Stepping Into Truth

I gulp two fingers of scotch, shoving the plastic bottle back into the backseat of my car, my hair still wet from a shower an hour ago that did something to counter the cigarettes I had this morning. I turned twenty one last week; most people would guess me for thirty. Helps that I don’t need to lie for the booze, doesn’t help the contents of my fridge at home. The drink helps with the cold, and stops my hands from shaking a little.

I hate my job. It’s the only thing I’m good at. I pull the old doctor’s handbag out of the passenger seat of my car, close the door carefully. Wouldn’t do for the door to fall off. Bad image. The client is waiting at the door to the home. Two storey house, basement, brown picket fence. Looks like the rest of a cookie-cutter street except the for sale sign is worn almost to nothing in contrast to sold signs down the street. Windows shuttered, lawn overgrown, and the client’s car is parked half a block away.

Moria Larsen is thin and stern, with eyes like scraped chalkboards and an expression to match But she paid the retainer fee up front and judging by her clothing can afford a bonus as well. Pretty much why I showered, that. From the look on her face, my effort doesn’t make much of an impact.

“You’re late, Mr. Dover.”

“Vance.”

“I have been waiting outside for four minutes. You will go inside, do the deed, and that will be that.” She walks past me, giving me a berth. I probably should have shaved as well. Or not slept in my clothing. Moria moves swiftly, the haste perhaps overkill. She doesn’t want to be here, and definitely didn’t want to wait outside. Fair enough, given what happened here. Sometimes all ghosts do is make a wound that never closes.

I walk to the front door, take the key I was given yesterday. It turns in the door, and I push it open. The air smells stale. No lights, but I have a flashlight in my bag and flick it on. I have three others in my bag, some chalk, a few candles. Also a gun I’ve never used. The gun is pretty much for show: I’ve yet to run into a ghost that could be shot. But you never know.

The flashlight is cheap, but the beam is decent. I walk across carpet, scan the living room. The house is mostly furnished; finding a removal company to take everything away is hard after the press has poured over your life with combs meant only for gouging flesh. The gist had been that Moria’s husband left her a week before she had a business trip to attend. She left her son with a sitter. The baby sitter left with his boyfriend for a few hours and got in an accident so never made it back. And her son, at some point, fell down the basement stairs and died. Broken legs, desperate attempts to get out. Windows closed tightly and no one hearing him.

It doesn’t take much to make a ghost. Sometimes the rumour alone can do it. But it doesn’t take much to get rid of them as well: a strong will can do it, and that Moria hadn’t was interesting. I was the third exorcist she’d tried. Also the most expensive; dealing with the dead isn’t fun, and neither is putting them to rest. But the flashlight works, I don’t sense cold spots: not that I would, given my clothing is better suited to the summer and I don’t have much of it.

I shake myself free of the mundane. “Jamel? Jamel Larsen?” I wait. Sometimes they come to their names. Nothing moves, nothing flies toward me. Expensive living room furniture, the kitchen beyond is as sterile as a magazine photo. I head into the basement from the kitchen. One freezer, a pantry, the rest cement floors and unfinished wood walls. My flashlight doesn’t flicker. There are stains on the wooden stairs and the cement floor. The stars aren’t in good condition, the pantry door double-padlocked and the freezer the same. Odd, but I let it go and head back upstairs. The second floor has two bedrooms, bathroom, master bedroom with its own bathroom. I check the spare bedroom and master bedroom first, and then head to the room that belonged to Jamel.

The door opens. The room is plain, like the other bedrooms. White walls, beige carpet, no paintings. The bed covers have rocket ships on them, the only sign the room was used by a child at all.

“Jamel?”

There is an intake of breath, the closest thing to a cold spot yet. I move to the bed, look under it. The ghost is crowded against the wall, pale eyes and skin glowing faintly as he wheezes for air. He looks too scared to haunt anyone, but fear can be a strange master. He moves back against the wood, eyes wide. I move the flashlight slowly. Eight, the same age as when he died. I saw no pictures. Didn’t want to.

But this Jamel is still eight. Chubby, pale, scared. His legs look whole. I flick the flashlight off and stand.

“You want to talk?”

It is almost five minutes before the ghost crawls out from under the bed. I move back to avoid stepping through the ghost as he stands. He’s wearing a t-shirt that’s almost too small, jeans whose button can’t close and covers his belly. His cheeks flare red with a ghostly blush.

I sit down on the bed. After a bit, he sits beside me, not looking over.

“What happened to the other exorcists?” I ask.

“They tried to hurt me,” he whispers. “I scared them away. In the b-b-bbasement, I scared them.”

“You didn’t try and scare me?”

“I don’t like it. Being down there. It scares me.” I glance over. Jamel hugs himself, lets go quickly, refusing to look at me. “And you feel different,” he adds. “Like I couldn’t scare you.”

“Perhaps not. I had a few drinks earlier. That helps.”

“Moria sent you.”

“She was outside. Briefly. Was that why you were hiding?”

“Partly,” the ghost says. The bed creaks as he shifts position. Most ghosts that can move things tend to use it to harm others. I’m not sure he’s even aware of doing it.

“I am good at exorcising ghosts, but I don’t know what happens after that. No one does. I try not to, if I can avoid it. Knowing what happened here could help, if you can tell me.”

The ghost says nothing, his breath a thin wheezing.

“Your mother took to locking up the freezer and the pantry because she had a fat son. That much I can guess,” I say softly, and the ghost turns his head and nods once. “I don’t know when you fell. Or who caused it.”

“The baby sitter. Austin. Mom told him I wasn’t to – to get more fat. Everything would be better when she got home. Like a command. He – the fridge, I... was hungry, and I hate, and he thought mom would – mom would...”

“Hurt him?”

“Maybe? I don’t –.” Jamel is quiet for a bit, hands tight against his belly. He moves them apart when he realizes I’m looking at him. I just wait. “Austin pushed me. He didn’t mean to. I fell, my legs broke. He said it was because I was so fat, said he’d get help. He called his boyfriend. They were going to – to get a doctor they knew. A vet, maybe? Someone to help, and they never came back.”

“They had a car accident. And have left the city, as far as I know. Austin was in a coma for three days; I don’t know about his boyfriend. They were speeding, the police followed, they crashed. Some people think your mom killed you.”

“She – she – she –.” His voice cracks. The floor shakes a little bit.

“She did, without touching you. Shame is a weapon used against children.”

“She wanted me thin, Handsome, like my name. A p – a proper son.” The ghost stands. Swift, angry, though not at me. He pulls his t-shirt off.

The headline of ‘exorcist involved in ghost porn’ goes through my head. I don’t move; most ghosts can’t remove what they wear, in my experience, and I have no idea what might happen if I interrupt. Jamel has another shirt under it, a spandex affair that makes me wince at how tight it is. That his clothing is tied so deeply to his image says too many things.

“Mom wanted to make sure people don’t know I was this fat,” the ghost whispers unsteadily. “I have spandex pants, too, under my pants –.”

“I don’t need to see that,” I say quickly.

The ghost stares at me, and lets out a sound. “I... I didn’t...” He pulls the shirt back on, faster. His face is red, and the rest of him is pink as well.

“I’ve never been subjected to a ghost stripping before. That’s probably scarier than what I’d see in the basement,” I add dryly.

Jamel stares, then lets out a surprised giggle. “Your face was.... I think I surprised you?”

“Yes. I’d rather not be surprised like that again.” I stand. “I can help you, if you let me.”

He stands as well, not moving. I step through the ghost. Being possessed is painful; possessing a ghost even more so. But it takes a moment, and another, and I’m back onto the bed and shaking from the cold.

Jamel stares at me in confusion.

“Shirt,” I get out from between my teeth.

The ghost lets out a small gasp.

“You couldn’t access what you were; I jogged a few things loose.”

Jamel blinks. His shirt fits perfectly now, with no other shirt under it. His pants do as well, and his breathing is less of a wheeze as the ghost moves slowly about the room.

“You can alter your appearance better. Move things, if you need to. And you’re no longer tied to this place.”

“What do I do?” he asks in a small voice.

“What you wish, but nothing that will lead to an exorcist being called. That’s our arrangement.”

He nods. “I could talk to mom. I could explain, if that would – wouldn’t lead to –.” The ghost boy looks away from me. “It would.”

“Probably. Moria has demons enough of her own, I imagine.”

I have no idea if she does, but it helps him a little. He nods. “There is this shop I liked, a candy one....”

And the ghost vanishes a moment later. I let out a breath, take a few more minutes to gather myself, and walk outside. I tell Moria Larsen that it’s done and that she can go inside.

I walk away without waiting for payment, or to find out if she does.