Chapter 8:

Ghost

Our conjecture proved out: Queue was clean. She hadn’t hired anyone to kill anyone. She was a false lead, apart from the fact that my verification of her nature had indicated she was not capable of such a crime anyway. Possibly someone else had resented her association with Vulcan and set her up to take the blame, only to plan it just wrong, the one time when she couldn’t have done it. Coincidence? I distrusted it.

Syd and I kept going over the four cases, searching for common elements, for some rationale that would link them in a way that offered some indication of a common motive. We found nothing; they seemed to be random, except that they were all Supe males. Either there was a rash of coincidental killings, or someone didn’t like Supes and knew how to find vulnerable ones.

Nonce, frustrated, traveled to another city to visit mundane relatives. I was on my own, as it were. Was her absence a tacit comment on my failure to produce? She denied it as she left, but I couldn’t help wondering.

Then a man entered the office. He was tall, handsome, and manly in a brown-haired way, but curiously empty to my awareness, as if he were not quite there. Oh, he was a Supe, without doubt; just not fully registering. I had not encountered that phenomenon before.

“My friend Ghaster has been murdered,” he said without preamble. “We fear it is part of your pattern.”

“Oh, shingles!” I swore. “He’s a Supe?” Because why else would he have come here with the news?

“Yes. Ghost. As I am. Ghore Ghost.”

“I am Phil Were. This is my assistant Sydelle Were. This office is securely private, so we can speak freely. We do have a pattern, as you put it, of murders, but we are at a loss to figure out what that pattern is.” We shook hands. His handshake, too, was slightly odd.

Ghore sat on the chair I indicated. “I came directly to you. Ghaster’s death has not yet been announced.”

This time it was a Ghost. Was there a reason each murder was in a different Clan? Was that a hint, if I could just interpret it correctly? “Tell me about it.”

“It happened this morning. Ghaster and Gholdie, his girlfriend, were at work haunting a house in a routine business deal. The owner, a mundane, wants to enhance its market value. Mundanes profess not to believe in Ghosts, but they can pay prettily for spooky manifestations. You know how it is.”

“Whatever would we do without gullible mundanes?” I asked rhetorically.

“So they were rigging up some seemingly faked effects—weird noises, flashes of light, gusts of cold air, spectral images in the shadows—just enough to make folk wonder. Naturally they would not do real magic haunting for a mundane.”

“Naturally,” I agreed. “We have to remain fantasy, as far as mundanes are concerned.”

“Do you understand how we Ghosts operate?”

“Some,” I said. “You are here in spectral form, not physically; I can tell by your seeming emptiness. I don’t know how you do it; I assume there’s a magic aura.”

He smiled. “Good for you. It’s not an aura. We use ectoplasm.”

“I have heard of that, but never actually seen it.”

“Until now. What you see of me is ectoplasmic.”

“To me, ectoplasm is a gaseous substance that rises from the stomachs of mediums, emerges from their mouths, and floats in air in tenuous ribbons. Your presence here seems more solid than that, if less solid than your physical body would be.”

“It can rise from any organ, and emerge from any orifice. We discipline it to assume our likeness, and project our awareness into it. Our bodies meanwhile are pretty much unconscious; our whole animation is in the likeness. That makes us vulnerable.”

“It seems like the opposite to me,” I said. “I presume if I drew my gun and shot you, or stabbed you with my knife, it might annoy you but would hardly affect you physically.”

“Only to a point. Observe.” Ghore stood and turned around. Now I saw that from his backside there trailed what appeared to be a cord, as if he were plugged in. It dropped to the floor and extended under the door. “We are connected to our likenesses via the tail. If that tail is severed, as with the stroke of a silver-bladed knife, we lose our semblance. You might liken it to severing a finger.”

“Not something I’d care to do.”

“Exactly. I am connected to my car, parked outside. Ordinary disruptions like bicycle tires or shoes won’t affect my tail, and normally it goes unnoticed. But if someone with a silver blade and mischief in mind severed it, I would be most uncomfortable. My host body would be able to function, but it would be some time before I grew enough new ectoplasm to function in full Ghost mode.”

“Maybe you should rejoin your body and come in physically,” I said.

“I shall do so, now that I have demonstrated my Ghost semblance.” He walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, and with a visible effort turned it and opened the door. He stepped outside. I followed him to his car, where in a moment he emerged, looking just the same as before, only now fully solid. My sense of him no longer found emptiness. In fact, when he reverted his awareness fully to his physical body, I read his mind. He was innocent of this murder.

Back in the office we resumed our dialogue. “That is impressive,” I said. “I now have a much better notion of how Ghosts operate. But I doubt you made this demonstration merely to entertain me.”

“Hardly,” he agreed. “Now you should understand how my friend Ghaster died. He and Gholdie were fashioning a faintly visible spook to wow a house shopper, when he faded. She knew right away that his tail had been cut. She quickly withdrew her Ghost manifestation, dissolving it and following her tail back to the private shed where they had parked their bodies. Only to discover Ghaster dead. He had been stabbed through the heart before he could recover from the disorientation caused by the severing of his tail. It was definitely murder. Gholdie is in shock.”

“We relate,” I said. “My best friend Bear, died. Syd was his fiancée. If this was meant to fit a pattern, it is uncomfortably close.”

“I am of course appalled, but better able to function than Gholdie is at the moment. I understand what is required to tackle this case. You will need to use your magic to exonerate the two of us, the quicker the better, so we can focus on the murderer promptly. Before the trail grows cold, if it exists.”

“Yes. I have already cleared you. I should check Gholdie next.”

“I can take you to her now, if you are ready.”

“I am ready.” I glanced at Syd. “Make notes of our dialogue, for the record.”

“In process,” she said. She had recorded it via the phone, and would now transcribe it for the record.

I followed Ghore in my car as he drove to the suburb. We parked near an attractive but slightly rundown house. The haunted house, of course.

We walked around back. A young woman sat on a bench outside a shed, her face in her hands, weeping. “Gholdie,” Ghore murmured. “I have brought the PI, Phil Were.”

She looked up. “Thank you for coming, Phil. Tell me what I need to do.”

“Assume your Ghost form, briefly,” I said. “Or start the process; that’s all I need.”

“As you wish.” She closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and a ribbon of mist emerged. It formed into a crude face, like a mask made of vapor.

I read her nature as her magic operated. She was innocent.

“That’s enough,” I said. “You’re clear. Thank you.”

The vapor sucked back into her mouth. “Just like that?” she asked.

“It is my talent to read people’s inner nature at the time they do their magic,” I explained. “Had you been guilty I would have known it.”

“That’s a relief. Can you similarly identify the murderer?”

“Not from a distance. I would need to be close by when he actually committed the deed. Obviously he is long gone.”

“The body remains in the shed,” Ghore said.

“You really did come to me first!”

“Yes. Now we shall have to report it to the mundane police. We will say that he and Gholdie were inspecting the premises, that she stepped into the house, then emerged to find him dead. They will suspect her, but of course exonerate her soon enough.”

“That’s as close to the truth as they will be able to understand,” I agreed. “Let me see the body.”

He showed me into the shed. There, lying on the ground, lay the man in his own blood. His chest had been lethally stabbed. “There is no knife,” Ghore said. “The killer must have taken that with him.”

I sniffed the body, literally, but could not pick up a hint of the killer. “Nothing here for me,” I said regretfully.

“We feared as much,” Ghore said. He brought out his cell phone and called the police. This murder was now officially reported.

If only it could be as efficiently solved!

“I will need to interview other suspects,” I said. “Who had access? Who might want Ghaster dead?”

“Actually there are a number,” Ghore said. “It’s the time of our annual competition for Best Effects. Ghaster was talented in that respect, and a leading contender.”

“Best effects?”

“We make ectoplasmic replicas of other folk and creatures, as examples of our skill in shaping our semblances. Ghaster was to compete in the preliminaries this afternoon. It is normally good spirited, pun incidental, and not an occasion for mayhem. But considering his murder at this time, that has to be considered.”

“I had better interview the competitors.”

A police siren sounded in the distance. “That will be the mundanes,” Ghore said. “I’ll handle them. Gholdie, why don’t you show Phil to the competition site? Are you up to that?”

“Better than I’m up to messing with the police and being a suspect,” Gholdie said, giving her face a final mop. “Maybe it will distract me somewhat from the horror.” She glanced at me, and I realized that regardless of what forms she might assume ectoplasmically, she was a pretty girl naturally. “I don’t have a car and don’t want to touch Ghaster’s; may I ride with you, Phil Were?”

“Welcome, Gholdie,” I said. Was it coincidence that I kept encountering attractive Supe females? It was almost as if I were a psychic magnet that guided them in. My position as PI couldn’t be that much of a factor, could it?

“Get moving,” Ghore said. “They’re closing in.”

We hurried to my car and got in. I noticed Gholdie’s nice legs as she swung them across. I pulled out just before the police car turned the corner onto the street. “Where to?”

“The competition is in a vacant school gym. Turn left.”

“I am sorry to have to take your time on this day of your grief,” I said.

“Just find his killer,” she said almost fiercely. “I’ll knife him myself.” She produced a gleaming silver blade from somewhere. Women were able to conceal the darnedest things on their slender torsos.

“I have to ask,” I said apologetically. “Was there a disaffected former lover?”

“A woman scorned? Not for him. The disaffection is mainly for me.”

“You dumped a former lover to be with Ghaster? That would also be motive. A man might kill him to recover access to you.”

“He might,” she agreed thoughtfully. “I am said to be a desirable item.”

“You surely are.”

“Are you looking for a girlfriend?”

I forced a laugh. “I have one. A Witch.”

“You could also have a Ghost. Cross-Clan relationships don’t count.”

“I have heard that. But I have a prospective WereWoman.”

“Good for her.”

My curiosity got the better of me. “Why did you ask?”

“It’s pointless. I’m in grief, and you’re not looking. But there’s something about you that makes me comfortable, or at least less uncomfortable. I have this urge to get close to you though I doubt you are my type. If I’m desirable, so are you.”

“I asked because other girls do seem to have been attracted, beginning with the Witch I am dating. I was never much in school, so it’s a bit offsetting.”

“It’s your aura. Especially when you checked me as a suspect. Your mind reached out and embraced mine, and then I wanted to be near you even though I knew it was only business. That may have been the case with the others.”

“My secondary telepathy!” I said. “I thought it was just to get the measure of suspects. It must have some effect on them, too.”

“It does. It’s a magnet.”

And there I had my answer. It was not coincidence. There was a magnet, and I had been wielding it all along, inadvertently. It also seemed to feed back to me, arousing my return interest in those I read. “Thank you. You have alleviated a concern.”

“You’re welcome. That does not, however, change the reality of the appeal. If you should want a Ghost girl, I am here. I seem to be in one hell of a rebound; I’m not usually this forward.”

What could I say? “I will keep you in mind. I suppose I could justify it on the theory that it is expedient to maintain useful contacts in the several Clans. But actually it is, well, like a kind of weak love potion. The familiarity of knowing a person well enough to establish guilt or innocence may make for an emotional involvement.”

“When we stop driving, I will kiss you. I can’t help it; I’m in free fall. Please do not hit on me. We now know this is not a sensible thing.”

“No holding and hitting,” I agreed, bemused.

We came to the gym and parked. There were other cars there, scattered around the parking lot. Nothing appeared to be going on.

Gholdie unsnapped her seat belt, leaned across, and kissed me firmly on the mouth. It was surprisingly sweet. I wanted desperately to embrace her, but remained unmoving, per her preference. “Thank you,” she said as she broke. “It’s like a tickle for a cough; I just had to do it.”

“Anytime.” But I would have preferred some other analogy.

We got out and walked around to an inconspicuous side door. A janitor intercepted us just inside. “The gym is closed.”

Gholdie smiled. “I’m Ghaster’s girl. I’m here for the BE trials. Phil Were is with me. He’s legit.”

The janitor withdrew. We walked on into the main chamber, where a number of Ghosts had collected. Gholdie approached one. “Ghoony, Ghaster won’t make it. He was murdered this morning.”

“Murdered!”

“This is Phil Were, PI, here to investigate the murder. We need to cooperate with him. You know we don’t want to let the mundane police know anything about Ghaster’s background.”

“We certainly don’t! Sorry to meet you in such a circumstance, Phil,” Ghoony said. “How can I help you?”

“I need to check anyone who might have a motive for getting rid of Ghaster. Such as a rival, for either his success or his girl.”

“All of us admire his girl, but none of us would kill for her.” He smiled ruefully. “She would be hurt and angry, ruining any point. But competitors—we like to think we are all good sports, but that may not always be the case.”

I got an idea. “The competitors will be exerting their magic during the competition. All I need to do is watch. We don’t even need to say anything to them.”

Ghoony shrugged. “That makes it easy.”

I sat beside Gholdie to watch the eliminations. It was really quite a show. One by one the Ghosts strutted their stuff. The first ones manifested as assorted animals, sending their ectoplasm out to the demonstration ring and forming them into horses, cows, dogs, cats, deer, pigs, hens, foxes, and other ordinary creatures. In the second round it got more interesting as they emulated people. Not just any people; they mimicked other Clans. One competitor assumed the form of a man, who then shifted into a wolf: a WereWolf. Another man became a man-sized bat: a Vampire. A third went from man to woman: an Incubus becoming Succuba. A woman became a Witch complete with her broomstick. Then a scowling Goblin formed, fuzzed, and reformed as the same figure. There was laughter. The implication was that Goblins were ugly regardless. Another became a Zombie, who then dissolved into a pile of sludge.

Then came couple acts. The man formed a Demon while the woman formed an innocent mundane girl. They sat together as in a roller-coaster ride. He groped her; she tried to resist but could not stop his hands. He kissed her breasts, and her resistance diminished. Then he showed his stiff member, and she took hold of it and stuffed it into her cleft. There they both froze in place: it was a picture of the act circulated on the Demon closed-circuit network. There was more laughter. The Ghosts well knew what the Demons were up to, and I suspected some Ghosts participated with that knowledge, just for the naughty fun of it.

Gholdie squeezed my hand. I had not been aware we were holding hands.

We watched another playlet, of a man and woman transforming into male and female Vampires. They kissed, then spread their wings and flew upward together. The ectoplasm emulations were able to fly, of course. They mated on the wing, and it was beautiful.

I discovered that Gholdie was sitting on my lap and my hands were on her covered breasts. I did not remember getting into that position. Evidently her rebound was proceeding.

Another man and woman entered the ring. They embraced closely and had sex standing up. Then they shifted, and the man became a woman, and the woman became a man. They were Incubus and Succuba, and their Changes were accomplished without their ever disengaging. I doubted that real Incubi and Succubi could manage that. Ectoplasmic images were not much limited by laws of physics or convenience.

And I was in Gholdie, right there in public. Somehow our clothing had separated where it counted. Again I did not know how that had happened; my attention had been on the competitors. She squeezed internally and brought me off. “Sorry about that,” she murmured. “I just couldn’t hold back any longer.”

Ghosts could be considerably more physical than I had realized. That wasn’t the half of it.

Then she was off me and we were fully clothed, sitting side by side. The matches were finished, and the winners had been chosen. I had missed those details. If anyone had noticed our private activity, they pretended otherwise. Possibly Ghosts had their own version of seduce-the-visitor. At least now her passion seemed to have abated.

“What is your verdict?” Ghoony inquired.

That Ghost girls were the match of any others, regardless of Clan, and had intriguing notions of appropriate behavior. But that wasn’t the question. “All of them are innocent,” I said. “The murder does not appear to have been done by any Ghost.”

“That’s a relief,” Gholdie said. I wondered just how she meant that. She nudged my foot with her toe; that was perhaps a hint.

I dropped Gholdie off at her dormitory. “Thank you for your assistance,” I said.

“It has been a pleasure. Thank you for briefly diverting me from my grief. Now I will mourn my lost boyfriend and dream of the next.”

And whom might that next be? She had clearly pinned me down, and I was not loath to accept it.

I drove back to the office and made a full report to Syd, including Gholdie’s surprising intimacy, and our realization of the full nature of my telepathy. These were things she needed to know.

“That explains a lot,” she agreed. “I thought it was just that you were young and handsome. You like the ladies, and the ladies like you.”

“I didn’t start seriously using my telepathy until we opened this office,” I said. “So that’s when this other aspect manifested.”

“Starting with Nonce. I confess to being surprised that she got so interested in you. Women of her appearance and experience tend to be more cynical.”

“At least now I can put it in perspective. It’s not me that attracts them; it’s the intimacy of our mind connection when I read them. Meanwhile we’re back to square one again on the serial killer.”

“Is it possible he’s teasing you? Letting you struggle to solve each murder, and doing new ones to keep you occupied?”

“It almost seems like that. But why should he bother? I suspect that at best I’m just part of a larger game he’s playing. That my scrambling searches serve some purpose. That I really don’t matter as a person, just as a pawn being moved into place.”

“I have been pondering something like that,” she said. “That he wants some attention drawn to the killings, to serve as a warning to some other party. But I am baffled by the why of it.”

I had an ugly thought. “Is it possible that the Clans have set this up, to see if I can crack a set-up case? That the murders are all by different people?”

“That’s paranoid,” she said. “Ridiculous to suppose that murders would be committed just to—to play some weird game. But after what we’ve seen of the other Clans, it does seem like a possibility.”

But then I reconsidered. “I would not care to think that Supes could be that careless of Supe life. Also, all the Supes I have telepathically checked have been innocent, not just of the crime or murder, but of any intention to deceive anybody. Other than mundanes, of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “So we’re back to the lone serial killer thesis, unsatisfactory as it seems.”

“Back to that,” I agreed glumly.