Spookshow V: Half-Boys and Gypsy Girls, page 6
Gliding to a stop on Wilson Street, she braced herself against the curb and blew into her hands to warm them. Her fingers were already stinging and it wouldn’t be much longer before they went numb. She clenched and unclenched her fists to get the blood pumping in them.
“Wake up!”
The voice rang out off to the right. Billie looked over to see a man staggering out of a building to the sidewalk. He was slapping his cheeks as if to rouse himself from a bad dream. His sallow complexion identified him as one of the newly dead. Billie glanced up at the building the man had run out of and she frowned. A funeral home. A black limousine parked outside the front doors.
Brilliant move, she thought. You just had to stop outside a funeral home.
The dead man, who looked no older than herself, caught Billie looking at him and stumbled toward her. Panic lit up his eyes. “Hey! Can you see me?”
She thought about pushing off from the curb and riding away, but her hands hurt too much to grip the bars again. “I see you,” she said. “You need to calm down.”
He swayed down the last few steps, coming closer. “Please, help me. Something awful has happened. Nobody can see me. I scream at them, but they look right through me. I thought I was having a nightmare.”
Billie looked out at the cars whooshing past in the street. The newly dead were difficult to deal with, the ones who had yet to realize what had happened to them. She avoided passing near funeral homes for this very reason. “You’re not having a nightmare,” she said.
“Well, I’m not high, I know that much.” The man patted down his pockets, looking for something. “Where the hell is my phone? And why am I wearing this stupid suit? I hate this suit.”
Billie reached out and took hold of the man’s arm. “Take a breath and calm down,” she said. “You know what’s happening. Let it sink in.”
“I don’t have a clue what the hell is going on.”
“Turn around. Take a look at that building you came out of.”
The man spun about. “What? What is that supposed to mean?”
She sighed. This one wasn’t going to go easy. She dismounted and locked the bike to a post before up alongside the man. Together, they looked over the funeral home with its faux-Tudor facade and leaded glass windows. “I’m sorry,” she said as softly as she could.
His arms fell to his sides and he grew still. His head dipped and the sobs came tumbling out. “Why?”
“I don’t know why,” Billie said. “I don’t think there’s answer to that one.”
“But I can’t die now! I’m not even finished my degree. And my parents? God, this is gonna kill them.”
Billie took the man’s hand and pulled him along. “Come with me.”
“Are you crazy?” He dug his heels in. “I’m not going back in there!”
“There’s something you need to see. Just come and take a look. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
It took a moment’s coaxing, but he followed her up the stairs. There were a few odd looks from the mourners as Billie stepped into the foyer. The man clung to her side, afraid to go any further.
“Can we leave now?” he whined.
Billie didn’t want to appear to be talking to herself, but there was no way around it. “Not yet.”
They lingered in the lobby a moment longer and, then, there it was. She whispered to him. “Do you feel that?”
He looked at her as if she was crazy, but then the apprehension fell from his face. “What is it?”
It was coming from down the hall, from the room where the mourners were gathered for the viewing. A warmth, as if a blazing fire roared in a hearth. Not the light, as was the common notion. “Go see,” she urged.
“Come with me.”
Billie shook her head. “I can’t. It’s not meant for me.”
The pull toward the warmth was undeniable, its appeal almost magnetic. Not for the first time, Billie wondered what would happen if someone living approached that candescent heat.
The man dithered, drawn to the warmth, but afraid of it at the same time. She reassured him that it wouldn’t hurt and he ventured further into the corridor. “I’m just going to take a peek,” he said. “Hang on.”
“I’m not waiting here,” Billie said. “You either go to it or you remain behind. Your choice.”
He tiptoed on toward the room where the casket lay. He didn’t look back.
Stepping back into the chill wind, Billie was unlocking her bike when her phone rang. Mockler’s number appeared on the display. “Hey,” she answered. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Did you know I was going to call?”
“I don’t need to be psychic to guess that one. Where are you?”
“Just got home,” he said. “Do you want to meet up later?”
“I have to work the evening shift. I don’t supposed you’d want some company at four in the morning?”
“Damn. I gotta be up before sunrise tomorrow.”
The scheduling conflict irked her. She knew it shouldn’t, but it did. “You can crash at my place,” she suggested. It was a long shot. “I promise I won’t wake you when I come home.”
She wondered if that sounded desperate. When there was a pause, she concluded that it had. Or Mockler was reluctant to stay at her apartment alone since she revealed the truth about the secret roommate she had.
“That’s okay,” he said. “What time do you go into work?”
“Seven. Why?”
“I’m gonna come pick you up. There’s something here I want you to see.”
He refused to give her a hint, the big tease. Billie mounted the bike and cruised back onto Cannon Street wondering what the detective was being so cagey about.
~
“Can you at least give me a hint?”
Mockler slowed the car before turning into his driveway. “No. That would ruin it. Don’t you like surprises?”
“I hate surprises,” Billie said.
“Oh.” That was news to him. Who hated surprises? Mockler suddenly doubted his plan, wondering if it was about to blow up in his face. Climbing out of the car, he clicked his teeth. “Well, too late to back out now. Come on.”
They clomped up the wooden steps and Billie followed him into the house, her mind racing ahead to what he had in store. It wasn’t her birthday and they didn’t have an anniversary. She doubted he even knew when her birthday was. A ball of ice was forming in her guts as she watched him turn on the lights.
“Well?” she said impatiently.
“This way.” He took her hand and led her into the living room. Hitting the light switch, he flourished a hand over the room. “Ta-dah!”
The last time she had seen the room, it had been bare. A box near the wall and an open expanse of hardwood floor, that was all. Now, there was furniture. Nice stuff, too. All of it from the fifties, the kind she drooled over and spent hours at flea markets to decorate her own home with. There was a long sofa in green baize, flanked by two matching armchairs. The coffee table was a kidney shape of burled walnut. Behind the sofa was a pole lamp with green shades, a heavy stand-up ashtray near one armchair.
“Wow,” Billie uttered. “How did you find this stuff?”
“Do you like it?” His smile was skewed.
“I love this kind of stuff. It’s like a swinging bachelor pad now.”
“You haven’t seen the best part yet. Check it out.” He turned her around and pointed to a low cabinet against the south wall. It was an old Hi-Fi cabinet with big speakers inlaid in both ends. Mockler tilted the top panel back on its hinges and exposed the record player, a platter already on the turntable. Hitting the switch, the dials lit up and the disk spun. He dropped the needle and the warm buzz of high fidelity swooned from the cabinet speakers.
She clapped her hands. “It works!”
“Pretty groovy, huh?”
Billie listened to the song, trying to place the singer. “Who is that?”
He lifted the record sleeve from the slot in the deck and read the cover. “Lee Hazelwood?”
Her smile widened. “Ray Mockler, you’re such a hipster now!”
“It came with the cabinet.” He slipped the sleeve back down. “I thought you’d like it?”
Billie dropped onto the sofa and laid her arms across the backrest. “Like it? I love it. Where’d you get it?”
“My neighbour. They were throwing it out.”
“Throwing it out? Don’t they know how much they could get for it?”
He dug out some of the other records that were stored in the deck pocket. “They got two hundred bucks for it.”
“That was a steal.” She smoothed her hands over the upholstery. “Usually this stuff is worn out. This feels brand new.”
“That’s because it was kept under plastic for the last 60 years or so,” he said. “In fact, you might just be the first person to actually sit on it.”
Billie laughed. “Old school, huh? Were they Italian, your neighbours?”
“Croatian.”
“You really scored with this stuff.” She got up and tried one of the chairs.
“Better than Ikea.”
“A million times better,” she said, taking a closer look at the stand-up ashtray with its heavy dish of black glass. “And you don’t even smoke.”
The music thrummed through the room with the echo-chamber voice of Hazelwood. Mockler dropped onto the sofa and looked at her. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I didn’t know you were into this retro stuff,” she said.
“I’m not.”
Her nose wrinkled in surprise. “Then, why did you get it?”
“Because I knew you’d like it.”
She couldn’t swallow. The knock to her heart sent everything sideways. There had never been a lot of good luck for Billie when it came to men. Not a lot of door-stopper moments where a gesture of kindness or love had made her swallow her tongue. It was just furniture, for Pete’s sake. Unable to speak, all Billie could do was blink at him with a peculiar look until even that became too much and she looked away.
Mockler flinched when he saw her tear up. He took her hand. “Is it too much?” he said softly. “Maybe I went overboard.”
“No, no.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s sweet of you. I’m just not used to it.”
“I want you to like it here.”
“I do,” she said without thinking. A tiny fib. She hoped it would become true. “I mean, I will. In time.”
Mockler sat up straight, his features flattening. “I’m no good at decorating or getting the right kind of furniture. I thought you could help me with it. If you want to.”
“Of course, I’ll help you.” She nudged her knee against his. “I’d do anything for you.”
“Think about that first,” he cautioned. “It’s a big job, doing the whole house, but there’s more to it.”
“What?”
“I’m not saying right now. It’s too soon, I know. But I want you to come live with me. To share the house with me. Make it your home.”
In a proper world, this moment would have put a lump in Billie’s throat. Instead, it made her skin crawl. Not him, the house itself, the memories it harboured, the ghost it reeked of.
Mockler’s brow furrowed when she didn’t respond. Billie felt her mouth go dry. She asked him for some water, just to get a moment to breathe.
Chapter 9
IT COULDN’T HAVE gone worse if she had tried. The awkward moment as she realized what he was asking. Billie stalled for time to think. She repeated that she wasn’t fond of surprises, which came out harsh and he withdrew a little. The mood soured. She tried to explain herself. Moving in was a huge step, one she’d never taken before. They had just started dating for pity’s sake.
He nodded, suggesting that maybe he hadn’t thought it through. He stressed that he didn’t mean right away, but further down the calendar. Maybe a month, maybe six. He said he just wanted her to think about it, but he seemed crestfallen at her reaction. Hurt even. They danced around one another’s feelings for a minute longer, each fumbling their attempts to be understood. And then she had to go to work.
Small talk on the drive over. Pulling up before the Gunner’s Daughter, he got out and took her by the arms. “Listen, I didn’t mean to knock you for a loop with that idea. No more surprises, I promise.”
“It’s okay. I just need time to think about it.” She kissed him quick. “So, don’t go and take it the wrong way.”
“Deal.”
Another kiss and then she went inside. She stole a last glance at him through the dirty window of the bar. Mockler stood on the sidewalk for a moment, lost in thought as dry leaves tumbled over his shoes. Then, he climbed into the car and drove away.
Getting busy behind the bar, she tried not to fret over it. The simple truth was that she didn’t want to spend a single night in that house, let alone live in it. He had lived there with his ex-girlfriend for two years and no matter how hard he tried to make her feel comfortable, it would never be her home. The irony of it stung. Mockler was uneasy in her home because it was haunted by a ghost and she was reluctant to be in his because it was haunted by his former lover. It was like a cruel joke.
Self-doubt and second guessing were twin companions in Billie’s life, always there, always ready to rattle her resolve and cajole her into bad decisions. She had to guard against those twin gremlins and she could feel them now, perched on each shoulder, nagging her with troubling questions. Why would Mockler want to be with her? How long before he saw her for what she was and fled? He had just ended a serious relationship and this liaison was no more than a rebound fling for him. Did she really expect this relationship to last, this bond founded on ghosts and death and misery?
“Stop.”
Two patrons sitting at the bar looked up at her, wondering who she was talking to. Flustered, Billie turned her back on them to clear away the dirty glassware. Talking to herself out loud was embarrassing, but it had at least silenced the nagging voice in her head. Finishing the task, she turned back to see a new patron approaching the bar. A young woman in a cocktail mini-dress and go-go boots. Taken aback by the groovy attire, it took a moment before Billie realized that no one else in the bar could see the woman. Her skin was pale and the whites of her eyes were blistered red in burst capillaries. When she looked at Billie, something dark foamed from the corner of her mouth.
“God,” the dead woman said, blood dribbling down her chin. “I’d kill for a drink right now.”
Billie flinched. In her fretting over Mockler, she must have absentmindedly let her guard down and opened up to the other side. This phantom had picked up on it and wandered inside. She’d have to be more careful in the future. The dead were quick when they sensed a beacon. She took a breath and said “I’m afraid your money’s no good here.”
“That’s a shame.” The dead woman’s eyes lingered over the drink of the man next to her. A whiskey sour, garnished with a curly lemon rind. “Just something to wash this wretched taste from my mouth.”
Billie studied the women. Her big hair was pulled under a white patent headband, her eyes framed with false lashes. She would be stunning if not for the foamy drool and bloodshot eyes. Billie couldn’t help but guess at how the young woman had exited this world. Poison? Some awful stomach disease?
The dead that Billie saw were the tormented ones, the souls still caught in a web of their own rage or anguish or terror. The intensity of their tragedies kept them tethered to this world like an anchor. Others had simply lost their wits and drifted aimlessly, eternally wandering with no purpose or reason. The cruel irony was that Billie could not help these souls. The best she could do was hear them out, let them tell their tale of tragedy, allowing them a moment’s respite from the endless torment. She leaned on the bar and spoke quietly to the dead woman. “What happened to you?”
“I was a fool in love,” the woman said, batting her eyes. One of her lashes had come loose, flapping like a loose thread. “Or just a fool, depending how you look at it.”
“What was his name?” asked Billie.
“Her.” The dead woman placed her finger over a dribble of water on the bar and spelt a name on the countertop. “Clarice.”
Intrigued, Billie leaned in. “What was Clarice like?”
“She was unlike anyone I had ever known.” The loose lash continued to flap, but the woman paid it no attention, her eyes cast in a long gaze to another era. “Brash and bold, but tender too. With me anyway.”
“She broke your heart?”
“No. The others did.” The woman shook her head. “No one knew about Clarice and I. Not at first anyway. We had to hide it. We both pretended to have boyfriends, just to fit in with the others. We got careless one night at the Flamingo Lounge. Do you remember that place?”
“No,” Billie said. “Before my time.”
“I loved it. We saw The Yardbirds play there once. Anyway, Clarice and I snuck into one of the rooms upstairs. Our friends caught us. And that was the end.” The woman’s heavy mascara ran, trailing a black tear. She dabbed at it and the loose eyelash came away, clinging to her index finger. “Look at me. I’m falling apart.”
“Let me see that,” Billie said, taking the lash from her. One aspect of her gift was the ability to make the ethereal corporeal. The false eyelash was solid in her fingers. “Go on.”
“We were tormented after that. Shunned from the group. They told everyone about us. Such a juicy scandal, they couldn’t help themselves. We both lost our jobs. And then Clarice died.”
“How did she die?”
“She was beaten to death,” the woman said. “The boyfriends of our former friends. They waited outside Clarice’s building one night and attacked her. They beat her so badly that I didn’t recognize her in the hospital. She had beautiful lips. Clarice passed the next day.”
