September 2009

He continued bobbing his nearly bald head up and down as he walked to his house on the corner of Wesson and Sixth; straggly strands of a nauseating comb over floated in the air like ruddy patches of a misgotten spider web. When he arrived at the base of the uneven stairs, he took a cautious glance over his shoulder.

It was a shame he couldn’t see what I did. Then he would know the hell that awaited him.

The spirits of children were spaced out along the property, tiny bodies bare and naked. A few stood along the walkway, staring sightless into the grey tinted dusk, while others waited on the porch. All of them had died in the same manner — asphyxiation courtesy of underwear wound around their tiny throats. I knew this because it was the only material covering any portion of their airy bodies, and the dead always appeared exactly as they passed.

Mark pried open the door and disappeared inside. I waited until it slid closed before I crossed the street and weaved around an ancient Honda Civic with four flat tires and a windshield covered in crusty white bird shit, slowly making my way to his house of horrors. He was a smart son of a bitch, living in this shit heap part of town. No one would ask questions, and no one would snoop around.

The spirits of the departed children turned as I approached, but I made way to one in particular. She was the smallest of the bunch, only five years old when she was killed. Her wheat blond hair was matted with blood at the base of her skull, coating random strands with various shades of red. Her chocolate brown eyes were vacant. She was the reason I’d come to this hellhole of depravity in the first place.

The once lost, but now found, Rachel McCready.

Her Mother came to my office a week prior to procure my services. That’s how it went with missing persons. The police failed, the harsh reality set in, and heartbroken people were forced to come knocking at my door.

It couldn’t be easy, paying me a visit.

I kept my hand at my side but extended it as I neared Rachel, making contact with her pale shoulder as if she were a solid object. The connection between us was instantaneous. Some said necromancy was a form of magic brought forth when demons plagued the earth, which I believed. There was no other rational explanation for the things I was capable of seeing and doing.

The world shifted and fell away as we touched, the purplish sky going bright as we merged. Rachel slid past my skin to take possession of my body and to enter my mind. It was easier to communicate like this. Face to face in a manner of speaking.

“You came back,” she beamed exuberantly, clothed in the same neon pink t-shirt and tan shorts she’d sported in the Polaroid her Mother snapped just hours before she vanished.

“I told you I would.”

She nodded gravely, in a way no child ever should. “Is it time?”

“It is.”

With Mark gone, she and the other children would be free. Their souls could pass over and she could finally rest. She absorbed the knowledge quietly, much like an adult. Though she died as a child, her mind was no longer inhibited. The mortal soul was yet another unexplained anomaly.

“Are you ready?” I asked gently, bracing myself.

“Yes.” The word came in the same instant we separated and I severed physical contact. The white light evaporated, shrouding me in darkness.

Rachel didn’t follow as I went to the side of the house and squeezed through a wooden slat I’d loosened the day before. Two ghosts stood in the back yard, both adolescent boys. Dark splotches marred their skin, splattering into repulsive brown stains against their hairless thighs and rounded bottoms.

The basement window was cracked and I lifted the small plate of glass, shimmying onto my stomach and wiggling inside feet first. I landed with a soft thump, crouching down and touching the cool concrete flooring with the pads of my fingers.

“Peepers, is that you?” Mark called from upstairs, “Here, kitty, kitty.”

I stood and retrieved the Ruger from the back of my jeans in the same motion. Using the gun wasn’t an option, but Mr. Pedophile didn’t need to know that. I moved quietly up the stairs, taking them one at a time.

The mushy brown carpet gave easily beneath my shit kickers, padding my steps and granting me blessedly silent movement. The hallway was a blur of brown wood with black indentions, each new moisture warbled slat bringing me closer.

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