The Frighteners (7 page)

“Get me my damn jaw back,” the Judge yelled, firing a shot that almost nicked the dog’s tail.

“You better do it, Frank,” Stuart yelled.

Bannister grabbed at the flying dog. “Rustler,” he called. “Here, boy.”

The dog ignored Frank and kept racing around the room. The Colts roared as the Judge kept taking potshots at his old dog. One of the ghostly shots ricocheted past Stuart’s ear, taking a nick out of it. The stunned emanation reached up and grabbed the side of his head as ectoplasm dribbled between his fingers.

“I’m hit! I’m hit!” he yelled.

Cyrus leaned out of his picture frame, the better to survey the damage. “It’s just a flesh wound, m’man,” he said.

“For God’s sake, Frank,” Stuart yelled, “I could have been killed.”

Bannister took a flying leap at the dog, bringing him down with a tackle. It was a move he clearly had made before. Rolling around on the floor with the animal, Frank tugged the ghostly jawbone out of his mouth.

“Put your six-shooters away, Judge,” Bannister said, sitting up and letting the dog go.

The Judge stepped over, snatched the bone from Frank’s hand, and rammed it back into his face. The aging ectoplasm flowed back over it, and soon the old emanation’s countenance was slightly less hideous than before.

“Sneaky little sidewinder,” Judge said, flexing his jaw, his words not much easier to understand. “I’ll have the varmint stuffed.”

Unafraid, Rustler licked the Judge’s hand, happily flicking a wet, rotten tongue.

“I’m going to get a Band-Aid,” Stuart said, slipping out of the picture frame and back into the wall. Cyrus soon followed.

Shaking his head, Frank went to the counter and made himself a cup of coffee. Soon he was sitting in the living room, smelling the coffee and staring at the shambles of his life. For the inside of his house was as unfinished as the outside. Paneling was missing in half the living room. Inside the smooth walls bare frames were surrounded by silver-foil-covered insulation. On the one finished wall, an antique oil painting shared the space with old photographs and a grungy lamp picked out of someone’s garbage. A stack of newspapers held up another lamp; a thirteen-inch black-and-white television sat atop an orange crate.

Followed by Rustler, the Judge ambled into the room and sank into a large, old armchair—the twin of the one in which Bannister was trying to hide. It was dark in the room, which faced west, away from the morning sun. The Judge’s body glowed slightly in the soft folds of the ancient chair.

“Frank, when a man’s jaw drops off, it’s time to reassess the situation,” he said after a long silence.

Bannister looked at the Judge with concern in his eyes. “What are you talking about? You’re in great shape.”

The emanation shook his head. “I’m falling apart,” he said. “My joints are getting powdery. Frightening is a young man’s game. Those young whippersnappers you let live here are much better at it than me.”

“Nobody’s better than you, Judge.”

“ ’Tain’t true. My time has come and gone.”

“Stuart and Cyrus are good friends, but they’re just kids, and modern kids to boot. They don’t know how to throw a real scare into someone. Sure, they can rattle doorknobs when the mood strikes them,” Frank added ruefully, “but the mood seems to be striking them less and less often these days.”

“You’re trying to be kind to an old man,” Judge said. “But the truth is I ain’t got no more hauntings in me. Hell, I can hardly rustle up a scare.”

He lowered his voice, adding, “Frank, don’t go saying nothin’ to the boys, but my ectoplasm’s all dried up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Judge,” Bannister said.

The Judge shook his head sadly. “I’ve got meself a nice little grave up there at the cemetery. It could soon be time to lay my bones down.”

“But, Judge,” Frank protested, “who’s gonna help me finish this house?”

“You ain’t touched this place in ten years, Frank,” Judge said. “If I wait around for you, I’ll never get to rest in peace.”

“All I need is a little cash,” Bannister insisted. “I thought I was getting something yesterday from that idiot Ray Lynskey, but I wound up having to settle for calling it even after I wrecked his lawn.”

“You’re gettin’ to be a pretty darn good frightener yourself.”

“Except I can’t disappear into the wall when the job is done,” Bannister said, picking up the newspaper and opening it.

“What are you lookin’ to find in that rag?” Judge asked, glaring across the room at the copy of the
Fairwater Gazette.

“My advertisement,” Bannister said angrily. “It’s not here.” He got up and, tucking the newspaper under his arm, stalked out of the living room.

An hour and another harrowing ride down the hill later, Bannister drove down Main Street, heading for the newspaper office. His old Ford moved quickly in the light morning traffic, giving him time to ponder a colorful banner that stretched across the road in front of the Fairwater Museum. The banner read
EVIDENCE EMBALMED—THE SECRETS OF ANCIENT EGYPT.

Frank pulled into a parking spot across the street from the
Gazette.
He fed a dime into the meter, tucked the paper back under his arm, and strode across Main Street toward the office. Inside, he brushed past a receptionist who was polishing her nails over a copy of
People
magazine and walked through the city room. Steve Bayliss was hunched over his computer, a phone glued to one ear, typing frantically, every inch the gung-ho newspaperman. As Bannister slid by the young man he said, “The next time I see Ben Hecht and Charlie MacArthur I’ll tell them how proud I am of you.”

Bayliss looked up, confused and uncomprehending for an instant. Then he said, “They’re my idols—but they’ve been dead forty or fifty years.”

“Don’t get thrown by details, kid,” Bannister said, and continued on into Magda Ravanski’s office. The managing editor was sitting with her legs crossed, a long-stretch of thigh showing beneath her stretched-out copy of
The Wall Street Journal.

Bannister stood in front of her desk and cleared his throat.

“Yes?” she said, putting down her paper. She seemed irritated at the interruption. As a way of showing it, she brushed her hair away from her eyes and glared at the intruder.

“You left my ad out of today’s paper,” Bannister said.

“I know.”

“But this is a big mistake.”

“It was no mistake. I did it on purpose.”

“Why, for God’s sake? I need that ad to make a living.”

Magda pushed her hair away from her eyes again. It was a habit she fell into when she was bored or annoyed.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bannister,” she said. “But we are no longer running your advertisement. I’ve had a stream of complaints about your . . . business practices. Preying on the bereaved is about as low as you can go. This paper no longer intends to associate itself with these dubious activities.”

“Oh, does that mean you’re canceling the astrology column, too?” he asked.

“Certainly not. People are interested in it.”

“And they’re not interested in the afterlife?”

“Mr. Bannister . . .”

“What do you mean, ‘preying on the bereaved’?” he continued. “I help people deal with their grief. If you could talk with a deceased loved one and find he’s peacefully at rest, wouldn’t you do it?”

“I don’t believe you can communicate with the dead,” she snarled.

“But it makes perfect sense that you can determine what kind of day you’re going to have by reading up on what Jupiter is doing?” Bannister said.

“Mr. Bannister”—Magda had heard all she intended to hear—“I am not going to sit here and debate the relative merits of astrology and psychic intervention.”

“I have a right to advertise my services to the public.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we are in the middle of a major health crisis. There is a string of unexplained deaths in our community. The last thing people need is a two-bit charlatan offering to pass on bogus messages from the other side.” She brushed her hair off her face for a third time, then said, “Now, if you will excuse me.”

She picked up
The Wall Street Journal
again and used it to block the sight of him.

“You’ll be hearing from my attorney,” Bannister told her.

“If this is a
living
person, I will be delighted to talk to him.” Magda snapped the paper to add emphasis to the argument.

“How am I going to earn a living?” he asked, pleading.

“ ‘Living.’ ” She sneered. “That’s not a word you’d know a lot about, is it, Mr. Bannister?”

Realizing he was getting nowhere, Bannister turned and stormed out of the office. He rushed through the city room and out the front door, then stalked angrily across the street without looking to see if any cars were coming. There was a screeching of tires as a hearse driver slammed on his brakes to avoid mowing Bannister down.

Several drivers in the long funeral cortege blew their horns, angry at Frank’s reckless jaywalking. Frank jumped onto the curb as the coffin bounced around in the back of the hearse. Funeral director George Zmed glared bullets and swore silently from the back of the second car, where he was sitting alongside the bereaved. Bannister was shocked to see that it was Lucy Lynskey sitting next to him, a black veil covering her pretty face.

Bannister watched in shock as the procession started up again and continued down Main Street on its way to the cemetery. What could have happened? he wondered. He then heard the sound of running feet, as if someone were chasing the funeral procession. Bannister looked around and spotted Ray Lynskey heading down the sidewalk, straight toward him.

Ray was an emanation! He was transparent and running straight through other pedestrians, none of whom seemed aware of his presence. He was chasing the hearse, and in so doing was charging right at Frank.

Bannister jumped back, but it was too late. Ray ran straight into him and both men fell over. To passersby, it looked like Frank alone had fallen. A couple of them helped him to his feet. They couldn’t see Ray, who lay on the pavement looking at Frank with disbelief.

“Bannister?” Lynskey said, a desperate edge to his voice.

“Are you all right, buddy?” one of the good Samaritans asked.

Frank looked Ray straight in the eye. “Yes,” he said.

“Somebody should do something about the state of these sidewalks,” another pedestrian said.

“We ought to complain to the newspaper for never writing about the problem,” Bannister offered.

The two helpers wandered off, leaving Frank standing alone talking to a ghost that only he, among the living, could see.

“Bannister,” Lynskey pleaded, “you gotta help! They’re going to bury me.”

Frank glanced about, saw other pedestrians coming, and realized it would hardly help his image to be seen, as it were, talking to himself. That was especially true since he thought he saw Magda Ravanski watching him from the window, having no doubt been attracted by the squealing of tires. So he gestured for Ray to follow him into the alley between the Kinko’s Copy and the Dunkin’ Donuts.

Lynskey was in a panic. “Please,” he said, “what’s happening?”

Bannister sighed. “You appear to be dead, Ray.”

“Don’t say that. It’s not possible. I’m in the prime of life. I work out every day. And my wife’s a goddamn doctor.”

Frank didn’t buy into Ray’s hysteria. “Why didn’t you take the corridor?” he asked calmly.

“What corridor?”

“The corridor of light . . . the pathway to the other side.”

“I don’t belong on the other side,” Lynskey insisted.

“What happened, Ray?” Bannister asked.

“I was on the rowing machine when I suddenly felt this viselike grip squeezing my heart. I couldn’t breathe.”

Ray held up a trembling, translucent hand. Bannister could see right through it. Dunkin’ Donuts was having a special on French vanilla-flavored coffee, he noticed.

“I’ve got the shakes,” Lynskey insisted. “I need some vitamin B.”

Bannister shook his head. “You don’t need vitamins anymore, Ray,” he explained. “You don’t need to eat, you don’t need to drink, you don’t go to the bathroom. It’s all over.”

Tears welled up in Lynskey’s eyes.

“In a year’s time, on the anniversary of your death, you will have another chance to cross to the other side—to become a pure spirit,” Frank said. “Until then, you’re what’s known as an earthbound emanation. You’re a cloud of rotting, bioplasmic particles, leaking ectoplasm from every orifice.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Ray squeaked, bursting into tears.

“Do you understand?” Frank asked gently.

Ray nodded, wiping tears away with his sleeve. “I think so,” he said. “You’re telling me I’m a ghost.”

“Well, I don’t like that word, but it amounts to the same thing.”

“You got your car here?” Ray asked.

“Just down the block.”

“Is that thing safe to ride in?”

“Exactly what are you worried about, Ray?” Bannister asked.

Lynskey thought for a moment, then nodded grimly. “I guess I can’t die twice, can I?” he said.

“Not that I’ve ever heard of, but I promise to drive carefully anyway,” Bannister said. “Where do you want to go?”

“To the cemetery. I don’t want to miss my funeral.”

Six

W
hen Bannister got to the Fairwater Cemetery for the first time since the Hughes funeral, he parked outside the gates. It was another George Zmed service, and the man had already threatened to call the cops. So Frank left his Ford outside, where the mourners gathered around the grave couldn’t see it. An angry funeral director was far from the only reason Bannister was reluctant to show his face in the graveyard.

“Why don’t you park closer, go right up near the casket?” Lynskey asked, starting to edge toward the passenger’s-side door.

Frank grabbed his arm. “Listen, Ray . . . the cemetery’s not a good place. Stay close to me.”

“Hey, who’s the dead one here?”

“You have a point, but you’re new to this. Trust me.”

“Come on, Frank,” Lynskey said. “I wanna hear what they’re saying about me.”

Ray grabbed at the door handle frantically, but his fingers passed right through it. “Hey, what the hell?” he exclaimed.