The Ghosting of Gods Read online

  They’re definitely awake now. The ticking is faster. Pairing off, they gaze into one another’s crystal balls. Two close to us click and point at the images they see. The owner is explaining events, it seems. His clicking is even, while his partner has a higher pitched click at the end of her Morse code, like she’s asking questions. She squeaks her teeth to do it, using a quick sliding motion of her jaw to the side.

  The owner of a crystal the size of a bowling ball crooks a finger to call me closer.

  “What are you doing?” Ava hisses at me as I go to the hunchback.

  My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “Why do you wear this crystal ball?” I ask the skeleton, carefully articulating each word.

  Nothing.

  “What’s inside the crystal? Is it your ghost?”

  It clicks once. Then nods.

  Okay. “Is your ghost trapped in there?”

  It has no flesh on its neck to make sounds with, so it clicks Morse code. Frustrated that I can’t understand, I point at its crystal ball. “Is there a way to get your ghost out of the crystal?”

  Its response is a flurry of Morse code.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “He wants to explain his answer,” Ava says. She scoots closer, leans in to me with her arm wrapped around my shoulder. “I know why you’re asking these questions, Jesse,” she breathes into my ear.

  I doubt it.

  She glances back over at Poe, then presses her cheek to mine. “I’ve seen you in the graveyard, Jesse. Did you really think I wouldn’t follow you to find out what’s wrong with you? I love you.”

  She says this last part with passion. I know Poe overhears. But all I can think is how Ava knows about me and crystals. My mind races, thinking when she could have spied on me without me realizing it. I thought I’d been so careful. Did she see me at Emmy’s grave on that last visit?

  “You don’t want Poe to know,” Ava continues, quietly whispering again. “I haven’t told him, even though he’s asked me if I know what your obsession with graves is all about. He’s close to the priests. So I didn’t tell.”

  I close my eyes. Shake my head.

  “All I’m saying is, be careful, Jesse. Be careful what you say in front of Poe. He loves the priests, and priests don’t condone the use of crystal balls.”

  Shrugging her arm loose from my shoulder, I stare into the crystal ball like the tunneler wants. It’s pointing at the crystal vigorously, at the forms arising within it.

  I gaze.

  He’s young in the scene. A teenager. Lifting an enormous iron ring, he lets it fall on a wooden door twice his height. He knocks again. A man comes to the door, carrying a girl in his arms. Her arms hang limply, her eyes stare upward, unblinking. She’s dead.

  The man shoves her body into the teenaged boy’s arms. Staggering backwards, he almost falls, but regains his balance. He turns, and I see he’s weeping.

  “Oh, no,” Ava says. She’s watching the scene in the crystal ball, too.

  The boy shifts the weight of the dead girl’s body in his arms. Lifting his chin, he stops crying. A small crowd gathers around him, but he pays no attention. He walks through the crowd, pulling the girl’s body close to his chest. Like he’s protecting her.

  The scene stutters. Blurs. Fog fills the sphere.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell the tunneler. He doesn’t respond, but he’s looking at me. At least, his eye sockets are facing me. “I really am sorry. I…I want to know…Did your ghost go in this crystal ball when you died?”

  Ava recoils. She’s gaping at the crystal ball.

  The fog is lifted. The boy stands at a wooden block, holding a blood-smeared axe. Severed from the body, the girl’s head rolls at the feet of the crowd. They’re clapping. One of them steps forward and appears to be yelling—there’s no sound, of course, so I don’t know what he’s saying. Turning to the boy, he takes the axe, drops it to the ground. The man and boy hug. The boy weeps. Reaching into his coat pocket, the man pulls out an object and places it in the boy’s hands.

  A crystal ball.

  I need to know what’s happening in this scene, what the man is saying. An urge to touch the tunneler’s crystal ball overwhelms me.

  It burns cold, as always, and my hand involuntarily jerks back.

  The crowd cheers around me. To my right is the man, comforting the crying teenage boy. I’m in the scene.

  No. Ava is here, and Poe, and the tunnelers in the cave. They’re all standing, staring at the man and boy, just as I am. The scene from inside the crystal ball has manifested, right here in the cave. It’s a three-dimensional movie of ghosts, projected all around us. I realize that the man and boy, the axe, the crowd—all of it—is not solid. Everyone from the scene is slightly transparent.

  There’s sound now. The scene continues, and I hear everything.

  “Take comfort, boy,” the man says, patting him on the back. “I say, your true love will never resurrect to a wretched body of bones. You will keep her ghost, safe in this crystal ball, so you may treasure her all the rest of your life. Forever will you gaze upon your moments together! I say, you have saved her.”

  The crowd murmurs, nodding their heads.

  I understand. They’re trying to end separation, trying to ease their grief.

  Is this the purpose of the crystals? Bile rises in my throat. Did God try to answer my prayer, to ease my grief, by placing Emmy in a crystal ball for me?

  “Let the damned make their exodus!” the man shouts, interrupting my horror. “We shall behead ourselves at death, and this plague of tunneling horror will be no more!”

  At the word exodus, the tunnelers in the cave explode in clicking. They run into the manifested ghostly scene from the crystal ball, and it disperses. Maps are yanked from the walls and ceiling and passed around. They point. Click their Morse code.

  I stare, numb, at the tunneler who was once the boy. He sits, arms wrapped around his chest and rocking. His skull is down, tucked into his folded arms.

  Another tunneler, deformed with swollen bones at the joints, goes to him. Touches his shoulder. The owner of the manifested crystal ball scene stops his rocking. His comforter pats him, then moves away again, clutching its own crystal ball, which is wrapped in dark rags. It’s tiny, practically the size of a marble.

  I wonder what it’s hiding. Or what it doesn’t want to have to see. Like I don’t want to see Emmy’s murder.

  The tunneler with the tiny crystal goes and sits, the only tunneler not gazing into crystal. A child skeleton scampers up and nestles on its lap. Finger games begin. I startle when I see bones making a steeple, then showing the people inside. The child clicks happily with the few teeth it has—it’s a toddler, I realize.

  After several minutes, the tunneler lifts the toddler off its lap, and the little one goes to play with another child skeleton.

  Ava is beside me. “It was an axe-murderer, that tunneler with the big crystal ball.”

  “She was already dead.”

  “It was sick. Twisted.”

  What’s sick is capturing a ghost in a crystal. Emmy is trapped in her murder. Trapped in her past. There’s no salvation with the crystals. My being here is no answer to my prayer for knowledge, no answer to my prayer for Emmy to be saved.

  My being here means nothing. I’m angry.

  One of the tunnelers hobbles over to us on a crooked foot, holding out a book to me. Poe elbows me and I accept it, being careful not to touch its fingers. The tunneler backs away, repeatedly bowing, reminding me of a monk.

  The book cover is dusty. I clean it, and the title appears. Hide-and-Seek Your Way to the Promised Land, by Pauley. The text is scrawled in thick ink, not typed. Page after page of drawings similar to those on the ceiling fill the book. It’s mostly maps, but I skim the few pages with writing. The book outlines the dangers of contact with the living, advising its readers to use stealth and wooly costume to evade detection until escape from Memento Mori is achieved.


  The last page of the book is a drawing more detailed than the rest, showing a skeleton holding a staff and standing over a herd of sheep.

  The monk-tunneler returns, bowing all the way. It points at the book. I hold it out, but it falls to its knees and holds out its palms, like it’s beseeching me for something. I look to Ava and Poe for help, but they look as baffled as I am.

  A cold draft blows over us.

  The monk snatches the book from my hands and slinks back to shadows.

  Ava rubs her arms. “God, where did that cold wave of air come from?”

  Poe sits upright, alert.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “Extreme cold…you know what that is as well as I do, Jesse.”

  16

  hg

  The flagellant is back, his cranium scraping the ceiling and bleeding rivulets of mud. His fist beats against his left femur as he walks. Enclosed in the fist is a length of barbed whip. The chisel is tied to it, and he swings it violently first over one clavicle and then the other so that it hits his spine and pelvis and femurs, its sharp end chipping away bone in rhythm with his steps.

  Poe covers his eyes.

  I can’t look away. I can’t breathe. Cold sears my lungs.

  Tunnelers group together, shivering, as if they too, feel the harsh cold. Their crystal balls tick rapidly at their chests, like hearts racing in fear.

  Moisture in the mud floor crackles as it turns to ice crystals. The mud walls, orange from the glow of the lantern, begin to turn white. Breath fogs around me, Poe, and Ava. None escapes the mouths of tunnelers.

  The flagellant stills his whip. He turns in a circle in the center of the cave, drops to his knees, skull down, hands lifted high in supplication.

  Ice crystals form in the air before him, coalescing, taking form.

  A horse.

  Grains of ice harden, and the shape of a man…except for no head…materializes atop the horse. He wears armor like a medieval knight and carries an enormous shield with interlaced circles and two letters scorched into the metal: HG. I can smell him, smell the dirt and blood of him. His sword, glinting and seemingly solid, rings when it jostles against the metallic saddle, sounding like falling icicles.

  “Iron ghost,” Poe informs me, half a smile on his mouth. A blue pulse throbs in his neck.

  The head appears. It does not attach to the body, but hovers inches over the jagged neck. I recoil. There’s something matted in its eyes.

  The iron ghost motions for the flagellant to get up. The rest of the tunnelers chitter, shrink low to the ground. Directing his horse by the reins, the iron ghost moves close to us.

  …youuu keeeep prisssonerrrs…liiiving flesh-sh-sh…sainnntss?

  His voice is deep, with syllables long and drawn out. Many of his words are too faint to hear. Moaning, he loses most of his substance, dispersing like mist, but then he reappears in a brilliant freeze.

  The flagellant gestures at us and clacks. Holding its neck bone, it strokes the strings of flesh there. “Saints, not sa-viors.” Plucking the bit of flesh, it twists its skull from side to side. Garbled vowels shrill from its gaping jaw.

  The horse, less substantial than the man who rides it, snorts, stomps, tosses its ghostly mane.

  …disssciplle of fffrannkennnstein…dissstorrtion…sssainntss…reeeleassse…

  Most of what he’s saying is lost behind the dissonant ticking of the tunnelers’ crystal balls, but the iron ghost seems to be arguing for our release. Ava moves as if to get up. Noticing, the flagellant signals to the tunnelers. Collectively they rise, surround us.

  The iron ghost points a gloved finger toward the flagellant. Apparently he sees, despite the tangle of threads in his eyes.

  …revealll idennntity…pollluuuted sskeletaaalll ssssaavviorrr…

  His armor gleams. He bleeds.

  Silence.

  The flagellant shakes his skull from side to side. Slowly. Deliberately.

  Our tunneler guards abandon us and dive for the walls. Stroking their arms like swimmers, their hands scoop frosted mud so fast it’s a blur. In moments they vanish, leaving a sole skeleton struggling when one of the new tunnels collapses in on it. It backstrokes back into the cave with us.

  Packed mud stuffs its ribcage. The weight of it drops it to its knees. Frantically it paws at the mud, stretching up its neck like it’s suffocating.

  The flagellant stalks over to the skeleton, grasps it about the neck, lifts it off the ground, rattles it in rage.

  “No, don’t!” Poe yells.

  Contemptuously, the flagellant flings the helpless tunneler in our direction. It lands facedown, rocking on its ribcage.

  “Help me,” Poe says, flipping the tunneler over. Poe scoops handfuls of mud from its ribs, but the skeleton is thrashing, and Poe takes hard blows. I restrain the tunneler until finally it calms.

  The tunneler takes Poe’s hands, kisses them. It clicks his teeth, though half of them are missing. The flagellant raises his whip.

  Bony fingers grab my coat, hurling me toward the tunnel entrance. Despite its meekness, the tunneler that Poe saved is freakishly strong. And fast. Snatching the lantern, it shoves Ava and Poe over to where I’m pulling myself to my feet. We hurtle down the tunnel. Looking back, I see the iron ghost strike his sword at the flagellants’ disfigured ribcage…

  …nno lliess…shshsheep…exxoduus fuutile…no Pressencce…fallssee promisssed llllaaannndd…

  Casket fragments litter our path as we chase our skeletal savior. Panting, falling behind, I trample splintered wood and swatches of silk. I run until I can’t breathe.

  “Do you feel that?” Poe asks, catching his breath as he leans on me.

  A strong draft blows over us. More than a draft. It’s wind, smelling fresh in contrast to the earthy pungency of the tunnels. The tunneler stops. Holds up a finger. Turning to us, it points ahead and then holds up two palms, inches apart.

  “We don’t have far to go,” Poe translates.

  Its crystal is wrapped in rags. I think this is the tunneler that tried to comfort the one who axed the girl. Yeah. Its joints are deformed they’re so big.

  It holds a hand over its tiny crystal ball, just like it was a heart. With the ticking muffled I hear Morse code. Behind us, somewhere in the tunnels. Or in the walls. Shooing us on, our tunneler bolts back the way we came.

  “Wait,” Poe calls to him. “We didn’t thank you…”

  Ava grabs my hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Around the next bend a blast of chill air meets us. “There,” I say. Above us is a perfect circle, just big enough for us to fit through. Sky shows beyond. Ava climbs on Poe’s shoulders and pulls herself out of the tunnel. I go next even though I’m afraid I’ll break Poe’s skinny back.

  “Hurry, Jesse,” Ava says, reaching down to help me.

  Poe is tall enough that he leaps up, grabbing my hands. We’ve made it.

  George and Bethany lie in wait for us.

  17

  burned scarecrow

  Poe offers a strangled neck greeting, grinning like a maniac. “Beware George, Bethany. I knew you’d come back for us!”

  “We must hurry,” Bethany says. “Time is short. Night approaches.” She wraps an arm around Ava’s shoulders, but quickly pulls back as she gapes in horror at Ava. “George! The tunnelers mutilated this girl!”

  Ava’s hand flutters to her chin.

  I quickly explain Ava’s disfigurement.

  “Is it catching?” Bethany asks.

  God, how I wish I could stop people from saying stupid things like that. “No. The infection is long gone.” I pull Ava’s hand from her chin, smile softly at her, let her see that there’s nothing wrong with how she looks. The tension in her body melts at my touch.

  Poe’s watching, and so I let go Ava’s hand.

  Bethany nods, her own chin quivering. “Tragedy, tragedy.” She averts her eyes as she once again wraps an arm around Ava. “We heard about your little girl and discussed her a
bduction by the coven. Tragedy, tragedy. Do you like my boots?”

  A burned scarecrow smolders just outside the town gate. Constructed of bound sticks, it’s posed with arms held up to the heavens. Two daggers at each side of the twiggy neck bolt on the scarecrow’s head, which appears to be a wad of scorched rope. A burned stripe gives the illusion of a slanted, gaping, screaming mouth.

  “What the hell is that?” Ava demands.

  Bethany spits at the twisted creation. “An effigy of Frankenstein!”

  George throws up his hands, exclaiming, “I can’t take you anywhere!”

  “Frankenstein?” Poe repeats, frowning. “That’s a great book—but how do you have it here? It’s from our world.”

  George puffs his chest. “Memento Mori is a most literate world. In fact, we require more books than we can produce. Literature is therefore channeled into Memento Mori.”

  Poe nods in a respectful way, though he grasps his crucifix, knowing what Priest would have to say about channeling. “Um, well, what I would say is that it’s weird to me that anyone would want to burn an effigy of Dr. Frankenstein. He was such a tragic character. Really, he was a good man, because he repented of what he had done.”

  George coughs and bugs his eyes at Poe, shaking his head vehemently.

  Bethany balls her fists at her sides. “How dare you. You dare to belittle the visual horrors we have suffered at the hands of the one so aptly dubbed Frankenstein. Perhaps you prefer to address him as Saint Frankenstein, as flagellants do?” She kicks the scarecrow between the legs. “He is the reason tunnelers spill from the earth, seeking their polluted savior!”

  George keeps at a distance from Bethany as he attempts to calm her. I think he’s attempting to protect his crotch. “Now, Bethany dear, rumor has it Saint Frankenstein is either dead, or if alive, repentant of his former work. At the least he’s in hiding.”

  Poe offers an apology. Bethany refuses it.

  I point to a rectangular plate by the enormous rusted lock on the town gate. “What’s that written there?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  “The script is an old language,” George replies. “It means The Sleeping Are Guarded. It’s an old phrase from when this town suffered terrors from vampires—they who are most especially polluted with death. We’ve kept it for historical reasons.”