrs. LuCette frowned.

>   “No. You told me I couldn’t. I didn’t say I would. That’s not the same.”

  Caden’s parents glared at Zach and her. Clare could feel the heat of their anger.

  “Is it true my grandmother sent you?” demanded Mrs. LuCette.

  Clare managed to drop her chin and heft it up again in a difficult nod.

  Zach said, “That’s right. Mrs. Flinton’s worried about Caden and we believe she has cause.”

  “We don’t,” rasped Mr. LuCette. “We don’t like her interference in our parenting, and we don’t like her odd notions.”

  Zach said, “Something strange is definitely going on in this canyon—”

  “You’re wrong there,” said Mr. LuCette. “Nothing happened, but Caden had a nightmare and went screaming to the door, and you were outside.”

  Clare could feel Zach’s irritation, too—as if some of her normal senses had shut down or been scorched away—her hearing went in and out—but other, unusual, senses had kicked in.

  “You mean the number of deaths here lately is usual.” A statement, not a question from Zach.

  “I don’t think we need to talk about this before Caden.” Mrs. LuCette and her husband shared a glance.

  “We’re asking you to leave,” Mr. LuCette announced. “We don’t want you staying here in our establishment.”

  “I should have a say in this, too,” Caden protested. “I like them and I want them to stay.”

  “You’re seven,” Mrs. LuCette said, “and not an adult, with an adult’s mature judgment.” Obviously she didn’t think Clare or Zach had mature judgment.

  Zach waited a few seconds before he answered. “I think you should take time to consider your choices. Send Caden to his grandmother, leave town yourselves . . .”

  “No,” Mr. LuCette stated.

  Caden began weeping.