Kenosha Writers’ Group

            Driving along the new I-95 into New York from Washington, DC, I can’t help but marvel at the emptiness around me. It has been more than twenty years since an asteroid the size of Rhode Island crashed into the North Atlantic, causing a tsunami a thousand feet high that hit the east coast, killing nearly everyone in a fifteen-mile stretch. Although most of the coast has been rebuilt, in New York, the rebuilding has been slow, very slow. Too many URS’s, unresolved spirits, bogging down projects, wreaking havoc on time lines, sometimes with their mere presence, sometimes with their sabotage.

            Two figures dart out in front of my car and I slam on my brakes before I realize that they are only spirits. “Don’t do that,” I scream. The top is down on my old Sebring and they wave apologetically as they continue on their way. Probably a couple that almost made it out before the tsunami overtook them. They’ll keep running until they hit ocean again on the west coast. Then they’ll turn around and come back and start all over. They just can’t seem to stop trying to outrun that damn wave.

I’m on my way to meet New York’s governor and I’m running late as usual. I pull off the highway, slowing down as I approach the main drag in what little of the city they’ve built. Scads of half finished projects line the street; all around me, spirits go about their final day for the umpteenth time.

Off to my right, I see a gang of spirits carrying a barrel. Ahead of them, I see a live one, a living person. They chase him down a half-finished street. The scene reminds me of one of those horror flicks where the victim keeps turning around to look at his pursuers and you know he’s going to run into the tree limb or some giant spider’s web. This guy is headed for a deep, mud-filled hole at the end of the street. I almost laugh when he turns to look back one more time, his face filled with terror and then surprise as he stumbles into the trench. Instead, I shake my head and pull onto the half-finished street.

As I exit my car and approach on foot, I hear the spirits laughing and mimicking the man who lay moaning at the bottom of the trench.

“What’s this all about?” I say.

The spirits stop laughing and raise the barrel over their heads once more. They don’t realize yet that I can see them.

“I asked you what you’re doing? Why are you chasing this man?”

One of the spirits, a young, burly spirit looks at me and cocks his head. I cock my head in return and point at him. “Are you in charge here?”

“Get out of here, lady,” he says. “Or we’ll have to do you harm.”

“Don’t be asinine,” I say. “I know the rules. You can’t harm me with anything from the living world. Now put that barrel down before you hurt yourselves.” I turn and look down into the hole. “Are you all right down there? Is there someone I can call for help?”

The man has already raised himself to a standing position, though, and begins to limp away as I speak. He uses one hand to dial a cell phone and the other to hold his ribs as he hobbles off.

I turn back to the spirits who still hold the barrel tenuously above their heads. “I guess he doesn’t need my help. Put that thing down, will you?”

            Motioning to the others to drop the barrel, the burly spirit sidles up to me. “You can see us,” he says.

            “This is true,” I say. “What’s your name?”

            Another spirit, a thin-faced spirit with a pointy nose glides up. “He’s Johnny, and I’m Oo-long, if you know what I mean. You got some mighty fine ass there.”

I turn and check out my own rear. “I’m glad you like it,” I say. “It took me a long time and a lot of hot fudge to get it just so.”

Oo-long laughs and lets go a wolf whistle.

            Johnny turns and glares at Oo-long and he slinks back to his place with the others. “So now you know my name. I guess you better tell me what’s yours?”

            “Dr. D.C. Shymer,” I say. “They call me D.C.”

            “Well, D.C., what are you doing here? We don’t need no one here that knows the rules. We’ve got things to do here, scores to settle.

            Out of the corner of my eye, I see a little spirit, no bigger than a five quart pail, nestled up against the wall of the half finished building across the road. She is sucking her thumb.

“Who’s kid is that?” I ask, gesturing with my thumb.

Johnny looks over at the tiny spirit. “That kid? That’s nobody’s kid. She was here before we got here. Nobody claims her.”

“Do you know her name?”

“No, she’s never said boo to no one.”

Oo-long comes forward. “I know her name, D.C.,” he says with a wary glance at Johnny.

Johnny winces, sucking air through his teeth as if someone just stuck a knife in his back. “You know that kid’s name, Oo-loong?” he says. “You think that lady is going to make mad passionate love to you if you know that kid’s name? You don’t know nothing and you don’t need to tell nobody nothing. Do you understand?”

Oo-long’s expression is cool, but wary as he eyes Johnny, contemplating. Finally, he nods his head. “Ok, Johnny. I un-der-stand. I don’t know nothing.”

When Johnny turns away, Oo-long winks at D.C. and mouths the words, “I know.”

I pretend not to see and look once more at the little spirit. “Is she always here?”

Johnny throws his hands up in the air. “What do you care about a little wisp like that? Nobody cares about her.”

“I care,” I say. “I care about all of you.”

Johnny motions for the others to follow and turns to leave. “You don’t need to care about none of us. You can’t do a thing for us that we can’t do ourselves.” He disappears behind a building then, his gang right behind him, but pulling up the rear is Oo-long who waves first at the little spirit and then at me. Just before he makes the corner, he lifts his arm. This time he moves it slowly, deliberately, forming two consecutive arcs.

“C, C,” I say. “Oh, CeeCee.” Turning to the little spirit, still sucking her thumb, the shadow of a smile on her tiny face as she looks in the direction that Oo-long has gone, I smile, too.

——————————————————————————————————

CeeCee took off the moment I approached her, but there hadn’t been time to talk to her anyway. When I finally get to Governor Fienberg’s office, I am an hour late. She’s gone next door to the police department to see someone and I am directed to meet her over there.

The governor is an attractive woman in her late thirties, but her demeanor is formal, if not even a bit tetchy, as I introduce myself in the corridor.

“Oh, you’re here at last. Let’s go in here.” She reaches out and opens the door to a small interrogation room. There is only a table and two chairs, one across the table from the other.     “You’ll be spending a lot of time over here helping the detectives with the ghost killings, so I’m sure you won’t mind if we have our meeting in here.”

I nod and turn to take my chair. The mirrored observation window along the back wall catches my eye. It is littered with old hand prints and what appear to be kiss marks where a number of different lips had pressed against it. The glass shimmers strangely in the glaring light above the table, giving it a curious double pane effect and a female ghost weeps silent tears as she tries desperately to wipe off one set of marks from the mirror with her sleeve. She steps back to look and I see that these lip marks are spread apart as if the mouth had been open when it was made. Nose, chin and forehead smudges create a surreal kind of image, like an angry Cyclops trying to force its way out from behind the glass. 

The spirit sees me looking at her and she beckons me closer. “Not now,” I say.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I sit down on one of the chairs. “This is fine. Tell me about the killings.”

Governor Fienberg sits down in the remaining chair. “Well,” she begins, So far, there have been four deaths. Three have been construction workers, but the last one, was an electrician.” She closes her eyes, apparently trying not to cry.

“Was there something special about the electrician?”

Governor Fienberg only nods.

“Shall we play twenty questions, Ma’am, or do you want to just tell me?”

Governor Fienberg stiffens and clears her throat. “He was my cousin’s boy.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. Why don’t you tell me what happened. To all of the workers.”

“Yes, of course.

 “I don’t know much about the first three, but Rajeev, was electrocuted. As I said, he was my cousin’s step-son. Detective Lieutenant Jordan’s son by marriage, a good boy. Someone hit him over the head and then killed him.” Her face pinches as she once again holds back her tears. “He was a good boy. I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt him. It had to be one of those ghosts.”

 “They’re called spirits, ma’am,” I say.

“What?”

“Nothing. Can you take me to the place where this happened? I need to see what’s there.”

“Of course. I’ll just call for a car.”

Governor Fienberg leaves the room and I look over at the spirit by the window.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

The spirit continues to rub away at the mirror as she speaks. “I’m Paula,” she says through her tears.

“I’m D.C. I can’t talk right now, but I’ll be back another time. When we can talk without interruption. Ok?”

The spirit nods and tries to smile, but breaks down, her wails filling the air as she turns back to the mirror.

“I’ll be back. I promise.”

The door opens and Governor Fienberg steps in and motions for me to follow her. As we exit, she looks around the room, apparently perplexed. “Can’t you hear that?” she asks.

“What? No. Hear what?” Glancing back into the room as the door shuts behind us, I see Paula still wiping the mirror and I wonder what kind of place I’d come to where someone could terrorize and kill a helpless woman in a place of justice.

Jodi Diderrich…