Voodoo Shanghai, page 2
“Astrid, stop!” I shouted, and clapped my hands. Zombies, four-line and five-line alike, respond to sounds, scents and bright lights, and combining them works even better.
Astrid’s childish affectations vanished as the Otherside flashed with her broiling anger again. “What did you do?!” Astrid hissed at her mother, ignoring me. “I specifically asked for the new Louis Vuitton bag three weeks ago!”
Oh, dear god…Please tell me this entire debacle was not over Astrid not getting the right joss paper offering…
Joss paper referred to the elaborate gifts—clothing, money, houses, cars, designer bags, all in paper form—that families could purchase and burn for their loved ones. The idea was that the burning would send the gifts across the barrier for the dead to use, in the same way that the funerary offerings were for the dead to eat.
Every culture has its own beliefs regarding the afterlife and what awaits them on the Otherside. While I personally find Christians have the most vague, depressing and dark versions—purgatory and hell—the Chinese and Japanese have an outright delightful version. Not unlike the ancient Egyptians, the Chinese envision an afterlife that isn’t too far off from our own world—a ghost world, where money, food and material possessions are necessary. These items are left out or burned in special shrines that families believe their dearly departed frequently visit.
Most ghosts don’t have their own personal set mirror to cross the barrier with, but if they do make it across, they are certainly able to eat and drink the things from life they most craved. I’d seen Nate and other ghosts that frequented Lee’s bar, Damaged Goods, put back enough pints of beer to prove that.
But burning joss paper was an interesting possibility. At least theoretically, it might send items, or the manifestations of them, across the barrier for the intended ghosts to use—or believe they could use. Not that ghosts like to talk about what goes on behind the barrier, leaving the living to their own suppositions and meditation on what matters when you’re dead. I supposed that was probably for the best.
“But we sent you the Louis Vuitton bag last week! The new one from the limited edition collection. The Joss Edition, specially made for you! Do you have any idea what it cost to have the joss paper bag done by hand on rush?” Mrs. Young cried.
Sparks of Otherside flickered around Astrid, drawn by her anger like mosquitoes to bare skin. I was having trouble now siphoning off all the anger-fuelled Otherside.
“Astrid!” I clenched my teeth as Astrid bucked against the bindings and ran to the edge of the pentagram, in defiance of every one of my guidelines.
“You sent me the red one!” Astrid screamed, pointing a waxy finger at her mother. “I specifically asked for the blue. You did that on purpose to humiliate me!”
Shit. I grabbed hold of Astrid’s bindings, ready to really reel her in if push came to shove.
“Astrid, he wouldn’t make the bag in blue! It only comes in red! He had the leather specially produced for a very exclusive run.”
“It goes with nothing I own!” Astrid shrieked.
Woah boy. I dug my feet into the frosty grass and mud as Astrid lunged towards her mother.
I mean, I’d raised Astrid as a four-line zombie, so technically I was the one in control…of her physical body. I couldn’t control her mind. I could compel her to behave—I’d had to do it before, but…well, there were ethical issues I had with that. I was fine with stopping a zombie from moving. The body at this point was a loaner—from me. I was calling the shots and I was also responsible for any zombie I raised. Now, compelling them to do or tell me things? That was eerily close to what soothsayers did, and that was an ethical grey area I tried to avoid. Screwing around with ghosts’ souls traumatizes them. The only thing they have left is their free will. Taking that away from them…
“Astrid,” Mrs. Young said. “That simply isn’t true. It goes perfectly with the wardrobe I just sent you.”
“You mean those cheap, knock-off joss papers?” Astrid scoffed. “Don’t think I didn’t notice, Mother. I was humiliated when my servants brought over those hand-me-downs!”
“Aiya!” Mrs. Young shouted back, now irate. “That wardrobe was entirely couture! Do you know how hard it was to convince the designers to hand-draw all those dresses? And don’t get me started on the food you’ve been requesting! Oysters and caviar—the caviar is out of season, and you know it!”
“You were also supposed to send me a new Ferrari!”
“Absolutely out of the question!” her father said, now drawn into the fray. “You and your fast cars have brought this family enough disgrace. No more sports cars! I forbid it!”
Astrid vibrated through the lines I was holding as she bunched up her fists.
“Could everyone take a good ten steps back from the pentagram? Please?” I managed.
“You’re just upset you can’t control me anymore—”
“Control you?” Mr. Young shouted back. “Is that what you call this? We should have controlled you much more! Or do you not even remember how you died—the shame, the dishonour?”
Whatever composure Astrid had dissolved. She bucked against my zombie conditions, wrenching the reins of Otherside. I just about fell flat on my face as she lunged for her father. She made it to the edge of the chrysanthemum pentagram, her face contorted in rage. “How could you say such things to your poor dead daughter!”
Another snort from Mrs. Young as she crossed her arms. “Poor dead daughter? What about your poor mother? You’ll never give me grandchildren—”
“Ah! And now we see why you’re really here, Mother! This is all about you! Make Alex have grandchildren if you want them so badly.”
“Alex will never give me grandchildren the way he cavorts around London with that horrible Tang girl!” Mrs. Young said.
Oh boy, here we go again…Whoops! I was almost dragged off my feet as Astrid swiped for her mother—but the barrier stopped her hand mid-slap.
Astrid looked at her fingers, momentarily shocked. Then she turned her reddening eyes on me. The Otherside that had been fuelling my pentagram started a slow creep towards her, drawn in by her uncontrolled anger. Just how it would behave for a poltergeist. Strange, firefly flickers of Otherside began to collect around her.
Okay, that was it. As they say in the famous Alice Cooper zombie song, no more Mister Nice Practitioner.
Time to pull out the big guns…
“How dare—” Astrid started.
“Oh, for the love of god, will you put a sock in it?” I shouted back, and reached for one of the thin Otherside lines that ran down her throat and controlled her vocal cords. Deftly, I tied it in a knot. Compelling the dead to shut up wasn’t in my repertoire, but tying their mouths shut so I could get a word in edgewise? Totally okay with that.
Astrid opened her mouth, but not a peep came out. She reached for her throat with a mixture of shock and surprise.
“Now,” I said, “about that conversation.”
Astrid’s lip curled into a snarl and she took two steps towards me. I was ready for that too. While she reached for my neck, I tied off the lines to her muscles.
She froze in place, staring down at her feet.
I sighed a cold breath. Now that was done.
Holding the Otherside reins tight, I walked right up to Astrid until my own face was inches from hers, close enough I could smell the formaldehyde preservative that mingled with a perfume of jasmine and roses. “What the hell is your problem?” I asked.
Astrid’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in shock. Her lips snapped open and shut, but though she tried valiantly to speak, all she managed was to look like an angry goldfish gulping for air.
I realized I was probably the first person in her life or afterlife who had ever challenged her.
I crossed my arms until Astrid stopped gulping and turned her full attention on me.
A little more brute force than I liked to get to this point, but since we were here…
I straightened and tweaked my new blazer. “Astrid, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Kincaid Strange. Have you heard of me?”
Astrid’s eyes widened and she nodded. I was happy to see that her eyes had shifted from poltergeist red back to a more natural, watery brown, the bright gold flickers of Otherside gone.
“Good. Here’s the deal. In a moment I will loosen the bindings on your mouth so you can speak. I don’t want to hear any shouting, whining, screaming. If anything comes out of your mouth besides answers to my questions, I’ll tie your tongue in a knot. Literally. Got it?”
After she once again gulped and realized it was no use, she nodded.
As promised, I loosened my hold on her—not completely, though. I really didn’t trust her not to throw any more food at me.
Astrid promptly collapsed in a heap on the cold, frost-covered grass and broke into sobs.
I whistled as I took stock of the thousands and thousands of dollars of damage Astrid had caused in a half-hour. Out of the four tables, only one was conspicuously untouched by Astrid’s tantrum. On it was a small copper brazier lit with a small gas flame, and beside it sat the most elaborate collection of joss papers I’d ever seen. There was the money—copper, gold and silver—but also the papier mâché versions of designer clothes, handbags, a miniature dog, a larger, doll-sized paper version of a beachside villa complete with a paper doll cast of servants and a driver, sitting in a papier mâché Rolls Royce. I noted that the high-powered sports cars Astrid had been so fond of were conspicuously absent.
Probably for the best…
All right, Kincaid, time to get to the bottom of the Youngs’ haunting problem and prevent Astrid from becoming the unholy poltergeist terror that her stomping, designer-clad, undead foot is promising…
Astrid sniffled and sat up. She picked up one of the discarded puff pastries, gingerly dusting it off before popping it in her mouth, all the while watching me warily.
“Okay, Astrid, I think we need to get a couple ground rules going,” I said, still holding the reins of her zombie bindings as I took a seat across from her on the frosted grass. Not able to resist any longer, I picked up a pork bun, still steaming. I brushed it off and took a generous bite. The pork filling was everything the smells wafting my way had promised.
“First,” I said, stopping before a second bite, “and without any yelling, I need you to explain to me why exactly you decided to trash your parents’ dinner party last Monday.”
She frowned and gave me a queer look. “Those are for the dead,” she said, pointing at my half-eaten bun. “The living aren’t supposed to eat them.”
I shook my head. “My zombie policy is you launch your food, then it’s mine.” If Astrid had just shown some restraint before dumping all the tea, we’d be having an outright civilized conversation. “Now,” I said, steering things back on track, “am I right in assuming all this haunting over the past two weeks—the screaming, the shouting, the ruined dinner parties—is all because your mother sent you the wrong joss paper bag?”
Astrid glared but didn’t comment.
The security footage the Youngs had shown me was spectacular, to say the least. Not many new ghosts could flip an entire table, let alone one for twelve while it was loaded with food and surrounded by dinner guests. Everyone had run for their lives, including the visiting Singapore ambassador, who had twisted his knee tripping over one of the rugs in the mayhem.
Astrid might not have died as true poltergeist material, but if her habits didn’t change fast…
I’d seen enough weird Otherside feats these past two months to know how bad things could get.
Somewhat subdued, Astrid stared at the ground and mumbled something under her breath.
I held my hand to my ear. “What was that?”
She lifted her head. “I said, it wasn’t just over a bag.” I caught Astrid shooting furtive glances at her parents.
Hmmm. Initially I thought all the anger was over losing her life so young—lost opportunities, a life barely lived…
“Mr. and Mrs. Young? Would you mind?” I said, and nodded sheepishly towards the pathway where the mourners were congregating.
I waited until they were out of earshot before turning back to Astrid.
“Why are you haunting your parents? Go,” I said, selecting a puff pastry this time.
Astrid scoffed. “I can’t believe this—I make a handful of requests for clothes, shelter and food to get me through my existence—”
“Ah!” I held up my finger. She stopped talking without me having to pull the Otherside reins, so to speak. “Nice try.” I hadn’t bothered to bring the file for this one. I didn’t need it. “But the stunt you pulled at your father’s business party wasn’t a request for food and designer clothing—and they already gave you four houses for the Otherside, including the beach house which is sitting there waiting to burn. And don’t get me started on the funerary food! You’re hands down the best-fed ghost from here to Beijing. That party fiasco was a full-on haunting. What I want to know is, why?”
Her lips trembled as if she might burst into tears again. “Their poor daughter is left to wander the Otherside and they’re upset about a little dinner party—”
“You caused a stampede. You’re lucky the Singapore ambassador wasn’t trampled. And let’s not mention the pot of tea you dumped. You could have really hurt someone, including your parents. You know, the ones who feed you and burn you all your joss?”
Astrid glared but remained silent.
Now that was interesting…
I glanced over my shoulder to where Astrid’s parents were standing watching me try to reason with their dead, spoilt-rotten daughter.
I turned back to her and sighed, grabbing another of her pork buns from the ground.
“All right, look, your folks are out of earshot and the only person you’re performing for is me.” I pointed at my chest, driving home the point. “I have no stake in any of this, so there really isn’t any point in lying.”
Astrid snorted. “Why, because you’re my friend?”
“No,” I said, shrugging. “Because I really couldn’t give a flying—”
“It’s not fair!” she shouted. Then, remembering her promise not to shout, she covered her mouth. The dead might get away with a lot, but they have a hell of a time breaking their own word.
I let the slip slide. “Astrid, I meet a lot of ghosts and zombies in my line of work whose deaths were really, absolutely, truly unfair.” I lowered my head and levelled a serious stare at her. “You’re not one of them.”
Her fist clenched around a pork bun.
“Ah.” I held up my hand before she could let the anger take hold again. “Astrid, let’s try this. How about you explain to me just what exactly was unfair about your death. Because between drag racing your new Ferrari down the wrong side of a freeway—”
“Lots of my friends race and don’t die!”
“Yes, but they also don’t usually get their boyfriends to go down on them while they’re doing it. And while I admire the feminist implication—seriously, can you honestly say you’re surprised you ended up dead? Your boyfriend—or whatever he was—survived, by the way, if you care. It’s a miracle the only person who died was you.”
Astrid sat stock-still.
“Look, Astrid, you didn’t deserve to die. No one deserves to die before their twenty-first birthday, so in a sense you’re right—it’s not fair. But somewhere in there you must realize that you’re responsible. No one made you get behind the wheel of that car and race. You could have stayed home watching movies or spent your parents’ money visiting every club in Seattle or taking their private jet to Bora-Bora. Your actions led to your death. And as much as it pains me to say this to anyone, in the grand scheme of things, that makes it fair.” I pointed at her parents. “Everyone this side of the barrier has to live with the consequences of your actions. And part of that is determining what it’s going to take to stop you from haunting your parents. They’re not responsible for this.”
Okay, little fib there, which I don’t like doing to the dead. I was willing to put fifty-fifty blame on her parents for the fact that this was apparently the first time Astrid had ever heard the word no…but this wasn’t supposed to be a therapy session.
I got to the point. “What do we need to do to get the haunting to go away?”
Astrid’s eyes welled up. “I’m lonely!”
Now…out of all the things Astrid could have said, that one hadn’t even been on my radar.
As I watched, Astrid covered her face with her hands and started to sob.
I checked to see if her parents had noticed the change in Astrid’s composure, but they avoided my eyes.
I sighed and shuffled so I was sitting down beside, not across from, her. Maybe therapy would be the order of the day.
“Look—” I started.
“I’m always lonely—I’ve always been lonely! You have no idea how it was—is,” Astrid said, lifting her face from her hands. The carefully applied makeup was now streaked with her tears. Her deathly pallor was more obvious. But the poltergeist anger was gone as well, evaporated into the cold night air.
“My entire life has been nothing but loneliness. All people like you see is the money. ‘Poor little rich girl,’ ” she pantomimed, “ ‘has so much money all she can do is go out on shopping sprees and crash cars.’ The money isn’t a reward—it’s a curse!” A fresh round of tears trickled down her face. “All my life, money has been a replacement, a placeholder my parents used to raise me. Our daughter needs attention? Well, hire a nanny! She wants friends now to play with? Off to boarding school! Astrid’s depressed and failed all her courses? Well, send her to Paris on the family jet for fashion week, that should cheer her up!” Her face twisted with despair. “Everything and everyone in my life bought and paid for! I have no friends—I barely have parents. All I’ve been is an inconvenience.” She reached over and plucked an egg tart from the ground and held it up for me to see. “Why, my parents have spent more time on me since I’ve been haunting them than they did in twenty-one years.” A flicker, just a flicker of red-tinged Otherside burned behind her eyes. “And now they’ve gone and hired you to make this little problem go and disappear? Not this time. I’m not going anywhere!” She clenched her fists, the knuckles turning a shade whiter.
