Urban Necromancer
Authors: Phil Chard
Table of Contents
Urban Necromancer
Phil Chard
Urban Necromancer
By Phil Chard
eISBN - 978-1-906755-60-7
Spinetinglers Publishing
22 Vestry Road
Co. Down
BT23 6HJ
UK
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events is purely coincidental.
© 2013 Phil Chard. All rights reserved.
No part of this e-book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or, transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
This e-book has been formatted by
Lauren Neill
Spinetinglers Publishing
UK
Also by Phil Chard:
The Akashic Records
Chapter I
“What are you scared of? Look at your arms. There are no scars are there? You appear as you want to appear.”
The ghost scrutinized the front and back of her arms and hands; when she’d completed the exercise, the Necromancer knew she was gaining the girl’s trust. Just short of seven years old when she died, her parents had survived, grieved and moved away. The girl could not. She was tied to the place where her earthly body had succumbed to the smoke and fumes of the fire. Her name had been Sophie.
Juliet stared at her with pseudo motherly concern; the ghost stared back, her eyes daring to register hope; someone could see her... someone could... could someone help her...?
Juliet could see that the spook’s face was struggling to calibrate an alien expression of optimism. She sighed internally; they always thought she was here to help. Was she helping? Who knew? She was a rat catcher on an ethereal scale. Her job was pest control. She was here to get rid of it, period. That’s how she got paid. That’s how her economic wheel kept turning.
It was time...
Juliet focused on a spot in the corner of the room and concentrated. This was the
sine qua non
of her ethereal bag of tricks. The corner of the room warped around a small Light that appeared at its centre. As Juliet concentrated, the Light stretched out, multiplying in size. Within seconds it was a swirling maelstrom of blazing white energy. The edges around the Light seemed distorted as two utterly separate dimensions struggled to accommodate each other.
The Gateway was open
.
As ever it was big enough to accommodate a spirit’s frame. Sophie backed away, frightened of this new, unfamiliar presence. Juliet sought to reassure her. “The Light is good.”
“What’s in the Light?” asked the girl.
“The world after this. You’ll be so happy there. It’s such a wonderful place.”
In fact Juliet had no idea what was behind the Light. It could be a void; it could be nothingness. She could conjure up the ethereal portal, but the tour guide had never taken the trip herself, and was never tempted to. She’d talked more than a hundred spirits into crossing the Rubicon; none had ever returned and, despite her unique
condition
, Juliet had no intention of testing out her theory that this was a one-way system.
Sophie stared at the raw power of the Light. It was hypnotic, a bright pied-piper, and in the end, the spirits always followed its tune. But they initially needed encouragement and as Juliet stared at Sophie, she could see that she was torn between the two worlds. Her head glanced backwards and forwards between the Light and Juliet. No clear winner was emerging.
“Your grandparents will be there Sophie. They’ll want to see you so much.”
They had talked for about an hour ― Juliet did this to gain trust, an understanding of their
condition
(having learned there were subtle differences from spook-to-spook), why they were here and why they hadn’t crossed the divide the first time around. In that time she had learned all about Sophie’s family. Her kindly grandparents had already passed on, and emotional blackmail was always the Necromancer’s stratagem number one.
“They’ll be there?” Sophie asked, taking the bait.
“Of course.” Juliet replied, her confident expression not betraying her complete uncertainty.
“They’ll look after me?”
“They can’t wait to see you Sophie.”
Sophie stared directly into the Light; its hypnotic power soon had her snared. Uncertainty and fear left her expression. She held a hand out in its direction; her feet shuffled slowly towards it; the Light had her. Juliet turned her head away, anxious to avoid becoming another of the Light’s zombie followers.
Sophie was edging closer to the swirling maelstrom of Light. She didn’t miss a stride, didn’t falter as she walked through the ethereal portal and into an unknown world.
Still looking away from the Light, Juliet concentrated, commanded the portal to close. It obliged.
Job done. It was time for the bounty.
*
She watched the notes as he counted them out. The landlord was a small, portly figure, bald on top with wiry side hair. A cigarette poked out between his lips, surrounding him with a cloud of smoke.
Juliet coughed to both gain his attention and because the air was extremely polluted.
His beer swollen features turned to her. “You’re done?” he asked in a voice made hoarse from years of his habit.
“I’m done.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and scrutinized her with black, hostile eyes. “How do I know it’s gone? And if it is, how do I know it’ll stay gone?”
“Because I have a reputation. A reputation you sought out because you’ve tried sprinkling holy water and it did nothing. It’s gone. They don’t come back. If it does, call me. If you call me and tell me it’s come back, you’re a liar.”
The cigarette was stubbed out, but it was a brief respite for his lungs, as he made for a tin of tobacco and some papers and twirled one into the other with considerable dexterity. He recounted the money, with a running verbal commentary of the tally. When he reached 100, he held it out for Juliet to grab. It was snatched back before her hand could reach out for it. “You VAT registered Miss Necromancer? Am I going to get an invoice?”
“Sure. If that’s what you want. If you want an exorcism showing up on your VAT returns that’s your business. I’m sure the Inland Revenue wouldn’t think that was out of the ordinary at all. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to scrutinize your books in greater detail.”
He considered her words, dabbing sweat from his forehead with a napkin. Then, with a bovine snort, he slapped the money into her hands. Juliet squeezed at the cash in pure relief. Here was the rent she’d been sweating on all week. Praise be to Jesus that she’d managed to trade another soul in this glorious free market economy.
Chapter II
Friday. June.
Emily Houghton cast her gaze to the driver’s side, and to the reassuring presence of Charles. Sensing the gesture, he turned to her. They both smiled in fawning adoration of each other, the way newlyweds do.
“How much further?” Emily asked as her hand joined her husband’s on the gear lever.
“We should be almost there. Keep an eye out for the sign.”
Charles piloted the car with forensic caution through the narrow country lane. Unkempt trees swayed in a light breeze on both sides of the lane, and threatened to add to the deposits of leaves and debris that were already building up on the bonnet of his expensive car.
“Breybury Hall!” Emily pointed to a weathered sign, partially covered by the swaying branch of a nearby oak tree.
Charles followed the sign, turning right into an off-road track. The gates around the perimeter of the hall where already open, meaning the delivery men had beaten them here.
Charles followed the gravel path towards the main building. The delivery truck was parked near the main entrance to the house. He parked and stared up at the financial millstone they would be carrying around with them like a heavy cross.
“We can afford it, can’t we?” Emily asked, picking up on a brief flash of unease she caught in her husband’s eye.
He patted her hand and smiled. “Of course,” he said.
Only just
, he thought.
One of the delivery men sat on the steps of the truck’s cab, smoking and reading a newspaper. He flicked the cigarette away, folded his newspaper in two and clamped it under his arm. He then stared into the car at the starstruck lovers and immediately looked at his watch.
“Come on.” Charles said, patting Emily’s leg. He got out of the car and marched towards the delivery man. Emily followed; a cautious pace behind him.
“It’s...” said Charles, hand outstretched; he tried to remember the man’s name but it wouldn’t materialise. He studied the man’s features; he had a moustache and corn coloured hair. Around his weather-beaten face, under his skin, was a fine network of red capillaries. Still no name came to mind.
“Erik.” the man replied, used to intervening, used to people forgetting his name.
Charles looked around. “Haven’t you a... deputy somewhere?” he asked Erik.
Erik raised an eyebrow at his colleague’s job description.
“Graham.” he informed Charles. He then wolf-whistled in the opposite direction, causing injury to everyone’s ears but his own.
Graham walked casually out from one side of the building; he zipped up his trousers on route and then buttoned them up before tipping his baseball cap at Emily.
“Sorry―been in the van all morning, needed to…”
Graham stopped himself continuing, realising that everyone knew what he needed to do and Emily’s face was already registering disgust. Erik thought it wise to move things along. He rubbed his hands together. “Right, let’s get started.” he said, then walked to the back of the van and opened it up.
*
Emily finally found the kettle in the last box she had opened and traipsed with it into the kitchen. The teabags were in the same box, and were accompanied by a small plastic bottle of milk. Filling the kettle had been a trauma: the taps splurged water out at such a high pressure that her blouse got soaked. She sat, dispirited, and waited for the kettle to boil.
The house was a cacophony of moving noises: heavy footsteps on floorboards, boxes being placed down with inelegant thuds and the scraping noises of furniture being marshalled into position.
Emily made her way to the grandiose staircase that they’d both fallen in love with and shouted up the stairs.
“Charles?”
After a brief pause, Charles shouted back. “Yes?”
“Would you like a drink?”
“What?”
Emily tried again, her voice several octaves higher. “Would you like a drink?!”
There were muffled voices upstairs, followed by thudding footsteps. Charles appeared at the top of the stairs.
“What’s that Emily?”
“A drink?”
He walked down the stairs towards her and, newlywed-on-auto-pilot, kissed her on the forehead.
“A drink? That would be great. We could all do with one. Can you make one for Erik and Graham too?”
“How do they take it? We haven’t got any sugar. I don’t think we have any sugar.”
“If they take sugar, they’ll have to do without then.”
“I’ll put the milk in a jug?” Emily looked at Charles for his approval; she wasn’t sure that was the right thing to do, she wasn’t sure of the protocols involved in this at all.
“That would be fine. Hey... guess what? I’ve found the perfect work room for you; somewhere where you can work on your novel in peace.”
“The one at the far side?”
“Yes. Terrific view of the property and miles around, you’re going to love it.”
Emily smiled, but then quickly frowned as a question burrowed its way to the surface. “You don’t have to work tonight, do you? Not
tonight
.”
“That’s why we’ve moved, honey.”
“I know but not
tonight
! It’s our first night here!”
“Now that I’m here, I’ll need to keep an eye on the guys working on the project to make sure they deliver. Look... it’ll be a busy first two weeks, then it will calm down. Tonight... a couple of hours, I’ll be back for 10 p.m. at the latest and I’ll bring us some food back, how about that?”