by Garth Nix
Do you feel that? Fletcher’s voice asked, and before Ford could reply, his fingertips slid along the rail, and then over the dark wood.
Yes, Ford answered as an unearthly yet familiar tingle seeped into his skin. He pressed his palms down firmly and the hairs of his arms stood on edge. An imprinted consciousness?
Right-o. Fairly recent, I think …
Before Ford could give that further consideration, Aednat turned back with a dark brown bottle in one hand and a glass tumbler in the other. Ford was surprised to recognize the label of a highly-regarded Irish distillery on the bottle, and even more so when, once Aednat had poured out a finger and he sampled it, that it was just as advertised. “Oh, heavens,” he murmured appreciatively as the amber liquid burned over his tongue and down his throat. “Where did you manage to acquire such ambrosia?”
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.” Aednat winked and asked with a silent gesture of the bottle if he wanted a second.
Ford nodded eagerly; it had been too long since he’d had anything so fine to drink. “I must say, this is the most surprising speakeasy I’ve ever set foot in,” he said as Aednat refilled his glass.
“Good, because nobody calls my place a speakeasy,” she told him. “Connally’s is a legitimate bar, one with a nearly forty-year history in this city. We’ve simply been required to relocate temporarily to this less conspicuous milieu.”
“Forty years, you say.” He took his refilled glass, while the fingertips of his free hand traced along the wood’s grain lines, letting Fletcher extend his otherworldly perceptions outwards …
“Mm-hmm.” Aednat pulled a cloth from her apron and began polishing the bar. “My da, he opened his first place in the Gashouse District, in a space even smaller than this. Did well enough that he was able to buy a bigger place, but never forgot the old neighborhood. Good man, he was. Best friend to every soul that stepped in his door.”
“He sounds like a real stand-up fella,” Ford said, now rubbing both hands back and forth across the bar. The imprinted psychical sensations intensified as the daughter’s memories flowed …
“Indeed.” A smile flickered across Aednat’s lips, then faded with a sigh. “The Spanish flu took him back in ‘19. My brother kept the old place running for awhile, but with the country about to go dry …”
“His heart wasn’t in it,” Ford said, nodding. “He always had bigger dreams than running a tavern.” The words were flooding out now, aided in part by the high-quality alcohol now warming his stomach and head. “So he sold the place and it sat vacant for a year. Then the night before they tore the block down to build another skyscaper, you and the neighborhood gang broke in and rescued this beautiful old bar, so it could be put back to its proper use.”
Aednat stared bug-eyed at Ford. “Where did you get all that from? You some kinda detective?”
“Your father is proud of you, Aednat,” Ford said earnestly. “He had trouble saying such things when he was alive. He could be as warm as anything with strangers who walked into his bar, but with his own family, it was different. But he wants you to know he loves you.”
For a moment, she just stared at him speechless. Then her face hardened and she shot a look off behind Ford. “Gil!”
Ford spun on his stool and saw the bouncer look over from his post by the door. Aednat crossed the bar to speak with him in a tense whisper. Wait, he’s Gil?
No, Fletcher said without certainty. If he’s Gil, why did he let us in when you said Gil sent us?
I didn’t say it! I have no idea where that name came from!
As they carried on their dialogue inside Ford’s head, the bearded man finished talking with Aednat and made a beeline toward him. Then a huge hand wrapped all the way around Ford’s bicep and Gil’s lips were an inch from his ear. “I need to ask you to come with me, Mr. Ford,” he said.
He found himself being led, not back the way he had come, but through a curtained doorway to the side, into a dim back room. Gil pulled him into a small storeroom of some sort, barely bigger than a closet, and dropped him onto a wooden crate emblazoned with a Canadian maple leaf. “Listen … I don’t know what Miz Connally told you I said to her …” Ford babbled, panicked, craning his neck back to look up at the giant.
“Ah, don’t worry about it. Aednat’s a tough gal; you just caught her off her guard, is all.” He added, with a small chuckle, “You seem to have a knack for that.”
Ford blinked. “I’m sorry?”
The bouncer sat opposite him on a neatly made Army surplus cot wedged against the wall. Ford noticed, curiously, that he had brought the whiskey bottle from the bar with him. “Well, seeing as how I’m the only Gil who knows about this place, your claim struck me as … curious.”
“I—I honestly have no idea why I said that.”
Gil tilted his head. “Maybe your friend does.”
“… My friend?”
I think he means me, Fletcher said.
Gil nodded. “Yes. I mean you.”
Ford felt as if he’d just been punched square in the face. “You can hear him?”
You can hear me? Fletcher asked in unison.
“Yes, Mr. Fletcher, now that I know to listen.”
H-How is that even possible?
Gil shrugged. “I gave up trying to figure out ‘possible’ and ‘impossible’ a long time ago. Let’s just say that over the course of my life, I’ve gained an awareness of things beyond the physical realm, though not quite like yours. I knew there was an essence trapped in the bar, but I’ve never been able to get anything stronger than a vague awareness.” Gil paused and lifted his head as if listening for something in the distance. “And now, you’ve freed him. The message you gave Aednat was what he needed to say in order to move on.”
He’s right, Fletcher confirmed. I don’t feel him anymore. He’s gone.
Gil then grabbed a pair of mismatched glasses from his bedside table and poured some whiskey for each of them. “To Iain Connally, proud son of Ireland,” he said, raising his glass. “May your God forever keep you in the palm of His hand, but never close His fist too tight.”
Ford joined the toast and both threw their drinks back. Between the top-quality alcohol, and the relief that this hulking brute wasn’t about to throw him out into the gutter, he was feeling better than he had in a long time. Gil reached out again to refill his glass and said, “So tell me, Mr. Ford, Mr. Fletcher: how did you two come to your present circumstance?”
That question instantly dimmed his mood. “It happened during the war,” Ford answered after a long sip. “We were on patrol and came under Gerry sniper fire. In the confusion, I got separated from my men and hopelessly lost. I eventually found an abandoned trench to hole up in—except it wasn’t quite abandoned.”
There had been about thirty men in there when the bomb hit, no more than ten feet forward of us, Fletcher added. The trench caved in. My entire squadron was buried alive, all except me. I tried … I grabbed up my spade and started digging, but …
“When I found him, he was curled up on his side, clenching his shovel and talking to himself, shell-shocked. I collapsed into the mud next to him and talked to him for hours, hoping he’d snap out of it. Then, once darkness fell, I picked him up over my shoulder, carried him up out of the trench and away from the line. I crept through the dark for something like an hour, until I reached an Allied encampment, and collapsed. The next thing I know I’m in the medics’ tent, but no Fletcher. I asked the doctor what had happened to him and he told me he was dead … that he had been dead for at least a full day, that I had been carrying a stone-cold corpse with me.”
In hindsight, I suppose I knew I was dead well before Ford’s appearance, but hadn’t accepted it. Then, when he started talking to me and I was able to answer back, I thought, well, I seem to still be alive after all. It wasn’t until I watched them cart my body away on the meat wagon, while I was still right there with Ford, that I truly knew.
Gil listened intently,
leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “So, somehow you two were bound?”
“Something about the conditions at that location at that specific point in time. I’ve no idea what.” Ford shrugged. “I started studying Spiritualism after I returned stateside, trying to understand it. Unfortunately, the field has far more questions than answers.”
“The greatest mystery of life is death,” Gil said, as he poured himself another whiskey, then handed the bottle to Ford. “Though it seems that the two of you are in the ideal position to finally answer some of those questions. I should think the American Society for Psychical Research would be eager to hear your tale.”
Ford laughed as he refilled his own glass. “Then I have to assume you’ve never had any direct experience with the Society.”
“That’s true,” Gil confessed.
Ford paused to take a long sip, then added, “In fairness, I do believe the A.S.P.R. was founded with the best of scientific intentions. However, with all the notoriety they and their allies like Harry Houdini have gained for uncovering hoaxes, I feel that now they’d reject even genuine evidence, so as not to undermine their own reputation.”
“But there are people who are still willing to be convinced,” Gil said. “You just mentioned Houdini. Isn’t his widow offering ten thousand dollars to anyone who can reach him in the afterworld?”
Ford scoffed. “Yes, and that would be all well and good if Houdini were actually willing to be contacted. Most people think being a psychic is like being a telephone operator, that you can name any party you like and we simply plug wires into some ethereal switchboard. The fact is, the dead generally don’t want to be disturbed, least of all by strangers and thrill-seekers. If the departed has an emotional tie to a person or location, like with Miz Connally’s father, they tend to be more forthcoming. But I could no more compel the ghost of Houdini to speak to me than I could command King George to hop in an airplane and come for tea. Mrs. Houdini’s only goal is to draw out a few foolish frauds, publicly humiliate them, and further her husband’s legacy.”
“That’s quite a cynical view,” Gil commented. Ford answered with a shrug and drained his glass again.
After another moment of wordless contemplation, Gil said, “I keep coming back to the question, why would you have said ‘Gil sent me?’ Something sent you, obviously, and wanted to be sure you caught my attention.” He stood up, turned, and reached for the shelf that hung above his cot. “I think I have an idea why.”
The shelf held a few personal items, including an old clay tablet scratched with some sort of ancient cuneiform and a small, intricately-carved, wooden box. “I believe this may help you,” Gil said, as he removed the lid and pulled out a small silver object.
Ford had to stand to accept the gift from the tall man. At first glance, it appeared to be a key, but closer examination revealed it as an amulet in the shape of an Egyptian ankh, with a deep red ruby set in the open loop at the top of the cross. “Help me with what?” Ford asked as he examined it.
“It’s never worked the way it was supposed to for me,” was Gil’s only answer. “I suspect it might for you, though. Good luck.”
The big man then collected the glasses and the nearly empty bottle of whiskey and headed back out into the bar, forcing Ford to follow. Aednat was back behind the bar. Ford caught her eye and, under her acid stare, decided not to wear out his welcome any further.
* * *
Outside, the rain had stopped, allowing Ford to find his bearings and make his way back to his car. The damage somehow seemed worse now that he didn’t have to squint at it through a downpour, though with the weather now cleared, he noticed a small hotel half a block away. After waking the night clerk, he was shown to a tiny plain room, where he stripped off his still-damp clothes before collapsing onto the threadbare mattress.
But despite his exhaustion, as well as being more than a bit zozzled, he found himself tossing and turning sleeplessly. After close to an hour, he gave up, turned on the light, and dug the ankh out of his trouser pocket. “Do you have any idea what this is?” Ford asked aloud to the empty room as he sat on the edge of the bed and studied it. The metal gave off a slight warmth, and the way the jewel caught and refracted the dim light of the room’s single lamp was strangely hypnotic.
I’m not sure, Fletcher replied. The ankh was the Egyptians’ symbol for life beyond death. I feel like it has some sort of psychical powers … like it’s perhaps channeling energies between worlds.
Ford pondered that, then he took the two “arms” of the ankh between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and focused on the gem. “O, Spirits,” he started to intone, “we beseech thee. Let the veil between worlds grow thin and the barriers weaken.”
The facets of the jewel seemed to melt then, shimmering like a large drop of blood. The entire room was flooded with an unworldly light that came from everywhere. Ford blinked instinctively, even though he had no trouble seeing what had just occurred.
The room was filled with ghosts.
Hundreds of incorporeal beings surrounded him, spirits of every shape and size, some having assumed their former bodily appearance, others as indistinct as a smear on glass. All of them concentrating their collective consciousness directly toward Ford.
The ankh fell from his fingers and he was just as suddenly alone in the near-dark again.
Though not entirely alone. Jesus Christ, Fletcher’s voice inside his head quavered. What did you just do?
“I have no goddamned idea,” Ford answered. He stared at the amulet laying on the carpet between his bare feet, the jewel once again solid.
The veil didn’t just grow thin there; it was gone!
“Gone?”
Or at least it grew a great big gaping hole. That thing, it’s like … a key to a door.
Ford continued to eye Gil’s relic, slowly working up the courage to pick it up again. As before, there was nothing particularly remarkable he could sense about it. He took it between both hands again and, on a hunch, recited a variation of his incantation: “O, spirit of Rudolf Valentino, we beseech thee, your counsel and wisdom.”
This time, a single form coalesced before him, one who was instantly recognizable as one of the most famous men in motion pictures. Hello? What is this? he asked, speaking with a slight Italian accent.
For a moment, Ford merely gaped at the spirit. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. He kept laughing as he leapt off the bed and started dancing riotously around the specter of the world-famous Latin lover in just his underwear.
Che cavolo? Valentino muttered, just before Ford released his right hand from the ankh, sending the spirit back.
That was … invigorating! Fletcher sounded breathless, despite his perpetual lack of breath. All that agency and power … Ford, let me try something. Take hold of it again.
Ford did as requested, curious to see what else the amulet might be capable of. Another spirit took form before him, this time a willowy young woman Ford did not recognize.
Helena! Fletcher extended his essence across the room, taking on his former corporeal appearance.
Graham! the woman cried out. The two rushed together and embraced—not physically, yet with an intensity of emotion that no two physical beings could have equaled. Ford could not fully comprehend what he was witnessing, but he had enough apperception that he felt the need to look away.
After a few minutes of this, discomfort turned to impatience. “Fletcher!” Ford called, and when he got no response, he broke the circle he’d formed with the ankh. “Fletcher!”
The female spirit dissipated like the smoke from a snuffed candle. Fletcher started as if being awakened from a dream, then wheeled on Ford and shrieked, No, damn you! Bring her back!
Ford had faced plenty of angry spirits over the years, but Fletcher had never been one of them. “Easy, Fletcher!” he shouted, hands out before him. “Who was that?”
That was Helena! My wife! he raged.
“Your wife? You were
married?”
That’s how one typically obtains a wife, yes, he said sharply. We were wed shortly before I was conscripted; we barely had a month together before I had to ship out. She fell ill the following winter. Neither of us ever had the chance to say goodbye, he said morosely.
“Get ahold of yourself, Fletcher,” Ford berated him. “With this, you can reach her any time you like. For right now, though,” he said, admiring his new prize, “we have much bigger fish to fry.”
* * *
Bess Houdini was a small, tired-looking woman in her fifties, still dressed in black more than two years after her husband’s funeral. Ford leapt to his feet as she entered the small sitting room where the housekeeper had left him to wait. “Mrs. Houdini, it is an honor to meet you,” he said, taking her hand. “Thank you for inviting me to your home.”
“You made some very bold claims in your letter, Mr. Ford,” she replied, fixing him with a critical glare. “I don’t believe I’ve even known any spiritualist to use words like ‘promise’ and ‘guarantee’ as freely as you.”
“And I intend to show you that my confidence is justified.” He had in fact conjured Harry Houdini’s ghost more than a dozen times over the past two weeks, as well as a score of others, ranging from Socrates to John Wilkes Booth. He could not be more confident in himself than he was at this moment.
Mrs. Houdini, though, was far from convinced. “Of course. So, tell me, how do you intend to go about contacting my husband? What do you require?”
“Only your leave, ma’am,” Ford said. “I’m prepared to do so right now if you like.”
That brought the woman up short. “Now?”
“Or did you have another preference?” Ford asked.
“Well, I’m just surprised. Most of the other mediums have asked for time to prepare, or else insisted the séance needed to take place at night, in a room that met certain criteria.”
