Dead Man and the Restless Spirits

by Harper, Lou

  "You're here at last," the man said in an anxious tone. A fine sheen of sweat covered his bald head.

  Bran calmly stepped forward. "Morning, Mr. Sparks. Is everything prepared as I asked?"

  "Yes, yes, of course, to a T. You know, I'm not normally superstitious, but I'm at the end of my rope. I've lost two sous-chefs and a dozen other kitchen staff in six months, and now my chef, Marco, is threatening to quit. Hannah recommended you, and she's not a fool, so why not, right? What have I got to lose?"

  The torrent of words crashed against Bran, who remained unmoved. "Of course. Come back in an hour. We'll be all done by then." Probably catching the flash of suspicion in Sparks's eyes, he added, "Or you can wait here. Either way, my assistant and I need privacy for the next hour."

  Sparks blushed. "I'll come back. You've been highly recommended."

  Bran gave a curt nod and, with Denton in tow, walked into the restaurant. The tables sat in neat rows in the empty dining room.

  "So I'm an assistant now?" Denton asked.

  "You are. Take this." Bran pulled a spray bottle—the kind he used on his herbs—out of his satchel and, twisting its nozzle, handed it over to Denton. It was full of yellowish liquid. "Spray it lightly on the walls and tables as we go around the room."

  "What is it?"

  "Four Thieves Vinegar."

  Denton made an experimental spritz and sniffled. "Smells like salad dressing."

  "It's good for that too."

  "You tried?"

  "Yes."

  "What are we doing here?"

  "The restaurant is supposed to be haunted, so we'll do a cleansing. Also called smudging."

  Bran pulled a stubby white candle out of his satchel, placed it on a table, and lit it. Next he took out a bundle of dried herbs firmly tied together. "Sage," he explained. He held the bundle over the candle, but when the flames caught, he blew those out, leaving the sage to smolder and emit a wispy, aromatic smoke. Denton realized it was the same scent he'd caught whiffs of before from Bran.

  Bran started from one corner of the room, walking counterclockwise and waving the smoking bundle this way and that as he went. The whole time he kept murmuring to himself. At first, Denton couldn't make out the words, but then realized they were not in English. After a while, he recognized their repeating rhythm. The warm timbre of Bran's voice and the cadence of the chant felt calming and comforting to Denton. He walked a few steps behind and squirted the magic vinegar on the walls and tables. He felt a touch silly doing it, but since nobody could see them, he didn't mind.

  By the time they'd done the whole room, the pungent odor of vinegar mixed with the more fragrant one of the herb. "Sparks will have a job explaining the smell to the customers."

  "The windows don't open, but the AC will take care of it. Eventually," Bran said and headed to the door leading to the kitchen.

  As soon as they stepped inside, Denton spotted it—thick and dark like coal smoke, the shape hovered next to the walk-in freezer at the other end of the kitchen.

  Bran didn't appear to be in a hurry. "Back in the sixties, this place was an Italian restaurant, a small family place. The owner had friends in the mob. One of them was Vinnie Pagano, a hit man for the Attanasio family. A true cold-blooded killer. According to rumor, he fell out of favor when he got Pasquale Attanasio's daughter, Antonia, pregnant. One night, as he left the restaurant, through the kitchen as always, he was gunned down right outside. He had just enough strength to drag himself back inside before dying." He stopped and looked at Denton as if expecting something.

  "It sounds like a campfire ghost story. Are you trying to scare me? Because it's not working."

  Bran shook his head and went on being atypically chatty. "It's all true. I always do my research before taking on a job, so I know what to expect. I know somebody at the Chicago Historical Society." His gaze swept through the kitchen and settled on Denton. "Do you see anything? Tell me."

  Denton almost told him about the shape looming on the other side, but his paranoia kicked in—it felt like a trap. "I see nothing but an empty kitchen."

  "All right. We go the same way as in the dining room." He set off to his right and made his way around, as before.

  Denton kept spraying, but from the corner of his eye, he kept a watch on the dark shadow, which behaved more and more strangely as they drew near.

  The walk-in freezer stood a few feet from the shadow's current location. Bran pulled its door open and made Denton stand in the open doorway. "Make sure you stay outside while I'm in there, and don't let the door close." He went in and did his chanting and waving.

  Denton leaned on the door; then it felt as if the door leaned back, trying to push him. It had to be the ghost. What a bastard. Denton planted his feet firmly on the floor and stood his ground. When Bran was done, they changed places.

  Once the freezer got thoroughly smoked and sprayed, Bran let its door slam shut, but instead of moving on, he stopped again. "The week after Vinnie Pagano's death, Antonia Attanasio married a young baker by the name of Joseph Bertucci. Not quite seven months later, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy. By then the restaurant was gone—destroyed by a grease fire. Ever since, dozens of businesses have opened and closed here. Some disaster always struck them. It stood empty for years—the reason why Roger Sparks got it so cheap. He's not a superstitious man, but things have been going awry from the start. Freak accidents, fresh meat going rancid in a few hours, right in the freezer. Hardened kitchen folk getting the heebie-jeebies. That's why he called me." He sounded a bit as if he was repeating a practiced speech.

  "For a guy who normally won't say two words to a person, you can spin a yarn like a pro."

  By then, the ghost—because what else could it be?—hovered at the door between the kitchen and dining room. If Bran pressed him now, Denton probably would have fessed up about it, but Bran didn't ask. He just resumed his ritual.

  As they got close to the door, the dark gray of the ghost billowed and spiraled, impersonating a miniature tornado. No more than a few feet separating them now, Denton had a much better view. The shape started to become ragged around the edges, large chunks of it fading away. Denton stepped up and spritzed the Four Thieves Vinegar right into the middle of the figure. It shuddered, but then it suddenly surged forward. Denton felt a sudden rush of rage, yet he knew the emotion wasn't his own.

  He instinctively held out his free hand, palm open, fingers spread out. With a touch of anxiety, he realized the foolishness of it right away—he couldn't stop an intangible shadow with his bare hand. The gesture, along with his intense wish for the thing to be gone, was pure instinct. What happened next came as a shock. A massive surge of heat filled his whole body, but before he had a chance to be scared, it exploded out of his palm in the form of a flash of white light. The whole event took no more than a second or two, but it obliterated the ghostly shape without a trace. Denton stood dumbstruck, his pulse racing with an odd mixture of relief and thrill—like at the end of a roller-coaster ride. He stared at his hand, but it looked as normal as ever.

  Bran made a satisfied hum, as if this was all in a good day's work for him. "We're done," he said and extinguished his sage bundle at a nearby sink. He then went out the back door, leaving Denton in a befuddled mess. With nothing better to do, Denton followed him and found him burying the remainder of the sage under a patch of dirt. He used a gardening trowel, which he neatly sealed in a Ziploc bag before dropping it into his satchel. He also took the nearly empty spray bottle Denton was still clutching.

  A series of loud clucking sounds made Denton look up at the tree they stood under, where he caught sight of an impressive black form. "That's one big crow!"

  Bran followed his gaze. "Raven. Fat, more like it. A wonder it can even fly."

  With a loud and offended caw, the bird spread its wings and took to the air. It flew pretty damn well. Gracefully, even. Soon it disappeared over the roofs.

  Bran closed his bag and adjusted it on his shoulder. "Let'
s go. Mr. Sparks must be anxious."

  Mr. Sparks was anxious, hopeful, relieved, and anxious some more, all at once. Bran gave his assurance to the worried restaurateur in his customary terse manner. Curiously, Bran's brusqueness had a calming effect on the other man. Soon Denton and Bran were on their way home.

  They spent the trip in an odd silence—not sullen, but not comfortable either.

  Denton's thoughts kept jumping around but always returning to the story Bran had told. "What happened to the boy?"

  "What boy?"

  "Antonia's son."

  "Died in a boating accident on the lake at age twenty-three. They say he was a real piece of work, and only his mother grieved over him."

  "You're either the greatest bullshitter in the world, or you really did your homework."

  Bran turned his coal-dark gaze on Denton. "I don't always tell the truth, but I never lie."

  ***

  Denton was ready to be dismissed the moment the elevator doors opened on their floor, but Bran surprised him again. "It's almost lunchtime. Why don't we order delivery, and while we wait, you can tell me the truth about what you saw in the restaurant."

  One corner of Bran's mouth curled up as he looked at Denton, and this hint of a smile tugged at Denton's heart. He ached to see the smile grow. Joy was probably right, and Denton would end up regretting this, but at this moment, he didn't care. He wanted more of this man. Gawd, he was a sucker.

  "Okay."

  "What do you want, pizza, Chinese, Thai?" Bran asked, unlocking his door.

  "Meow." Murry waited for them on the other side, sitting under the coatrack.

  Bran gave him a stern stare. "No, most definitely not. It makes you gassy."

  The cat glared back at him before standing and rubbing his face on Denton's legs. He bent down and scratched the cat behind the ears.

  "He likes you," Bran said, hanging up his coat and kicking his shoes off.

  Denton followed Bran's example. He wasn't surprised to see Bran's black socks. His own, on the other hand, were a red-and-yellow-striped pair. Colorful socks had been his weakness since he'd been a little boy. Bran stared at them for a couple of seconds, but then he shook his head and headed to the kitchen for the takeout menus.

  "Can I get you a beer?" he asked over his shoulder.

  "Sure." Denton followed Murry into the living room, and the two of them settled on the sofa.

  Denton rubbed Murry's thick jowls, and the cat expressed his gratitude with a rumbling purr.

  Bran came back and handed Denton the bottle, then settled on the other side of the sofa. The setup very much started to resemble a date. Oh hell, he might even get laid. Being an eternal optimist, Denton dared to hope.

  At his suggestion, they ordered meat-lovers' pizza with extra cheese, and a six-pack of Dr. Pepper.

  "I prefer to drink something sweet with greasy food," he explained.

  "You have a sweet tooth."

  "Not a crime."

  "No. Tell me about the spirit at the restaurant."

  "You saw it too, didn't you?"

  Bran shook his head. "No. I can sense their presence, sometimes catch a glimpse from the corner of my eye, but nothing more. I truly wish to know how you perceive them."

  "Well, it's not always the same, but usually a dark, murky shape, like smoke or shadow. I call them ghosts, because"—Denton opened his eyes big and made his voice gravelly—"I see dead people."

  Bran looked back at him with absolute seriousness. "I know you do. There's one in front of our building, isn't there? That's what you were staring at the other day."

  "Yeah. It doesn't appear hostile."

  "I think it must be Mr. Klusky. He was the doorman here for three decades. Died five or six years ago."

  "Talk about taking your job too seriously."

  Bran shrugged. "Must be stuck. Do you see anything else besides these spirit shadows?"

  "Umm, I see how people died. I read an article once, which said if you leave a body at a spot for twenty-four hours, or even less, a cadaver dog can identify the spot even years later. I'm sorta like that. The best I can figure, when people die, they leave an imprint where it happened, and when I run into it, I re-experience it. Fortunately, they rarely last years. Mostly just a few months."

  "It must be unpleasant." Bran leaned forward, and genuine sympathy softened his words.

  "No kidding." Denton grimaced, but his heart jumped a little.

  "Is it what you call episodes? You should be able to buffer them."

  Denton opened his eyes wide in surprise. "How? I wish I had control over this thing, but I don't."

  Two deep grooves appeared between Bran's brows. The beer must have relaxed his facial muscles. "Hm. Have you always had this talent?"

  "No. I had a near-drowning experience when I was nine. It started after."

  Bran hummed again, drank his beer, and stared into nothing, brows furrowed for a good while. Finally he stood and got himself another beer, forgetting to even ask if Denton wanted one. "Was there anything unusual about your accident?" he asked, sitting back down.

  "Unusual? I dunno. It was winter, I went out on the frozen lake, the ice broke, I fell in. Someone pulled me out. EMT revived me after being under for fifteen minutes or so. Supposedly the cold water saved me." An involuntary shiver shook Denton at the memory of the cold.

  "And from then on you could see spirits?"

  "Yeah. How long have you been doing this smudging stuff?"

  "I did my first when I was five, so it would be over two and a half decades. I was homeschooled for years, and Mother had an unconventional curriculum. Witchcraft has been in my family for generations."

  "You must be quite a witch, then. Or is it wizard?"

  "Witch. But that's my mother. I prefer herbs."

  With a light prodding from Denton, Bran gave Denton the dirt on his herb garden. Denton tried to retain the information, but mostly he simply enjoyed hearing the man talk and watching Bran gently touch a leaf here, fondle a stem there. Lucky bastards. No wonder they were the perkiest, most lively plants Denton had ever seen.

  A second bottle of beer loosened up Bran some more. When the pizza arrived, he was on his third, and a lot of the starch had gone out of his posture.

  He sprinkled chopped green stuff on top of his slice. "Parsley and basil," he explained.

  Denton tried it too, cautiously at first, but it tasted fine.

  They ate in companionable silence. Denton sneaked a few pieces of meat to Murry under the table.

  "Don't complain to me if he pukes on your feet," Bran said.

  Denton flushed at being caught. "He's not fat, just big boned."

  "Right. Murmur."

  The cat slinked out from under the table and hopped onto a chair. He sprawled out with a satisfied smirk on his furry mug.

  "You must have been hungry," Bran remarked when Denton finished his fourth slice.

  "It's my metabolism. No matter how much I eat, I don't gain weight. Jo says I'm skinnier than a drowned rat—which in my opinion doesn't even make sense. I mean, fat rats can drown too, right? She's just jealous."

  Bran took a swig of his beer. "Back when you fell into the lake, who pulled you out?"

  "Just some guy… You know, that part was odd. My mom tried to find him to thank him but couldn't. Nobody had seen him around before or after. All she could find out was the guy's first name: Bill. But nobody could even give a detailed description of him. I'd completely forgotten about that part." He felt another brush of chill but shrugged it off.

  "Hm, interesting. Very interesting."

  "What, you know who he is?" Denton highly doubted it was possible, Bran being a witch or not.

  "No, but I have a suspicion about his…nature. I believe he made you into a necromancer when he saved you. I don't know why."

  "Necromancer? Like those guys who make zombies and skeleton armies?"

  Bran gave him a disapproving look. "No. Don't be ridiculous. That crap is for video games.
A necromancer is someone who has a special connection with the dead, who can communicate with them."

  "Communicate is stretching it. I can feel them and see them."

  "You're untrained."

  "And how would I go about getting trained? Not something you can find in the Yellow Pages."

  "It's not my area of expertise, but I can ask around. Give me a little time."

  "Okay."

  "By the way, you can also cast out spirits. You blasted ol' Vinnie straight to the other side."

  Thinking back, Denton had to admit it'd been pretty cool. He grinned. "It was me, wasn't it? The whole light show. I have no clue how I did it."

  "Instinct. Angry spirits of his sort can be nuisance, but not too hard to deal with. My smudging would've taken care of it, but your method was faster."

  "There are different kinds of spirits?

  "Of course. Most people cross over when they die, but some can't fully let go, and part of them stays behind and becomes this thing. Not a person, but a concentrated emotion—pain, anger, greed."

  "You kinda tricked me there, into doing that stuff."

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because I like you."

  Denton, completely unprepared for this answer, sputtered for a moment. "You're not making any sense."

  Bran shrugged and took another swig of his beer. Denton had had enough of the arrogant, unpredictable, sexy bastard. He carefully wiped his fingers, downed the rest of his soda, then, with a casual but determined move, he closed the distance between them. He straddled Bran's thigh, threaded his fingers into the thick, black locks, and kissed those sinfully full lips. An empty beer bottle landed on the hardwood floor with a clank, and the next moment, Bran pushed both his hands under Denton's shirt.

  They made out for long minutes, kisses deepening, bodies becoming desperate for more contact. With impatient fingers, Denton unbuttoned Bran's shirt. The tawny skin underneath stretched over firm flesh. Denton traced the outlines of muscles with his hands. He could hardly believe he'd gotten this far and that Mr. Aloof hadn't brushed him aside yet. He dug his fingers into the coarse dark hair covering Bran's pecs. "You're so fucking hot."

  Even Bran's chuckle was sexy. Escalating the stakes, Denton scrabbled to undo Bran's belt and fly. Dipping his hand inside, he found Bran hot and hard for him, Bran's cockhead sticky with eagerness. He swiped his thumb over the head, and Bran's breath caught.