Chương 3: Something's not right

The day at uni was a slog. All that was on my mind was the strange haunting. And as the last lecture ended, I bolted out of there like a bat out of hell. With everything loaded and prepared, I drove for an hour to the meeting place and arrived with forty-five minutes to spare. It was a warm, cozy Manhattan café, decorated in a vintage style, with old newspapers on the walls and black-and-white pictures of celebrities. There was also an old TV in the corner set to the news channel.

It was mostly for decoration, as the sound was muted and only the news ticker showed that today's broadcast was about some sort of kidnapping. Not the best way to set the mood. Settling myself down, I took out my notebook and went over the case once again. It looked like a typical haunting with one exception. It was not supposed to happen. There was nothing dating back to the era of myth involved, and for any spirit to solidify after death, no matter how pissed or resentful it was, mana was needed.

My working theory was that it was hard to detect, like a cloaking artifact that was still functional but leaking energy into the surroundings. Of course, that theory was not very good, given that it would be among the first things the broker and his people would check. And I was sure that Q'Shar was one of the best in the business. Another possibility was that it was a trap. It's not like there weren't people interested in my family's treasures.

But again, an assassination attempt this elaborate, without any information leaking, and on my broker's territory, no less, was even more unlikely. The sound of the opening door drew my attention, and I saw a tall, muscular woman walk in. Her build was that of an athlete, someone you would expect to be full of energy. But that could not be further from the truth. Although her body was well-toned, her skin was as white as paper, looking sickly.

Her hair was a mess, clearly neglected, and her posture was that of a tired office worker rather than someone young and energetic. But the most striking feature was her eyes. Lifeless, like dark pools of muddied water, once probably lively brown, now greyish with dark circles under them, a sign of persistent sleep problems. She looked around and spotted me as I gave her a small wave. She made her way to the table, almost tripping when a loud bang came from the kitchen.

Once closer, I noticed something else, something invisible to anyone normal—her aura. It was like looking at a dying candle in the wind. Fear, uncertainty, a bit of desperation, and, most of all, tiredness radiated from her. Normally, people's auras were not that visible, not unless they were in strong emotional states, but hers was practically screaming something bad had happened. But I had to be on alert; it's not like an aura is hard to fake.

"You must be Mr. Samuel." As she extended her hand, I did the same, but my other hand made a small series of gestures behind my back.

"Shatter," I whispered in arcane speech, and felt a minuscule amount of magic leave me. This attack, if used with an amount of mana much larger than the opponent's, could injure or even cripple their magic, but in its weak form, it would not do any harm. The other effect was what I was after. If she were hiding her magic, the attack would find purchase. If there was any mana present, it would try to disturb it.

It was crude and required physical contact with the target, but it was unexpected, and she had hopefully not prepared for it. I felt my magic rush into her as she shivered a bit, but… no purchase. The mana dissipated. So there was no magic in the client, as the broker said, or she was that good at hiding it.

"Yes, but there's no need for Mr., just Sam," I said without missing a beat, and gave her what I was hoping came out as a warm smile.

"I heard that you're dealing with an issue of an unusual nature, Miss Willis."

"Please call me Sarah then, and yes," she said, shifting in her chair, fidgeting. Her eyes darted around as if the right words to explain what was happening were written on the walls. Finally, after gathering her thoughts, she started to speak.

"So, to start... um... Look, I don't really believe in all the ghost stuff. You know I'm—""Not crazy," I finished for her.

"Please speak freely, I promise I will not think less of you. If what is happening to you could be explained by normal means, I would not be sitting here." I could see her shoulders relax at my reassurance. After that, I got the same story I heard in an abridged version from my broker. A guy she gave a chance to became an obsessed weirdo, which finally ended in a shooting. And then the classic haunting started.

"Yes, I understand." I nodded.

"I have to ask some questions, and a few of them might seem weird or personal, but please do your best to answer." I got a nod in return.

"You said that you had moved into your mother's apartment, but the dreams and presence persisted, although lessened considerably. But did the smell of burning hair at the hour of the shooting also persist after the move?" Her eyes widened, and after a second to think, she opened her mouth.

"No... I don't think it did. I think now the smell is gone." She looked like she was expecting me to know exactly what was happening, to make sense of this weird thing that was making her life a living hell. The hope in her eyes made them look like beacons, bringing some liveliness back to them. But to tell the truth, most of the theories I had about the nature of the creature haunting her just said goodbye.

The smell was one of the possible phenomena accompanying the ghost materialising, but if it didn't materialise in her mother's house, how in the everloving fuck was it still haunting her? If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"Did something out of the ordinary happen before the shooting, like some strange person or an object you came into contact with, something that would leave an eerie feeling in you for no apparent reason?"

'Like the one you get when you sit with me,' I finished in my mind. A couple more seconds of thinking and a firm shake of the head.

"In these dreams, do you relive the shooting?" I asked.

"No, well, sometimes I do when I take a nap, but those are, I think, normal. Those vivid dreams are different. It's like I know I'm dreaming but can't wake up." I could see her shiver, but she kept explaining, "I just walk inside my house without finding the exit. It becomes like a labyrinth filled with white swirling mist, and I just walk and walk endlessly. And then when I wake up, I'm really tired, like I barely slept at all. Also, I can sometimes see him at the edge of my vision speaking those weird words."

A couple more theories just disappeared from the list of possible explanations.

"Hmmm, are there any signs or sigils you see in those dreams?" I asked.

"No, nothing like that."

"Are you sure?" I had to confirm.

"Yes, I remember them very well, even if I try not to…"

"Did you have any unusual medical conditions show up after the incident? Something strange, like a rash in a weird shape, or have you ever spat up hair or fingernails?"

"No, yuck. Can that actually happen?" she asked, with clear disgust.

"In some cases, yes," I confirmed before going for the stranger part of the interview.

"Do you have strange states of arousal? Like in really awkward situations?"

"No," came the firm response. That was good to hear. Dealing with ghosts of that nature was usually disgusting.

"Tell me about your greatest fear. And I don't mean metaphysical like 'failing to fulfil my dreams', I mean something simple, like spiders or a concrete scenario."

"Well, it's strange actually, but I'm afraid of not knowing where I am. I got lost once in a big city as a child. It was like a labyrinth to the younger me, and I spent three hours wandering, panicked, before someone had the idea to call the police. Ever since, I'm afraid of not knowing where I am or being unable to find the way."

"So the dreams must be especially taxing on you." She weakly nodded her head. So, the thing was capable of learning the victim's fears. Most ghost-type undead were, so it was nothing new, but using her own house, where she was supposed to feel safe, as an unknown labyrinth was extra nasty. Whatever it was, it was good at mental work.

"Last question. Please give me all dates related to you, when you celebrate your birthday, name day if you celebrate one, and any other holidays related to you and you only." She listed them all, and, sadly, numerology or horoscopes offered no answer, either. I took a few seconds to think, mainly to pretend, for her sake, that I had arrived at an answer.

"Don't worry, I think I know what is happening, and I should be able to help," I lied. After some small talk, she quickly left, and finally, I could drop the good exorcist act. I stretched my fingers and popped my knuckles, thinking about the case. The whole thing was a massive mystery. There were signs of the typical haunting, suggesting a good old-fashioned haunted-house scenario.

But at the same time, the haunting persisted when she moved out of the house, which suggested an attempt at possession or haunting of an object she had with her, without knowing it. But to counter that theory, the haunting was weaker outside the house, which just didn't make any sense. If the house was haunted, it was a simple ghost or apparition, and they shouldn't be able to make their way out of the haunted grounds.

If it were a possession attempt, it would most likely be a lesser spirit, and the place wouldn't make any difference. Maybe, aside from a church, but I doubt her mother lived in one. I went over my knowledge of basic spirits, but nothing made sense. Now alone at the table, twirling my tea in the cup, I had a decision to make. Going half blind was dangerous, but on the other hand, I wanted to unravel the mystery, and a payday for anything supernatural was also a nice bonus.

I had prepared the best weapons for any kind of dark spiritual being, so I should be good no matter what it was, even if I was not too keen on using them. And, well, who was I kidding? I was way too excited not to go. I needed to know what it was. I told the woman to try to sleep that night with someone else in the room and to pray before going to bed. That was more for comfort than anything else. Now, I had an address and a ghost to deal with. I sent her a message saying I'd take care of it tomorrow.

Having made the decision, I drank the rest of the tea and went home, still going over the possible scenarios. The most problematic part was the smell of burning hair. This was a sign that the ghost had taken a fully material form, meaning it was around a second-tier entity. Overall, ghosts and other beings under the umbrella term 'ghost' usually shared similar characteristics.

Unless they had a fully formed consciousness, they would always have an anchor, something that let them stay and materialise in the normal world. This anchor could have been a place, an item, or even a person. They could choose to materialise or not. However, once night fell, the anchor was automatically connected to the tangible world, making it vulnerable to destruction or sealing. Usually, that's how exorcism rituals worked. But what was the anchor in this case? I had no idea.

Well, there was another way to deal with ghosts—rip them apart. The church frowned upon this method, but thankfully, I wasn't a priest. And I was one of the best when it came to curses and dark arts. So as long as I got my hands on the thing and it didn't run, I should be able to do it without an exorcism. Hopefully. With my mind set on the head-on battle, I went to bed. Ready for a dreamless sleep. After a couple of hours, I finally woke up.

Although my internal clock was telling me that I didn't get a full night's sleep, it was nothing a cup of coffee couldn't fix. It was then that I opened my eyes and realised that wasn't my house. The place I was now standing in, with the bed I could swear I'd just been lying in nowhere in sight, was an old house. A classic American suburban home that anyone's parents would have bought when house prices weren't a cruel joke. The room I was in was a classic, cozy living room.

There was an old piano in the corner, more a decoration and a photo stand than an instrument. There was also a sofa and a TV in front of it, with a coffee table beside it. But there were also strange things that didn't fit. There were a couple of family photos on the walls and the piano, but all of them had their heads scratched out. The clocks in the room weren't working. All of them were set to 2: 34 a. m., and the windows had cold steel bars that belonged in a prison.

The rest of the house was filled with dense white fog that seemed to swirl and move like a living being without any wind. I was confused. This was supposed to be my client's nightmare, not mine.