"Thank you, ma'am."
He leaned back and downed the pastry in several generous bites.
"You enjoying that, you little prick?" asked Mr. Vanderbeak.
Kerchack glanced at the old chair where Mr. Vanderbeak had lived most his life in and, appropriately, died in. The withered old specter had a harsh, hateful look in his eyes.
Kerchack struggled not to choke as he swallowed a sizable lump. Though it might seem like it sometimes, not everyone who died in Rockwood became a ghost. Most went to Heaven or Hell or whatever other place the departed were supposed to go. Mr. Vanderbeak had been one of those. At least, Kerchack had never seen his ghost before.
"Mr. Vanderbeak, you're not supposed to be here. I mean, you're dead."
"No shit. Thanks for tellin' me."
"No, I mean, you're . . . like . . . gone. To The Other Side or sumthin'."
"I was. Now, I'm back."
"Why?"
"You know why, you stupid little dipshit." Mr. Vanderbeak jumped out of his chair and kicked the tray of pastries in the air. He stood over Kerchack. The ghost's eyes were tinged with red, and his breath smelled of pipe smoke and rot. He spoke, but it wasn't his voice. It was Samhain's.
"Release me."
Mrs. Vanderbeak appeared. "Oh dear, oh dear, what happened, Kerchack?".
"Sorry, ma'am. I hit it with my foot, I guess."
"Oh, don't worry. These things happen."
"Yeah."
Kerchack stared into the spectral eyes of Mr. Vanderbeak. They were black, but deeper within were pinpoints of red. Kerchack stood, shivering as he passed through the angry ghost. He dug out a ten dollar bill and dropped it on the counter. Mrs. Vanderbeak would've protested it was too much, but she was too busy gathering up the scattered muffins and donuts. He uttered a rushed "Thank you, ma'am", and then ran out of the house. He deliberately didn't look back.
On the way to the Thunderdome, Kerchack passed one of Rockwood's cemeteries. It had five. Three more than necessary for a town its size. A lot of folks died in Rockwood in mysterious ways. Most these folks were out-of-towners and passers through, often unaccountably unidentifiable and so buried by the decent citizens. There was even a special tax to help pay for all the charitable funerals. For whatever reason, Rockwood seemed to have a less fatal disposition toward those who called it home. The Sheriff had put up signs at the county line. They read "Rockwood, A Nice Place To Live But You Wouldn't Want to Visit" or words to that effect. The signs always disappeared.
Kerchack pulled beside the graveyard. It was crawling with ghosts. Dozens of them. Some he didn't recognize. Others were folks who had died and moved on, like Mr. Vanderbeak had. Except now they were back, and there were a lot of them. They weren't doing anything except standing there. They were just ghosts, he told himself. There was no reason to be worried. Ghosts might hide car keys and knock over trays, but they couldn't do any real damage.
Several turned their heads in his direction, each with the same eyes as Mr. Vanderbeak. The same as Samhain.
"Shit."
He needed some time to sort through this. Someplace free of ghosts where he could think. That was never an easy thing to find. With the exponential grown of the invisible dead, it seemed less possible than ever. He couldn't go home, couldn't go to the Thunderdome, couldn't go anywhere. Places that were relatively ghost-free were bound to fill up quick. There were a lot of dead people, and if they all came back from the Other Side, there wouldn't be room for them all, even if they were immaterial.
It was an invasion. That was the only word for it, and Kerchack was beginning to suspect that this many angry ghosts in one place could only be trouble.
He drove over to Sheriff Kopp's office. The Sheriff's cruiser was gone, but Kerchack figured it couldn't hurt to file a report. Kopp handled problems like this on a regular basis. He'd averted the apocalypse at least twice in the last seven years, which was why he'd clinched the last election. There was a thin line between Rockwood and madness. Sheriff Kopp was that line.
Billy was Kopp's deputy. Billy had been the previous sheriff. One night, a succubus had gotten hold of him and sucked fifty years of his life away. Now he looked and moved like an eighty year old man. He wore the uniform, had the gun, but rarely left the office. The sheriff kept him around to man the radio and phones and help with the filing.
"Mornin', Kerchack," said Billy. "Sheriff's not here right now."
"Yeah, I know, but I need to file a report."
"Let me guess." Billy held up a clipboard with a form already pinned to it. "You're missing some stuff."
"No."
"Really? Well, that's the first today."
"A lot of stuff gone missing today?" asked Kerchack.
"Yep. Also, a lot of petty vandalism. Fences being opened and cattle scattered, walls drippin' blood, and a mess of chain-rattlin', levitatin' furniture, and disembodied moans. Sheriff said sumthin's got the ghosts worked up"
Kopp could see the dead, too. In fact, it wasn't a very unique talent. Kerchack knew fewer folks who could touch their nose with their tongue.
The phone rang, and Billy answered it. "Yes, Mr. McCloud, I told the sheriff about the ghost breakin' your dishes, but I don't see how you can expect him to do much about it. Can't exactly slap handcuffs on a poltergeist, now can you?"
Billy rolled his eyes at Mr. McCloud's reply.
"Well, hell, I don't know. Don't sound like a job for law enforcement to me. You try the Padre? Uh hmm. Uh hmm. Got exorcisms booked until the end of the week, huh? Well, how about Father Roy?"
Mr. McCloud growled something harsh, and Billy winced.
"Hate to split hairs, but I don't think Episcopalians are officially affiliated with the Church of Satan. And if'n they were, I gotta figure that would only mean they'd have a special way with evil spirits."
Mr. McCloud launched into a tirade. Billy set the phone on his shoulder. "So what was it you needed, Kerchack?"
"Nothing. Forget it. Marshall's got enough to worry about. I'll take care of it myself."
"Would'ya now? Greatly appreciate it, Kerchack." Billy put the phone to his ear and recoiled almost immediately. "Now, Mr. McCloud I ain't sayin' you're lyin', but don't you think that perhaps you might be mistaken when you say you saw Father Roy doing the foxtrot with the Dark Prince in your pasture? Mm hmm. Mm hmm. Well, I suppose it's possible, but I'm sure it weren't nuthin' serious. Everyone knows Father Roy does love a good foxtrot."
Kerchack returned to his car. He sat there a minute. There was only one thing to do. He'd summoned Samhain, so he had to send the evil spirit back. That should fix everything. All he had to do was go home, get the shovel, and find the instructions that came with it. They were in the house somewhere.
He turned the key, but the car didn't start. Not as much as a sputter. Lousy time for a battery to die, but wasn't that how it always worked?
He leaned back in his seat and sighed.
"Release me," said someone in the backseat.
Kerchack jumped, slamming his elbow into the steering wheel.
Clark spoke up from the backseat again. "Release me."
Kerchack grumbled some half-hearted profanity and got out of the car. "Clark, what are you doing out of the 'Dome?"
The ghost stepped out of the car. Clark's skin had never been very pretty, but his ectoplasmic flesh was now splotchy and drawn. His fat cheeks almost looked normal.
"The age of the living is ended. Now begins the reign of the dead." Hands outstreched, Clark lunged for Kerchack. The ghost slipped through his prey, tumbled, and fell flat on his face.
"Clark, you're immaterial."
Kerchack shivered and rubbed his sore elbow. He popped his hood and saw his battery had been disconnected.
"Damn it, did you do this?"
Clark sat up. Wheezing, he puffed on his inhaler, then spoke with Samhain's voice, though he still retained a hint of Clark's nasal quality.
"Release me."
"Yeah, yeah. Heard you the first time." Kerchack pushed the connection back in place and slammed the hood.
There were more ghosts coming up from behind the car. Eight of them, all with splotchy complexions and black stares. There were even more on the horizon, heading this way.
"Release me," they said as one. Their spectral voices kicked up a cold wind. The clouds overhead cracked with thunder, but there wasn't the slightest spark of lightning.
"Shit."
The car started up, and Kerchack floored it, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The ever growing army of the cranky dead surrounded him. He soon realized they weren't after him in particular, but they moved in the same direction.
His house.
Years ago, after being visited by one restless spirit too many, Kerchack had used the shovel to draw a protective circle around the property line. He hadn't planned on using it as a bulwark against an invisible army, but it seemed to be doing the trick. Though there were hundreds of ghosts around his house now, none appeared capable of entering this half-acre.
Kerchack's car plowed through the immaterial legion. All those ghosts lowered the temperature enough that the windshield fogged and ice formed on the fender. He shivered and rubbed his hands together.
"Release me," chanted Samhain's army. "Release me. Release me."
Kerchack ran to the front porch and stopped. Though the ghosts outside were held at bay, there were five more in his house. He wasn't betting that any of them would be any friendlier. Still, five ghosts couldn't be much of a problem.
He knew something was wrong as soon as he opened the door. The TV was off, and Gramps wasn't sitting in his chair. The living room was quiet as a tomb. Quieter, actually, considering Kerchack's general experience with tombs.
"Gramps? Joyce?"
No one answered.
He checked the closet. The shovel was still there. He grabbed it and a jacket, which he quickly slipped on as he checked the kitchen.
The Guy was still sitting at the table, reading his newspaper.
"Uh, hi," said Kerchack.
The Guy nodded.
"Do you know where Joyce and Gramps went?"
The Guy motioned toward the backdoor. Kercheck peeked out the window. Samhain was still there with a great big smile spread across his gourd-like face. Gramps and Joyce and Tederick, out of his cage now, stood before their king.
"How are you feeling?" he asked The Guy.
"Other than being dead, I've been worse." He glanced over his shoulder. His ectoplasm wasn't the splotchy mess of the other ghosts.
Kerchack sat at the table and tried to think. The Attic Spook howled through the ceiling directly above Kerchack. It thumped and stomped loud enough that he thought it might break out of its prison. He hadn't actually seen the Spook up close. It always hid away in the darkened corners on those rare occasions Kerchack had ventured up to the attic. He wondered if it was another spirit, like Samhain, something that had never been human.
The Spook struck the ceiling hard enough to send particles of dust raining on Kerchack's head.
"Hungry," it moaned. "Soooo huuungry."
It had never spoken before, and Kerchack didn't consider this a good sign.
"You probably should do something about that," said The Guy.
"Any suggestions?"
"How should I know? You're the one with the magic shovel."
"Foooood," hissed the Spook.
While Kerchack wondered just what he was supposed to feed a spirit, he turned the shovel over in his hands. It'd come with an instruction manual (a hand written notebook) but he couldn't remember where he'd left it. Joyce would've known. Too bad she was under the thrall of ancient evil.
"Release me," said someone.
Kerchack jumped at Samhain's voice. It wasn't the King of the Immaterial himself, but Gramps, Joyce, and Tederick who had snuck their way into the kitchen. Kerchack jumped to his feet and held the shovel before him.
Gramps and Joyce looked like hell. Their ectoplasmic skin wasn't just splotchy now. It was moldy, drawn, and decayed. Their clothes were rotting away. Gashes raked across their faces and arms as if they'd been gouging their own flesh with their fingernails. He'd been bald, but now whole pieces of flesh had either been torn or fallen away to reveal a crack blackened skull. Joyce's always perfect hair was now a tangled knot. Several strands fell across her face. The ghostly cockatoo on Gramp's shoulder looked worn and gray. Half his ectoplasmic feathers had fallen away. Kerchack couldn't decide if they resembled zombies or burnt out addicts, but he figured both were probably on the mark.
