The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women Part 25

I wanted to ask how well she'd liked him, but kept my mouth shut. Settled back on the seat and watched the city slide by.

"We can go over it again." Was she nervous? She was back to that uninflected flatline, it was hard to tell. "Once you're in the circle, you'll be insulated, but you won't be able to get out. You'll have to concentrate really hard to get me the ma.s.s I need while he's distracted."

I nodded, slightly. The smoked-gla.s.s part.i.tion between me and the driver was half-open, but I could see his dark eyes in the mirror. They were fixed front, and looked dilated.

That was not a good sign.

Both Ryan and Moira swore I couldn't die as long as I had this thing on. I found out I was playing with it again, running my fingers over the fluid curves, the chain sliding warm and soft against my nape.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she hissed, softly. "You know, I probably bought this for him. He's nothing without the Seal. He's scared. Good."

It was the only time she didn't sound monotone, when she was telling me how much she hated him. I nodded again, half-closing my eyes. I was glad I'd worn jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt for this. The boots had good grippy soles, too, and as the limo turned uptown I propped one on the seat and imagined the limo was mine.

The house reared up in a grey wave under an overcast sky. The English gardens were clipped and lifeless, winter settled in to stay for a while. The driveway was pitch-black and newly sealed, and an honest-to-G.o.d butler offered to take my coat. I declined, clutching my purse to my side with one elbow as if it might wriggle away, and Ryan Hannigan came down the great sweeping staircase like he was in an MGM musical. I expected to hear the voice of G.o.d telling Moses what the h.e.l.l to do, or for Hannigan to bust out a cane and start tap-dancing, at any moment.

"Thank you, Chilton. I'll take Miss Parkes from here. If you could just leave the week's menu for Cook before you go? Good." Hannigan arrived at the bottom and surveyed me as the butler glided away. "h.e.l.lo, Georgia. I trust the drive was pleasant?"

"I think your chauffeur's stoned." My palms were hot and slick.

"He's temporary." He'd just stepped out of some European version of Vogue charcoal and black, cashmere pullover and sharply-creased slacks, his dark hair perfect and his smile a white slash. A chunky silver watch gleamed on one tanned wrist. "Especially if you don't like him. We are, after all, going to be working together."

I made a noncommittal noise. All of him was so impossibly vivid, burning with stolen life.

Just like Moira. Two of a kind, both high aces. And what was I? A two or a three of spades. Maybe I could graduate to joker, though, when all this was done.

"He got rid of my grandfather clock," Moira noted, ripples pa.s.sing through her in bursts. "Probably my dinnerware too, before my body even got cold. b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

I only saw a little of the house, but I liked it. Despite the Eastern thing Hannigan had going on cus.h.i.+ons and Zen hangings, at least two huge stone Buddhas, and various poor village tchotchkes re-made so rich people could play at being peasants. I searched for something to say. "So, are you a Buddhist and a sorcerer? How does that work?" It sounded stupid, like c.o.c.ktail-party conversation, and I wished I could rub my palms against my jeans to dry them off, and get rid of the pounding in my head too.

"Buddhism's a technology, Georgia. Not a religion." He liked educating dumb females, his tone said. He liked it a lot. He continued, and I quit listening, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. The pendant quivered against my skin, nestling close. I could almost see its outlines s.h.i.+fting under my s.h.i.+rt as the lion-dragon-thing moved, flowing in a circle.

"Oh, Christ." Moira rippled some more, drifting after him. "I hate that tone of his. And look at him. Hasn't missed a workout, I can tell you that much. In between getting rid of all my- oh, no, my O'Keefe's gone!"

Shut up, I wanted to tell her. You're distracting me. I followed him through a library, suspecting that most of the leather-bound spines filling the gla.s.sed-in shelves were fakes. Interior decorators can do that, books by the yard. I wondered if some of them were magic books, decided not to ask.

"And here is where we make the magic, Georgia." He swept open a pair of heavy mahogany doors, and I followed him through into a circular stone-walled room.

It must have cost a pretty penny, from the star in a circle cut into the floor to the grey-black stone covering walls, ceiling, and floor. Custom-built cabinets and counters ran across one half of the wall's curve, jammed with fascinating things jars of bones, smoke s.h.i.+fting like liquid inside rows of jewel-glowing bottles, feathers and bits of things, a baleful little obsidian statue of a gargoyle or something that tapped on the gla.s.s, furiously, as it s.h.i.+vered and reformed, the cracks vanis.h.i.+ng. Ranks of candles stood on twisted iron candelabra, some of them taller than I was, and there was a pleasant spicy smoke-smell from the cloud of incense.

"You're taking this rather well," he remarked as he closed the doors behind me. "I almost thought there would be screaming and fainting."

"I got that all out of the way early." A gla.s.s terrarium on the nearest end of the counter held a piebald snake, coiled in on itself and watching with one black-gem eye. I touched the gla.s.s and it moved, s.h.i.+fting fluidly just like the pendant. A wave of nausea pa.s.sed through me. I stood very still until it was gone. "How did you find out about the pendant? The Seal, I mean."

"My family used to own it, until Moira's stole it. That was in Ireland, a long time ago. Hannigans have a distressing habit of breeding only sons, and a man can't hold the Seal. Yet."

Oh. "You think you're going to be the first?"

"I'll settle for working with the woman who can hold it. I'm a reasonable man, when I'm met with reasonableness." There was a metallic, sc.r.a.ping sound. I whirled, but he had already punched the sword through my chest.

Right through my heart.

The stone floor seared my back. I sat up, choking, and screamed. Blood crusted my lips, and the pendant was a cicatrice of flame. When I ran out of air I scrabbled, my arms and legs not quite working right, my chest on fire, until I hit an invisible wall. It was the edge of the circle, and even though my legs kept going, trying to push me back through it, the air was as solid as steel.

I inhaled sharply, screamed again.

He waited until I ran out of breath again. "I'm sorry. I had to get you into the circle."

Moira flitted through the room, running laps in a weird ghostly way. First she would be standing near the counter, then she'd wink out and show up a couple of feet to the right or left. She kept doing that, hopping around; I clapped a hand to my chest and found a b.l.o.o.d.y hole in my T-s.h.i.+rt. My bra was ruined, but everything under it seemed just fine.

"-b.a.s.t.a.r.d-" was all I could get out. I quit screaming. There didn't seem to be any point.

"Exactly." Hannigan nodded. "Precisely. I'm not even a full Hannigan. But I will get my hands on that Seal, one way or another. And dear darling Moira just helped me. It's so easy to predict a woman blinded by the l.u.s.t for vengeance."

"Georgie . . ." Moira's voice, faint and far away as she popped in and out of existence. "I can't get through, Georgie ..."

Hannigan straightened. He'd shrugged into a long black robe, and looked like a college student playing graduation at some drunken party or another. His eyes had lit up, and that shark smile was just as wide and white. "If Moira's trying to get through, you can tell her not to bother. She helped me build this room, she knows it's a psychic fallout shelter. She helped me build everything, but she wouldn't share the Seal. Now I'll have it anyway."

The pendant was still burning. A thread of smoke drifted up from my T-s.h.i.+rt, perfumed with coppery, roasting blood.

Hannigan stepped back. The candle flames guttered as he raised his arms, the robe brus.h.i.+ng back and forth like he carried his own personal wind with him.

"Georgie, you'll have to concentrate . . . Georgie, I can't get through. Help meeee, Georgieeeeee . . ." The burns were spreading up Moira's body as she flickered like the candles.

Oh, holy s.h.i.+t.

Ryan Hannigan began to chant.

It hurt. The Seal roared furiously, electricity jabbing through me. Now I know what it feels like to stick your finger in a light socket, lightning coursing through your veins, skyfire burning every nerve.

"Georgie, you've got to concentrate! Georgieeeee-" Moira howled. The candles blossomed with sudden flame, and I screamed again, going into seizure on the floor, blood bursting from my mouth and nose, my heels drumming the stone, a sharp edge in the deep-carved star slicing open my foot he'd taken my boots off, d.a.m.n it and more blood flying, the droplets spattering that invisible wall and hanging.

Hannigan's voice rose, a long yell of triumph shaped in syllables that cut and stabbed, venomous snakes of reddish smoke twisting and glowing around him. The Seal screamed again as it lifted from my chest, but my arm flew up and my fingers cramped around its sinuous curves, forcing it back against my skin.

Even though it hurt. Even though it burned.

It wasn't just the Seal. It was Moira, her copper-gold hair lifting on a breeze, laughing as her bicycle ploughed through fallen leaves. Moira in the middle of the night, leaning out of a car window and shouting, lit up like a marquee. Those years we shared the same dorm room and I did the donkey work so she'd drag me along as the plain-Jane friend, those were my years, and even if they had sucked everything out of me so I was stuck as a paralegal in a shady-a.s.s firm full of ambulance-chasers instead of having the stones to get through law school on my own, they were still mine.

She was still my Moira. And this b.a.s.t.a.r.d had killed her, chanting in this room while the car bucked and shuddered underneath her and the fuel truck loomed out of the intersection, its brakes failing and the blossom of fire kissing like an angry lover all over her last moments on earth. I saw it, clear as day, the Seal burning through me, and I wasn't just concentrating.

I was furious.

A thunderclap tore the room apart. The floor underneath me heaved, broken pieces jolting apart and the pressure inside me suddenly easing, bleeding away.

Hannigan's yell of triumph choked off.

Because Moira's bleeding hands were clamped around his throat. She crouched on his chest, his arms flailing ineffectually as the snakes of crimson smokefire heaved around them both, and she squeezed.

So did I. But I wasn't squeezing with anything physical. It was my will, an invisible snake inside my head, and even as Moira howled in satisfaction and Hannigan gurgled his last, the Seal flexed inside me and my dead college room mate's ghost shredded apart. A burst of cold, clear white light filled the room the light people talk about when they describe their hearts stopping and the Other Side beckoning.

"Georgie, nooooooo-" Moira screamed, a fading train whistle, but the light winked out. The stone room grumbled, like a subway muttering up through pavement, and the smoke took on a sharper, less perfumed tang. I coughed, choking, and heaved myself up to hands and knees.

"M-M-Moi-" I stammered over her name, because I was sobbing.

Now she was truly gone. And so was he.

Monday morning I called in sick and took the ferry.

It was one of those bright clear winter days where the wind comes off the river like a knife and everything sparkles. I stood on the deck in my Goodwill wool peacoat, my belly against the railing, and the fluttering newspaper was whisked up out of my hands.

Billionaire Dead in Mansion Fire, the headlines screamed. They were calling it a double tragedy. It had been a job and a half pulling enough force through the drained Seal to burn that motherf.u.c.king pile down, and I didn't like doing it. Still, it was the only thing I could think of, if the police weren't going to come knocking and asking me how I'd strangled him.

Criminals set fires to cover things up all the time. I just had the Seal to make sure it stuck. It was a wonder anything was left of him. The papers didn't say, but I was fairly sure there would just be charred bones.

The pendant glittered unhappily, cupped in my hand. It was drained now, Hannigan had siphoned off a lot of force, and I'd siphoned off even more. If I was going to do this, now was the time. When it was stronger, I wouldn't be able to take it off.

Don't take it off unless you're ready to die.

Well, I wasn't ready to die. Not really. But . . . Jesus Christ, living with this thing was not going to make me a happy cupcake.

And . . . Moira.

The wind scoured my face, drying the tears. I held my arm out, stiffly, drew back, and managed a pretty decent throw. It snapped as it left my hand, the chain biting, and beads of blood welled up on my wrist. Sharp darts of light glinted from it as it somersaulted, grabbing at the wind, the chain suddenly tentacles. But I've got a good aim, and it hit the choppy water and vanished with a twinkle.

A cloud settled over the sun, the colour and richness of the world stolen away again. I made it home without getting run over, took a bath without drowning, and went to bed because I was too f.u.c.king tired to care.

Tuesday morning showed up way too early, the alarm shrieking at me. I smashed the sleep b.u.t.ton, rolled over, and spent another ten minutes in dreamland. There was something hard under my cheek.

The alarm shrieked again. I groaned, cursed, and punched it off. Turned my lamp on, every muscle protesting. I was sore all over from being stabbed, suffering seizures, and- A silver gleam. The lion-dragon snarled slightly, and as soon as I touched the warm metal with a trembling finger it s.h.i.+fted, supple curves gleaming. I let out a small sound like I'd been punched and picked it up by the chain, gingerly, holding it away from me.

The Seal swung in tight circles, muttering at me. You're not gonna get away that easy, it said, and I was reminded of tagging along after Moira.

Haunting her steps. Now this thing was haunting mine.

It settled against my breastbone like it had never been away, the chain sliding under my hair and the lion-dragon twisting and turning as it rubbed catlike against me. I sat in my bed, listening to the rumble of traffic outside, and hugged my knees. My curtains glowed; I could see every thread in the fabric. Every edge was rich and solid again, not washed-out and dull.

"Moira," I whispered. "Tell me what to do now."

And just like that, the answer occurred. Well, why not? I could almost hear her laughing. It was what Moira would have done. At least, my Moira. Not Hannigan's. Not the gaping hole she'd been or the woman she grew into, but the girl I'd thought I . . . loved.

I had enough saved up, and if the Seal could make Hannigan rich it could do the same for me. But I'd do something different. I'd help people. I'd find the dead, and close their cases. I'd be a G.o.dd.a.m.n private eye.

I always wanted to be a superhero.

Forget Us Not.

Nancy Kilpatrick.

You hear only the crunch as your boots crush snow along this narrow street. A plume of carbon dioxide escapes your nostrils, vaporizing, like a ghost vanis.h.i.+ng. Where the smaller ploughs have sc.r.a.ped the sidewalks, crystalline banks form glittering, otherworldly mountains and you scale one to cross the street.

It has been nearly a year since Brian died. A powerful wave of grief crashed over you, and then, within an hour of his demise, leaving grief in its wake, numbness flooded you. You are anaesthetized. A voluntary amnesiac. Now, you merely exist, rather than live, opening your eyes each morning with only a mild curiosity as to whether or not this day will be different. But the days are all the same and much of the time you realize that your waking thought is naive; hope died with your husband. You are as cold as the dead.

Your brain hurts and you yank the parka's hood down to protect your forehead and daydream about prairie winters. They had been as bad, worse really, longer, that's for sure, but that cold was "dry"; you are just beginning to grasp what "dry" means. Here, it is damp and the thermostat often reads warmer than it actually is. Still, you owe this city. You needed a big change change or crawl into a grave yourself. "Change is better than a rest," Brian always joked; you wonder if you'll ever truly rest again.

This is the kind of night you remember vividly from childhood. Not the urban landscape, of course. But, from time to time, the present of this place dovetails with recollections of the past. You recognize the silence. That combined with the pristine white leaves you calm on some level. Despite the chill, a small, grim smile turns up the corners of your lips. You intentionally blow a stream of visual air into the night, just to watch it vanish, and think again: how like a spirit departing when the body can no longer contain it!

You reach the mouth of an alleyway close to the corner and a sudden sound cuts the silence, causing you to stop. You pull the furry hood back to listen. Must have been a cat, you think, or it sounded like one. An unhappy cat. Maybe a cat in pain. An image of Ruddie comes to mind and you squeeze closed your eyes for a second and shake your head, not wanting to think about that.

You glance down the alley but the dim lighting reveals nothing. It's far too cold just to stand here so you hurry along and turn left at the corner, heading towards boulevard St Laurent.

Within a block, activity blossoms amidst the swirling white. It is normal for people here to wander around in storms and you have gotten used to going out to meet the necessities of life in all kinds of weather and finding shops, bars, restaurants, every place packed. This, you know, is not like Saskatchewan, where home and family is everything. But when family is gone, strangers remain. Brian used to say that strangers are "just friends waiting to happen".

Traffic moves at a snail's pace but the slim Montrealers manage a good clip despite icy sidewalks. You imitate their pace, grateful that you learned to ice skate at the age of five and walking the black-ice streets of Saskatoon felt natural. Montreal is so much further south. When your clients complain about the weather, you often tell them, "This is nothing. You should see life when everything is obliterated!"

The bar you favour is in the Plateau area. It is Sat.u.r.day night, but early, and you will have enough time to drink yourself comatose before the crowds arrive. Drinking has become your hobby, a comfortable pastime, and Sat.u.r.day is the only night you can indulge because the office is closed on Sunday. Brian used to say, "Never drink alone, Gena. It can't lead anywhere good." And you don't. You drink with a crowd of strangers who, after all this time, are no closer to being friends.

Anton & James is a large res...o...b..r, cosy at this hour, and you have come here every weekend without fail for nine months. The bartender places your double Scotch, neat, on the oak bar without your asking, smiles and says, "How it's going?"

"Fine," you say, as you do every Sat.u.r.day night, the ritualistic words exchanged as if they are a talisman that will ward off bad luck.

You know the bartender's name is Rod it says so on the pin attached to his s.h.i.+rt. He knows your name is Gena your credit card gives away this vital statistic. That is enough familiarity, although you sometimes wonder what his life outside this bar is like. Is he married? Does he have a girlfriend? Children? Is this his only job? You also wonder if he wonders about you.

The hours pa.s.s, the bar begins to fill, the music is cranked for the night, and you have tossed back the remains of your fifth drink. On cue, Rod rings up your tab and discreetly places the bill before you. Your credit card comes out of your coat pocket; within minutes you have punched in your code and left a generous tip on the hand-held credit card machine. You look in your gla.s.s but it is empty, stand on rubbery legs, slip into your coat and Rod says, "See you."

"Yeah. Bye."

And then you are out the door, trudging back up the street which is now as crowded as midday with laughing, energetic bar and club goers. Briefly you think of stopping for something to eat, but the thought of consuming anything solid evokes a touch of nausea and anyway you have soon turned the corner, shutting out the noise and traffic and clubs and restaurants, and eventually you are on your street.

Even before you reach the mouth of the alley, you hear a single, pitiful yowl. From the corner of your eye a dark form darts across your path. Startled, you jump back, skidding on a patch of ice, arms flailing to regain balance. "OK, OK," you gasp, "it's just a cat. Relax."

You glance up the alley but don't see the feline kamikaze. The back lanes of this city are full of strays and it breaks your heart that they live outdoors in such frigid weather. It is the one thing about Quebec that you truly detest, how animals are treated. Back home, there are shelters that take in homeless animals for the cold months, neuter them so they won't procreate and produce more starving strays. Then they try to find homes for the cats and dogs, or at least foster care. Here, there are few shelters and they are all at capacity all the time. This shocking disregard for abandoned pets leaves you horrified. You have always loved animals. You had intended to become a vet, but last year's events resulted in a change of plan. You cannot bear to think of any creature suffering.

By the time you gingerly climb the iced-up metal staircase that leads to your third-floor apartment, you are relieved to be headed indoors. You have the key in the lock when a ferocious shriek fills the night and causes the hair at the back of your neck to stand on end. It sounds like a cat being murdered. Maybe it is the cat that just raced across your path.

You cannot stop yourself. You hurry down the slippery spiral steps and return to the laneway, picking your way along it, making kissy sounds, calling, "Here, kitty. It's OK, I just want to help you," trying to hunt down the poor creature, hoping it's not injured. If you can catch him or her, you'll take the cat in for the night, despite the landlord's "no pets" rule. In the morning, you can get the animal to the vet clinic in the building next to your office for a proper exam and whatever else is needed, then try to find it a home.

But, after four or five pa.s.ses up and back along the lane, you discover nothing. Maybe, you think, the cat's in heat. But it is the wrong time of year for that. And that cry was not a cat fight either. The sound was bone-chilling, worse than anything you've heard, even from the terrified feral tom that scratched you last month when you tried to pet him. It sounded like a creature being tortured. The thought of it makes your heart beat wildly and your stomach lurch.

It is only later, when you are snuggled in bed, the book you have been attempting to read in your drunken state lying cover-up on the quilt, the vague thought of turning out the light drifting through your mind as you build energy for this gargantuan task before your eyes close for the night, that you hear that screech again. You jolt upright. The cry is almost human. Is a murder taking place? You race to the window and throw it open. Arctic air blasts in, shocking you to wakefulness. Heart thudding, you listen intently but . . . nothing. The street is silent. About to close the window, you see what appears to be a huge dark shadow at the only part of the laneway visible from this angle. The shadow of a cat moves along the wall, but you cannot see the actual animal.

You debate with yourself about getting dressed and going down to hunt for the cat again, but, even inebriated, that strikes you as insane. It is 4 a.m. Tomorrow is your only day off and you have a million ch.o.r.es to do, errands to run. At least it's alive, you rationalize. You will search for it tomorrow.

As you contemplate climbing back into bed, you think that it is curious not having actually seen the cat, just the shadow, because from here, you should have seen the cat making the shadow. A chill runs through you. You close the window too hard, s.h.i.+vering in the warmth of your bedroom, thinking, yes, you definitely should have seen the cat.