Spirits from Beyond

  * * *

  Happy sat alone, ignoring everything, completely uninterested in his room and its contents. He sat slumped on a stiff-backed chair, before an old-fashioned, black-lacquered writing-desk. He was looking at all the pill bottles and boxes he’d taken out of his suitcase and set out on the desk before him. He honestly hadn’t realised how many there were. All of them carefully labelled in his obsessively neat handwriting. A lifetime’s collection . . . of chemical excuses. For not being good enough.

  He picked them up and put them down, moving them back and forth in patterns and connections that only made sense to him. Setting them out in possible combinations, considering the effects, and the side effects . . . He never used to mix his poisons, but then, he never used to do a lot of things . . .

  He’d actually created a lot of these pharmaceutical marvels himself, thanks to his access to the Carnacki Institute’s very private laboratories. One of the Institute’s most revered research chemists, a certain defrocked Franciscan monk, a genius with access to unstable compounds, was always ready and willing to help Happy out. If only out of curiosity, to see what Happy would do to himself. Apparently the monk saw Happy as his own personal on-going experiment. He kept saying he was going to write a paper, one of these days, on exactly how much damage the human constitution could stand.

  One day, Happy hoped to discover what use the Ghost Finders had for private chemical research. No-one else in the labs would even talk to him, let alone discuss what they were doing, or what they were there for. But given that chemicals had no effect on ghosts, Happy did wonder whether the Institute might be trying to develop better field agents, or at least ones who lasted longer, through creative chemistry. If Happy had only known, he would have volunteered.

  Officially, Catherine Latimer had no idea what Happy was doing, down in the very private laboratories. But Happy was pretty sure she did know, really. Or they’d never have let him in in the first place.

  He picked up a couple of silver pill boxes and rattled the contents thoughtfully. He needed new combinations now, in increased concentrations, because standard pharmaceuticals didn’t do the job any more. He’d built up a quite frightening tolerance, down the years. And as a result, he’d had no choice but to start experimenting with stronger and stranger things. He’d tried mandrake root and mongoose blood, green tea and monkey glands, and even diluted doses of Dr. Jekyll’s Elixir. That last one, mostly out of curiosity. He’d quite fancied the idea of being someone else for a while. Someone who didn’t have his problems, or weaknesses; or at least someone who wouldn’t care . . . Someone new who didn’t scare so easily. But the diluted dose couldn’t even affect his much-altered metabolism; and he was scared to go full Hyde.

  In case he couldn’t turn back.

  His eyes ranged back and forth across the endless handwritten labels, hoping something would jump out and catch his eye. His drug use had never been recreational, never been about getting off his face. It had always been about keeping the world, and especially the hidden world, outside his head. So he could hear himself think and be sure the emotions he was feeling were just his own. All he’d ever wanted was peace of mind; and after all this time and all this effort, he was no nearer attaining it.

  Of course, the job, and the weird experiences, and the constant paranoia didn’t help. But he couldn’t bring himself to quit, not now he knew what the world was really like. Not now his team needed him, more than ever. And besides, where else could he hope to gain access to the kind of chemical help the Institute provided . . .

  He sat on his uncomfortable chair and listened to the wind and rain batter against the closed window. It sounded . . . lost, and alone. Sudden gusts of night air forced their way in through cracks in the warped window frame, fluttering the flowered curtains. Happy could feel the storm raging outside, feel its growing, angry presence, like some terrible wild animal prowling around and around the inn, searching for a weak spot, for a way in. Happy felt a sudden impulse to get up and run out of the inn, rip all his clothes off, and run naked through the storm, defying the lightning to hit him. But he didn’t have the energy.

  He was tired all the time now. Woke up tired, spent the day tired, and went to bed tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep, weary. He wanted to sit there in his room and do nothing . . . feel nothing . . . He wanted to take a pill, any pill, any number of pills, to shock himself out of this . . . At least the pills woke him up, gave him a reason to go on, helped him invest himself in the world. Like it mattered . . .

  The pills made him feel alive, but he didn’t want to take them any more. Because he didn’t like who he was when he took them; because he wanted to be somebody Melody might take back.

  Because he had a feeling she might be his last hope. His last life-line.

  And because if he did give in to the pills, dived into the great chemical ocean one more time and let it close over his head, he didn’t think he’d be coming back.

  While Happy was sitting there, quietly thinking about life and death, he heard the sound of a door opening. He looked at the main door, leading out onto the landing; and it was closed. Happy slowly realised the sound must have come from behind him, from the rear of the room. He pushed his chair back from the writing-desk, turned around in his chair, and looked behind him. A door had appeared in the wall at the back of his room, one Happy was sure hadn’t been there before. He looked at the door. It seemed ordinary enough, set in an ordinary wall. It was standing a little ajar, no more than a few inches. It wanted Happy to get up and come over to it, he could tell. When he didn’t, the door swung wide open, all on its own, revealing a long corridor falling away, lit with a sullen blood-red glow. The walls beyond the door were red, like flesh, or meat . . . something quite definitely organic. And repellent.

  It was a really long corridor, falling back and back, stretching off into the distance, much further than the inn could have physically contained. And the more Happy looked down the corridor, the longer it seemed to be. There was a feeling of promise to it, that if Happy would walk through the door and down the long red corridor, something would be waiting there for him.

  Happy glared at the door, and the corridor beyond, and raised his voice. “Do I look like a tourist? How dumb do you think I am? Piss off!”

  The door slammed shut, quite silently, and disappeared. Happy was left looking at a perfectly normal, uninterrupted, deadly dull wallpapered wall. He sighed slowly and turned back to the writing-desk. He wasn’t surprised to find a young woman sitting beside him, on a chair that hadn’t been there a moment before. It wasn’t like she’d appeared out of nowhere. More like she’d always been there and he hadn’t noticed till now. Except Happy knew she hadn’t been there.

  The young woman looked real, and solid. She was medium height, with a trim body and long blonde hair falling down around a pretty, heart-shaped face. She had big eyes and a sweet smile. She wore a long white dress—not actually a bridal gown, but that was what Happy thought of when he looked at it. The young woman held her hands neatly folded together in her lap, perfectly calm and peaceful and at ease. She seemed happy to be there with Happy.

  He looked at her for a long moment. He didn’t even try to raise his Sight, to See what she really was, what was really going on. Not because he was scared to but because he was so worn-out . . . that he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn. He wanted someone to talk to, and she would do as well as anyone. And if she turned out not to be real, so much the better. He could be honest with someone who wasn’t really there. He smiled at the young blonde woman, and she smiled back at him.

  “I’m tired,” said Happy. “Really, really tired. It’s hard for me to feel anything, to care about anything. Or anyone. Including me. I do try, but . . . it’s getting more difficult every day, to force a way through the tiredness, to find a reason to go on. At first, I had the job. I liked helping people, helping the living in their troubles, helping the dead to move on. But the job keeps getting harder, and more complicated, taking mor
e and more out of me, and the pressure never ends . . . When the job wasn’t enough any more, I looked for another reason to go on living. Melody tried hard to be that reason, God love her, but . . . She did everything she could to distract me from my problems; but she couldn’t solve any of them. She couldn’t save me from being me. So I went back to the pills because the pills were always there.

  “The effort wears me out . . . the everyday effort of fighting to stay sane. Sometimes I wonder whether it might be better to lie down, and go to sleep, and not have to wake up again. And if God is good, I won’t dream . . .”

  The young woman shook her head slowly. “Death is worse,” she said. “Trust me.”

  She became suddenly, utterly horrible.

  * * *

  Happy screamed and screamed and screamed. Until Melody kicked his door in and came running into the room, her machine-pistol at the ready in her hand, searching for a target. She was half-expecting another intruder, like the man she’d thrown out of her room, but it only took her a moment to see the room was empty. Apart from Happy, staring at nothing, screaming at the top of his voice. His face was bone-white with shock, his eyes bulging half out of his head.

  Melody put her gun away, hurried over to Happy, knelt beside him, and took him in her arms, hugging him to her as tightly as she could. He stopped screaming and buried his face in her shoulder, sobbing like a frightened child. Melody patted his back and murmured comforting words in his ear. She was honestly shocked. She’d seen Happy face down ghosts and gods and everything in between, and never seen his nerve broken this badly. She thought at first he must have taken something, but it only took a glance to see that all the bottles and boxes set out on the writing-table were unopened. And besides, Happy took pills so he wouldn’t have to see the things that frightened him. Melody glared around the empty room, desperate for some enemy to lash out at.

  JC arrived a moment later. He stopped abruptly in the open doorway as Melody aimed her machine-pistol at him. She quickly recognised him and lowered the gun. JC took a moment to make sure neither she nor Happy were injured, then he prowled quickly round Happy’s room, checking the place out. He opened the wardrobe and looked inside, looked out the window, checked the tiny bathroom, and even looked under the bed. When he’d satisfied himself that there was no-one else in the room, he went back to Melody and Happy. They were still holding on to each other. Happy had stopped crying, but he was still shuddering uncontrollably. JC raised an eyebrow at Melody, who shook her head. JC did his best to sound calm and reassuring.

  “Happy, this is JC. You’re safe now. There’s only Melody and me here. Can you tell us what happened?”

  Happy slowly raised his head to look at JC, not letting go of Melody. His eyes were puffy, but his gaze was steady. He tried to explain, talking of a door that came and went, and a blonde woman who wasn’t real, and said things . . . but most of what he said made no sense. JC understood. Often, it’s not what actually happens in a haunting that matters; it’s how it makes you feel. Ghosts are very good at finding your weak spots. Your psychic pressure points.

  Happy stopped shaking. He took a deep breath and let go of Melody. She immediately let go of him, stood up, and stepped back. Happy mopped at his face with a handkerchief, blew his nose, and rose unsteadily to his feet. He looked at where the door had been in the rear wall, but, of course, there was nothing left to show where it had been because it was never really there. Or at least, never really a door. JC nodded to Melody, and the two of them moved away to stand in the open doorway, so they could talk quietly together.

  “This is no ordinary haunted inn, like we were promised!” JC said angrily. “I’ve never seen Happy like that before . . . There’s something really bad here. And much more powerful than we were led to believe.”

  “I need to set up my equipment,” said Melody. “Get some readings. But it’s all back in my room, and I don’t want to leave him . . .”

  “It’s all right,” said JC. “I’ll stay with him. I won’t leave him alone for a moment.”

  Melody nodded quickly and looked back at Happy. “I’m just popping out,” she said loudly. “Back in a minute.”

  Happy barely acknowledged her, his eyes worryingly empty. Melody hurried out the door. JC went back to stand with Happy. He looked at all the pill boxes and bottles set out on the writing-table, and winced. He’d never realised there were so many of them.

  “I haven’t taken anything,” said Happy, finally, not looking at JC or the writing-desk.

  “Maybe you should,” said JC. “If that’s what it takes to get your head back together.”

  Happy looked at his pills. “You’ve got to admit, JC, it’s an impressive collection. Uppers and downers and sideways . . . Things to shut my mind down, and others to blast it wide open. Pills to make me brave, or smart; but nothing there to make me strong. How do you do it, JC? How do you stay so confident all the time?”

  “Because I’m team leader,” said JC. “And because I’d rather die than let you and Melody down.”

  Happy looked at him then and actually managed a small smile. “Word is, you did die, down in the Underground. What was it like?”

  “If something like that really did happen,” JC said carefully, “which I am not necessarily ready to accept, I don’t remember.”

  “Probably just as well,” said Happy. “Why is it, JC . . . that all the people and things we encounter, come back from the dead, are always so very angry?”

  “I don’t know,” said JC. “Perhaps the hereafter disappointed them by not being what they wanted it to be. Or perhaps the hereafter didn’t want them because they were unworthy. And spat them out. Mostly, I tend to think of most of the dead things we encounter as escaped prisoners. Jail breakers; bad things, on the run. And it’s our job to herd them up and send them back where they belong.”

  “Except that it’s rarely that simple,” said Happy.

  “No,” said JC. “But then, life is complicated. Why should death be any different? It’s important to remember that not all ghosts are bad. Case in point . . . Kim; would you come in here, please?”

  Kim appeared immediately, standing demurely in the middle of the room. She’d refined her ectoplasm again and now seemed to be wearing a Salvation Army Girl uniform, complete with tambourine. She smiled sweetly at Happy and dropped him a wink.

  “I thought you could use a little cheering up. Hi, Happy!”

  He barely smiled. “Thanks for the thought. How long have you been here, at the inn?”

  “Ooh, ages and ages. I got here long before you. I’ve been studying the King’s Arms, inside and out. Dreadful place. Not only the inn, mind you, not just the building, but the whole surrounding area. It’s all soaked and saturated with retained information. Layer upon layer of memories, ghosts, weird phenomena. Some of it going back centuries . . .”

  Happy was already nodding in agreement. “Yes, called here, like moths to a flame.” He perked up quickly, the colour seeping back into his face as he became intrigued by the problem. “Something must have happened here, long ago, that made such an impact on this site, and this area, that in a sense it’s still happening. A psychic irritant, if you like; like the grain of sand a pearl forms around, inside an oyster. We have to dig down, separate out and identify the original causal agent, and shut it down. Hard. And then everything else should fall apart and disappear. Except, of course . . .”

  “Nothing’s ever that simple,” said JC.

  “You read my mind,” said Happy. “There are ghosts operating here in the inn. But I think that’s just the surface. There are other things here, far more powerful than I am comfortable thinking about. They like being here, like pigs rolling in shit. Something really nasty tried to scare me off. Possibly because it sees me as a threat. I suppose I should feel flattered . . . Kim, can you detect anything out of the ordinary in this room with your more-than-ordinary ghostly senses?”

  The ghost girl drifted slowly round the room, taking her time. “I
don’t See anything,” she said, finally. “Which is, frankly, a bit suspicious. I’ve no doubt something was here, but it’s gone to great lengths to cover its tracks.” She stopped suddenly. “Someone’s coming. A live person.”

  She turned to look at the door, and the others did, too. The barman Brook peered in through the open doorway and jumped as he found everyone staring at him. He smiled weakly and nodded but decided not to actually enter the room.

  “Sorry to intrude,” he said. “I thought I heard . . . something. Thought I’d better . . . pop up and check. Is everything all right here?”

  He took in Kim properly for the first time, and his eyes widened. She threw him a dazzling smile and rattled her tambourine at him. Brook looked at JC.

  “Another one of yours, is she? Working the case on the quiet?”

  “You could say that,” said JC.

  “Will she be requiring a room, too?”

  “Almost certainly not.”

  Melody yelled for Brook to get the hell out of her way, and when he jumped back, she barged in through the open doorway, with her suitcase. She opened it and pulled out assorted scientific equipment. She quickly set it all up, talking quickly as she did, perhaps so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge Happy.

  “This is all I have with me. Just the basics. A multi-sensor package, linked in to a very discerning computer. It may look to you like a lap-top plugged into a box, with assorted scanners; but it will do the job.”

  She piled it all on the bed, then set about firing everything up, still talking to herself. Mostly in terms no-one else there understood. Everyone nodded vaguely, for fear she’d start explaining things. Brook was back peering through the open door again. Still refusing to come in from the landing. Melody studied the readings as they came in and scowled unhappily.

  “This inn is old, JC. And I mean really old. We’re talking centuries . . . Damn! I’m getting readings that say this building, this basic structure, goes all the way back to the fifth century.”

  “Druid time,” said JC, a bit bitterly. “I should have known . . . I should have known the Boss wouldn’t send us off to cover some everyday haunting!”