Nearly Departed Read online

  Dennis hammered on the glass door of the curio shop, pausing only to peer into the darkened interior.

  “Draadtrekker! Open up, I know you’re still in there!” He pounded harder, drawing concerned stares from an elderly couple that was walking by. He gave them what he hoped was a reassuring smile before turning back to the shop. “Draadtrekker!” he yelled again. He cupped a hand around his eyes and pressed his face up against the dusty glass. There was a dim light coming from somewhere at the back of the shop, probably through the doorway to a private room.

  Dennis took a few steps back, almost into the street, and examined the building. There was an alleyway a few yards to the right, traveling into a refuse-laden maze of broken bottles and cardboard. He ran through the opening, hurdling over obstacles as he encountered them, and skidded out next to a collection of dented and stained dumpsters. There was an open door set into the unpainted brick, and a few wisps of incense smoke still drifted through the still air. Someone had been out here very recently, and Dennis was willing to bet that he knew who.

  Under normal circumstances, he might have felt some hesitation about the prospect of trespassing, particularly at night. Normal circumstances, however, did not generally include the ghosts of British teenagers and magical buzzing rocks. He plunged through the doorway, ready to confront the shop’s dreadlocked owner, but encountered only an empty room. The ancient lights cast a muted yellow glow on a space that reminded Dennis of a school cafeteria, with a faux-tile floor and a collection of waist-high cabinets. There was a battered folding table, rather out of place at the room’s center, surrounded by four equally weathered collapsible chairs.

  The door leading out into the shop’s main area was still open, and Dennis peered through. Everything about the store felt different in the dark, and not just because the merchandise had apparently been migrating again. He stepped into the room, his eyes moving from the front windows to the cash register, looking for any signs of life. The shop looked deserted. Dennis was about to turn and exit when he felt a sudden pain as a porcelain statue shattered over his head.

  The blow came more as a shock than anything else, but it was enough to knock him off-balance. He quickly ducked away, staggering further into the shop, and he caught sight of his assailant. The giant figure stood silhouetted by the sickly light from the back room, its powerful arms raised to chest level. For a moment, Dennis thought that Draadtrekker had somehow managed to get behind him, but then he noticed that the figure lacked the storekeeper’s distinctive hair. Even through his quickly-rising panic, a voice in Dennis’ head sardonically commented about the irony of breaking in at just the right time to stop a robbery.

  Dennis backpedaled away from the figure, fighting to stay upright. He collided with something behind him, and there was a clatter of objects smashing together. As he fought to steady himself, his fingers closed on a long wooden object, and he slashed it forward, brandishing it like a club. The figure let out a deep growl and advanced, his motions slow, as though he was trying to gauge his opponent. Dennis did his best to appear confident, despite knowing that he was likely outclassed in ability as well as size.

  “Come on, you bastard!” Dennis yelled defiantly. His voice cracked, but it was apparently enough to give the figure pause. Although the dim light made seeing details next to impossible, Dennis could make out the shape of the man’s head as it turned, and he followed the gaze to a collection of wooden busts on the floor.

  Some deep, primal sense of survival made Dennis’ limbs tense. The man bent to snatch one of the sculptures, and Dennis rushed forward, bringing his own weapon down at the figure’s head. The blow connected with the man’s shoulder, and there was a sharp pain in Dennis’ leg as the man swung a heavy statue at his knee. He hopped backwards and stumbled to the ground, his leg throbbing where he had been hit. He could see a shadow advancing on him, and lashed out with a kick at the man’s midsection. There was a grunt of pain and a resounding crash as the figure was pushed back into one of the display tables, and Dennis scrambled to get to his feet.

  Before he could rise completely, Dennis was battered by a fist coming down on his back. He felt his breath forced out of him and he fell back to the floor, his nose inches from the other man’s feet. Again relying on instinct, Dennis dropped his improvised weapon and clawed at the man’s shoe, pulling it forward with a desperate jerk. The man stumbled and fell sideways, barely missing a glass display case. A ring of darkness at the edges of Dennis’ vision threatened to make him pass out for the second time in as many hours, and he gasped for air as he pulled away from his attacker.

  The figure lurched into a sitting position and crawled forward, his breath audible over the roar in Dennis’ ears. Dennis managed to wrestle his feet beneath him, and mustering as much strength as he could, he sprang at the man. The attack seemed to catch him by surprise, and he fell backwards, bringing his hands up in front of his face. Dennis landed heavily on the man’s chest and started pummeling him with adrenaline-fueled blows. Most of them were deflected by the man’s forearms, but one lucky strike connected with his jaw. The man’s head jerked away, and his entire body rolled under Dennis’ weight, throwing him to the side. Dennis held out an arm to catch himself, and landed painfully amongst the pile of toppled wooden busts.

  There was a burning, pulsing sensation in Dennis’ muscles as he rolled from the pile of statues, and he could feel his strength beginning to fade. He heard movement behind him, and he grabbed the first object that his fingers encountered. Dennis slammed the statue down, not caring where he hit. The blow connected, and the man let out a yelp of pain, curling into a ball as Dennis rose to his knees, bringing the sculpture up for a second attack.

  “Stop, stop!” came a muffled voice from the floor. “No more, please!” Dennis halted in mid-swing, but stayed ready to deliver the blow. The man waved a hand, his arms still in front of its face. “Just take whatever you want and go!”

  Dennis fell back into a sitting position. The voice, although devoid of any exotic quality and now colored with an English accent, was irrefutably familiar.

  “Draadtrekker?” Dennis wheezed. The figure peered out from behind crossed arms. In the dim light, Dennis could barely make out the face of the shop’s owner, staring at him with wide eyes.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Dennis did not answer, feeling both stunned and out of breath. He stared at the man huddled on the floor, his mind racing. The sound of his own heartbeat, which he had not even realized he could hear, gradually faded from his ears.

  “I…” he stammered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was you.”

  Draadtrekker’s arms moved down a bit further, but he kept them defensively crossed. “Doctor September?”

  “Yeah,” replied Dennis. He let the statue fall into the pile of its brethren, held his face in his hands, and let out a shaking breath. “Christ, Draadtrekker, I thought you were a burglar.”

  Draadtrekker cleared his throat, a trace of confused panic in the noise. “What the fuck, may I ask, are you doing in my shop?” He stayed curled on the floor, his breath still panting between his arms. Dennis felt something rising in his throat, and held his own breath to keep from vomiting. After steadying himself, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the carved stone, which he set on the floor between them. Draadtrekker cautiously unfolded his arms, and reached forward to take the stone.

  “What the hell is that thing?” Dennis asked quietly. Draadtrekker hauled himself into a sitting position and looked up from the stone in his hand.

  “This is why you broke in?” His voice was wavering, and he swallowed once. “It’s a trinket, September.”

  Dennis scowled between his fingers. “Look, the sooner you give me a decent explanation, the sooner you can go back to playing musical chairs with all this garbage.” He gestured halfheartedly at the mess that the fight had caused.

  Draadtrekker stared at Dennis, and his wide eyes narrowed with subtle disgust. “Are you drunk? Your breath
smells like cheap spirits.”

  In spite of himself, Dennis began to giggle. “Spirits are exactly my problem!” he laughed, feeling slightly manic. “I just met a ghost, Draadtrekker! A real ghost! And that stupid rock of yours started buzzing as soon as she showed up!” He shook his head, feeling torn between laughter and tears. “I don’t have a clue about what’s happening to me today, but I have a feeling that you know more about it than I do, and I am not leaving here until I get some answers.” Had he been in a more rational mood, Dennis doubted that he would have been behaving this way. As it was, though, his entire body was shaking, and he tilted his head up with a wild expression. “So start talking.”

  “Look, mate, I don’t know what you’re on about, okay?” He held up his hands, two fingers still grasping the rock. “I won’t call the cops,” the man continued, “just go home and sleep this off.”

  “No, that’s not...” Dennis’s voice caught in his throat. He swallowed, tasting bile. “Damn it, look, I’m sorry.” Draadtrekker seemed to deflate somewhat, apparently confused by the apology. Dennis regarded him quizzically, still trying to steady his own nerves. The two men sat in silence, each of them catching their breath.

  “You’re not African, are you?” Dennis asked at last. Draadtrekker blinked in surprise.

  “I’m from Greenwich,” he replied. He slowly lowered his arms, watching Dennis carefully. “That’s England to you, not Connecticut.”

  “So, you’re British, then.”

  “Too right.” He kept staring down at Dennis, his gaze slowly hardened. “I don’t know what your problem is, September, but I think you had better be leaving.”

  Dennis held up his own hands. “Calm down, I can explain,” he said, pulling himself together. “That’s not really my name. It’s just something that I made up.”

  The bigger man’s expression had gone from seriousness to puzzlement. “What’s your real name, then?” he asked.

  “It’s Dennis. I’m a writer. I didn’t mean to cause a scene, I just came here to talk.”

  “I’ve met better conversationalists.” The look on the man’s face was wavering between curiosity and relief. After a long moment, he appeared to make a decision. “My name’s Bobo.”

  Dennis arched an eyebrow. “Bobo?”

  “Yeah,” the man replied. “It’s short for Barnaby, but no one ever calls me that.”

  “Well, Bobo,” Dennis began, “it’s nice to meet you, I suppose.”

  Bobo tilted his head from one side to the other, as though mulling something over in his head. When he finally spoke, the beginnings of a nervous smile showed on his face. “I think I’ll stick with calling you September, if that’s alright with you.”

  “You may call me what you wish,” Dennis replied. Then he snorted and shook his head.

  “Something funny?”

  “Let me tell you a story, Bobo.”

  Over the next several minutes, Dennis did his best to explain the truth about himself. He started off hurriedly, still trying to make up for his earlier behavior, but he relaxed considerably when Bobo admitted that he had actually read Dennis’ book. Although he had never made the connection with the man called September, he had no problems accepting Dennis’ true identity. Midway through the story, Bobo invited Dennis into the rear of the shop, and the two men limped back into the room where Dennis had first entered. After retrieving two lukewarm bottles of soda from a sloshing cooler, Bobo sat down at the folding table, and Dennis joined him. Uncomfortable though the chair was, he could feel his limbs sag with relief.

  When the story was finished, Bobo sat quietly for a few minutes before launching into his own tale. He had been born and raised in England. Having heard numerous stories of the world beyond his hometown, but never having seen any of it, he had decided to travel when he was old enough, and he had eventually wound up in California. “I came out thinking it’d be all beaches and models,” he confessed. “It’s what most blokes think of. Hollywood and all that. There’s no mention of anything like the real thing.” Still, despite his initial letdown, Bobo had decided that he liked the Bay Area, and had remained. He had been offered a job in the curio shop by the previous owner who, by Bobo’s description, had been the sort of person that Dennis encountered while in the guise of Doctor September. “When she retired,” Bobo explained, “she sold me the shop, and I’ve never had call to leave.”

  “So, where did this whole Draadtrekker thing come from?” Dennis asked. Bobo let out a short chuckle.

  “It means ‘wanker,’” he explained. “I thought it’d be funny. See, when I had my interview here, the lady thought I was putting on a show with my English accent.” His head slumped between his shoulders, but his face stayed lit by his grin. “She told me that I was safe to be myself. She really meant that she thought I was someone else.”

  Dennis nodded knowingly. “Hence the act.”

  “Bloody ironic, that,” replied Bobo, straightening. “But it stuck, and I had all sorts of business from people what thought they were dealing with some sort of shaman. Amazing what a wig and a poncho can do.” He regarded Dennis thoughtfully. “I hope you realize I could still call the police.”

  “We both know that you won’t,” said Dennis. He looked towards the ceiling and let out a long breath.

  “Yeah? Why’s that, then?”

  Dennis looked back at the man. “Because we’re both frauds, and now we’ve both done something real by accident.”

  “Real? What are you on about?”

  Dennis eyed Bobo incredulously. “The rock? The magic stone vibrator?”

  Bobo stared at Dennis in disbelief. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” He reached into his pocket and produced the stone. His big hands fumbled with it, hiding his actions from view. When they parted, Dennis found himself looking at two halves, and the metal seam that had been holding them together.

  “See? It’s a bloody fake,” said Bobo. He placed the two pieces on the table. “It’s on a timer. Goes off every eight hours.” Sure enough, there was a small battery inside one of the two stone halves, as well as a miniature circuit board and what looked like a tiny motor.

  Dennis reached out and gingerly took one of the pieces. “This seems like it would be bad for business,” he said. He received an affirmative grunt in reply.

  “It’s the first of its kind. I wanted to try it out. Guess I won’t be doing that again, seeing the results I got.” Bobo drained the rest of his drink before continuing. “Of course, how was I to know it’d put you in a tizzy?”

  “It wasn’t the rock that set me off.” Dennis lifted the other stone half and held it against its twin. He could see now where the seam blended into the carvings, making the entire thing look like a solid piece. “You made this?” he asked, impressed.

  Bobo’s pride was evident. “Dad was an electrician. Guess I have the genetics for it.” He aimed a finger at the carvings. “The real bugger was making the rock, actually. Took me forever to get it right.” He looked up at Dennis again, suddenly appearing suspicious. “Hang on. You said the rock didn’t set you off. What did, then?”

  Dennis coughed, cleared his throat, and sniffed in rapid succession, and then chewed on the corner of his lower lip. Bobo watched the act with an unchanging expression.

  “Okay, look, this is going to sound crazy,” Dennis began, unsure of how to proceed.

  “A real ghost, yeah?” Bobo smiled knowingly. “Come on, after that bit, the genuine article can’t be too bad.”

  “Well, that is the genuine article,” replied Dennis. Bobo’s smile stayed frozen on his face, but the warmth left it. “I know it sounds nuts, but I just had a close encounter.”

  “Are you saying you was abducted?”

  “Different sort of encounter,” Dennis said, shaking his head. “There’s this lady who lives in Marin. She’s British too, actually.”

  “Because everyone knows only Brits have ghosts,” Bobo stated. Dennis eyed him, unsure if the man was joking or not. He decide
d to continue as though he hadn’t heard anything.

  “Anyway, she has this sister. A dead sister. And this dead sister haunts a chair.”

  Bobo’s smile had diminished considerably, and his eyes roamed Dennis’ face. After a moment, his amusement returned in full force, and the man spoke through a guffaw.

  “You’re putting me on!” he said. “Come on, September, you expect me to swallow that tripe?”

  “I sure didn’t,” Dennis muttered, recalling his fainting episode. “Your stupid rock went off right when she showed up, so I came to the natural conclusion.”

  “That someone was having a laugh at you?” Bobo asked. “Yeah, I’m familiar with the feeling.”

  Dennis felt his ire rising. “Look, I’m telling the truth.” He tossed the pieces of the stone onto the table. They clattered together before one of them bounced off onto the floor. “I’ve been pretending to be a paranormal investigator for months, and I haven’t seen anything to make me believe in ghosts.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not before today, anyway.”

  Bobo had gone back to holding an uncertain expression. “Are you drunk?” he asked again.

  “Do I seem drunk?” Dennis shot back.

  “Well, as I mentioned, you smell a bit like it.”

  “Elspeth gave me some gin after I passed out.” He interrupted Bobo as the man was preparing to speak again. “Yes, I passed out after seeing a ghost. So sue me.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Dennis blinked. “Elspeth Palin? The lady with the spectral sister?”

  “What? You never told me her name,” Bobo pointed out. “I’m not psychic, you know.” He started pushing the remaining half of the stone around on the table, making a surprisingly loud scratching noise on the plastic surface.

  “Her name is Elspeth. Her sister’s name is Evelyn, but she goes by Evy.”

  “That’s the dead one,” Bobo said, not looking up. Dennis nodded.

  “She’s paying me to get rid of her. Elspeth is paying me, I mean,” he added. “A thousand dollars a week.”

  The stone slipped out from beneath Bobo’s finger and shot off the table. Dennis watched it slide across the faux-tile floor and disappear under a row of standing cabinets. When he looked back, he was met by Bobo’s intense and disbelieving gaze.

  “Bollocks,” Bobo said.

  “No, it’s true.” Dennis pulled the folded check from his pocket, and displayed the writing on its surface. Bobo leaned forward with an appraising look, and Dennis could see him counting the zeros. After he was apparently satisfied, Bobo’s eyes went back to Dennis’.

  “We’re talking a real ghost, here?” he asked. His voice carried a tone that put Dennis slightly on edge.

  “Yes,” he replied hesitantly. “A real ghost.”

  Bobo examined Dennis’ face for a moment longer. “I suppose,” he said, making a show of carefully weighing his next words, “that if some lady is willing to pay you that much to help her, then it must be the real thing.” He sat back in his chair, which creaked in protest. “It would explain a few items, too.”

  “I’m glad that a check is all it takes to convince you,” said Dennis, a touch sarcastically. He refolded the paper and slipped it out of sight. “Explain what, exactly?”

  Bobo shrugged. “Your reflection was watching you, is all.” He looked back at Dennis, who said nothing. “Come on, now, you haven’t heard of this?”

  “Heard of what?” Dennis asked flatly. “Reflections always watch you, at least when you’re looking at them.”

  Bobo shook his head. “It’s a fairy story I heard when I was younger. Yeah, you’re right, reflections look back at you, but there’s a difference between looking and watching.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on, I’ll show you,” Bobo said, standing up. After a pause, Dennis rose and followed him back into the main section of the shop. A few minutes of rummaging through various merchandise revealed an ornate and tarnished silver mirror, which Bobo held out to Dennis. “Have a look.”

  There was nothing strange about Dennis’ reflection, save for a few shards of porcelain still clinging to his hair. He grimaced as he brushed them out, then examined the sight of himself. With the flakes of dried glue and streaked makeup on his face, he did in fact look like a disheveled drunk. Other than that, though, the image appeared normal. He glanced up at Bobo.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “They say that when a person is about to experience something magical, or sometimes when they’re already in thick of it, that their reflection will judge their actions.” He pushed the mirror closer to Dennis’ face. “Look again, you’re not trying.”

  “If I try hard enough, I’m sure I can make myself see Paris in there,” Dennis replied. He looked around the mirror at Bobo. “Listen, this isn’t a game.”

  Bobo carefully put the mirror down on the multilevel display table where he had found it. “Alright, suit yourself.” He turned back to Dennis. “If you want my help, you’re going to have to be a little more open-minded, is all.”

  “Who said I wanted your help?” Dennis asked, rather more rudely than he had intended. Bobo seemed unaffected by the question, and he gestured around at the shop as a response.

  “Look around, September. I know all there is to know about this New Age mumbo-jumbo. I’m what you’d call a bona-fide expert.”

  “Hitting me with a porcelain Jesus does not count as expert advice,” Dennis countered, but he considered Bobo’s words. He was only too aware of the various bits of so-called culture that he had picked up during his numerous excursions, but he had to admit that he knew next to nothing about the myths and superstitions that surrounded them. Besides, Bobo was right about being an expert. Dennis had overheard him droning on to anyone who would listen about the secrets of the spirit world, and although he had always dismissed it as a sales technique, it seemed unpredictably applicable to the current situation.

  “Okay, fine,” Dennis conceded. “You can help me. I’m not going to ask Elspeth for more money, though, so you’ll have to make do with a cut of my weekly payment.”

  “You can keep your money,” replied Bobo. “I’ll settle for seeing a real ghost!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “So, when do we start?”

  “In two days,” answered Dennis. “I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty, and we can head over to the house together.” A thought occurred to him. “Won’t you need someone to run your shop?”

  “I’ll put a sign on the door,” Bobo said. “Hey, in this business, my hours are whenever I bloody well feel like it.”

  “Right.” Dennis looked around the shop again. “Well, I’ll see you on Wednesday morning, then.” He moved to the door, past the long-dead remains of the incense sticks. “Oh, and Bobo…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Leave the wig at home, okay?”

  Bobo’s smile widened as he answered. “You got it, boss.”