* * * * *
“Faye Ambrose?” I spoke the name like I was expelling a ball of vinegar, bile and horse piss from my throat.
“Our grand priestess’ name.” Dr. Livingstone replied smugly, her eyes flashing with amusement over my obvious discomfort, “She even recruited me. Of course now she has begun calling herself Lorraine.”
“No way.” I continued, disoriented by this revelation, “No fucking way.”
I had rubbed elbows with the greatest of liars; car dealers, fellow conmen, career criminals and plenty of women, so I was spot on when it came to spotting a lie. Dr. Livingstone hadn’t lied to me. No, it was as if she wanted me to know who was the leader. As if she knew it was a dead end!
The irony of the term “dead end” didn’t escape me considering Faye’s supposedly deceased status. Oh, and the fact that her sister was the one who got me involved in this whole mess! This just didn’t make any sense!
Faye had obviously been set up after investigating the Daughters of All. Those wanting to dispose of the nosey journalist had gone as far as to rape and murder Faye for her trespasses. Now she is apparently walking amongst the living and the head priestess of the crazy cult? This was outrageous! She had been the one trying to shut down the Daughters of All in the first place!
Fuck me, I was getting a headache. Not even my DVD for Dollars scam was this complicated and I had to reprogram eight kinds of VCR’s to pull that one off! Every where I turn, I get more confused and sink deeper into shit. What did I ever do to deserve this?!
Other than the gambling, excessive drinking, womanizing, and swindling…
“What’s wrong?” Pouted the deranged doctor mockingly, “Not what you had in mind? Oh please, you should just walk away and forget any of this happened. You disappear and the Daughters will pretend we never heard of you. You keep out of our way, and we’ll keep out of yours. Deal?”
Finally! A way out of this mess! I can’t express the relief I felt at those words…and I can’t express the guilt that twisted my guts like a drunk puppeteer trying to perform an entire show solo.
Images flashed through my mind. Those comatose teens, stacked upon one another like products waiting to be shipped. Of Iris, the young girl desperately wanting to fit in just to be murdered on a psychotic whim of the cult she had been trying to please. And of course Fiona flashed through my mind. I could feel her warm body against mine as she gave me a hug, expressing how relieved she was that I was willing to help her.
Then it clicked. The source of the guilt! For the first time in my life someone was depending on me. Only on me! I was finally pinned down with responsibility and no one embodied that responsibility better than sweet and innocent Fiona who’s only crime was wanting to solve the mystery that concerned her departed sister.
“No.” I croaked.
“What?” Dr. Livingstone demanded, her smile vanishing.
“No,” I repeated, more firmly now, “This is going to end on my terms, not yours.”
Dr. Livingstone’s eyes narrow dangerously.
“You have no idea who or what you are dealing with.” Hissed the deranged doctor, taking a step towards me, “That little stunt with the burnout earlier today? That was nothing! Nothing compared to what I can do!”
I smiled bitterly and flicked my switchblade open.
“Lady, since I started looking into this freaky family of yours I’ve been attacked by a couple junkies and a walking trash heap.” I replied, each word of mine simmering with anger, “Forgive me for not being scared of some prissy wart doctor who could paint ten clowns with the amount of makeup she is wearing.”
That last insult cut deep. Apparently Dr. Livingstone was a little sensitive about her looks. Good to know, especially if I ever wanted to make this argument more personal than the cult had already made it.
“Hmm. Interesting…Seems like you’ve dug deeper into our plans than I had first suspected.” Dr. Livingstone spat venomously, “But believe me, those were parlor tricks compared to what I’m about to show you.”
The paranoid itching of my scalp became so intense at the deranged doctor’s words that it felt like a colony of ants had moved in underneath my skin. A sense of wrongness filled the air. Some primitive, animal part of my brain was screaming at me to run…something bad was about to happen.
Real bad. Like discovering you had just slept with a mob boss’ wife, bad.
“I’m sure you are aware that the Daughters of All aren’t some gothic neo-pagans who howl at the moon.” Dr. Livingstone laughed as she withdrew something from her pocket and then discarded her lab coat, “What they…what we’ve do is nothing short of miracles. Once recruited by the Daughters, my eyes were opened to a world that even myths pale to compete with.”
At first I was afraid that Dr. Livingstone had taken a weapon out from her coat pocket, but that wasn’t so. Instead she was holding a device that I hadn’t seen since me and four buddies had stolen a military supply truck in Canada. In the seductive doctor’s grasp was an auto-injector device; essentially a spring-loaded syringe.
“Feel flattered. You are one of the few who will witness the blending of science and mysticism.” Dr. Livingstone informed me, “Too bad you won’t live long enough to tell anyone else about the Daughters’ art!”
“That’s rather cliché, don’t you think?” I asked.
She laughed as she jammed the auto-injector into her thigh. There was a hiss as the device began to work and Dr. Livingstone winced as whatever was in the syringe entered her bloodstream.
Personally, I was hoping that a big, fat air bubble had also entered her bloodstream and give the crazy bitch a stroke.
No such luck.
Once the auto-injector had served its purpose, Dr. Livingstone tossed it aside. Her breath was becoming ragged gasps but her smile never faded. Her generous bust was heaving hypnotically as beads of sweat began to form on her brow.
“I don’t know how you managed to get away from my little pet at Hell Scratch,” The deranged doctor continued as her hands slithered up along her blouse and she began to unbutton her top, “But trust me, a weak body and weak mind just can’t control the gifts the Daughters possess. I, however, can.”
“To be honest I don’t care,” I replied, stepping forward with my switchblade gripped tightly in my fist, “Now you’re gonna tell me what I need to know or I’ll carve you up quicker than your plastic surgeon!”
I took another threatening step forward when Dr. Livingstone surprised me. She tugged open the top of her blouse, revealing more than just her bra-clad breasts. Just underneath her collarbones, crop circles of red scar tissue were forming. The scars looked like angry welts as they popped up, weaving thin and art-like lines in her flesh.
Shit. Apparently she had just given herself a dose of whatever made the Hell Scratch junkie start levitating. Dr. Livingstone didn’t start floating however, nor did she go into any sort of fit. Instead she blinked several times, her eyes beginning to dilate freakishly as she opened her mouth wide and exhaled an impossibly long breath.
You’d think that I would have gotten used to seeing all sorts of weird shit thanks to the bizarre week I was having. But no, I was still shocked to find that a blue, vaporous light spilled out of the deranged doctor’s gaping mouth. Think of the glow from a blue Christmas bulb the size of a basketball. Good. Now take away the glass, the screw-in bottom and the wire in the middle. What you have left is a blob-like, transparent glow that flickers every now and again.
That’s what Dr. Livingstone had just exhaled.
The deranged doctor’s face went completely lax, as if she had fallen into a deep sleep but she somehow managed to stay standing. Even the extent of her stillness was strange, almost zombie-like…completely unnatural to say the least. But I didn’t pay her too much heed because the bluish light still held my attention. Especially when it began to twitch, almost like it was an egg about to hatch.
After a moment or two of intense twitching and wriggling, the ball o
f light began to expand lengthwise. It took on the shape of a popsicle stick about my size, then began to twist some more. Slowly, two nubs extended from the popsicle of light, which rapidly extended to a few feet in length.
“Well you don’t see that everyday.” I murmured.
The blue light began to twitch frantically now as more and more detail began to appear, almost like a sculpture of blue glass. The nubs grew fingers and even became jointed while the top of the popsicle of light morphed into shoulders, a neck and eventually a head. Though the details weren’t entirely impressive, almost like a hasty sketch, there was no mistaking that the face on the blue light was that of Dr. Livingstone.
Though still transparent, the bluish light seemed to solidify somewhat, almost like ice. Despite the lack of facial detail, the blue light seemed to be a perfect replica of the deranged doctor…from the waist up. The replica of Dr. Livingstone ended at the torso, where the blue light kind of tampered off.
The replica moved its lips but no sound came out. I couldn’t be sure but I think the replica mouthed something to the effect of, “You’re so dead.”
In a flash the replica launched itself forward, one of its hands morphing once more, becoming a thin, hook-like appendage. I was too stunned to move… not that I’d have been able to dodge anyway. Unlike the hovering junkie, this replica seemed to have master flight and shot forward quicker than I could react.
The hook of the replica slashed at my chest in a diagonal strike. The attack connected and I tensed, waiting for my flesh to tear open and for my lifeblood to splatter to the ground. Well, that’s what would have happened if the hook had been made out of iron.
I shoulda known I wouldn’t get off that easy.
At first the effect of the hook making contact was so minimal that for a moment, I thought that the replica had missed. The blue appendage passed over me as if it was made up of nothing but light, which I suppose was the truth to some extent.
But then came the pain part.
It started with the threads of my clothing beginning to unravel…no, that’s not accurate. They began to disintegrate like a three hundred year old piece of paper in a rainstorm. In a clean cut line where the hook had traveled across me, the threads pretty much turned to dust as if they couldn’t handle the contact of the mysterious energies at work. At the same time my skin began to grow cold. I don’t mean hold-an-ice-cube-to-skin cold, or take-a-dip-in-artic-waters cold. I mean the kind of cold that just shouldn’t be experienced by anyone.
At that moment I was painfully aware of every single skin cell that had been brushed by that phantom hook. That’s how intense the unnatural chill that swept through me was. My muscles locked up in agony and I was lucky I didn’t bite my tongue off.
Looking back on this moment, I realize that that replica had been striking at my very essence. Y’know, the very thing that made me exist. My very being had just been assaulted. I know a bit about death but let me tell you, there are worse things out there: Oblivion for example.
With oblivion, the thing that made you who you were, call it a soul if you’d like, would cease to exist. You would fade away into nothing, your consciousness, mind and all emotions vanishing forever. That’s what awaited me if this phantom replica had its way. It didn’t attack me with the intention of maiming or murdering me. It attacked me with the icy touch of nothingness.
Of course at the time, I knew nothing of the nature of the threat before me. All I knew was the chilling pain sweeping through me. If that wasn’t motivation enough, I figured if the replica wanted to hit me, I wanted to avoid it. So I turned and hauled ass, booking it down the hallway.
Escape was the only thing on my mind. I looked over my shoulder to see the replica lazily drift towards me, the poorly detailed face of Dr. Livingstone laughing silently. Only after I looked forward again did I realize why the ghostly apparition was so amused. I was running in the wrong direction. Dr. Livingstone had purposely stood between me and the stairs/elevator to this floor, effectively herding me into dead ends.
With escape no longer being an option it seemed I had to go on the offensive…somehow. According to Dr. Spriggan the “symbols” could be destroyed and theoretically disrupt whatever supernatural forces were at work. That meant ruining the strange scar tissue on the real Dr. Livingstone just like I had with the flying junkie earlier today. If that were the case damn my cowardice and quick feet! I was still heading in the wrong direction!
Cursing myself for being an idiot was pointless. Right now I had to focus on my biggest concern which was the (for lack of a better term) phantom. Despite being able to fly, the replica of Dr. Livingstone wasn’t moving too fast. It kinda drifted after me, as if being propelled by some lazy breeze that only it could feel.
As I reached the end of the hall, I tried to suppress panic long enough to get my bearings. I vaguely remember the map in the elevator, explaining to everyone that this wing was U shaped. Too bad it wasn’t square or circular, that way I could have kept on running around until I reached the exit or the derange doctor’s body. But no, this gothic church turned hospital didn’t have such a practical layout (damn you Historical Society!) and I was stuck.
As things stood, the moment I turned the corner in the hall, I was pretty much at a dead end (there had to be a better expression than that!). I was screwed unless there was some way to dodge the phantom as I backtracked. Racking my brain, I thought of my earlier conversation with the paranormal expert. Hadn’t Dr. Spriggan said holy or religious items might interfere with the supernatural phenomena’s hold on our world? This was great if I had a cross or holy water on me but that did give me a desperate idea.
I may have been fresh out of all religious memorabilia but I did know someone who had the bible practically memorized. Fishing my cell phone from my pocket, I frantically looked for a place to hide. Most of the doors in this hallway were shut, presumably with patients locked behind them. No use hiding in there when a patient would just make a ruckus. I needed an empty room and spotted one door that stood ajar at the end of the hallway. Figuring it was better than nothing, I raced towards it while punching in Buggy’s number.
“Hello?” Buggy’s perpetually distracted voice answered.
“Buggy! Listen! I need you to get Father O’Brawley on the phone! Right now!” I hissed quietly into the phone as I reached the open room, “It’s a matter of life and death!”
“Um…do priest’s carry cell phones?” Buggy asked.
“I don’t know! The man is over sixty!” I replied, ducking into the room and relieved to find it empty, “Just get him on the line! Okay?! He’s either at the St. Donovan’s rectory or the church itself!”
“Okay, okay! But why? If you’re having a crisis of faith, I can help you. I’m a fully ordained minister. I was bored one night and figured why not?” The hacker informed me proudly, “Oh by the way, how did the meeting with Dr. Livingstone go?”
The room I had ducked into was identical to Ellen’s, save that this bed was empty and lacked life support machinery. It was dark, humorless and a place you don’t want to die. After shutting the door behind me, I ran across the room and ducked into the bathroom and proceeded to lock the door behind me.
It was only after hearing the click of the lock that it dawned on me I was playing hide and seek with a fucking ghost.
“I just told you this is a life and death situation!” I hissed into the phone, mentally wishing that something hit Buggy on the head to motivate him, “I don’t care if you are the Pope’s stunt double! I need something holy! Harmonic! Something to get this fuckin’ ghost off my trail!”
“Ghost?!” Buggy exhaled excited, “You’ve made contact with the other side?!”
“I’ll be on the other side if you don’t get me Father O’Brawley!” I nearly shouted into the phone, “I need some holy water! Or an exorcism! Anything to banish a ghost!”
“Okay okay! I’ll find the priest!” Buggy replied, then paused before hastily adding, “Hey, if you get a cha
nce ask the ghost if Elvis is really dead. My theory is he was actually a-”
“Buggy!”
“Right. Save your life first, then ask.”
I hung up the phone and wondered if my last conversation in life was going to be with Buggy...fate couldn’t be that cruel, could it?! Trying to calm myself, I focused on keeping as quiet as possible.
Out of necessity, I’ve become rather good at hiding from drug lords, slum thugs, hit men and of course, the police. I’ve even learned that if you put crushed glass in a salt and pepper mix, it can throw off a pack of bloodhounds because it cuts and stings their highly sensitive sniffers. Yet this was the first time I had to hide from something without a heartbeat. I had no idea if this phantom had heat-sinking eyes, navigated by radar or some sixth sense native to only the otherworldly. The absurdity of it all! Hiding in a bathroom from a dermatologist’s summoned specter!
Doing my best to control my labored breathing, I stewed in my own dread for several minutes. It was a conscious effort, but I finally managed to get my breathing under control in an attempt to be as silent as possible. Did ghosts/specters/phantoms even have ears? Sighing, I took a few steps back from the door. Force of habit really. I’ve been on the wrong side of a few doors as they become rattled with bullets. After being peppered with splinters and hot lead, you tend to develop certain survival habits.
A second after moving, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. The mirror over the sink captured something unusual. Something wrong. It was a glimmer, maybe a trick of the gloom but it looked exactly like heat distortion on the horizon of the desert…
Shit.
I threw myself against the door and pressed up against it.
The glimmer in the mirror was actually the reflection of what was happening right behind me. The shimmering air intensified, then the room was flooded with blue light. My eyes watered but I forced them open as that hooked appendage belonging to the phantom burst through the glimmer as if it were a window into our world. Hell, for all I knew it was.
Cold so intense it burned my lungs filled the room. The blue hook lashed out, narrowly missing me and striking the mirror. I watched in mixed horror and fascination as, just like it had with me, the hook passed through the mirror before withdrawing back into the shimmering portal. Upon contact with the phantom’s limb the mirror’s surface dulled and then blackened, as if it the very glass was somehow dying. A moment later, several cracks appeared on the mirror before shards of the damn thing exploded in every direction.
Giving a cry of alarm, I covered my face with my arms as slivers of broken glass sliced through the air. Luckily I only gained three or four new cuts. If I survived this whole ordeal, I would definitely have a few new scars to add to my body which was already a tapestry of past injuries. Lowering my bloody arms, I just stood there dumbly, the only sounds was my frantic breathing.
My respite didn’t last long. I nearly pissed myself as the blue phantom was spat out of a new glimmering portal above me, eyeing me with a sociopathic glee. The weapon-like hand was raised and the replica’s face twisted into a picture of triumph. Having suffered the phantom’s touch once before, I had no intention of being struck by it again. Hell, my skin was still cold and from the first attack! Unfortunately I didn’t have much choice in the matter, with my back pressed up against the bathroom door which I had foolishly locked.
I tensed, cringing in anticipation for the killing blow…
Through the door, I heard a crackling sound like the PA system of my old elementary school. The static hiss behind the door was followed by music but not just any music. It was the type of tune you only got treated to when you were in the halls of a church. A piano (or was it a pipe organ?) sent a few rich notes drifting through the door followed by a harmonic choir. Personally I didn’t care much for such music. As it turned out, my ghostly assailant hated it even more.
In fact, the phantom hated the hymns so bad it was nearly ripped apart.
My eyes were glued to the replica as the music increased in volume. The poorly detailed face of Dr. Livingstone lost its gleeful expression, then lost expression altogether. Hell it even lost its shape. Ever see a poor TV broadcast? That’s what the replica resembled right about now. The phantom began to be pulled apart; its head stretching out to the left, its torso stretching out to the right and its arms resembled something a lot like squiggly lines. The replica was stretched, then shrank back to its original shape, then stretched again.
It was as if cohesion had suddenly become a strenuous task for the phantom.
I didn’t wait around and gawk in fascination. Grabbing the door handle, I unlocked the bathroom, threw the door open and scrambled into the hospital bedroom. Once out of the bathroom, I realized where the music was coming from: the hymns were being blared over the intercoms and from the sound of it, every speaker in every hallway and bedrooms were playing the same song.
That’s when my phone rang.
“O’Brawley?” I panted, wildly trying to looking in every direction since the phantom could appear at any time and strike from any angle.
“It’s me,” My favorite hacker spoke rapidly, “I got a hold of your priest. I should be able to patch you through to him any minute. I called up a payphone outside his church and promised a homeless guy fifty bucks to go fetch him.”
“You’re top notch, Buggy.” I stated with all the honesty I possessed, stopping myself from rushing about in circles. With a deep breath I started making a move towards the hallway, deciding to make a mad dash to the real Dr. Livingstone and somehow damage that symbol on her chest.
The focal point.
“Are you still being haunted?” Buggy asked with overdue curiosity, “Is the ghost sentient? Does it have a face? Or is it just an orb of light? Oh and did the music help?”
“Music?”
“Yeah, the hymns. I recorded the conversation between you and Dr. Spriggan. He said that some things with divine importance might disrupt whatever was channeling the paranormal,” Buggy replied, though I wasn’t too surprised he had somehow reviewed my phone call with the parapsychologist, “Since most businesses use satellite radios, I just switched the hospital’s channel over to the gospel station. I mean, hymns are pretty divine, right?”
I was at a lost for words. Partly from the overwhelming gratitude I felt for Buggy at the moment but mostly because the wheels in my head were turning so fast they were giving me a headache. Could it be that simple hymns were enough to thwart something as frightening as a ghost?!
If you can find out what rules the otherworldly force or being is playing by, then you can be sure to use that to your advantage…
Apparently the rules that Dr. Livingstone and her otherworldly forces were playing by were very complex. Sure, she can summon a fucking phantom that can appear anywhere and kill things with a touch but it can be destroyed by a church choir?
Right then and there I vowed that if I got out of this hospital alive, I would have Buggy scour the internet and get me a bunch of books like Demons for Dummies or the Paranormal and You: A Guide. Anything that would help shed some light on this bizarre bullshit! Still it was good to know that there were some rules restricting my unusual opponents. Sure I might not be able to conjure trash monsters or summon phantom replicas of myself but I was good at pressing advantages, however slight.
“By the Trinity true, boy!” A gruff voice growled through the phone as I stepped out into the hallway, “I don’t like being dragged out of me confession booth by some dreg shouting that I was needed outside!”
I couldn’t help but grin. It’s odd how some things, even a bad tempered priest, could be comforting during stressful situations. Nothing like a bit of Father Brawley’s zealous anger to motivate and remind you that life beyond the mess you were caught up in was normal.
“Hey Father,” I spoke into the phone hastily, “I just so happen to be having a crisis that I think faith can solve.”
“Don’t make light of the Holy Spirit!” Father O' Braw
ley spat back into the phone, “You and I both know ye need to have some faith before ye have a crisis of faith!”
“Oh no, Father. It’s not a crisis of faith, just a crisis.” I replied, about to round the corner before I jumped back a good two feet, nearly dying of fright. A blue hook of light had slashed out right in front of me, forcing me to retreat a few steps. Even though the fiendish phantom missed me, I still felt as if I had just been dunked into a barrel of ice water. The phantom drifted into view, blocking the hallway between me, the exit and Dr. Livingstone’s body.
The holy music was still blaring over the PA speakers. It had gone from pipe organs and choir to Gregorian chant. The replica, every now and again, would lose shape and become a hovering, transparent blue ink blotch before regaining its form. Perhaps the chanting music didn’t have much sway over the damn phantom or perhaps the replica was building up immunity to it.
Whatever the reason, the result was clear: I had to act.
Fast.
“F-Father?” I whispered, a sinking feeling in my gut as the phantom drifted closer.
“What is it lad?! What’s going on?” Father O' Brawley demanded, concern creeping into his voice, “Are ye alright?! Is…is that Gregorian chant?”
“Can you perform an exorcism through the phone?” I asked shakily.
The replica shot forward like a blue arrow. I tried to dodge and tripped over my own damned feet. I landed on my ass with a grunt but I succeeded in avoiding the hook as the appendage soared overhead.
“What? Are you on drugs?! Broker?!” Father O' Brawley demanded.
“Listen! I need you to trust me!” I shouted into the phone, doing a one handed crab-walk backwards as my ghostly assailant prepared for another attack. I nearly shit myself when the hook hand of the phantom elongated, becoming the shape and size of a scythe blade. I doubt the grim reaper could have conjured up a more sinister looking weapon…despite the mild blue color that is.
“Fine lad! Fine!” Father O’Brawley spat into the phone, “What do you need?!”
“A miracle…” I choked into the phone.
The phantom rushed me again, swinging its new scythe-bladed hand like an uppercut. I rolled to the side as the bluish blade glided across the floor tiles I had just been occupying, the ceramic shattering under its unnatural touch. Had this been an ordinary opponent, I would have been rewarded a moment’s respite. Getting to my feet, I realized that wasn’t going to be the case.
After its initial attack missed, the phantom simply vanished into another shimmering mirage-like portal only to be spat out right above me. While caught off guard as it swung down at me, a lifetime of narrow escapes had honed my reflexes so I managed to duck…but wasn’t entirely successful. The phantom’s scythe brushed me, catching the left side of my head and ear. Immediately that agonizing sensation of unnatural cold surged through my skull. Every skin cell felt like it was being stabbed with a shiv made from liquid nitrogen. I couldn’t help but cry out as I stumbled back, slamming against the wall behind me.
“Lad?! Lad are you there?!” Father O’Brawley shouted through the phone…which I had just dropped.
The replica righted itself as it raised its scythe again, a sinister grin on its face. Before it could land the final blow, the Gregorian chanting reached a haunting crescendo and blared out over the speakers. Just as the music reached its climax, the phantom lost its’ shape once more. The entire replica became nothing more than a transparent stain in the air…allowing me to look right through the damn thing and at the drinking fountain attached to the wall opposite of me.
Desperation is the motherfucker of inspiration.
Diving forward, I grabbed the phone just as the replica began to pull itself back together. The scythe lashed out again, this time in a vertical chop that would have cut me in half…or at least make me wish I had been cut in half. I scuttle to the side awkwardly, narrowly avoiding the deathblow though my shirt received another hole in it.
“Father!” I shouted as I scuttled towards the drinking fountain, “Bless some holy water!”
“What?!”
“Start blessing water! Make it holy!” I screamed desperately into the phone as the replica consolidated once more and prepared for another attack.
I began to panic.
Reading people is what a conman does best. It’s also surprisingly helpful in physical confrontations. I know when someone is about to throw a punch before they even ball their fist because they usually inhale sharply and their shoulder rises in preparation for an attack. I can tell whether or not someone is going for a gun or a knife hidden in their jacket because a gunman will fall backwards to protect his firearm while someone with a knife will lean forward so they can connect melee style.
This replica could not be read. I was dodging the attacks from the phantom’s scythe on pure desperation and luck. The damn replica seemed tireless as it attacked randomly and from angles that would have been impossible from a living opponent. I knew that if I didn’t do something fast my luck would run out and I would never make it out of this hospital alive.
“Lad! Talk to me!” Father O’Brawley demanded, worry making his gruff voice even rougher.
The PA system stopped blaring Gregorian chant. The next song that began to play was by a choir unassisted by music. The men had deep, brass voices and the woman used their lighter ones to compliment their counterparts perfectly. The poorly detailed face of Dr. Livingstone twisted in rage just before the replica lost its shape once more.
Now was my chance.
“Okay Father, whatever blessing, words or phrases you use to make H2O magic water, do it now!” I shouted as the shifting replica tried to pull itself back together.
“Fine lad but I better get an explanation later!” Father O’Brawley growled back at me before clearing his voice and beginning, “We ask You, Father, with Your Son to send the Holy Spirit upon the waters…”
With my free hand I dug out my switchblade and made a dash to the drinking fountain. Skidding to a stop, I placed the phone on the back of the drinking fountain as I jabbed the switchblade down against the activation button, wedging the tip into the side. My knife successfully jammed the control so a constant stream of water arced out of the fountainhead. I could almost feel the phantom re-coagulating behind me. Shoving my hands into my pockets I dug out what I could. Everything from pocket lint, loose change, my wallet and flask were dumped on top of the drinking fountain’s drain, clogging it.
My heart was pounding so hard in my chest my bruised ribs actually began to ache. I could barely make out Father O’Brawley’s voice over the choir blaring from the PA system. I turned around to face my ghostly assailant just as the blue light pulled itself together, hovering in the air like a nightmare that wouldn’t go away even after waking. Once again, the damn phantom raised its hand and this time, the digits elongated and merged into a single spike.
“…We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.” Father O’Brawley’s voice crackled above the water pooling in the drain of the drinking fountain.
Admittedly, I hadn’t been to church in a long, long time but I figured amen was universal for “we’re done here.” It was time to find out if my theory was going to pay off. I scooped up the loose change from the clogged drain and held their slick metallic bodies in my shaking fist. Whether I was trembling in fear or exhaustion was debatable. So pained was my body, so burnt out was my mind that if I failed here, I doubt I’d even have enough energy to scream while being murdered.
The phantom loomed before me, armed (quiet literally) with a spike that would pierce my flesh and impale my immortal soul, forever damning me to oblivion…I was armed with five pennies, three quarters and a nickel dipped into impromptu holy water.
With a scream that was less manly than I’d care to admit, I hurled my pocket change at the phantom. The wet coins spun through the air as they approached their target. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as my change made its way through the air, finally colliding with the ethereal
body of the replica after what seemed like an eternity.
Ever throw a rock into a still pond?
Yeah, it was nothing like that.
What happened when the coins connected with the phantom is rather hard to describe. After my eighty-five cents entered the phantom’s chest, their forward momentum stopped. They just kind of…drifted up and down, like they were pieces of fruit in the world’s most disgusting gelatin dessert.
Then the coins started spinning.
Slowly at first the coins began to turn, head over tails again and again. Thankfully the phantom didn’t follow through on its attack. Instead the poorly detailed face of Dr. Livingstone regarded me with something akin to astonishment as the coins slowly began to pick up speed. They spun faster and faster and with each rotation, a ripple tore through the bluish body of the phantom. With each ripple the replica lost a little of its form, shrinking in size.
Given the panicked expression of the replica, I assumed this wasn’t a good thing.
Soon the coins were spinning so fast that they looked like metallic orbs of blurring movement. The rippling shockwaves inside the phantom’s body had become more of a pulse now and with each pulse the replica shrunk, smaller and smaller. It wasn’t until the replica was the size of a child that I realized what was happening.
The coins were somehow absorbing the damn thing.
Dumbly I felt my foot grow wet. I managed to tear my gaze from the phantom and look down. I hadn’t pissed myself (surprisingly enough) but there was a small puddle beginning to form around my feet. Glancing over at the water fountain, I saw my wallet was still clogging the drain and floating in the small basin was my empty flask.
Moving like a robot, my mind utterly overloaded and on auto-pilot, I grabbed my flask and unscrewed the lid. I dunked it down into the pool, while keeping one eye on the replica. It was now the size of a stuffed toy and the look of rage on the poor features of the phantom told me that sheer force of will was keeping it from shrinking any further.
“Um,” I managed, “Bottoms up?”
With that, I poured the contents of my flask over the top of the phantom. The phantom’s face froze into a mask of rage as the holy water struck it. When I say froze, I meant literally. The moment the water touched the replica it turned to ice, making violent cracking sounds as it crystalized and fully encased the replica. The supernatural ice sculpture levitated in front of me about a second longer before crashing to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces.
Amongst the glass-like shards of ice were five pennies, three quarters, and a nickel. Oddly enough, each of their metallic bodies now had a bluish tinged to them. Curious, I squatted down to pick up one of the quarters to inspect it further.
The moment my skin made contact with the metal, I screamed and drew back.
Touching the quarter had given me the same intense freezing pain of when the replica had struck me, as if those humble coins had also absorbed the damn thing’s malicious intent. That short contact with the quarter had rendered my entire arm numb, so I wisely left the coins alone.
“Lad! Are you there?!”
I turned around seeing my phone resting on the back of the drinking fountain. Still moving sluggishly as my mind tried desperately to absorbed all that it had witnessed, I collected my now soggy belongings (with the exception of my pocket change) and then scooped up the cell phone.
“I’m here, Father.” I said, voice heavy with relief, “I think…I think I owe you my life.”
Hoping to get to Dr. Livingstone before she fled the hospital, I began to jog down the hallway with all the speed my abused body could muster. The deranged doctor was probably already long gone but I was feeling giddy with optimism, mostly due to the fact I was still alive.
“If you say so lad. I’ll be looking forward to hear ‘bout whatever ye have gotten yourself into.” Father O’Brawley replied, doing his best to keep the confusion out of his gruff voice, “Is there anything else I can help you with, me boy?”
Racing down the hall, I skidded to a stop and let out a wordless curse of frustration. I found Dr. Livingstone in the exact spot she had been in after injecting herself with that sinister serum. Well not exactly the same spot seeing how she was now sprawled across the floor with a bloody froth coating her lips. Her body twitched oddly and her dilated eyes bulged in their sockets.
Stunned, I didn’t even hear the elevator ding down the hall or the heavy footsteps approaching me. The next thing I heard was a rent-a-cop telling me to put my hands on my head. Three orderlies rushed past me and over to the limp form of Dr. Livingstone, one already yelling for a crash cart.
“Yeah.” I spoke into the phone, “Can you post my bail?”
* * * * *