Horror Stories Part 13

"Call me Bert. And you haven't offered your name yet, Miss..."

"Ahh...Springfield. Doris Springfield."

"Are you trying to atone for some sin, Ms. Springfield?"

Another tough sentence, but it slid out like b.u.t.ter.

"No. The death has to be violent, because a person needs to die violently in order to become a ghost."

I blinked. Then I blinked again. Before my face gave anything away, I broke her stare and went looking through my desk drawer for the Emergency bottle. I took two strong pulls.

A frank look of pity, perhaps disgust, flit past her eyes.

I shrugged it off. Who was she to judge me? She was the one who came in here wanting a violent death.

The bottle went back into the drawer, and I wiped my mouth on the back of my jacket sleeve.

"It's medicinal." I didn't care if she believed it or not. "So...you want to die to become a ghost?"

"Yes. He haunts me, my husband does. Not in any of the cliched methods you've heard about; I mean, he doesn't break dishes or rattle chains. Instead, every night, he comes to me and holds me when I'm in bed."

Her eyes went gla.s.sy, and I frowned. Tears made me uncomfortable.

"We're both so very alone, Mr. Arkin. I want to...I must...be with him."

"Ms. Springfield, I'm sorry for your loss. But murder is -"

"I have thirty-six thousand dollars."

The number gave my weak resistance pause. I could put money like that to good use.

Since I'd gotten kicked off the force, a grievous wrong since half the guys in the CPD are alkies, employment opportunities nowadays were slim. I work as a night watchman four times a week at a warehouse, and do the private investigator thing in my free time, mostly lapping up sc.r.a.ps that my friend Barney throws me. Barney is still on the Job, and whenever something minor comes along that the cops don't have time for, he funnels it my way. Mostly cheating spouses and runaway kids.

But Barney never sent me anyone who wanted to die.

"Just how did you find me, Ms. Springfield?"

"I...I heard about your problem."

"Which problem is that?"

Her eyes, tinged with red, locked onto me like laser sights.

"You're being haunted, too."

This time there was no hiding my reaction, and I recoiled as if slapped. My shaky hands fumbled with the desk drawer, unable to open it fast enough.

The whiskey burned going down, but I fought the pain and sucked until my eyes watered.

Rather than face her, I got up and walked over to the window. My third floor view of the alley didn't change much from winter to summer, but it did offer me a brief moment to collect my thoughts.

"Who told you?" I managed to say.

"I'd...I'd rather not say. I'm asking you to do something illegal, and if something should happen...well, I wouldn't want it getting back to him."

I searched my mental Rolodex for people I'd blabbed to about my problem. h.e.l.l, it could have been any bar jockey in any of three dozen gin joints going back two years.

When I drink, I talk.

So I wind up talking a lot.

"Does this person - the one who sent you here - know that you want to die?"

"No. I simply asked around for someone who believes in ghosts, and your name came up. Who haunts you, Mr. Arkin?"

I shut my eyes on the view.

"My mother," I lied.

"She died violently?"

"You could say that."

The booze made my tongue feel big in my mouth, and I began to forget where I was. Usually a good thing, but now...

"I can't do this, Ms. Springfield."

"There's no way to link it to you. You can use my gun."

"That's not the problem. I just don't want this kind of thing on my conscience."

"Is thirty-six thousand enough?"

"Yes. No. I don't know."

"I also have these."

I turned to look at her. She opened her purse and took out a small, white envelope.

"Diamonds, Mr. Arkin. About six carats worth. My husband was a jeweler, and he a.s.sured me they're worth over twenty thousand dollars. I was going to leave them to charity, but..."

"Look, Ms. Springfield -"

"I'll leave you the papers on these. That's almost sixty-thousand dollars, Mr. Arkin."

Sixty grand for my conscience?

Who was I kidding? My conscience wasn't worth sixty cents.

"Congratulations, Ms. Springfield. You've hired yourself a killer.

I stumbled out of Harvey's Liquor on Diversey and took a nip right there in the middle of the street.

Chicago winter wind bit at my cheeks and face, making all the broken capillaries even redder. I stuck the bottle in my jacket and climbed into my car.

Driving was a blurry, dreamlike thing, but I managed to make it home. Truth be told, I'd driven a lot worse. At least I could still see the traffic signals.

My apartment, a little shoe box in Hyde Park, had the smell to go along with the ambience. Checking the fridge revealed just a dirty pat of b.u.t.ter and some old pizza crusts.

So I had a liquid lunch instead.

Part of me wanted to sober up so I wouldn't make any mistakes tonight.

The other part wanted me to get drunk enough so I wouldn't remember the details later.

I took a spotty gla.s.s from the sink and poured myself three fingers and sat down at my cheap dinette set and drank.

I had to admire the lady. She had guts, and her plan looked like it would work.

At 11:45pm I arrive at her house on Christiana off of Addison. Park in the K-Mart lot across the street. Access her place from the alley; she'll leave her gate and her back door unlocked. The house will look like it had been robbed - drawers pulled out and pictures yanked off the walls. She'll be in the bedroom, hand me the gun. A quick blam-blam in the brain pan, and I can leave with the diamonds and the cash. No witnesses, no muss, no fuss.

I got to pouring another drink when the screech of tires raped my ears and made me drop the bottle.

There was a room-shaking, sickening crunch of motor vehicle meeting flesh, followed by the thump-thump of a skull cracking under the front and rear tires.

"Leave me alone, you little b.i.t.c.h!"

She came out of the wall and hovered before me. Her glow was soft and yellow, a flashlight bulb going dead.

I avoided looking at her face, even as she moved closer.

"You're a bad man, Mr. Arkin."

I bit the inside of my cheek, refusing to be baited.

"A very baaaaaaad man."

She touched my arm, and I jerked back, slopping my drink all over the table. Being touched by a ghost was like getting snow rubbed into your bare skin - so cold it was hot.

"Go away!"

I turned to get up, but she already stood in front of me. No more than five feet tall, her head a crushed pumpkin leaking brains instead of stringy seeds. One eye was popped out and dangling around her misshapen ear by the optic nerve. The other one stared, accusing.

"You can still turn yourself in."

I stumbled away, heading for the bedroom, bottle in hand.

"Call the police, Mr. Arkin. Confess...confess..."

I pulled the door open and screamed. My bedroom had become a winding stretch of suburban highway. Speeding at me at fifty MPH, a swerving, drunken maniac unscrewed his bottle cap rather than paid attention to the road.

Me. It was me driving.

The car hit like a slap from G.o.d, knocking me backwards, smearing my face and body against the phantom asphalt in a fifteen foot streak.

I lay there, in agony, as I watched myself get out of the car, look in my direction and vomit, and then get right back into the car and drive off.

The image faded, and I found myself lying on my stained carpet.

"Confess, Mr. Arkin."

I sought my dropped bottle, the worst of the nightly terror over for the time being.

"Confess?" I spat. "Why should I? Haven't you tortured me enough for the last two years? I ran you over once. You've done this to me how many times? Two hundred? Three?"

She stood next to me now, the loops of intestines hanging out of her belly giving me cold, wet slaps in the face.

"Go to the police and confess."

"Go to h.e.l.l, or heaven, or wherever you're supposed to go."

I rolled away and struggled to my feet.

"I can't go away until my business here is done."

I drank straight from the bottle now, trying to tune her out. Confess? My a.s.s. Going to the cops meant going to prison. And that just can't happen. I couldn't survive in prison.

They don't let you drink.

"You can't die without resolution, Mr. Arkin. If you do..."

"I know! You've said it a thousand times!"

"Your soul will be mine if you don't atone."

She cracked a b.l.o.o.d.y smile, all missing teeth and swollen tongue.

"I don't think you'll like eternity with me in charge."

I spun on her, jabbing a finger into her spongy head.

"I'll have money soon! Lots of money! I'll hire someone to exorcize your preachy little a.s.s!"

She laughed, a full, rich, deep sound that made the hair on my arms vibrate.

"I'll be seeing you, Mr. Arkin. Soon."

And then she faded away, like a puff of cigar smoke.