Home Improvement: Undead Edition (31 page)

“You must let go of your attachment to these objects in your collection,” I told Explorer Trent. “Or you cannot move on.”

“Well, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? That’s why I’m here.”

“But you cannot mean to remain.”

“As long as dunderheads are in charge here, yes I do.”

“As long as you remain here,” I said, voicing a thought that was new but, I was suddenly sure, correct, “ ‘dunderheads’ will be in charge.”

“Eh? How’s that?”

“Did you not say that each one is worse than the one before him? The Lord of the Underworld is clearly assigning, to be reborn in your family line, souls who, for whatever reason, must expiate the arrogance of pride—in their own intelligence and in their skills at decision making. Politicians, perhaps, or military commanders. They are reborn as directionless fools. As long as you remain attached to your collection, he will continue to send them here.”

“That the way it is, huh? Well, as long as he sends ’em, I’ll stay here and keep ’em from mucking things up!”

“You are not proposing to set yourself in opposition to the will of the Lord of the Underworld?”

“You think if I did, I couldn’t take him down a peg or two?” The ghost of Explorer Trent swelled, then deflated. “Nah, really, that’s not what I meant. But as long as all my stuff’s here, and being watched over by morons, I don’t think I can leave. No, I don’t think so.” He frowned, narrowing his eyes at me. “Wonder if I can help you out, though.”

While we had been conversing, Leonard Wu and Walter Trent had been in discussions also. The ghost of Explorer Trent turned to look at them now, so I did the same.

“So do you see?” Walter Trent was inquiring anxiously of Leonard Wu. “It’s not my decision. Everything of my great-grandfather’s has to stay in the house.”

“If I understand you correctly, though,” responded Leonard Wu, “that’s not written anywhere. It’s not a legal or contractual obligation, I mean.”

“Well, no.” The young Trent shifted uncomfortably, provoking a snort from his great-grandfather’s ghost. “But it’s my mandate. Our mandate. Everyone’s understood that, from the time my grandfather took over. It’s the way it’s always been.”

“Wouldn’t have been, if you hadn’t all been muttonheads!” barked the ghost of the elder Trent. Walter Trent nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

“Well,” said Leonard Wu, “the way it’s been was suited to the times, maybe, but times change. Important artifacts are being sent back to their original sites all over the world these days. Restoration of patrimony is a big movement in the art and archaeology communities.”

“Yes, I know. And I’d help if I could, I really would. The Fogg, in Boston, asked just the other day to borrow some bronzes for an exhibit they’re doing. I’d love to send them, too.” The younger Trent looked unhappy. “But I can’t. I just don’t feel I can make those decisions.”

My heart, or whatever had been beating hopefully, sank. The head would not be returning? I would not be moving on to my next life?

The ghost of the senior Trent turned to me. “What do you say, Moe? This head really important to you?”

Miserably, I said, “It is.”

“Make you happy if this half-wit here sent it back?”

“Yes.” I allowed myself a tiny spark of hope. “Very happy.”

“Well,” said he. “Well.” He stroked his whiskers, as before. Drifting across the room, he reached his great-grandson’s side. He leaned down until his lips were at the young Trent’s ear. I flinched involuntarily at the idea of approaching a man so closely. The ghost of Trent, who obviously did not suffer from such timidity, waited a moment before he spoke.

Or rather, he did not speak. He roared.
“GIVE THEM BACK THE HEAD!”

Walter Trent nearly jumped out of his seat.

“Are you all right?” Leonard Wu inquired as the young man’s face paled.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Walter Trent removed a cloth from his pocket and wiped his brow. “I’m subject to . . . attacks of some sort.”

“Attacks!” growled the ghost of his great-grandfather. “Believe you me, I’d attack him if I could. You see what I’m saying? He hardly listens.” He leaned to his great-grandson again, and this time he dropped his voice to an insinuating whisper. “Give them back the head, you boob, or I will personally put snakes in your trousers.”

That was, of course, an empty threat. The ghost of Trent could no more handle actual snakes than I could the Buddha head. The only effect ghosts can have on humans is to frighten, inspire, or instruct them, and then only to the extent that the humans choose to allow.

Walter Trent, however, was obviously choosing to permit his great-grandfather’s ghost a good deal of power. He swallowed, wiped his brow again, and stood. “Excuse me,” he said to Leonard Wu. “I’m feeling faint.”

“Sit down!”
howled the ghost. “You’re not leaving this room until you give that head back!”

Walter Trent dropped into his chair again. Leonard Wu was looking increasingly concerned.

“Now,” said the ghost of Explorer Trent, “tell this nice archaeologist gent that you’ve changed your mind. Tell him he can have his head. Give the chief curator a call. Then you can go lie down.”

Walter Trent’s large eyes stared ahead of him. Slowly, he turned to Leonard Wu. “Do you know,” he said, licking dry lips, “I may have been hasty. I believe it might be all right for me to return that head. If you’re sure you want it?”

Leonard Wu’s face lit up. “I certainly do!”

“All right.” The young man blinked. “We’ll draw up a formal agreement this afternoon, but for now, I’ll just give the chief curator a call. That’ll be enough to get him busy preparing the head for transport.”

Leonard Wu began enthusiastically to thank Walter Trent; Walter Trent, weakly, insisted he had done nothing and was glad to help. I hovered, surprised and thrilled, beside the beaming ghost of the elder Trent. I was searching for words with which to express my gratitude when suddenly his head lifted.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Trouble at the loading dock. Another great-grandson in charge down there, as much of an idiot as this one. Got to go help out. You stay here, Moe, make sure this ninny gets it right.” He spun and vanished.

“I . . .” But he was gone. So I did as instructed: I turned back to Leonard Wu and Walter Trent. Leonard Wu was smiling broadly, describing the beauty of the paintings and carvings in the monastery caves, inviting Walter Trent to come see them for himself. The young Trent, for his part, looked weak, but better than previously. Color was starting to return to his countenance, and he no longer sweated.

“I appreciate the invitation,” he said, his voice still faint. “But a trip to China . . . I don’t know . . . Here, let’s get this process started.” He pressed a button on a box on his desk. “Jerry? The big Buddha head up here in the drawing room—we’re sending it back to China.” A startled objection began to issue from the box, but Walter Trent cut it short. “Yes, I know, but that’s what’s happening. It’s my responsibility and I can do this if I want to. Dr. Wu’s coming down to give you the logistical details. Thank you.” He took his finger off the button and said to Leonard Wu, “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll be right down. I just need a minute.”

“Yes, of course.” Leonard Wu rose. “I can’t tell you how much we all appreciate this.”

None more than myself,
I thought, as he turned and left the room. I was on the verge of following. My task was completed; I had spoken convincingly to the ghost of the elder Trent, and thus the Buddha head would be returning to my cave. The cave spirits would be protected by a better guardian than I, and I would present myself once more to the Lord of the Underworld, to be sent on to another life. A most satisfactory ending.

As Leonard Wu walked through the door, though, I did not follow. An uncomfortable knowledge was beginning to take hold in my mind. I would soon be going on to another life, taking my next step along the path. But the ghost of Trent, who had helped me reach this longed-for day, would not. He was bound to remain in this realm, unable to advance spiritually, until the Lord of the Underworld ceased sending him fools to oversee the collection to which he was so tied. Which would not happen until his ties to his collection loosened.

I could see only one possible solution.

I hovered in my spot near the door, watching Leonard Wu trot happily down the stairs. I turned to my friend, the Buddha head. I said nothing, but he, as though he knew my mind, said, “You know it is right.”

“It might fail.
I
might fail,” I objected.

“Is that a reason not to try?”

No, I thought, terror is a reason not to try. But what must be done, must be done. My spectral heart pounding, I drifted across the room, nearing the young Trent. When I reached him, I found myself frozen, unable to move. And certainly, unable to speak.

“Continue,” the head said calmly.

I leaned forward, as Trent’s ghost had. I opened my mouth, but could produce nothing but a few croaking sounds. Walter Trent frowned and looked about.

“Continue,” the Buddha head said once more.

I swallowed—how can a spirit’s throat become so dry?—and, in a whisper so faint I was sure it would not be heard, said, “Walter Trent.”

It was heard, however. The young man raised his head sharply, looking directly at me. I jumped. I glanced wildly at my friend the head, but he sat placidly silent.

I screwed up every ounce of courage I possessed. “Walter Trent,” I whispered again, surprised to hear my words slightly stronger than before. “You must send the bronzes to the Fogg.”

Walter Trent opened and closed his mouth.

“You must become a strong guardian of your great-grandfather’s collection.” I heard my own spectral voice but was incredulous at the idea that I was the one using it, even as I went on. “You must lend some items, and return others whence they came. You must allow scholars to come study pieces here in your rooms, and to remove them for further study.”

The young Trent was shaking his head, over and over. Sweat had once again blossomed on his brow.

“I recognize your lack of confidence in your own judgment,” I told him. “That is your lot in this life. You must do what I have instructed you nevertheless. Your action in the face of insecurity and fear will open new pathways for you. And also, for your great-grandfather, who needs to move on from this place.” Walter Trent sat motionless, as pale as he had been previously. Then, haltingly, he began to stand.
Well,
I thought,
I’ve seen this done
. I gathered myself, and roared,
“Sit down!”

Like a stone, he dropped into his chair.

I, meanwhile, hurried to flit back to his desk from across the room, where the force of my bellow had blown me. “You will shoulder your responsibilities!” I ordered him, in a voice only slightly shaking. “Do as I say!”

A still moment; then the young man minutely straightened. He ran a finger under his collar. With a deep breath, he pressed the button on his desk again. “Jerry? Dr. Wu down there? Good. And while you’re getting things set with him, get this going, too: we’re lending the Fogg those bronzes they asked for. Yes, Jerry,” he answered the squawks from the box. “I’m coming right down.”

Walter Trent stood, wiped the cloth along his brow, folded it carefully, and left the room.

Unable to move, I stared after him, until I heard my name calmly pronounced: “Ghost of Tuo Mo.”

I darted to the back wall and spoke to the head. No; I hardly spoke, just stammered. “I . . . I . . .”

“Yes,” the head replied serenely. “I think he will make an admirable guardian. As you have, my friend.”

I found my voice and answered, “Thank you.”

“I only speak the truth. What will you do now?”

I thought. “I will return to the caves. Leonard Wu does not need my company on his trip; he will have you. I believe I will be summoned by the Lord of the Underworld not long after you reach the caves and have been reinstalled. I would like an opportunity to bid farewell to the Spirit of the South Mountain.”

“You will encounter him again on your journey,” said the Buddha head. “More than once.”

“I hope I do,” I said. “As I hope I encounter you, also. But I will not remember. So in some sense, this is our leave-taking. Good-bye, my friend.”

“Good-bye, Ghost of Tuo Mo. And,” the head added, “thank you.”

My spectral being infused with warmth from the Buddha head’s parting words, I drifted down the staircase. I looked in on Leonard Wu and Walter Trent, deep in conference with three scholarly young people. The ghost of Explorer Trent was with them, also, looking astounded and pleased. I did not disturb them, but floated through the large wooden doors and out into the streets of New York City, America. I gazed on the towering glass cliffs, the multitudinous spirits, and the innumerable people, wondering if my path would lead me here again. Then I sped away, appearing instantaneously at the foot of South Mountain, to find my friend smiling and bathed in a glorious sunrise.

Rick the Brave

STACIA KANE

His wallet was empty, so Rick took the job.

It wasn’t a job anybody else wanted—well, hell, if it had been, somebody else would have taken it already, specifically his sister’s husband, who’d told him about it. Apprentice electricians didn’t often get handed five grand off the books for what would amount to only a couple of days’ worth of work. So much for Shelley telling him he’d never make any decent money. And calling him a wimp. And dumping him for that sleazy car salesman.

Would a wimp take a job in Downside? Ha, no. No way. Like anybody else in Triumph City with half a brain and without a particular death wish, Rick had never gotten closer to the area than the stretch of Highway 300 that ran past it—over it—and he’d never wanted to. It was the kind of place where even the police didn’t go, the kind of place where you could find yourself a hooker or find yourself in mortal danger any hour of the day or night.

But here he was, with his tool bag slung over his shoulder in what he hoped was a nonchalant fashion, standing with two other guys in the dusty, empty main room of a ramshackle house, while outside the streets rang with laughter and screams and loud music.

A sort of grunting noise—it took him a second to realize it was someone speaking on the next floor—and they trooped up the creaky stairs toward it, past shreds of old wallpaper that fluttered like ghostly fingers as they passed.

Now
that
was something he didn’t even want to think about.

Looked like the other guys didn’t feel the same.

“Any spooks up here, I throwing you at ’em,” the guy in front—he called himself Delman, of all things—told the one behind him, who was apparently known as “Barreltop.”

Barreltop laughed. Rick did, too, the sort of too-hearty laughter that always made him feel like an ass.

The others didn’t seem to notice, though, or maybe they already thought he was an ass so they didn’t care. It was quickly becoming obvious that he didn’t belong here. The others seemed to know each other and probably lived in the area, although why they’d live in Downside if they were making this kind of money often, he had no idea.

It couldn’t be because they liked the ambience. The house stood only a few blocks away from the slaughterhouse, and while the breeze was luckily going in the other direction, the smell was still there when it stopped. It tingled his sinuses like a sneeze he couldn’t get out.

A few oil lamps sat on the floor of the room at the left of the stairs, casting wide U-shaped shadows against the dingy walls with their broken plaster and loose wires. Before Haunted Week and the utter destruction caused by the rampaging ghosts, before the Church of Real Truth had taken power and banished them below the earth, this had been a grand home. Now it was a corpse waiting for cremation. Or renovation, which was why they were here: wiring it for power, reinforcing the floors with steel.

Thick sheets of that steel rested against the far wall, between two high empty windows. A few shreds of fabric danced in front of one of them, the remains of curtains still trying to do their job.

Which was what he should be doing. He looked away from them, back at the other two, and found them staring at him, arms crossed, eyebrows lifted.

That pose was mirrored by the hulking man leaning against one of the walls in black jeans and a black bowling shirt. Shit, he was big. Rick took an involuntary step back, then regretted it when the big guy smirked. Mean-looking, too; the expression wasn’t pleasant on his scarred, broken face, shadowed by the black fifties-style greaser haircut. For the first time Rick began to seriously doubt he would make it out of the building alive, or at least with all his limbs intact. He could see that guy ripping out an arm and snacking on it, just for fun.

“You ready now?” the big guy said, and Rick realized they were still all looking at him, that he’d been openly staring.

He nodded. “Yeah. Um, sorry.”

The guy’s chin dipped. “You got the knowledge what needs doin’, aye? Choose you a room, get them floorboards up. Half the floor, dig, then we get the steel in.”

He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, snapped open a black steel lighter. The room brightened for a second with the six-inch flame of the lighter, dimmed again when he snapped it shut and refolded his tattooed arms. Barreltop and Delman walked past the stairs, into the room opposite, leaving Rick alone with the big guy. Why were they both leaving? Weren’t they going to take up the floorboards?

“Gotta problem?”

“I’m just wondering what you want me to do. Where you want me to start.”

The big guy stared at him. “Over yon corner be good. Crowbar’s there.”

“But I’m an electrician, I don’t—”

“You wanting payment, aye?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Crowbar’s there.”

Five thousand dollars, he reminded himself, crossing the floor and picking up the crowbar; he felt the big guy’s eyes on him but didn’t turn around to look. Instead he put the flat end of the bar under the edge of a floorboard and pushed down.

For five minutes or so the only sound in the house was the tearing and clattering of floorboards as they were wrenched from their places, and the chatter of the guys in the next room as they worked. Even this late—it was close to eleven—Rick’s shirt was damp with sweat, his throat dry from rotten dust. Dead mice and insect skeletons littered the layer of wood beneath the floor.

He needed the money. He needed the money. His car payments were killing him—that fucking car
Shelley
wanted him to buy—and five grand would pay it off and give him a bit left over. Left over to buy presents for
another
girl, once he found one. A girl who would appreciate a more . . . cerebral man.

There were girls like that out there, right?

Of course. So a few nights of misery were worth it, because he could picture that the boards were Shelley’s new boyfriend’s face as he tore them to hell. And once the boards were up he’d get to do some wiring.

But good as the image of what’s-his-name’s terrified expression made him feel, he wasn’t going to kill himself for imaginary revenge, either, so he headed for the cooler by the doorway and grabbed a bottle of water. Vicious brutes like himself got thirsty some—

A scream from the other room. A horrible scream, a terrified one, made even worse by the fact that it was a deep voice, a man’s voice.

The big guy knocked Rick down as he ran past, sending him spinning to the floor. What the hell was going on?

Dust filled his nose and throat, stung his eyes and made it impossible to see. For one confused minute as he struggled to his feet he was only aware of thundering footsteps and the big guy cursing.

Then the others yelled, more yelling. Panic. Rick finally used his head and dumped water over his face, and saw them all backing into the hall, away from the ghost as it crossed the floor.

A ghost. A ghost. Holy shit.

He knew hauntings happened, of course. Ten years ago a family on his street had had one, and the resulting payout from the Church had moved them into a newer, bigger house somewhere else. Like any child growing up after Haunted Week he’d heard the half-serious laments of his parents, wishing they had a ghost themselves, just a small harmless one but one that would earn them a settlement, too, to pay for college for Rick and his sister.

But they’d never really wanted that—who in their right mind would?—and Rick had never seen one.

And now he had, and he was in an unfamiliar part of town where he doubted he’d survive ten minutes on the streets by himself, and he was about to get up close and personal with that ghost because he’d bought a too-expensive car to get into some gold digger’s pants.

Life sucked.

But he still wanted to hold on to it.

Barreltop and Delman didn’t seem to think this was the moment to get philosophical. They raced down the stairs so fast Rick wouldn’t have thought their feet touched the wood if he hadn’t heard the noise of it.

The big guy backed away from the ghost, his hands raised, and Rick jumped to his feet, realizing even as he did that it was too late. The ghost had almost reached the stairs. It would be blocking his way in another second, and he didn’t particularly rate his chances on getting past it. It would attack him, kill him, try to steal his life for itself . . . Every hair on his body stood on end. It was like he could feel each individual air molecule hitting them.

“Ain’t can hurt you less’n it gots a weapon,” the big guy muttered as he kept backing up.

The ghost’s hands were thankfully empty, but the chances of them staying that way were pretty impossible. Shards of wood littered the floor, and the ghost would probably spot them—and lunge for them—in about two seconds.

Funny how something so ephemeral, something that looked like nothing more than a person-shaped blob of light, could be so full of hate. So terrifying. Especially when it was so clearly female, tall and slender in a long gown, hair piled high upon its head. It had been a lovely woman once, he thought—he guessed, because the expression on her translucent face was so angry and contemptuous it made him shiver.

She stood there, looking back and forth between Rick and the big guy. Probably trying to decide which of them to kill first. And with Rick’s luck, it would probably be him.

Sure enough, she lunged for him. Rick stumbled in his haste to jump back, fell to the floor with a teeth-rattling thud.

She advanced toward him; he crawled back, an awkward crablike movement over the slippery pile of rotted floorboards. He didn’t want to die like this, didn’t want this dilapidated husk of a house to be the last place he saw—

Something black swung through the ghost. She shrieked—she didn’t
shriek
, no sound came out, but her mouth opened and her entire form wavered and expanded.

The big guy stood with a bar in his hands like a baseball bat. Not just a bar. It was the curtain rod from the window, and it must have been made of iron, because when he swung it again the ghost stepped back.

He glanced at Rick again. “Get up. Take this. Gotta make me a call.” A call? Like on the phone? Was he crazy? “Shouldn’t we just get out of here, I mean—”

“Think it ain’t gonna chase us? Take this. Now.”

The sweat on his skin didn’t help him grip the thing. Nor did the growing idea that if he slipped up the ghost wasn’t the only one in the room who might kill him.

“Don’t quit on the swingin’, dig? You quit swingin’, we both of us die.”

“No pressure,” Rick muttered, but he did as he was told, ignoring the frantic pounding of his heart.

Behind him the big guy started talking. “Hey. Naw, gots us a problem. Naw, naw, I’m right, but us got a ghost here. Guessing—aye. Aye, no worryin’. Got an iron bar, keeping it back. Aye.”

Rick’s shoulders had already started to ache by the time he heard the phone click shut. The ghost, infuriated now, grew bigger and
looser
, in some horrible way that he couldn’t let himself think about, every time the bar sliced through it. The bar itself started to burn his hands, heating further with each pass through the ghost.

“Got somebody comin’ help us out, dig. You need a rest-up?”

“What?” Swing. Swing. “No. I’m fine.”

“You sure? Them arms lookin’ shaky.”

“I’m sure.”

If he were honest, his shoulders were killing him, and the burning iron bar threatened to slip out of his grasp entirely. But nothing in the world could have induced him to admit it. Not yet, at least.

He didn’t know how long he kept at it. Ten minutes, fifteen? Long enough for the loud, clattery music from the street outside to change a few times. He found a rhythm; swipe at the ghost, wait until it almost re-formed, swipe again. But he couldn’t deny that his arms felt as if they were about to fall off, and finally when the big guy asked again if he wanted a break, he nodded.

Of course, the girl arrived about thirty seconds after that, just as Rick was letting cold water splash over his face and down the front of his shirt to rinse off the dust and sweat. Great. Who didn’t want to look like a drool-covered baby in front of women?

She was slim—almost too slim, as if she didn’t eat much—and pale, with thick black hair cut like a pinup model and thick black eyeliner to match. Despite the heat she wore skinny black jeans over a pair of battered Chucks, and the red of her T-shirt peeked through little holes in the gray cardigan covering her arms. A canvas bag, faded green like an antique army bag, hung off her shoulder. In her hand was a canister of some kind.

What was a girl doing here?

He stumbled to his feet. “Hey, um, miss, you shouldn’t be—there’s a ghost here, you should—”

She cocked an eyebrow. What was it with people looking at him like that? “I can see that.”

“That’s Chess,” the big guy said. “She get rid of the ghost, aye?”

“How hot’s that bar?” She walked toward the ghost, inspecting it; her thumb flipped open the top of the canister.

“Ain’t cold.”

She smiled. “No, I guess it wouldn’t be.”

“Is that normal, for the bar to get hot?” Yes, it was dorky. But so? He, Rick, had done most of the ghost-swatting, and now Mr. Greaser was getting all the credit. In front of a girl who, okay, maybe she wasn’t the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen, but she was pretty.

And despite the holes in the sweater and the ratty shoes and makeup, he didn’t think she—no. She didn’t talk like them, that weird patois, so she must not live in Downside. So who knew, right? Why not talk to her? “Because it wasn’t when I started using it, but by the time I handed it over to him, it was.”

“Yeah, that’s normal. It’s the energies mixing.” Her bag sank to the floor with a sort of crunchy thud.

“Your name is Chess?”

She nodded.

“I’m Rick.” He started to get up and extend his hand, but she was already moving away. She whispered something under her breath and upended the canister, dumping something white onto the floor. Salt, he realized, when she started creating a circle around the ghost.