The Strange Tales of Killian Barger: Ghost Writer

"For the last two years, I've been plagued by the ghost of my husband. At first, it was comforting, but over time, he's become a nightmare."

The pale man seated beside her on the couch looked extremely upset as she spoke, but all Killian could focus on was the itch at the back of his neck. There was always an itch when he met with these sorts of clients, and he had to force himself not to look at the mirror just to her left. He knew what he would see there, but the feeling of vertigo that always came with it was extremely unpleasant.

Seeing someone who wasn't you staring back was always a little odd.

Killian had possessed a veyance before, but it always seemed strange to wear someone else's skin.

The pale man stared at his wife with real scorn, and she shuddered as his regard fell onto her like a snow drift.

"That's a lie," he said, his voice croaky but still full of malice, "this," he ground his teeth together before letting his rage get the better of him, "woman has stolen the only thing I have left. She continues to take from me, and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it."

Killian sighed and took out his notebook. As a police officer, he had often spoken to squabbling partners, solving domestic disputes, and finding the problem parties. As a detective, his job was to determine who might be a problem among the concerned parties. It wasn't uncommon for one of the parents to be responsible for a missing child, and the ability to sense who was cheating on whom was helpful too.

This, though, was a little bit different.

His work with the Agency often exceeded anything he had ever done for the force or his own office.

"Hey," grumbled a voice in his head, "you wanna hurry up? It's a little cramped in here with the two of us taking up space."

Case in point, his veyance was getting claustrophobic.

"Sorry, Rain. Just need a little more time here."

"That's great and all, but there's a surprisingly small amount of legroom in the back of my own subconscious. So if you could hurry it up, I'd really appreciate it."

Killian nodded before realizing that Rain would have no way to see it.

Renard Dupree, Rain to his friends, was a part-time Vayence and a full-time psychic. Rain was one of only a handful of humans who knew about the Agency, and most psychics, the real ones at least, had a working relationship with them. You see, when that old lady in the headscarf has her eyes rolled up to the whites so she can channel your great grandma, what she's really doing is requesting information from the Agency and having that ghostly bureaucracy check to see if you have the clearance to know that level of the unknowable.

Neat, huh?

Instead of actually talking to your relatives, you're just talking to some old mouthpiece who's using his afterlife to keep the cogs turning in an endless stream of paperwork and misinformation.

The trade-off for having information fed to you as you pretended to be a vessel for spirits was that sometimes you actually got to be a vessel for spirits. The Agency tasked these mediums and psychics as vayences so they could move around the real world, and it was dead useful sometimes to interact with the living world. This allowed the Agency to solve problems like this one without having to tip off the living. Hence why Rain and Killian were working on a ventriloquism routine in the living room of the recently deceased and his wife. Killian wasn't sure why he had been sent. This was something a Junior Investigator could have handled and a little outside his paygrade. Still, Killian didn't have much else to do these days, so he'd agreed.

"What seems to be the problem?" Killian asked, licking the tip of his pencil and feeling Rain shudder a little.

"I left behind an unfinished manuscript when I died." the Pale Man began.

"After my husband died, I worried that his legacy would be unfinished," his wife cut in, and Killian realized that the two couldn't hear each other.

"Wait, wait, wait," Killian said, waving his hands before they started talking over each other, "Let's start with your names."

"I'm Rayla,"

"I'm Mark," the Pale Man added, but Rayla looked at him strangely.

"Wait, can you SEE him?"

Killian smirked, "Well, of course. How else did you expect this would work?"

Rayla laughed, "Of course, that makes sense."

"Why don't you start, Mark?" Killian asked, and the Pale Man nodded as he began again.

"I left behind an unfinished manuscript when I died. I've been writing installments for a certain series for years, but just as I was finishing the fifth book, I died in my sleep from a massive brain aneurism. I was stuck here, my business unfinished, but the longer I lingered around the apartment, the more I came to understand what I could do. I figured out that I could influence Rayla through her dreams. I told her how she could get my manuscript and send it to my editor so the series could be completed up to that point. With the last manuscript wrapped up, my business could be concluded so I could move on."

"Except," Killian said, "that clearly wasn't it."

Rayla nodded, "After that, I expected he would leave. I," she looked away, "well, I knew he had other books in mind for his series and offered to help him make the full series a reality. In truth, I wasn't ready to lose Mark. After all, he was my husband, and I enjoyed getting to spend a little more time with him. So we started writing another book. Mark had lots of ideas, and after six months, we had a first draft to send to his editor. He loved it. He was so glad to see another lost book in his series, and I was glad to see him happy. He would occupy me as we wrote, and I could feel how happy he was with the work and the completion of his dream. Mark had intended there to be nine books, and I supposed he would leave after we finished his life's work."

Killian turned to Mark, and the gaunt man nodded, looking torn by the sentiment.

"At first, it was fine. Better than fine; it was great. My wife had never been an active part of my writing, though I got the feeling she was curious about it. It was the only aspect of my life that Rayla wasn't a part of, and helping me write seemed to make her feel closer to me."

Killian watched as that ghostly pale hand slid over to touch his wife's arm, and as that pale skin touched hers, Rayla flinched away as she looked at the empty place on the couch with trepidation.

The flinch seemed to reignite his anger, not something terribly uncommon in spirits, and when Mark turned back, all the love that had been present there was gone.

"Then she changed my story."

He looked furious, his face seeming to twist as the anger flashed beneath the surface. Killian understood why they had sent him now. The Agency didn't just send Facilitators out for no good reason, and this man's rage was something frightening. Spirits, as a rule, were not supposed to experience strong emotions. They were like static images, inhabiting a space until their energy was expended. Most people could make a ghost for a couple of hundred years, something that likely felt like mere years for the ghost, and couldn't do much more than flicker the lights or a little low wailing.

Most "hauntings" were little more than poor uncle Phil telling his great-grandniece that he was tired of keeping up with the Kardashians.

Guys like Mark, however, were a little different. Mark had a purpose, something that was dear to him, and he felt that his death was untimely and unfair. He was already bubbling with confusion and desolation, and now whatever was happening here was pushing him towards undiluted rage. Ghosts, Killian had come to understand, were like toddlers. They didn't have a wide spectrum of emotions and were mostly limited to Mad, or Sad, or Happy, or Jealous, or something easy to define. Any of these emotions could be dangerous since spirits were mostly made of emotions, with just a little bit of soul mixed in to make the process just that murkier.

That scene in Ghost where Sam pushes the guy who murdered him?

That's almost impossible for your average spirit to accomplish unless he has a whole lot of emotion behind him, and guys like Mark almost always did.

Murder victims, honor students, and creatives with a high opinion of themselves were usually the bane of Killian's existence.

Killian turned back to Rayla, feeling silly as he played mediator in what would otherwise be a one-sided conversation, "Mark says you changed his book. Apparently, he's not a fan of the revisions."

Rayla looked confused for a moment before huffing out a breath and rolling her eyes, "Oh God, is that what he's on about?"

Turning to the empty place, empty to her at least, she would have been quite a bit less shouty if she could see Mark's face.

His teeth were skinned back like a wolf preparing to bite.

"It was one time, Mark. I changed one character. Are you still hung up on that?"

Mark looked ready to bite, and as the bulbs began to pulse in the light sockets, Killian realized this might be deeper than a simple revision.

"One character? ONE CHARACTER?" he shouted, ethereal spittle pattering unnoticed on her cheek, "You left Elizabeth Maker alive! Elizabeth Maker was supposed to die in book seven. She was never supposed to exist after the fall of the Lupricallia Council!"

The two had been unknowingly having a staring contest, but when the first of the bulbs popped like a firecracker, Rayla flinched and looked around in surprise.

"He's saying that you left a character alive that he intended to die. He's saying Elizabeth Maker wasn't supposed to survive past seven."

She cleared her throat, but some of Rayla's bluster had evaporated as the lights continued to strobe.

"Yeah, he wanted Elizabeth to die at the end of the seventh book, but I didn't want to kill her."

Killian looked at his notebook, Rain grumbling in the back of his head as he tried to make sense of all this.

"You'll have to excuse me. We don't really get new releases at the Agency, so don't be offended when I ask what the hell you two are talking about?"

Mark and Rayla looked equally as astonished at Killian's naivety.

"Have you never heard of Lines of Succession?" Rayla asked

"Can't say as I have," Killian said, "work keeps me pretty busy. Is it popular?"

"It's only one of the most prominent fantasy series of the last three years." Mark said, "I was in talks with AMC and Showtime for a series before I died."

“Geeze, Killian. You’ve never heard of Lines of Succession? You don't get out much, do you?” Rain said smuggly from the back seat.

Killian ignored him and pressed on.

"So, why didn't you kill off this character if Mark wanted her dead? He's writing the book, so then shouldn't she be dead?"

"Elizabeth Maker isn't just some character. She's the love interest of Maxim Niles. Mark intended to sacrifice her in order to bring the Temple of Fangs down on the heads of the Lupricallia Council. He knows that Elizabeth is my favorite character. Hell, the FANS love Elizabeth too, and he knew that."

"Her sacrifice was symbolic!" Mark shouted, Rayla stuttering as her breath came out in a puff of smoke, "It was meant to push Maxim to fight the Shadow Pack to avenge her death in the eighth book! Now he has no real motivation to continue the fight. He won't even know of the Pack Lord, and he won't find his honorable death at the end of book nine! You've ruined everything!"

Another bulb popped, and Rain began to whisper from the backseat again.

"Okay, okay," Killian said, wanting to calm Mark down before he let his anger overtop him, "So why not just rewrite the story so you can have the ending the way you want it?"

This turned out to be the wrong question.

"BECAUSE SHE SENT A COPY OF THE MANUSCRIPT TO MY EDITOR, AGAINST MY WISHES!" Mark screamed, practically vibrating off the sofa as he shouted.

"He kept sabotaging the manuscript. He did something to the computer so I couldn't use it, and if it hadn't been saved online, I'd have had to rewrite it. So I sent it to the editor from an internet cafe, and I'm glad I did. They liked the fact that she survived. The fans liked that she survived, and the book has tested very," but she stopped talking when the first book rose off the shelf and pelted towards her.

Killian barely ducked another one, and soon the air was full of flying missiles. The books, the knick-knacks on the shelves, and the magazines on the end table had all begun to flash around like lawn furniture in a tornado, and Killian reached over to pull Rayla away as Mark's ghostly form began to float off the couch. The two of them backed towards the corner, Killian grabbing a tv tray as he knocked the books that chased them out of the air.

As Mark floated, his pale skin became an ethereal green. Rayla gasped, her eyes growing wide as Killian realized she could see him too. Rain was gibbering, asking little questions in a high, panicked voice, but Killian turned him way down. This was why they had sent him. The Agency knew Mark was getting ready to go nuclear, full-blown poltergeist, and they needed someone to talk him down, or to take him down. Killian may have been able to do that, but he didn't think the Agency had known how short Mark's fuse was. Mark could be saved, just like a certain little girl Killian knew had been saved, but he had to act fast.

There was a storm brewing, and it threatened to drag Mark into the vortex.

Killian stepped out as the wind whipped at the cuffs of his ridiculous purple shirt, his tv tray still at the ready should something come flying his way.

"Mark, Mark Gabriel Francis," Killian shouted, seeing him shudder as the power of his full name fell upon him, "I know you're angry, but you're in real danger if you keep this up."

Mark was standing at the center of a swirling whirlwind. One of the bookshelves fell over, the last of its books now circling in the storm, and the gray ottoman seemed to be hanging on by its peg legs. The wind swirled with papers, knick-knacks, books, and other small items that the growing tornado had picked up. Mark's eyes rolled to the whites, and Killian saw them run with bloody tears. Blood ran from his ears and nose, too, likely the way he had looked in death, but he was no more ghastly a creature than some of the others Killian had helped.

"You are on the cusp of becoming something terrible. Don't let your anger make you a monster."

"WHAT CHOICE DO I HAVE?" Mark bellowed, "SHE'S RUINED EVERYTHING. SHE'S RUINED MY VISION! I CAN'T LET HER GET AWAY WITH THIS! SHE CAN'T BE ALLOWED TO LIVE. SHE CAN'T BE ALLOWED TO TAINT MY IDEAS ANY FURTHER."

Killian ducked another book, a heavy tome that would have likely laid his veyance out, and tried again.

"I know you're angry. There's nothing worse than dying without closure, but this isn't the way to get it. If you give in to your rage, you won't be able to pass on. You'll be stuck with nothing but the candle of your emotions, just waiting for it to burn out and leave you in darkness."

Mark laughed, and the sound made the windows shudder in their frames, "THEN WHAT? HELL AWAITS ME? I DON'T BELIEVE IN THAT SHIT! DON'T TRY TO PREACH TO ME. I'M BEYOND SUCH THINGS NOW."

"There are worse things than Hell, Mark. Hell is many things to many people, but there's a darker void for those who Hell won't take."

A paperback crashed into Killian's shoulder, but it was all the response he received. Mark hung in the center like a terrible eye to the building storm, and even his name had no effect on him now. As the cutlery flew over the island that separated the kitchen from the living room, Killian took a step back and rejoined the huddled widow. Rain was bemoaning that he had ever signed up for this shit and praying to God that if he ever got out of this situation, he would return to church and find a job that required fewer dead people to occupy his head. Killian wanted to tell him to shut up, but he felt a little like praying himself.

This was getting dicey, and his options would be limited pretty soon.

Killian touched the little 38 in his pocket, feeling secure with the knowledge it was there. It wasn't really a 38, not more than any of the weapons manifested by the members of the Agency, but it was Killian's source of power and his only means of attacking spirits. He would have to exit his veyance to use it, but he doubted Rain would mind much

Something rankled him as he thought about the gun, though.

The voice said it wasn't time for that yet, but soon there would be no other choice.

He looked back at Rayla and yelled over the typhoon, "If you want to talk to him, now would be the time. We're almost past the point of being able to save him.”

Rayla looked undecided as she hunkered in her corner, but Rain's shouts told Killian flatly that this was a bad idea.

"Are you crazy? He'll kill her! She's the source of his anger. He'll rip her to pieces if you send her out there!"

Killian thought about that, taking Rayla by the shoulders and asking something he should have asked from the start.

"Did you have a good reason to save Elizabeth?"

Rayla looked disbelievingly at Killian, but the nod that came in the wake of his question told him that he was on the right track.

"Then go tell him that," Killian said, pointing to Mark as he prepared to draw the walls of their apartment in like a black hole.

"And if he kills her?" Rain asked, "Your Agency won't like that one bit."

"Fuck the Agency. They wanted me to handle this; I'm handling it. Rayla," he said, speaking out loud again as he shook the scared woman a little to gain her attention, "This may be your last chance to talk to your husband on this side. If you need to tell him something, now is the time."

Rayla looked past Killian, and as she got to her feet, Killian was reminded of a newborn giraffe he'd seen on a nature show once.

Each step seemed to be less sure than the one before it, and as Rayla approached Mark, that terrible figure turned to look at her.

"Mark," she half whispered, a fillet knife missing her by inches as she shrank to her knees, "do you know why I spared Elizabeth?"

"BECAUSE YOU NEVER UNDERSTOOD MY WORK! YOU ALWAYS RESENTED THAT I PUT IT BEFORE ANYTHING. YOU BLAMED IT FOR US NEVER HAVING CHILDREN, FOR THE FIGHTS WE OFTEN HAD, AND ULTIMATELY YOU BLAME THE STRESS FOR MY DEATH!" He bellowed, and Rayle had to shift a little to avoid several paperbacks that ruffled the top of her head.

"It was because I knew how it would make Maxim feel," she yelled, and some of the items that had been prepared to careen into her stopped in mid-air.

She looked up at Mark, his face clearly inviting her to explain.

"I thought about that broken man, his love ended in the pursuit of his quest, and I remembered how much it had hurt to lose you. Your life was over, but I was left behind to figure out what came next. I reread your books after the funeral, consuming them all in the space of a week. In a way, they became like the children we never had. They were the only piece of you I had left, and I cherished them. When you came back to me, inviting me to help you finish your work, I felt closer to you than I had in our entire marriage."

His eyes had unrolled, the blood fading from his face as she spoke, and as Mark floated back towards the couch, the items in the whirlwind hung frozen in space like planets caught mid-orbit.

"In a way, these new books were our children. Born from your mind and my effort, I cherished them all the more. When you told me to kill Elizabeth, though, I knew I couldn't. She's too important to Maxim, and I didn't want him to know the loss that I had felt. I don't want anyone to feel that loss; I don't want to feel that loss ever again."

When he wrapped his arms around her, she pushed against him as if he were flesh and blood.

The items dropped around them, the knives thankfully falling to the carpet as opposed to anyone made of meat, and Killian fetched a deep sigh as he realized that it was finally over.

"Tell your boss that there better be hazard pay involved in this," Rain said, clearly not sharing in the fuzzy moment going on around them, "I was never warned that my body might be in danger while you guys use it for these little walkabouts."

"Just soak it in, junior." Killian shot back, smiling as the two reconciled quietly, "These are the little wins that are few and far between."

"Would you have really shot him?" Rain asked.

Killian watched them, the glow coming off them like a space heater in mid-February.

"I've shot people I liked a lot more than him, and it's my job to put down the monsters when they burst out of their human form. Luckily, tonight, that wasn't necessary."

Killian hoped that a return trip wouldn't be necessary either.

Perhaps the two would find a way to finish Mark's legacy without the need for Agency intervention this time.

"Come on, Rain," Killian said, rising up and heading for the door, "I think our work is done here."