From Across the Hall

The banging on the door pulls me out of my late morning slumber. I drag myself out of bed and I look through the peephole to see who has the audacity to not go away after I had so stubbornly pretended to not be at home after their first and second round of knocking.

On the other side of the door is a man I don’t recognise, holding a dog I definitely do recognise. It’s Ernie, from across the hall. The dog that is. I have no idea who the man is.

I seriously consider just going back to bed to continue playing the ‘nobody’s home’ game, except I’m hit by a voice in my head. Heeeey, it’s my saviour, my reanimator, my lady of death, rejuvenator.

What the heck is that?!

The dog barks and the man pounds on the door again. I open the door and the man shoves the dog in my face and says “You know necromancy is illegal, right?”

I take hold of the dog to stop him trying to lick my face, and reply “Yeah, so is smoking Silverweed, but judging by the smell, that doesn’t stop you.”

I like your sass, lady, but on the scale of criminality I think raising the dead outweighs recreational drug use, says the voice in my head.

“You reanimated my Aunt’s dog,” he says.

Dammit. She swore she wouldn’t tell anyone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I bluff. “Ernie looks fine to me.”

Better than fine, baby, this is the best I’ve felt in years.

We both look at the dog, who lets out a yap and tilts his head to the side like he’s waiting for us to say something.

I look at the man. “I didn’t know Mrs P had a nephew.”

“She doesn’t.”

“But you just said she was your Aunt.”

“She’s not my real Aunt, I just call her that.”

“So what are you really, then. In regards to Mrs P, that is. I don’t care about what you are existentially or philosophically speaking.”

“A family friend, I guess. Not that I have to tell you anything. Anyway, what are you going to do about the dog?”

“What do you mean, there’s nothing wrong with the dog.”

Damn right there’s nothing wrong with me, I'm a specimen of canine perfection. Just me let out so I can find that tasty looking Pomeranian that hangs around the park and we can get down to some true doggy style business.

We both look at the dog with disgust. Then look back at each other with narrowed eyes.

“You can hear him,too, can’t you” he asks me.

“Maybe. But so can you, so what does that mean?” I genuinely have no idea what it means. I didn’t even know it was possible to hear other people talking in your head, let alone zombie dogs.

Ernie barks and squirms so forcefully that I have to put him down. He trots off into the living room like it’s his own apartment.

“Thankfully, Aunt Gertie can’t hear him, but you have to do something, because if we can both hear him, there will be other people who can as well,” he says.

“Aunt Gertie? Is that short for Gertrude? I always just called her Mrs P. Come think of it, I don’t actually know what the P stands for. What does the P stand for?” I ask.

“Seriously? You have bigger issues right now.”

I follow Ernie into the living room. Mrs P’s not-nephew trails in behind me.

“Peterson?” I ask.

“What?”

“Does the P stand for Peterson?”

“No,” he says.

I feel like an absolute fool talking to a dog and expecting an answer, but I give it a go anyway. “Ernie, why can we hear you talking in our heads?” I ask.

I’m not Ernie, my dude. My name is Big Jimmy and you, fine lady, were kind enough to help me though from the otherside.

“I didn’t help anyone though from anywhere,” I say.

Sure you did, magicpants. I`m not entirely happy about the body you supplied, but I guess you can’t be too picky when you’re dead. Plus, I never could quite manage to lick my own balls before.

“That’s disgusting,” says not-nephew.

“Papadopoulos?” I ask.

“No.”

“So Ernie, I mean Big Jimmy, explain what you mean about helping you through,” I ask.

Exactly what I already said. You opened the way, you prepared the empty vessel and I came through. There’s nothing else to tell.

I sit down on the couch and think over the spells I’d performed last week to bring Mrs P’s dead dog back to life. The realisation of my mistake starts as a murmur in the back of my mind.

I had performed two reanimation spells on dead Ernie. The first wasn’t a true reanimation. It just allowed the deceased to behave like the living for a limited time. I’d needed to fool Mrs P into thinking I’d revived her dog while I found a more powerful spell. And it had worked. I’d reanimated the body, but, and here was my mistake, at no point did I call back Ernie’s spirit. Which meant when I performed the next spell, a true resuscitation, there had been no bacon in the pan, as it were. No soup in the bowl. No eggs in the nest. Ernie’s body had become an empty vessel allowing any passing spirit passage from the otherside over to this one. The result being Big Jimmy in a Chiuahua’s body.

“Perez?” I venture.

Not-nephew looks at me blankly for a moment. “No.”

“How come we hear you in our heads, Big Jimmy?” I ask.

Don’t ask me lady, what do you think I’m some kind of magic professor?

“Dogs don’t have the necessary physical components for speech,” not-nephew chimes in.

“He can’t physically talk so the next best thing is telepathy?” I say.

He shrugs. “Magic often has unintended consequences.”

“Why can we hear you, but Mrs P doesn’t seem to. Can other people hear you too?” I ask Big Jimmy.

Why do you expect me to know.? You’re the one messing around with spells, I never touched them when I was alive. Some of you hear me, some of you don’t, that’s just the way it is, sugar.

“Paczkowski?” I try.

“No,” not-nephew says. “What are you going to do about him?”

I sigh and shake my head. “I can’t do anything. The body needs a spirit. Ernie’s spirit is long gone by now. Even if I did know how to evict a spirit, we’d need another one to replace it.

You’re not gonna kick me out, are you?

Simultaneously I say “No”, and not-nephew says “Yes”.

“So you’re familiar with the old spirit-swap-in-a-dog's-body spell are you?” I ask him.

“The what?”

“Exactly, it’s not a thing. We’re stuck with him,” I say. “Patterson?

“Give it up, will you?” He scoops up Ernie and heads for the door. “This,” he waves the dog at me, “is your fault and you need to figure out a solution because I can’t put up with living with him for much longer.”

“Living with him?” I ask. “I thought you were just Mrs P’s not-nephew paying her a visit?”

“I’m staying for a little while until I find my own place,” he says.

“Pellegrini?”

He opens the door and stalks back across the hall to Mrs P’s apartment.

“Pereira?” I call out, just before the door slams shut.