Strange Tales of Killian Barger- The Many Little Deaths of Johnathan Weston

Killian checked the address as he walked up the steps to 1313 West Oak. The place looked like the sort of house you’d find in a Gothic Noir, the sort of house with too many daughters all looking for a suitor or a library with secret passages behind the bookshelves. It oozed mystery and seemed to seethe within its boundaries. Killian could see the window on the third floor, a lighted cyclopean eye that watched him without any love.

Killian might have been intimidated by the place if it had been real, but its current form was little more than a coat of paint for the sagging monstrosity it had become.

Jonathan Weston lay within, but what else Killian might find here was open to interpretation.

It had all started with the arrival of Gavin Strong to the Agency.

Carla had called Killian to her office one afternoon, and Killian had arrived to find a well-dressed young man sitting across from her. He wore a long tan coat, sensible boots poking from beneath the hem, and his bowler hat was perched in his lap respectfully. He smiled at Killian as the Facilitator walked in, and when Carla introduced them, Killian snorted.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

Carla raised an eyebrow, “You know I don’t joke, Killian. Not about matters otherworldly.”

“You picked a hell of a time to start, then. Gavin Strong is a character from a book, not a real person. He’s a detective, as it happens. A rather popular one from a long-running series I used to enjoy in my downtime.”

The well-dressed man had bristled, “See here, fella, I take offense to such claims. Why, I’m as real as anyone else here, that's for certain.”

“Uh huh, then you won’t mind telling me how you solved the case of Masterson Manner?”

He laughed, “So you are familiar with my work? It wasn’t terribly hard, I simply deduced that the oldest daughter had hidden the ruby in her mother's steamer trunk, thus ensuring it would be in Prague when she arrived in two weeks to greet her at the airport. She would switch luggage with mommy dearest and get away with the family gem scot-free.”

Killian had looked back at Carla, trying his best not to ask if she were serious again, “Yeah, except that's the Caper of the Masterson’s Dowery. I’ve read all of them, Carla, and the only mystery I’m a little foggy on is where he came from? Is there a convention in town or something?”

“No,” Carla said, looking back at Gavin, “He’s real, but he’s not real. He’s a very convincing construct sent in the place of our latest problem spirit.”

She had told Gavin he could go and the detective had huffed off somewhere to do whatever it was the ghosts of fictional characters did. Carla invited Killian to sit and slid a file toward him.

Inside was someone else that the detective was familiar with. He should be, he had read about a hundred of his novels when he was still alive.

Killian had been a voracious reader in life, and anyone who loved books knew of Johnathan Weston. He’d been writing since before Killian was born, and every new book was a reminder that the old man wasn’t dead yet. He wrote everything from Detective stories to Gothic Romance to Action Adventure novels to High Fantasy and was celebrated by the community for his prodigious talent.

“So he’s finally kicked the bucket, then?” Killian said, leafing through the reports.

“At the ripe old age of one hundred eight too.” Carla confirmed, “The problem is that instead of him, we received Mr. Gavin Strong, Noir detective.”

Killian furrowed his brow, “How is that even possible?”

“We don’t know,” Carla said, “the working idea is that Mr. Weston was such a prolific writer, that his characters died when he did.”

“So, what? The man’s such a gifted writer that he’s written his characters to life?”

“We don’t know, but Strong isn’t the first character to show up since his death.”

Killian looked over the report and loosed a high whistle, “Jon Mandrake too, I see, and Captain Tibbet, Rachel Lancaster, Robert Hopp. How long have you been sitting on this one?”

“About a month,” Carla said with a sigh, “Management felt that these entities would likely crumble on their own if separated from Westin for too long. The problem is that they haven’t, and they're starting to become concerned that there will be more. Jonathan Weston has written over three hundred stories, and if each of his characters decides to come here, then the Agency could get very crowded.”

“Why not just move them on?” Killian asked, tossing the pictures back into the file.

“They haven’t got a soul, Killian. We’ve sent Jon Mandrake through the void three times now, and he always just comes back. We don’t know what's going on, but we need it to stop. These entities might be proof that Weston had become a geist, and if that's the case, his unfinished business could make him a very powerful one. I need you to go to his home and try to get him to move on peacefully. Otherwise, you might be sharing an office with Detective Gavin Strong.”

And so, Killian had found himself on the doorstep of 36 Palm Lane, though not quite.

Jonathan Weston had lived out his last few years in a modest three-bedroom in Florida, but now it had become the rambling Victorian that sat in the hills of West Virginia in several of Weston’s novels. 1313 West Oak was now imposed over the small family home that Weston had died in, and as Killian knocked, he jumped a little as someone spoke inside his head.

“Detective Killian Barger approached the door and knocked with some trepidation. He had solved many cases in his day, but this one was the strangest yet. The house before him would prove to be his greatest challenge, as would its owner, the reclusive Johnathan Weston.”

Killian looked around, unsure of what was going on, and knocked again.

“Knocking a second time, Mr. Barger was again greeted by little more than the silent reproach of the ancient Victorian. He could not have known that the door to such a lavish manor was unlocked, and would offer no resistance if he just walked right in.”

“Seemed a bit rude to just come in without being invited,” Killian mumbled, but the door proved to be unlocked, just as the voice had said

“Stepping through the door of 1313 West Oak, Killian was greeted by,” Killian ducked an instant before the sword sliced the air over his head, “the blade of Admiral Rodger Starly, a seasoned veteran of the Spanish Navy, and footman to the house of Weston.”

“Jesus!” Killian ejaculated, reaching into his coat and drawing his gun, “Easy fella! The door was open, so I just,”

“Came in like a thief in the night?” the apparition asked, “Well, I dare say it’s a choice you will come to regret.”

He was dressed in the finery of a navy man of the seventeenth century, and the whalebone coat he wore seemed to hinder his swordplay not at all. Killian ducked and dodged, staying just beyond that killing blade as he maneuvered around the foyer. The dark-haired man was quick, light on his feet in a way that Killian found hard to match, but as the 38 came out of his coat, Killian felt a grin stretch his face.

“Pistol beats sword, buddy. Believe it.”

The crash of the revolver startled the Admiral, and as he fell back, Killian heard the voice in his head huff in irritation.

“Killian Barger, hardly a gentleman at all, disposed of his enemy with the great gouting revolver he had tucked in his coat. Would that all his foes might be so easily dispatched he could surely reach the top floor and put an end to the meddlesome writer, but alas, he would find the other obstacles less easy to contend with.”

“Says you, buddy,” Killian breathed, moving into the house's receiving room.

The room had many doors, but what Killian was after was the grand staircase that led up to the second floor. The sooner he got to the top of the stairs and found this mad writer, the better. Killian had enjoyed Weston’s novels, but he was quickly getting tired of being in one. The whole house was written like some sort of death trap, and Killian wasn’t in any hurry to be the next ghost to traverse the Agency’s threshold.

“The grand staircase seemed to ripple before our would-be pursuer. How many debutants had made their debut as they walked down that very staircase? How many men had stood at the bottom and tossed a forget me not to their sweetheart before leaving for war? How many declarations of love had been exchanged on those stairs that our dear Mr. Barger now meant to assail. Would they allow such a climb? Or would they,”

Killian had already turned to the doors that led into the catacombs he was certain the house would be. He chose the one directly behind the staircase, hoping it would lead toward the kitchen. Old houses like this almost always had a servants stairs in the cavernous kitchen, so their masters could enjoy their meals without clogging the main staircase with tromping feet.

The door led not to a warm and steamy kitchen, but a receiving room done all in reds and velvets.

“Our dear Mr. Barger, in his haste to meet the creator of such extravagant luxuries, has stumbled across the boudoir of Elizabeth Fineman,”

From the red fainting couch in the center of the room, a woman in gauzy repose seemed to materialize. Her dress seemed barely capable of containing her, Killian gulped, sizeable dowries, and as she turned, he saw the smolder in her gold-flaked eyes. She propped herself on an elbow, drinking him in with real thirst. Killian was torn between whether to go along with this shameless nonsense or stuff the barrel of his gun into his eager mouth.

He wasn’t even sure it would help, but it was certainly something different than this.

“Let’s not mince words, Mr. Barger,” Elizabeth said as she rose from the small sofa, “I know the desire that lives within you, I feel it too, but you know my heart belongs to Gregor. We must stop the torrid affair before it goes too far, we must part before my betrothed becomes the end to us both.”

As she spoke, she had moved very close to Killian, and the detective had retreated in uncertainty.

“Look, lady, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but all I’m interested in is getting to the top floor so I can get to the bottom of this. I need,” but there was an angry gasp behind him, and both Killian and Elizabeth spun to find a burly man in crushed velvet.

His hair was swooped back like some kind of dandy, but the way his muscles bulged at the suit was enough to tell Killian he could be trouble.

“Ah, but the two had been discovered by Gregor, the oldest son of the Pettigrass line. The sight of his beloved with a strange man filled him with rage, stoking his passions and pushing him to violence.”

“Elizabeth! How could you?”

At some point, she had pushed very close to Killian, and he was careful how he pushed her away so as not to make the impropriety any more apparent.

“Look, buddy, I have no intentions with your gal here. I’m just passing through and I,”

“His words fell on deaf ears. Gregor was filled with rage and the only balm for such a wound would be…”

“Lead,” Killian cut him off, shooting the man before he could break the five-foot mark and come within grabbing distance.

As Gregor fell, Elizabeth cried out and went to him, crying over him as he lay dying on the floor of the sitting room.

“Elizabeth, shocked by the display of cowardly violence, fell before her love, holding him as he presented to her his last lines of love on this side of the veil.”

“Elizabeth,” Gregor croaked, his voice gravely and weak, “I,” but Killian was already in motion.

He didn’t have time for this.

The next room was full of people standing over a dead body, one of them dressed in the garb of Scotland Yard.

“Here lies the Count DeMargello, dead at the feet of his party guests. Furgis Register knew for a certainty that someone in this room was a cold-hearted murderer.”

“Seal off the house! This is a crime scene! Ah, it appears our detective has arrived at,” but Killian strode past him.

He had even less time for this.

“You could at least pretend to play along with some of these, you know. It’s not easy coming up with stories on the fly like this?”

“The only story I want is the one where I make it to the top and get you to knock all this off. As a being with near infinite time, not even I have time for this, Mr. Weston. Now, take me to the attic room so we can put an end to all this.”

The next room Killian entered wasn’t a room at all.

He stepped out onto the deck of a beautiful double-masted Galleon, the crew preparing to repel the crew of the pirate ship coming up on their right side.

“The men of the Widows Spirit clutched their weapons tightly. They couldn’t hope to repel the forces of Captain Redwind, the dread hey, where are you going?”

Killian hadn’t stopped for more than a second. He was searching for the stairs, looking for some way to progress, and as he threw open doors, he finally uncovered the stairs to the galley. He walked out into a lush forest, and as an arrow struck the side of the caravan he had walked out of, Killian kept walking. The bandits moved in around him, more interested in the caravan guards than the lone man in the long coat. One of them lifted a sword at him, but after he shot him dead, the others decided to let the wizard go.

“This is very rude, Mr. Barger.”

Killian kept right on walking.

“I could send you to hell next, you know? Is that what you want? Perhaps to the bottom of the ocean. Maybe inside a volcano. I could send you any number of unpleasant places. Perhaps I will, perhaps that's just what I’ll do, maybe I’ll,” but Killian said nothing. He let the old man ramble as he looked for an exit.

Killian kept walking until he found the burnt-out remains of a farmhouse and the root cellar that would take him to…

Nothing.

He descended into the earth and came out in a pitch-black room with no stairs, no light, and no way out.

“Very well then,” the voice said, “If you won't play along, then you can sit in deep space for all of time.”

Killian shrugged as his feet lost contact with the ground, the stars twinkling to life as he floated in the void.

“That's fine,” he said to no one, “I’m a ghost, Weston, I have nothing but time. You, on the other hand, have something to lose if the Agency sends one of its less tactful Facilitators.”

“Oh really,” this disembodied voice asked, “And what might that be?”

“Whatever comes after this,” he stated flatly, “When they come, they won’t come with words. They’ll come with weapons and with ire and they won’t treat you as gently as I have. They’ll root you out, they’ll destroy your delusions, and you’ll be left to whatever void comes after for geists who don’t move on.”

There was blessed silence for some stretch of time, and Killian found that he quite enjoyed the sensation of floating.

“And will you continue to treat me gently if I invite you to speak with me?” the voice finally asked some indeterminable amount of time later.

“I give you my word that I will treat with you fairly, so long as you do the same to me.”

Suddenly, Killian had weight again. He came to rest on the floor of an attic and space gave way to the small room that window had looked out from. Within was a bed, several shelves ladened with books, and a desk with a typewriter. Behind that desk sat a man in the shrunken throes of extreme old age. He hadn’t looked up as Killian appeared, only continued to write as his bony fingers clacked at the keys. The paper coming from the typewriter was miles long, and every keystroke seemed to add weight to the endeavor.

The two were silent for a moment, the old man ignoring him before finally looking up with frustration from his work as though Killian were wasting his time.

“Very well then, I have brought you here to hear what you have to offer. So, what's your offer?”

Killian shook his head, “There is no offer. I’m here to take you to what lies beyond.”

The old man snorted, “You aren’t very good at this. Aren’t you supposed to offer me more time in exchange for something? Offer me completion, health, expansion of the spirit, something?”

“All I have to offer you is rest, and it looks like you could use it. Aren’t you tired of all this? Wouldn’t you like to rest for a while?”

“Rest?” Johnathan scoffed, “Who has time for rest? I have so much to do, so many stories to tell, so much unfinished business. I need more time, more time, and then I can rest. Only when my work is complete will I truly be at rest.”

Killian laughed, and the old man paused in his typing to look at him, “Did I say something funny?”

“Even if I could grant you more time, it would never be enough. A day, a year, a lifetime, you would still say it isn’t long enough. You have written all you can, Johnathan Westin. Lay your burdens down and come to the other side while you still can.”

He looked skeptical, but Killian noticed that he had stopped writing.

“What's beyond that door, detective? What waits on the other side for a man like me? Will God welcome me as an equal? Will he scoff at my labors? Will I be as a flea to those who created everything?”

“I can’t speak for what lies beyond, I’ve never been, but I can say that whatever lies on the other side is real. The longer you linger in your own mausoleum, the less likely you are to ever move on to what comes next. Do yourself a favor, and lay your burdens down for a while.”

Johnathan Westin looked into the placid keys of his typewriter and fetched a huge sigh from the depths of his soul.

“Perhaps you're right. I‘ve lived with the hollow shells I’ve made for much too long. Will you walk with me when I go? Will you lead me there?”

Killian reached out a hand, “I’d be glad to.”

* * * * *

“So they all just turned to ash where they stood,” Killian said, sitting once more across from Carla.

“That's what they tell me. When Johnathan Westin crossed the threshold, the ghosts he had created turned to dust and were no more.”

Killian thought about that for a moment before getting up and taking his leave.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Carla asked

“The Asylum,” Killian answered, “It’s been a long day, and I think I’d like to visit someone who's happy to see me for a change.”