CHAPTER ONE
Its just past eleven p.m. on December thirty-firstthat dizzy in-between time when were not quite here but not yet thereand hip, young white kids crowd the trendy streets of Park Slope, Brooklyn. Their pockmarked faces flash a theatrical array of expressions, everything from regret to ecstasy to total abandon, but Im not fooled: theyre bored out of their minds. I can tell because Im deadwell, partially dead anyway. When you straddle a fine line like the one between life and death, lets just say you can tell certain things about people.
I dip into a brightly lit tobacco store for some Malagueñas and a pocket-sized rum. The rum goes into my flask and one of the Malagueñas goes in my mouth. I light it, walk back out to the street, and weave through the crowds. When I move quickly, no one notices my strange gait or the long wooden cane I use to favor my right leg. Ive gotten the flow down so smooth I almost glide along toward the milky darkness of Prospect Park. Theres too much information here in the streetseach passing body gives up a whole symphony of smells and memories and genetics. It can help pass the time if youre bored, but tonight, Im far from bored.
Tonight I am hunting.
Music wafts out of a bar across the streeta kind of watery blues that evokes dentists waiting rooms. The hipsters roam up and down the block in packs, playing out a whole mess of different daytime-drama plotlines. Theres a few black and brown folks around, but theyre mostly staying out of the way. And me? Im a grayish off-browna neither-here-nor-there color that matches my condition. It would be a jarring skin tone to notice, but I tend to just blend in. Thats fine with me. Whatever it is thats been causing all this static is out there tonight. Im sure of it. The more I can disappear, the more chance I have of catching them.
* * *
Its been two weeks now. Two weeks of a vague and irritating twinge crawling up my spine every time I get near the crest of Flatbush Avenue. Ive been walking circles around that area like an idiot, trying to sniff out the source. Stood for hours beneath the big archway with its soldiers frozen battle cries and elaborate stonework; closed my eyes and just listened, feeling all the damn spiritual vibrations ricochet across Brooklyn. Major throughways shoot off toward Flatbush and into Crown Heights, but I narrowed it down to some indedamnterminate spot in the Slope.
When I took it to my icy superiors at the New York Council of the Dead, they nodded their old fully dead heads and turned silently in on themselves to conference. A few hours later they called me back in. Because Im an inbetweener, and the only one anyone knows of at that, the dead turn to me when something is askew between them and the living. Usually, its some mundane shitcleanup work. But every once in a while it gets really hairy, and thats when I go hunting. These are the times when I forget that I was ever even dead. Whatever shadow of life or humanity pertains to meI know God put me on this fine planet to hunt.
Plus Im good at it.
But the Council was all kinds of vague about this one. No explanation, just a photo of a man slid across the table with icy fingers. We believe this is the source, Carlos. His name is Trevor Brass. Do your thing.
Which thing?”
An icy pause. Eliminate him.
And me: Care to elucidate further?”
And them: Nope.
And what can really be said to that? Theyre dead. They dont have to elucidate shit. I dont mind though. Makes things more interesting.
Oh, and protect the entrada at all costs.
See, the dead are good for coming up with some last-minute oh-and-by-the-way type shit. Protect the entrada. An entrada is an entrance to the Underworld. Theres only a couple scattered around the city, and theyre supposed to be well guarded by a team of fully dead COD soulcatchers, impenetrable and all that, but really, it happens. Soulcatchers have other things to do, turns out, than stand around flickering doors to Hell. Protocols tighten and then slack again. The particular entrada theyre referring to is in a shady grove in the middle of Prospect Park, not at all far from all this mess. Its not hard to imagine that whatever this grinning fellow in the picture is up to has something to do with breaching through. How they expect me to simultaneously track the dude down and keep him from getting to the entrada is another question, but thats not their concern. The Council hands out whatever garbled-up mandate theyve regurgitated from their eyes in the field, and its on me to sort through the chaos.
So I nodded, pocketed the picture, and walked out the door.
* * *
I swig on my flask and head for the park. I want to check on the entrada, and that swath of urban wilderness is the only place I can clear my head. Id forgotten that this tremendous pockmarked flock of New Years revelers would be here, jamming up all my otherworldly insights. A ponytail guy plows through the crowd to find somewhere to puke his guts out; I swerve out of the way just in time. Hes wearing too much aftershave and looks like he spent three hours trying to make his hair look that carelessly tussled.
Then I see my mark. Hes standing in the middle of all that hootenanny, laughing his ass off. Hes caramel-colored but still somehow pale gray like an overcast day. Hes got long, perfectly kept locks reaching all the way down his back and a goatee so carefully trimmed it might be painted on. His big frame rocks with laughter. Unquestionably, the cat is dealing with some supernatural . . . issues. Layers of grief, anxiety, and fanaticism swirl around him like ripples in a pond; theyre peppered with a distinct aroma of, whats that? Ah, yes: guilt. And yet hes chuckling madly.
Thats when it hits me: the guys not dead. Here I was, assuming that because the NYCOD brought me in, Id automatically have another faded shroud on my hands, some errant phantom trying to make it back or otherwise disturb the delicate balance of life and death. But this fellow isnt faded or translucent. Hes breathing. His memories arent closed books the way dead memories are. And yet, by the look of things, hes not fully alive either. I squint through the crowd at him, not even trying to conceal my intentions anymore.
He is like me.
Another inbetweenerand not just one of these half-formed, not-quite-here purgatorious mofos: Trevor is full-fledged flesh and blood alive and dead at the same time, both and neither.
I duck into the outdoor entrance area of another bar. The bouncer shoots me a look that says why the fuck you movin so fast, cripple? I ignore it, tug on the Malagueña, and observe my prey. The smoke eases me into the excitement of the hunt. He is feisty, this one. I narrow my eyes. Just like the living, this mans head is full of plansa map that keeps drawing and redrawing itself, a checklist, an incomplete letter. Theres something else too: a solid chunk of his subconscious attention lingers on a scrap of thick paper in his pocket, probably some piece of whatever diabolical plot hes enmeshed in. He has all the makings of someone up to no good, and yet I cant help but feel drawn to this laughing wraith. For all his mysterious schemes and whatever chaos hes trying to let loose on my city, hes having a good time, and after all, it is New Years Eve.
Anyway, Ive never met anybody like me before, so instead of just ending him right then and there, I walk up and offer the dude one of my Malagueñas. Just like that. The very idea of doing this is so ridiculous that it shudders through me like the tickle of an invisible hand, and pretty soon were both standing there smoking away and laughing like idiots.
Were definitely in the same curious predicament, but unlike me, Trevors not at all concerned with blending in. In fact, hes determined to stand out. Whaddup, douche bags and douche baguettes?” he hollers at the crowd. Im mortified and fascinated at the same time. A few passing revelers chuckle, but most ignore him. A blond lady rolls her eyes as if shes being hit on for like the four hundredth time tonight. Why so serious?” Trevor yells into the sky. I found the one other being like me in the universe and he is a total jackass.
Trevor turns to me, his face suddenly sharp, and says: Its time. Lets go.” His glare is penetrating and reveals nothing. A total blank.
We move quickly, with purpose. He either already knows Im extraordinarily agile, or he didnt even notice the cane. Im dodging a hodgepodge of hipsters and homeless rich kids, keeping my eyes on Trevors paisley cap bobbing up ahead. Hes still laughing and calling people douche bags, and I have no idea whether Im giving chase or being led into a trap. Or both.
Whats your name, man?” I slur, playing up the rum on my breath.
He eyes me and then says, Trevor.”
Carlos,” I say, and I realize with a start that hes probably reading right through my every move just like Im trying to read through each of his. The shock of this makes me feel momentarily naked; I quickly gather myself and cobble back the wall of deceit.
I have never dealt with someone like me before.
Why so serious?” Trevor says again, this time at me. Hes still laughing.
Not at all,” I say. Then I swig from my flask and he swigs from his.
Hes meeting someone. The realization comes clear like a whisper inside my head, and I cant help but wonder if the same voice is murmuring hes onto you in his.
We break from the crowd, cut a sharp right on Third Street, and end up beneath an ancient willow tree leaning out of Prospect Park. The wide avenue is deserted except for a few loping stragglers from the party on Seventh. Its a cool night. The light rain isnt falling so much as hovering in the air around us in a teasing little cumulus.
This is the year, people!” Trevor yells at no one in particular. The time she has come! People, get ready!” He kicks an empty beer bottle into a nearby bush, upsetting a family of night birds. I should just kill him now; that static filling the air hints at untold horrors. Also, I have no idea how hard hell be to take down. I dont even know if I can fully die again. Im bracing myself to make my move when a few figures emerge from the shadowy park.
That you, broham?” one of them calls out as they get close. Broham? Is that Trevors real name? I try to make myself as unnoticeable as possible, but were a party of two, and were both inbetweeners. Whos the dude, man? Thought this was a secret and shit.”
Its cool, Brad,” says Trevor or Broham, or whoever my new friend/prey is. Hes with me.”
No ones ever said that about me. Im flattered and repulsed at the same time.
Brad is tall and thick. His blond hair is close cropped in a military buzz cut. Of the crew behind him, three are basically Brad clones with different color hair, one is an Asian Brad, and another little guy is definitely Indian/Pakistani or maybe Puerto Rican. Or half-black. Whatever he is, he gets randomly searched every time hes within twenty feet of an airport. Finally, theres a hipsterthe cats areeverywherelooking extraordinarily out of place and awkward.
Okay, bros, lets do this thing,” Brad says. Shady supernatural shenanigans in the Slope and it involves a bunch of frat boys? Curiouser and curiouser.
CHAPTER TWO
We make our way along the edge of the park. One of the Brads falls into place beside me. Michael,” he says, extending an awkward hand as I amble along.
Carlos,” I say. I nod, but dont touch his hand. People tend to notice how chilly and dry my skin is. And I tend to pick up way too much information about folks when we touch. Sometimes its better not to know.
Michaels forced smile fades. Are you going to, you know, help show us, uh, the other side?”
Whose big idea was this, Michael?”
Well, David, really.” Michael nods toward the skinny hipster. He gathered us together late one night at his house. Hes Brads homey. I dont really know him that well. Anyway, he said he had a big opportunity, a chance for us to see things no one else had seen. But only if we could be trusted, right?”
Right.”
Said hed met this dudeno name or nothing, just this dudeand that he was going to take us to, you know, the other side.”
I make an ambivalent half grunt and Michael frowns, like maybe he revealed too much. He quickens his pace to catch up with the others. Darkened Victorians peek out from behind swaying trees across the street.
When we reach the wide-open roundabout at the entrance to Prospect Park, flickers of nervousness flare up from Trevor. Whatever it is he has planned, were getting dangerously close to it. I wonder if these frat boys are unknowingly lining up to be the main course of some ritual sacrifice. Trevor seems just erratic and volatile enough to try to pull off such a stunt. But then, a few flatheads and a hipster getting glazed wouldnt warrant so much concern from the Council of the Deadand they certainly wouldnt waste my time with it. Trevor checks his watch and then looks into the misty night. Its eight minutes to midnight. I try to tune in to the gathering storm of excitement thats about to explode all over the city, but its just a faint glimmer to me.
We enter the park, move quickly through the fresh-smelling darkness. The Brads and David fall into a nervous silence. Trevor is a fortresshe gives up nothing to me, so I let my thoughts chase the ridiculous minidramas and power plays between our companions. Were moving toward the entrada, and of course, the timing is perfect: entradas are extra accessible to the non-dead at midnight, and this midnight in particular the air would be even more charged with culminating spiritual energy. The majority of Brooklyns ancestral souls are out and about tonight, enjoying their own morbid festivities. You can almost taste the bursting molecules in the air.
As if to confirm my suspicions, we turn off the main road and duck down a narrow path through the trees. But what would an inbetweener be doing with a bunch of college kids at an entrance to the Underworld? This is only the beginning, the voice that knows things whispers. You who are neither here nor there keep the secrets of both worlds. And secrets are a valuable commodity. My man has fashioned himself into a traitorous tour guide of the afterlife. I close my eyes and imagine the Land of the Dead overrun by oversized, pasty tourists, thousands of bubbly Brads and Bradettes, snapping pictures and sipping frappuccino-whatevers.
Crap.
I really shoulda taken him when it was simple. Now weve arrived; the entrada is a gaping void beneath drooping tree branches. Its not black; its just emptiness. The air is crisp with new rain and a murmuring breeze. If Trevor touches that void, its game overhell disappear into a relentless, hazy maze of wandering souls. David and the frat boys would be shit outta luck, their magical romp through the Underworld canceled, but Trevor would be safe from my expert problem-solving hands.
I push my way up through the crowd of Brads. With about ten feet to go before the entrada, Trevor makes a break for it. My elbows shoot out in either direction, crack into meaty midsections, splinter ribs. With a little added encouragement from my shoulders, the home team collapses to either side of me, and I sprint forward in a ferocious, lopsided lunge, unsheathing the blade from my cane as I go. It leaves my hand like a bullet. For a second, all anyone hears is that terrible whiz of steel cutting through air, and then the even more terrible renting of flesh. That sound means I win, but for once it doesnt feel so good to win. Trevor collapses heavily, an arms length from the entrada.
Without breaking stride, I pull my blade from Trevors flesh and launch back toward the college boys, cutting the air and hollering gibberish at the top of my lungs. They leave in a hurry, limping and carrying one another along like the good guys in war movies. I return to Trevor, whos bleeding out quickly.
If he can die, I can die.
Its a sobering thought. I have so many questions I dont even know where to begin, and his life force is fading fast. He makes like hes about to speak but just gurgles. All of his attention, all of his waning energy, is focused back on that little scrap of something in his pocket, but his eyes stare right into mine.
He knows I can read him. Hes pointing it out to me.
I gingerly reach into his pocket and retrieve what turns out to be a photograph of a girl.
I cant remember the last time I said this. Maybe Ive never said it. But this chick is fine as hell. Not just fine thoughtheres something about her gaze, the way she holds her chin, the shadow of her collarbone, that makes me want to find her and tell her everything,everything. Its just a silly snapshot. Her smile is genuine but grudging, like whoever took the picture insisted she do it. Her heads cocked just a little to the side, and something in her eyes just says, I get it, Carlos. Cmere and talk to me and then lets make love. Looks like shes in a park, maybe even this one; a few trees are scattered in the scenery behind her.
Sister,” Trevor gurgles, and I quickly wipe the hungry glow off my face. She is . . . caught up in this too . . .” When he says this, his head jerks toward the shimmering emptiness beside us.
This what, man? What is this?”
Closing the gap,” Trevor whispers. The living and the dead . . . dont have to be so far apart. Like . . .” He takes a deep, death-rattle breath.
I manage to hide my impatience for about three seconds. Like what?”
. . . like us. You and me and . . .” Another excruciating pause. Sasha.”
Sasha.
The hand holding the picture feels like its on fire. I raise it up to his face. Sasha,” I say, failing to disguise the hope in my voice. Shes like us? Shes in between?”
I almost break into a dance when Trevor nods his head. Suddenly, the park seems very luminous and beautiful at this hour. The night birds are singing, and somewhere, a few blocks away, Park Slope rocks to the New Years revelry of two thousand wealthy white kids.
Please,” Trevor is saying when I return from my reverie. Find Sasha. Keep her safe . . .” Done. No problem. How else can I help you today, sir? From the Council.”
Uh . . .” I say, trying to slow my thoughts. City Council?” Did you know its possible to really irritate a dying person? Even an already mostly dead dying person. I dont recommend it though. Trevor looks like he might use the last of his life force to make a grab for my cane-blade and cut some sense into me. Right, right,” I say quickly. The Council of the Dead.” He nods. New York City chapter.” My bosses. Surely he must know this. But whatever Trevor does or doesnt know quickly becomes a nonissue. He gurgles again, flinches, and then relaxes as death completes its finishing touches.
At least he wont have far to travel.
* * *
After gently placing Trevors body into the entrada, I wander aimlessly around the park and work my way through the whole pack of Malagueñas and all of my rum. Theres too many thoughts in my head right now. If I venture out into the city, itll mean instant input overload. The living and the dead dont have to be so far apart, Trevor had said. Why are folks always so cryptic right before they croak?
Like us.
Theres an us.
All Ive ever known of the afterlife has been the rigid bureaucracy of the Council, and at first that had been relief from the cold disregard of the living. And then I just made friends with being the lone intermediary between the two, but now . . . When the Councils icy fingers slide the photo of Sashas wry smile and sleepy eyes across the table, I will nod my head like I always do. Then I will find her. I will honor the dying wish of her brother, whom I murdered, and protect her from myself.
And then I will ask her out.
CHAPTER THREE
Downtown Brooklyn in the middle of the day. No room for ghosts, too many damn living people clogging up all the inroads and walkabouts. Theres rowdy teenagers, little old ladies, cops, businesspeople. At the feet of the skyscrapers, old men beg for spare change and young dudes in baggy pants pass out party flyers. Other cats are hocking their goods, everything from Bibles to porn to wooden giraffes to childrens books.
I stand perfectly still and let the whole teeming masterpiece spin around me. Im not sure why Im here. The Council sent me. Sometimes they fuck up, and Im pretty sure this is one of those times. Go downtown. Fine. They set me up in an apartment; they keep me doing what I do. Ill go downtown, then. And Ill pick a spot and be the frozen center of a messy human galaxy for an hour or two. Maybe some dead folks will show up. I dont care.
Well.
The truth is, since New Years, there has been a growing murmur of discontent in the back of my mind. Used to be I could just say that I dont care, and itd be truly true. Now I wonder. The feeling of Trevors life slipping out of him, through my fingertips, it haunts me. Its not that I particularly cared for the guy; he was definitely about to unleash some nasty havoc. But he had a whole life I never knew about and then a half-life after that. We had something in common, and Ive never been able to say that about another person. We couldve, I dont know, compared notes. Been . . . friends maybe, if hed have gone a different route. Yes, he was just some jackass to me, a mark, and still, somehow, I felt like it was my own life slipping away along with his.
Carlos.” Father Reginalds gravelly voice breaks me out of my reverie and Im glad for it.
How are you, Padre?”
Cant complain. Another beautiful day.” Father Reginald has a bushy beard covering most of his dark brown face. He looks grumpy as fuck, eyes and brow always gnarled up into some unaccounted-for grimace, but when he opens his mouth, its always some nother beautiful day” type glory. They say he passed some tough years as a political prisoner in the Caribbean, but he never speaks of it. People-watching?”
Something like that.”
Father Reginald nods knowingly. Back to it, then, young fellow. I wont hold you up.”
Agent Delacruz!” some idiot ghost voice crackles through my head. The dead and their damn telepathy. Report immediately to Council Headquarters.”
Father Reginald regards my sudden flinching with some concern and then just smiles. Take care of yourself, Carlos.”
I nod and doff my cap at the priest. Enjoy your afternoon, Padre.”
* * *
I wonder briefly if Im in some kind of trouble, and then I remember that I dont give a fuck. Theres a bus up Fourth Avenue that would get me there quicker, but Im irritated these dipshits had me downtown for no apparent reason.
I walk.
I stop for coffee on the way, chat with some old guys sitting out on a stoop. Another cold fronts moving in from up north. What else? Old Reggies out of prison again, but probably just for a week or two, since hes already back to his old ways. Life tumbles onward, and eventually, when I feel Ive wasted enough time to legitimately vex my superiors, so do I.
The Council of the Dead occupies an abandoned warehouse nestled between a sweatshop and a strip club on one of the forgotten backstreets of Sunset Park. Theres a metal fire exit so desecrated by graffiti and trash youd never notice it, but its unlocked for us nonfully dead types. Well, for me. Inside, its your traditional eerie empty warehouse: all rusted-out industrial skeletons and corroded pipes. Here theres an overturned wheelie chair, there a sea of shattered glass. A corner stairwell winds up to a catwalk that disappears in shadows. An awful mist hangs over everything; if you didnt know better, youd assume it was the lingering fallout of some chemical disaster, but really its just spirit shit.
They barely notice me when I walk in, all these trembling shrouds. They just go about their business. I head up the metal stairwell, my clanking boots echoing into the vast hall, work my way along a filthy, cobwebbed corridor to an empty room. It mustve been the office of some middle-management troll at one time; theres a huge window overlooking the main floor and a corroded file cabinet.
Agent Delacruz?”
Thats me.”
Speaking of middle-management trolls: Bartholomew Arsten. He appears in the doorway, a tall, translucent shroud. His shimmering, sallow face contorts with uncertainty. Youre here.”
You summoned me.”
I did . . .” He puzzles for a few seconds. I did!”
I know.”
We have a message for you.”
Im thrilled.”
Riley wants you to meet him at the Burgundy.”
What?”
Riley.” He says it like Im the incompetent one. Wants.”
I heard what you said. Im trying to figure out why you sent me a message dragging my ass across town to tell me a message to go back across town.”
Oh, its a new protocol. We cant give locations for meeting points over telepathy.”
But you did that when you asked me to come here.”
Except for here.”
Bart, bruh, you know you full of shit, right?”
Bartholomew circles in the doorway and begins fading into the haze of shadows.
Youd better go, Agent. The message was from two hours ago, so youre already late, technically.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Welp,” Riley says, thats basically what I told the dude.” He scrunches up his face real meanlike. No, you back the fuck up. Then I sliced him.” He and Dro bust out into unchecked chuckles. Of course, its easy for them to laugh with reckless abandon: theyre just glimmering shadows to me and silent invisibilities to the drunks all around us. I have to be a little more conservative with my ruckus. As it is, the drunks see me speaking under my breath to empty seats on either side, occasionally smiling, swearing, or grunting. Anyway, were in the Burgundy Bara joint that is full of enough fuckups and generally blitzed-out patrons that one weirdo talking to himself at the bar is not really a big deal.
Sashas all-knowing smirk simmers across my mind for the eighty thousandth time today. Im only barely here at all, just nodding, grinning, looking away.
Carlos,” Riley says. Hes thick and translucent, bald headed and impeccably dressed, even in death. Riley and I share the common trait of having died so violently it shredded any memory of our lives, and in that we are brothers. When were bored, we make up highly unlikely stories about what may have been. First you show up later than your usual Puerto Rican late, and now you all sulky. Kay tay pasa, hombre?” I know hes emphasizing that silent h just to annoy me, so I ignore it. Besides, all his stories end with Then I sliced him.
I shrug. Nada, man. Blame the Council. What we got for today?”
Riley leans over his Jameson and takes a sip. It looks stupid if youre not used to itgrown-ass man dipping into his drink like one of those damn plastic birdsbut even the dont-give-a-fuck clientele at Burgundy would probably startle at a bunch of floating glasses. Todays adventure, my friends, is a very special one.”
Rileys was the first face I saw when I came back around. He was standing over me, grinning that grin of his, looking all proud of himself like he was the one who brought me back. He wasnt, but still, he found me, named me, brought me into the complicated fold of the Council, and has looked out for me ever since, in his own odd way.
Dro groans. You say that every night, man.” Dro doesnt drink. Hes tall and remarkably well built for a dead guy. We suspect hes Filipino, but he keeps insisting on being Brazilian. Who can tell? Who cares even? Riley gets on him about it occasionally, but as far as Im concerned, if Dro wants to be Brazilian, thats his business. Either way, the three of us are about as much color as the Council will put up with, apparently.
I do say that a lot,” Riley admits. And I always lead you on a spectacular adventure.”
Sometimes,” Dro says. Sometimes no.”
Riley turns to me suddenly. Hey, howd the business with the inbetweener go on New Years?”
My pulse quickens to a slow-ass drag. I had just managed to push the whole thing out of my damn mind and then Riley went ahead and busted it back in. Fine,” I say. Why?”
I just heard it was quite a scenario: he was tryna bring a group of college kids into an entrada or something, no?”
I nod.
Damn,” Dro says. And he was . . . like you?”
I make a grunty-affirmative noise. When they send me after a normal ol fully dead ghost, its usually to toss their translucent asses back into Hell or, when theyre really acting out, slice em to the Deeper Death. That means theyre gone-for-good gone, not just kinda-sorta gone. It takes some getting used to, yeah, but you figure, heythey were already dead once. Not everyone comes back even as a spook, so they had got that second chance and jacked it up by playing the fool. The final good-bye aint that big a deal in that sense. But this one . . . this strange, gray-like-me man with his wild schemes and last-gasp poetics . . . his death hasnt left me since New Years.
Neither has his sisters perfect smile.
Anyway, should be pretty clear I dont want to talk about it, but my friends dont take well to subtle clues.
Was that weird?” Riley says. You clipped him?”
No and yes.” I really dont want to talk about this. Im not even sure why, but the whole mention of it makes me feel like shriveling up inside this long trench coat and being gone.
Finally, Riley shrugs and rolls his eyes. Anyway, as it so happens: todays adventure, brought to you by the illustrious Council of the Dead, involves the very house and home in which Carlos and I first became acquainted.”
What?”
Mm-hmm.”
Mama Esther?”
Shes all right.” Riley reads the concern etched cross my face. But a house a few doors down from her has an ngk.”
I blink at him. A what?”
An ngk.” Its almost guttural, the way he says it. Like hes trying to speak through a mouth gag and then closing it off with a soft click.
The fucks an ngk? How do you even spell that?”
Riley nods at Dro, whos obviously been preparing for this very moment. An ngk, Carlos, spelled n-g-k, is a small, rarely seen implike creature that is thought to be capable of vast unknown feats of sorcery and mischief. They tend to show up directly before tragedies of immense proportions, but its still up for debate whether this is because of their ability to see the future or if they are the actual cause of the disaster.”
Damn.”
Yeah, they suck,” confirms Riley. Its very unusual that oned show up at all, actually. They were thought to be extinct for a while, but have made sporadic appearances throughout the twentieth century. I dunno. I aint never messed with one myself, but you hear weird stories.”
Like what?”
Lets go have a look for ourselves, shall we?”
Sashas smile stays on its broken-record rotation through my mind. A little challenge may be just what I need, even if its in the form of some tiny unpronounceable freak from the other side.
* * *
Its been three years, but walking down this block always reminds me of that slow crawl back to life. It was days and days I lay there, listening to the cycles of street life sway by outside the window. The walls became my friends, if nothing else for the fact that they were perfectly consistent. Everything was gone. I didnt even have a name, so being able to wake up to the same sun-bleached floral pattern became a small comfort in those first hazy days. I would slide from another sickly coma, see that faded ornateness and smile softly. Still there. Then the sounds of the street would find me: cars and buses grumbling past, the odd clicks and clanks of the city, yes, but most of all, the voices. The voices of life-living people, going about the business of being alive, all those tiny eccentricities, bothersome little errands, gossip on the corner, transactions, rebukes, come-ons. It was music to me, an endless chugalug of ambient humanity seeping through my pores as I healed.
When I finally got it together enough to make it outside, I felt like I already knew all the people on the block. I had learned to distinguish between the voices of my neighbors, imagined each one as a thread thatd reach up into the night sky and wrap around the other threads, their small dramas and schedules coalescing into a vast, chaotic quilt. And then I could put faces to the voices. I sat on that stoop for hours marveling at it all, surely appearing like some fallen-off crackhead, but content nonetheless. People nodded as they passed, and eventually nods turned to all rights,” which became small conversations, and then my voice mingled in the chorus. Another thread.
Its almost February, and a brisk wind shushes through the trees, flaps my coat around, whips a frenzy of dead leaves and plastic bags into the air. The kids are getting home from school, all puffy jackets, colorful hats, and cartoon-character book bags. Winter has driven most of the stoop sitters inside, and once the little ones tuck themselves away in their respective houses, things look kind of bleak, quite frankly.
Or maybe its the ngk.
Sweet, sweet memories?” Rileys beside me; his translucent body flaps gently in the wind like some luminous laundry.
I suppose. Anything seem off to you? I mean its cold, but still, theres usually more people out, no?”
I think its the ngk,” Dro says. It annoys me that he sounds so sure of it, but I suppose hes already done his homework on this stuff.
Shall we?” Riley makes an exaggerated after-you gesture toward the block that I used to haunt.
Its a pretty unremarkable building really, one more four-story row house on Franklin Avenue just south of Atlantic, a few doors down from Mama Esthers. Theres a bodega, a liquor store, and a tiny church on the block. Atlantic is all auto shops and gas stations, traffic hurrying off to East New York and Queens. Farther south from where we stand, Franklin Avenue starts getting trendy: a brand-new sushi restaurant and some chic, nondescript boutiquey spots.
We walk in the front door, and immediately I know somethings wrong. Can feel it through my body like a dirty sheet has been thrown over my heart. I just . . . dont even want to move. Also, theres a noise. Its barely noticeable, just an endless, irritating buzz and the sound of . . . I squint as if it will help me hearlittle grunting gasps punctuated with . . . laughter.
I dont like this at all.
CHAPTER FIVE
The old floorboards creak under my boots. Every step feels like a chore. All I want is for that buzzing to cease and that creepy little panting laughter to never trouble me again. I cant even tell you why its so disturbing. Some otherworldly ngk magic, surely, that cuts right to the core of a man; my very soul is irritated.
It gets worse when I round the corner. The big old room, gray in the late-afternoon shadows, is completely empty except for a tiny figure in the corner. I dont want to get any closer, but I know I have to if Im going to end this plague of hideousness. The buzzing, the grunting, the chuckleits all coming from this sinister little thing, this ngk. It only reaches up to just above my ankle. Pale, greenish skin stretches in wrinkly folds across its bony little body. That facean alarming grin reaches from one side of its head to the other. The frail lips are parted slightly, and its wormy tongue reaches out between tiny, uneven teeth. And, perhaps most unnerving of all, the ngk is riding what appears to be an exercise bike of some kind. It just cycles and cycles and cycles and pants and chuckles and grunts, not even registering that a tall half-dead Puerto Rican has entered the room.
It irks me that the ngk doesnt look up. I want to scream at it, but what good would it do? Riley and Dro float up beside me, and I dont have to look at them to know theyre experiencing the same shriveling discomfort that I am. Theyre both diminished, their iridescence reduced to a feeble, blinking glow.
The fuck?” I say. The words feel like theyre ricocheting through an echo chamber in my head.
The ngk,” Dro announces unnecessarily.
Esther must be miserable with this thing nearby,” I say. Each time I open my mouth is a new dimension of hangover. I decide to save nonurgent conversation till the ngk is safely disposed of. How bout I just cut its head off and then we leave?”
Cant,” Riley says.
Why not?”
You cant kill an ngk,” Dro informs me through gritted ghost teeth.
Why . . . the fuck . . . not?”
Dro shakes his head. No one knows.”
Thats not good enough. My hands on my blade and its taking all I got not to free it from its cane covering and make a quick end to this feverish little bastard. I just want it to stop. What are we doing here, then?”
I needed you guys to see it,” Riley says, more somber than usual. I dont have an answer for how to get rid of it, but Esthers saved all our asses in one way or another, and we owe it to her.” The thought of Riley needing his ass saved startles me; Ive never even seen him ruffled.
Then a horrible shrieking sound blasts through everything else. I cover my ears, but its useless. The shits tearing me up from the inside out.
What the hell?”
Thats the ngk call,” Dro says. Were all backing quickly toward the door. Its lethal as fuck.”
In seconds were out on the street, panting.
All right,” Riley says. I wanna check in with Mama Esther.”
* * *
The feeling follows us down the block, even lingers as a dull whisper while we trudge up the creaking steps at Mama Esthers. Then we enter the library, the only room in the entire house with any furniture, and everythings all right again. There arent even shelves, just stacks and stacks of books from floor to ceiling. Youd think itd be a chaotic mess, all packed in there like that, but somehow theres a harmony to it; the books seem almost suspended in midair. Theyre everywhere, and the room is wide and tall enough that it doesnt feel cluttered. If I dont clean my little spot in more than a week, it starts to close in on me, so how Esther keeps this utterly full room spacious is beyond me. Some ghost shit, I suppose. Either way, its oddly comforting.
Esthers floating in her usual spot right in the center of the room. Thats where her head is anyway. Beneath that great girthy smile, her wide body stretches out into invisibility in a way that lets you know shes got the whole house tucked within those fat ghostly folds. Boys.” She nods at us; the warmth of that smile is a sunbath after the grimness of the ngk.
* * *
Mama Esther was the second face I saw after I woke up.