Jeaniene Frost - Halfway to the Grave

“That’s outrageous!” I exclaimed. “With no motive or proof of malice aforethought?”

“’Fraid the judge, John Simms, wasn’t big on the idea of innocent until proven guilty. He also doubled as the executioner. Right before Simms hanged him, however, Winston swore he’d never let him have another night’s peace. And since that day, he never has.”

“He hung him?” I repeated. “The man you want me to speak to?”

“Pull over at that no trespassing sign, Kitten,” Bones directed. I did, my mouth still open in disbelief. “Winston won’t speak to me, since our kinds don’t get along. He’ll talk to you, though. But I warn you, he’s about as cheerful as you currently are.”

“What part of this am I not understanding?” My tone was waspish. Bitchy, me? “Did you or did you not say that judge hanged him?”

“Swung him right from the tree jutting over that cliff,” Bones affirmed. “If you look, you can still see rope marks in it. A good many people lost their lives on that wood, but don’t bother speaking to any one of them. They’re residual. Winston’s not.”

I picked my words carefully. “Are you telling me Winston’s…a ghost?”

“Ghost, specter, phantom, take your pick. What’s most important is he’s sentient, and that’s rare. Most spooks are only replays of their former selves. Not able to interact, just doing the same thing over and over, like a record stuck on a turntable. Blimey, I’m dating myself; no one uses records anymore. Point is, Winston was so mad when he died, part of his consciousness stayed on. It’s also due to location. Ohio has a thinner membrane for separating the natural from the supernatural, so it’s easier for a soul to stay behind instead of crossing over. This particular area’s like a homing beacon. Five cemeteries forming a pentagram-really, what were they thinking? It’s a road map for spirits, is what it is. Thanks to your bloodline, you should be able to see them, whereas most humans can’t. You should also be able to feel them by now. Their energy’s like a voltage in the air.”

He was right. I’d felt an invisible hum as soon as I’d turned onto this road, but I thought maybe my leg had fallen asleep or something.

“What kind of information could a vampire possibly want from a ghost?”

“Names,” Bones said succinctly. “I want Winston to give you the names of any young girls that have recently died around these parts. Don’t let him tell you he doesn’t know, either-and I’m only interested in deaths by unnatural causes. No car accidents or diseases.”

He didn’t look like he was kidding, but I had to ask. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

Bones made a noise that was almost a sigh. “I wish it were, but it isn’t.”

“You’re serious? You want me to go to a cemetery and ask a ghost about dead girls?”

“Come, now, Kitten, is it really so hard for you to believe in ghosts? You’re half vampire, after all. I wouldn’t think ghosts would be such a stretch of your imagination.”

Put like that, he had a very good point. “And ghosts don’t like vampires, so I guess I shouldn’t mention my mixed lineage. Do I get to know why ghosts don’t like vampires, by the way?”

“They’re jealous, since we’re as dead as they are, but we can do as we please while they’re forever stuck as a hazy apparition. Makes them right cranky most of the time, which reminds me…” Bones handed me a bottle of something clear. “Take this. You’ll need it.”

I held it up and swished the liquid around. “What is it? Holy water?”

He laughed. “For Winston it is. That’s white lightning. Pure moonshine, luv. Simms Cemetery is right past that line of trees, and you might have to bang about a bit to get Winston’s attention. Ghosts tend to nap frequently, but once you’ve got him up, be sure to show him that bottle. He’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to go stomping through a graveyard brandishing a bottle of booze to rouse an unrestful spirit so that I can interrogate him?”

“That’s it. And don’t forget this. Pen and paper. Make sure to write down the names and ages of every girl Winston tells you about. If he can include how they died as well, so much the better.”

“I should refuse,” I muttered. “Because interrogating a ghost was not part of our agreement.”

“If I’m right, this information will lead to a group of vampires, and hunting vampires is part of our agreement, isn’t it?”

I just shook my head as Bones gave me the pen, a small spiral notepad, and the bottle of illegal liquor. A vampire was having me go out and wake the dead. Guess it proved I wasn’t psychic, because if someone had told me four weeks ago that I’d be doing this, I would never have believed it.

Simms Cemetery at midnight wasn’t a soothing place. It had been hidden from the road by thick bushes, trees, and that rocky cliff. True to Bones’s description, a tree still protruded over the precipice, and there was also a large evergreen in the midst of the dilapidated headstones. Seeing some of the dates clarified his earlier comment about Winston being a railway worker in the sixties. He’d meant the 1860s. Not this past century.

A figure behind me made me whirl with a little scream, my hand whipping out a knife.

“Are you all right?” Bones immediately called out. He was waiting out of sight beyond the cemetery, with the explanation that this way none of the dead dead would see him. The thought of vampires and ghosts not getting along was just too weird. Even in the afterlife, different species still couldn’t play nice?

“Yeah…” I said after a beat. “It was nothing.”

It wasn’t, in fact, but it didn’t require help. A hooded, shadowy form swept past me, literally floating over the cold earth. It went to the edge of the cliff and then disappeared with a faint sound, like a whispered scream. I watched in fascination as moments later it returned out of nowhere and walked the same path, culminating with another ghostly wail.

To my left, the indistinct outline of a woman was bent over another headstone, sobbing. Her clothing wasn’t of this era, from the hazy glimpses I could catch of it, and then she, too, faded into nothingness. For a few minutes I waited, and then her outline blurred into view again. Soft, almost inaudible cries came from her until they, and she too, vanished once more.

A record stuck on a turntable, I thought with dark appreciation. Yeah, Bones had given a pretty accurate description of it.

In the corner of the cemetery, there was a headstone with barely visible etched letters, but I saw a w and a t in the first name, while the last one started with a g.

“Winston Gallagher!” I called loudly, rapping on the frigid stone for emphasis. “Come on out!”

Nothing. A breeze made me tighten my jacket while I shuffled my feet and waited.

“Knock, knock, who’s there?” I said next, driven to absurdity by what I was doing.

Something moved at the edge of the trees behind me. Not the cloaked phantom, who was still traveling the same unaltered path, but almost a fuzzy shadow. Maybe it was just the bushes rustling in the wind. I returned my attention to the grave at my feet.

“Oh, Winsssttonnnnn…” I cooed, fingering the bottle inside my jacket. “I’ve got something for youuuu!”

“Cursed, insolent warm baggage,” a voice slithered on the air. “Let’s see how fast she can run.”

I stiffened. That didn’t sound like any person I’d heard before! The air in my vicinity got colder all at once even as I turned toward that voice. The shadow I’d previously observed stretched and changed, taking form, revealing a male in his fifties with a barrellike belly, squinting eyes, brown hair overrun with gray, and untrimmed whiskers.