artwork. “There’s definitely a spirit here, the place hasn’t been looted.”
“Damn right,” said a crotchety-sounding man as he strode through a closed set of double-doors.
The man looked older, seventy or more but in (except for being dead) good health, if not a bit on the chubby side. Thick white hair and a moustache added to a shimmery red smoking jacket created an affect as though he were the long lost son of Hugh Hefner and Captain Kangaroo.
Kirsten whirled to face him, looked right at him, and waved. “Hi.”
He screamed, folded his arms over his face and lifted one leg. “Dammit, girl, don’t do that!” The spirit trembled for a few seconds before he put his leg down and leaned at her in a menacing posture. “I’m the one supposed to be scaring you.”
She giggled. “You couldn’t scare anyone; you look like a sweet, old man.”
“You can see me?” He glared. “Damn it all to hell. I suppose you’re here to cart me off to that damnable home.” Relaxing, he tapped a finger over his lips twice while making a serious face. “No, it’s probably too late for that”―he leaned at her, raising his voice to a yell― “since I’m dead.” He burst into a cacophony of off-key laughter.
“I know you’re a ghost,” she said. “I’m here to―”
“Allan Smithee.” He extended a hand.
Dorian raised an eyebrow at him.
“Hi Allan, I’m Kirsten… Look, I―”
“Bah, your friend there’s a killjoy. Name’s actually Kantor.”
She folded her arms with pursed lips, wondering if she should dare try to speak again.
“We’re chasing a wild goose,” said Dorian. “Some old spirit on the east coast thinks you’re going to be attacked by an abyssal soon.”
“Me?” Allan paced in a circle, grumbling in a grandfatherly sort of way. “What would an abyssal want with me? I just keep to myself.” He paused with a dawning look of enlightenment and a raised finger. “Demon, huh? Must have been a film critic.”
“Your movies couldn’t have been too bad if you were living here.” Dorian gestured at the decay surrounding them.
“I can’t complain, though the place has lost a bit of its allure, I’ll admit. So, why do you think this thing is after me?”
Kirsten bared her teeth, somewhere between a forced disarming smile and a look of complete confusion. “I don’t know.” She relaxed, exhaling. “Best guess was that you’re a very old spirit who never grew in power. You would be a potent easy meal for an abyssal that devours spirits.”
Allan
harrumph
ed about for a moment, complaining about the lack of mortal visitors upon which to practice being a ghost.
“Ever thought about leaving the house?” she asked.
“No, not really… What was that?” Allan whirled about, shivering as he faced the double doors he entered through.
“What―” Kirsten froze as the creeping cold feeling that just washed over Allan hit her next.
Blackness exuded through the slats in the door. The sight of what appeared to be another wraith brought icy memories of pain to her left breast. Kirsten gestured for Allan to get behind her. The older ghost scurried around as a figure similar in appearance to a Harbinger reformed out of the thick ebon mist. Seven feet of billowing vapor with the vague hint of a head and two arms, it resembled one in all respects save for the eyes: twinkling specks of crimson rather than the baleful white she was used to seeing.
The dread it emanated was also stronger.
Dorian’s image distorted, drawn toward it in stretching tendrils as if it desired to absorb him. He grunted, struggling to back away, but could not break the pull. Kirsten shifted herself solid to ghosts and dove into his chest. They hit the ground, sliding over dusty carpet as it bunched over ancient hardwood. Dorian gasped, making a face as if a full-body suit of duct tape had been torn away from his bare skin all at once.
“Guess we know why The Kind were scared of this thing… Get out of
“Damn right,” said a crotchety-sounding man as he strode through a closed set of double-doors.
The man looked older, seventy or more but in (except for being dead) good health, if not a bit on the chubby side. Thick white hair and a moustache added to a shimmery red smoking jacket created an affect as though he were the long lost son of Hugh Hefner and Captain Kangaroo.
Kirsten whirled to face him, looked right at him, and waved. “Hi.”
He screamed, folded his arms over his face and lifted one leg. “Dammit, girl, don’t do that!” The spirit trembled for a few seconds before he put his leg down and leaned at her in a menacing posture. “I’m the one supposed to be scaring you.”
She giggled. “You couldn’t scare anyone; you look like a sweet, old man.”
“You can see me?” He glared. “Damn it all to hell. I suppose you’re here to cart me off to that damnable home.” Relaxing, he tapped a finger over his lips twice while making a serious face. “No, it’s probably too late for that”―he leaned at her, raising his voice to a yell― “since I’m dead.” He burst into a cacophony of off-key laughter.
“I know you’re a ghost,” she said. “I’m here to―”
“Allan Smithee.” He extended a hand.
Dorian raised an eyebrow at him.
“Hi Allan, I’m Kirsten… Look, I―”
“Bah, your friend there’s a killjoy. Name’s actually Kantor.”
She folded her arms with pursed lips, wondering if she should dare try to speak again.
“We’re chasing a wild goose,” said Dorian. “Some old spirit on the east coast thinks you’re going to be attacked by an abyssal soon.”
“Me?” Allan paced in a circle, grumbling in a grandfatherly sort of way. “What would an abyssal want with me? I just keep to myself.” He paused with a dawning look of enlightenment and a raised finger. “Demon, huh? Must have been a film critic.”
“Your movies couldn’t have been too bad if you were living here.” Dorian gestured at the decay surrounding them.
“I can’t complain, though the place has lost a bit of its allure, I’ll admit. So, why do you think this thing is after me?”
Kirsten bared her teeth, somewhere between a forced disarming smile and a look of complete confusion. “I don’t know.” She relaxed, exhaling. “Best guess was that you’re a very old spirit who never grew in power. You would be a potent easy meal for an abyssal that devours spirits.”
Allan
harrumph
ed about for a moment, complaining about the lack of mortal visitors upon which to practice being a ghost.
“Ever thought about leaving the house?” she asked.
“No, not really… What was that?” Allan whirled about, shivering as he faced the double doors he entered through.
“What―” Kirsten froze as the creeping cold feeling that just washed over Allan hit her next.
Blackness exuded through the slats in the door. The sight of what appeared to be another wraith brought icy memories of pain to her left breast. Kirsten gestured for Allan to get behind her. The older ghost scurried around as a figure similar in appearance to a Harbinger reformed out of the thick ebon mist. Seven feet of billowing vapor with the vague hint of a head and two arms, it resembled one in all respects save for the eyes: twinkling specks of crimson rather than the baleful white she was used to seeing.
The dread it emanated was also stronger.
Dorian’s image distorted, drawn toward it in stretching tendrils as if it desired to absorb him. He grunted, struggling to back away, but could not break the pull. Kirsten shifted herself solid to ghosts and dove into his chest. They hit the ground, sliding over dusty carpet as it bunched over ancient hardwood. Dorian gasped, making a face as if a full-body suit of duct tape had been torn away from his bare skin all at once.
“Guess we know why The Kind were scared of this thing… Get out of
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