Ghost City Read online

  GHOST CITY

  Christian Read

  Copyright © 2016 by Christian Read

  www.christianread.com

  Gestalt Publishing Pty Ltd

  PO Box 1506 Applecross WA 6953

  Australia

  www.gestaltpublishing.com

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-922023-58-2

  Print ISBN: 978-1-922023-59-9

  Gestalt Publishing and the Gestalt logo are trademarks of Gestalt Publishing Pty Ltd.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission, except small excerpts for the purposes of review. The story, characters and incidents featured in this publication are entirely fictional.

  Cover art by Justin Randall

  One

  i

  They call it an Odal.

  Doesn't look like much. Diamond-shape with two legs kicking diagonal out from underneath the low point. Elder rune from the days of iron, snow, blood. Means something like inheritance. Or property.

  Used it in the old days working for the Library. Set it up in an area a job was occurring. Right kinds of eyes knew what it meant. Meant we owned that part of the City while the rune was plain. Police tape, authority tag.

  Meant stay the fuck out if you know what's good for you.

  No way should it be carved in a tree by a road in a forest in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Not when I can feel the juice it's giving off a half mile away. Pull the emergency break and there's a lurch. The human nightmares travelling with me take a beating, waking up as the momentum launches them into the seats in front of them.

  Sorry, old man looking at bondage porn on a phone reflected in the window.

  Sorry old woman eating cabbage at two in the morning.

  It's on me, whispering racist up the back and fat man reading gun magazines and murmuring to himself and pregnant runaway who won't stop crying.

  Grab my bag and walk up the front. Driver goes to stand, unwisely brave.

  'What the fuck you -'

  Not really interested in him right now. Meet his gaze and whisper a word and he sits back down. He won't remember much for a few minutes, then he'll get on his way. Be like this never happened. Out the door, into crisp air. Winter's nearly here.

  Walking down the road. Alone in the night. Stars out. Big black sky up there and no place to hide from it. Trees, creaking. Nightbirds rustling. Moon's waxing. Gibbous. Chill.

  Alright then, the Odal.

  Carved about six feet up into the bark. No more than a few weeks old. Hit gnosis, the transcendent consciousness magicians use to see. Scan it, wary. Just looking with something that isn't eyes. No traps. No warding. No Working on it at all. Just a warning. Library magic. Recognise it the way you recognise your own fingers. What's more, my Library magic.

  My protocol.

  Someone might as well have forged my signature.

  Is there a Library action going on here? And why would they be using my symbol, my brand? Or maybe this is to get my attention. Paranoia sparks in my brain. Tells me to keep walking. That this is a lure and there's a hook.

  No one used this but me. On jobs I worked with Jon. It's mine. There's a part of me, talks to me sometimes. Part that watches and tells me to make smart cruel decisions. Says to me now (just go) but I don't listen to it much. Cause the part of me that's curious? That ain't so smart? That motherfucker always wins out.

  ii

  Down the road, a sign.

  Crosscut. 12 Miles. Population: 1593.

  That last line, spray painted through. 1580.

  That second is struck through as well. Fresh paint. 1575.

  Alright then.

  Jacket over my shoulder, commence again to walking. Whistling as I go.

  iii

  Don't want to be out here, on these roads or a bus or anywhere.

  Wishing I was back in my old place, in the City. Wishing like an amputee wishes for things. With about as much luck.

  See, a while back, nearly two years, got into it with something calls itself the Devil. If it is or isn't the fallen angel is beside the point. He might as well be, which is good enough. In magic, what's real is as important as what's true. Just call it the Devil and leave it at that.

  Beat him, but it was close. And his wife. Mother-in-Law too. Hell of a thing. But you know, no good deed goes unpunished. That's what they say.

  To get it done, sacrifices had to get made. Start counting now: got a kid killed, tore out my partner's eye. Got my spirit allies good and murdered. Fucked up man who's like my brother's life. Then, had to get serious about it.

  The City. My place in it. Only home I ever knew. Been all around the world but it was the only place I was a citizen of.

  Sacrificed that.

  So now... on my own. Bettina, my partner, she's off looking for Jon, who had the Hollow mask ripped off him. Left him shattered and blaming us.

  Scarlet, my old girl, got married to a fuck I wouldn't piss on he was on fire.

  Don't have my books.

  What happened after that? Not much, or I'd tell it.

  Picked up some work in Lisbon, made twenty grand dealing with some bullshit haunting in a museum. Stole a book from some boring sadist with a bad piqueristic habit. Stayed in London for about two weeks, then the local Librarians found me and politely suggested moving on. A few days in Juneaux, drinking heavily with a man so insane he could barely cast a shadow.

  Just work, you know? Just work. Making money. Keeping moving. Being alive.

  The City, hooked into me. Love it and hate it but it's the only place I know.

  Called Bettina, my partner, one time but her aunt told me she was away, which meant even if she found Jon, she was in the grave now. Never called back. Felt like everything had said all its last goodbyes.

  Don't mean nothing drive on.

  Keep my head low nowadays. Keep it lean. No one's following me but spent a decade or more making enemies and not enough friends. On the move. Planes, using magic to fake IDs. Hopping trains. Hitching a time or two, a few weeks on a freight ship, playing cards with a crew bored as me.

  Moving until there was somewhere safe. Somewhere to be quiet and small and chill. Somewhere anyone wanting a taste of me won't look and if they found me. Somewhere to become Lark again.

  Nothing tastes good to me nowadays. Whisky don't burn. Smokes taste like glue or sore throat. Salt in the coffee, rust in the water. Turn off every song before the big hooks begin.

  Chill wind blowing through me. Shadows all up in my head. Nothing reminds me of the City except for everything.

  My clothes are stained all the time. Never find time to shave. Bad days, ticking like a dying clock. Making me less. Spent too many years burning everything that wasn't Lark away to be done in by a fucking bad mood though. Thoughts like that keep me on my feet. Magician has to bet on themself, be arrogant and sometimes it's only that keeping me moving at all.

  Few weeks ago, so bored of myself, sick of mirrors, knew I needed to changed something. Anything. So I conjured for something solid. Some place a man could sit and think and plan and cook up a move.

  In a hotel, coughing, naked and lit up by candles the rite got going. Drinking hoodoo rum and chanting like a madman. So hot in there that night. Sweat trickling down my back, eyes messed up as it ran down my forehead. Wiping the spicy liquor off my lips and shooting my load to build charge in the spell.

  Hot sex thoughts and desperation. Tripping out on despair. Turning it into a demon who appeared before me, platonic black. Asked it where to go and opened up a map of the whole Country. Clawed finger pointing my way. Devil directions.

  Dismissed it and finished the ritual blackout drunk.

  A perfect conjure, that. Summon up the demons inside and get ‘em out of you. Put ‘em to work.

&n
bsp; Heading south now, somewhere warm. Maybe some cocktails on the beach and girls in bikinis will shift this stupid feeling. Even getting on a bus, no matter who rides with me, revved me up a little.

  So here I am.

  Where magic wants me.

  Riding free roads of chance and desire.

  Never fails.

  Two

  i

  Forest eases up after a ways. Glad to be out of it after a four hour walk. Tall trees and darkness all there is to see. Sun's up some. Back from the road, guarded by barbed wire, something sways in a breeze. Tobacco crops.

  First noise to hear in a while, farmers starting up tractors and whatever the fuck it is farmer-type cats ride on.

  One sees me. Stops. Watches me walk.

  All I know about small town folk is what the movies tell me. Reckon he wants to feed me or... romance me, then. Keep walking. Keep walking.

  Greens. Browns. Yellows. Plants, grass, sunrise. These aren't my colours. This isn't where I operate. Don't know the rules, the players, don't know the plays. If there's operating to be done here, I'll feel the disadvantage.

  Round the bend and there it is.

  Crosscut.

  It's just two streets, crossing over. The whole thing is the colour of nicotine stains and yesterday's coffee. Ugly red brick and a single traffic light suspended above it all, sagging on a wire. Once pretty buildings seem defeated and stained. Heart-attack victim buildings.

  An old chemist store. There's a newsagent, stands advertising the front pages are wet, warping what they're hawking. Strangely eerie sight. Three stores closed and boarded up. A bar and a coffee shop and a doctor's office and a cop shop and a general store, market thing.

  Over the road, one lonely church that looks like it's about to slash its own throat. One park with overgrown grass and a public toilet stinks of chemicals.

  There's a stream runs through the far end town. Check it out.

  Goes under the road running north to south. Drains gurgle. Dark black circles ugly water runs through. Scrub on the banks riddled with rubbish. Dunno where it leads.

  You know this place.

  You ever been to a small town with its blood pressure dropping, you know the place.

  It all opening up for the day. An old man, bent as a wire, brushes a stoop and can't be fucked to even acknowledge me. Rickets bow his legs. A woman who's got bad conjunctivitic lamps glances up at me as she fumbles more keys. Eyes meet, dart away. Cat at the hardware store stares at me out the window with droopy eyes. Walk away when he sees me seeing him. Limping.

  Only shopfront with clean windows is the funeral parlour. And it's one of the new-school ones. Doves and bright, soothing colours. No one knows how to treat death anymore.

  Place stinks of being poor. Everyone here is broken down from need. Kind of place babies go unfed on formula, fury burns blue underneath it all and everything is just one missed working week away from collapse. That's something to understand. Used to live downtown in the City where throats are slit over the price of a packet of cigarettes and all the store owners have guns strapped.

  Of all these stores opening, there's only one of any real concern. The bar. Don't expect a 24 hour joint but maybe country people are more broad-minded than I thought. Its mouth is open.

  Above it, overlooking the street, rooms. Probably rent ‘em out. Handy. Serving at 8 in the morning. That a good sign or bad?

  (who cares)

  ii

  Ten people in the bar already. All white. All in Sunday best. Cheap, stiff black suits or at least button downs. Women with too much make-up and sombre prints. Black armbands everywhere.

  Staring at me.

  Walking in to something here.

  Behind the bar working, woman with vinegar eyes and a used-up face watches me step over to her.

  She says nothing which improves her in my estimation.

  Get a whisky. Sit at the bar with it. Look closer at her. Hare lipped and droop-eyed. Whisky don't burn. Drink it anyways.

  Funeral in the air.

  Bartender looks at me on the second drink.

  'Closing up soon. Be an hour or so. Can sell you a half if you need.'

  'Need a place to stay.'

  Looks me over like I'm stupid.

  'Here?'

  'Yeah.'

  'You want to stay here?'

  'Yeah.'

  'What are you staying here for?'

  Say nothing.

  Frowns some. 'Got a room upstairs but ain't no one stayed in it for three, four years.'

  'It'll do.'

  'Wait here.'

  She goes, comes back. Sheets and a pillow and keys.

  'Stairs around the back. Thirty a night.'

  Pay her a few nights. Head out back. Enter through a back alley. Two broken down old Sedans and a pick-up truck parked. Graffiti on the walls. Give a quick look over. Nothing. No Odal anyways. No symbols with occult significance.

  Unless you're in, you know, one a them fertility cults, well fond of dicks.

  Then it's stairs, steep concrete, up to the rooms.

  Upstairs and the room smells of mould and trapped piss-warmth. Double bed. Clock radio. Crucifix hanging on curling wallpaper. Bible on the nightstand. Three rooms up here, one shower and bathroom to share down the hall. Carpet's worn through bad enough to look like it’s got mange.

  Drop my bag, pull aside a curtain that's child-skin fragile and look out the window. More people arriving at the church. Cars pulling in and mourners gathering around. No limos here. Just burners and trucks. People on crutches. Young girl in a wheelchair that looks a hundred.

  Everyone is unwell. All of them cough, or sniff.

  Red-haired woman everyone defers too. Mayor, probably.

  Takes me a while to pick up on something. No teenagers. Just little kids and adults.

  File it away but get bored of watching. None of them have spells on them, defences, wards, enchantments. Not that figuring out who left the rune would be that obvious, you dig.

  Then they gather around as one car in particular pulls in. A widow. Hugs and handshakes then she's into the church and away from me.

  This is Crosscut.

  Alright, then.

  Work.

  iii

  When you're a magician, you got options. Odal rune here, figure it for a trap or invitation by someone who can't or won't identify. Could walk away but not yet.

  Could do legwork, look for any other sigils, ask questions, bribe people. Detect. But ain't nobody got time for that.

  Not solving crimes here, not investigating. Grab a notepad and pen from my sports bag. Had to bug out quick from the last place I stayed in. Luggage just wasn't an option.

  Start writing.

  Start cheating.

  Listen up.

  Around 1870, Spiritualism was the hip thing. All sorts of people dipping wrist deep into occulture. Not one in fifty had the necessary discipline and of those, not one in a hundred had the right mind for the real deal, so it faded. It comes in waves, the hoodoo.

  Part of the spiritualist jag was an Operation called Automatic Writing.

  Deal is, you shut your brain off, let the hand write what it’s got to write. Maybe spirit takes you over, maybe it's ideomotive.

  Ask me what's up, you'll get informed it makes no never mind. It works is all that counts.

  Artists loved Automatic Writing. Surrealists especially.

  Art is a good model for magic. You want to achieve something, want to make something draw down inspiration, skill, knowledge into yourself, using what tools you can.

  These mix, then you get to work. Technique, mindfulness, inspiration, discipline, all together, then you've produced something out of nothing.

  Best of all the automatic writers was a guy called Robert Desnos. Like any good artist, his is a sad story. Fall outs with friends, dead girlfriends, fighting Fascists, concentration camps, death. During all that, he had himself time to perfect the technique for poetry. Got him lines like
>
  To follow your footsteps, your shadow at the window.

  That shadow at the window is you and no one else;

  it's you.

  Learned about him studying with Mully and pinched his technique for scrying. Crystal balls and astrology or working the aethyrs weren't me.

  Locking myself in a dark room with a fifth of mescal tequila and pen was.

  The hip is hurting. Some evil cat called Ludo smashed it up. Good. Use that as an anchor point. Focus on it. Imagine pain sweeping through the body like spilled honey-acid.

  No sleep on the bus.

  Long walk.

  Fish hooked eyelids doing the sleep deprivation twitch. Let that in too. Feel it.

  Then take all thoughts, all emotions, let that sweet vitriol burn them away.

  Somewhere, my hand is moving on a notepad.

  Let it run until hand cramps up hard and won't move no more and breaks the no-mind state.

  Put the paper where it can't be seen, face down. Need to look at it when I'm straight.

  Crash on the sheetless bed. It's hard as algebra.

  Iv

  Four hours and the eyelids open up. Hungry. Thirsty.

  Curious.

  Look at that pad.

  Johannes axel pular delegation virtue. Distrust all mouth but curse Lucy. Tenfold black beam blach hole drain down. Patrol... something can't read it.... singularity takes brain with spoon jinx up in a tooth house. Six stupids snakes sing snugly. Toscin slumber their's a night jar senescence frankensteining to Adda ... more nonsense... be saggitarius accrete down to nothing. Ruin absolutely ban into secodont uxuriously. Ungulate Sagittarius Idiot because accretion's racking.

  Sagittarius.

  That's all I get. Dunno what half those words mean.

  Sit down with it for some time looking for hints. Acrostics. Read it backwards. Like that. But no meaning's coming and that's not usual. This is a good technique, it's not normally so aphasic.