Stacia Kane: Close to You

The clock on the wall had stopped at twelve-fifteen.

“Nobody celebrates anymore,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I guess they just don’t care. They’ve forgotten. Instead they have those fires at Halloween, all week they have them. Fires and drums... I don’t understand it.”

Chess certainly did. And yeah, from her position there on the bay, Mrs. Hudson would have quite a view of the Haunted Week rituals, the bonfires and parades.

But how the hell could she not know what they were? She’d lived through Haunted Week back in 1997. She’d been there as the world changed. She’d been an adult who could watch it happen, instead of a parentless infant like Chess had been.

How was it possible to live in a city, surrounded by people, and have no idea what was going on?

But then, reality seemed to have deserted Mrs. Hudson some time ago.

“People don’t really celebrate Christmas anymore,” Chess said, more as a test than anything else.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “It’s a sad, sad world, that doesn’t celebrate the holidays.”

She was right about it being a sad world, but Chess didn’t think it had much to do with holidays. It had a lot more to do with the fact that the world was made of people, and they were in general pretty miserable.

“Vincent loves Christmas,” Mrs. Hudson said, in a softer voice than she’d used before. Her eyes shone oddly; she seemed to be staring at Chess’s neck, at her chest still exposed from Terrible’s hands earlier. Creeeepy. “He can’t wait to open his presents. I don’t care about what happened with the ghosts. He’s getting his presents and his Christmas.”

Terrible cleared his throat and started digging in his wallet. Yeah, she was ready to leave, too.

Mrs. Hudson ignored both the sound and the gesture. “It’s so hard to be away from my husband. There’s no point to being alive, when my husband isn’t with me. When it’s just me, alone... Half of me is missing.”

Unwilling, unwanted sympathy pricked Chess’s heart. She knew that feeling. It was the worst feeling in the world.

Mrs. Hudson’s fingers trailed over the pictures lining the top of some kind of cabinet. The pictures, like everything in the room except the presents but unlike every single other thing in the house, were spotless, and they were clearly of her and Vincent: a large wedding photo in the center—was that the same dress? Yes, it was—a few portraits, a few snapshots, Mr. and Mrs. Hudson standing beneath a sign for Hudson Veterinary Clinic. Something about those pictures bothered Chess, but just as she was about to put her figurative finger on it, Mrs. Hudson said, “We never had children. We tried for years, but we couldn’t. So it’s just us here. For so long, just the two of us…”

That feeling of identification grew worse. Just the two of them, and no children, and no possibility of children. Just like Chess and Terrible; well, he had a daughter, but he couldn’t have more and she couldn’t have any.

Not that she really wanted to, or thought it would be a good idea. Even without her addiction, Terrible’s job—and to some extent her own—didn’t exactly lend itself to good parenting. Hell, her personality didn’t exactly lend itself to good parenting. That was a responsibility she’d never particularly wanted. A responsibility she’d invariably fuck up if she did have.

Still. Hearing those words caused a tiny, lonely pain to twist in her chest, sappy as it was. Suddenly the entire scene didn’t seem creepy and disturbing—well, no, it was still really fucking creepy and disturbing, but it was tragic as well. This woman spent her days like this, while her husband was away? Listening to a shitty song over and over and thinking about how she had nothing to live for when her husband wasn’t home? And all the happy photos of the past didn’t—

Wait. That was it. That was the problem with the pictures.

They were all old. The oldest Mrs. Hudson appeared in them was maybe forty-five; her hair was still mostly black, her face a lot less lined. Chess had never been a big picture-taker—she had maybe three pictures of herself with Terrible, and one of them had been taken before they were together and another was from Elder Griffin’s wedding, taken by one of her co-workers without her knowing it—but the Hudsons appeared to have documented almost every second of their marriage on film. The Hudsons at a restaurant. Mr. Hudson in a white coat with a stethoscope, smiling next to a sleeping tiger. The Hudsons at an amusement park. The Hudsons holding champagne flutes at a racetrack, with horses in the background.

So where were the more recent pictures?

“You’ve been married fifty years, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Eliza. Yes... fifty years tonight.”

Chess edged closer to the pictures. Sure, it was possible the newer photos were in albums or something, but it was still odd, wasn’t it? And given Eliza’s talk about Vincent not missing this Christmas, and about his opening presents that looked like they’d spent a few decades in a dustbin, and especially the low-level sense of magic and wrongness in the air... Either Vincent was dead or Vincent had left Eliza years ago, and given the happy-smiley-lovey-love in those pictures, Chess figured “dead” was the safer bet.

She caught Terrible’s eye, jerked her head toward the door as unobtrusively as possible. He raised his eyebrows; she nodded. Yes, something really not-good was happening, and they needed to get out of there so she could call the Church. This wasn’t something she wanted to handle on her own, and even if she did, it was outside her jurisdiction, so to speak. The only crime over which Debunkers like her had real legal authority was faked hauntings, technically known as “Conspiracy to Commit Spectral Fraud,” and usually done to get a nice cash settlement out of the Church. And even then she had to call in the Squad sometimes to make the final arrests—she didn’t carry handcuffs or a weapon, at least not a legal weapon. Technically she wasn’t supposed to carry her knife. She definitely needed the Squad for this one, and she needed them soon.

Terrible held out a crumpled bill. “Said twenty, aye? Oughta get us gone, let you get back to... back to you day.”

Eliza drifted forward and took the money. “Sure. You want to get to your own Christmas, I bet. It’s Vincent’s favorite holiday, you know. He won’t miss this Christmas. Tonight he’ll be here. It’s our fiftieth anniversary. We’ll spend it together, just the two of us.”

Chess forced a smile. Time to get the fuck out of there. “That sounds great. We’ll let you finish getting ready.”

“Oh, yes, there’s so much to do... So much to do,” Eliza said. “I have to bake cookies and finish decorating and gather everything I’ll need. So much work to do. But I can do it. I have the power of love on my side. And that’s all I need.”

Ordinarily Chess wouldn’t have thought so. But who the hell knew what was in that house? Personal possessions that could become totems, junk that could have magical value... it wasn’t exactly an energy-free place. They were right on the water, too, and the incoming tide and mist would be full of power later on.

As for the power of love... well, it wasn’t something they’d taught in her classes at Church, but if anyone knew how transforming that could be, it was Chess.

Chess the witch. Chess who had the power needed to raise the dead herself. Chess who—shit, Chess whose tattoos Mrs. Hudson had been staring at. Whose tattoos Mrs. Hudson had seen outside right before she invited them into her house. Lured them into her house. Fuck. Did Mrs. Hudson actually know what she was doing, did she know what those tattoos meant? Was she planning to try to steal Chess’s power?