[FIC] Old Ghosts by Cat Kane -- Part Three

[catkane]

Old Ghosts

By Cat Kane

Part Three

By the time Jake made it into work, the headache was a thudding migraine, sending little flickers of light dancing across his peripheral vision. He popped two painkillers before even sitting at his desk, wishing he’d just gone home.

No. Home wasn’t a great idea. That man knew where he lived. Granted, if he had that much information, finding his workplace wouldn’t be too difficult, but Jake clung to whatever fragment of optimism he could.

Funny, he’d always thought that if he acquired a stalker, it’d be one of Carrie’s cast-offs. A crazy ex, one of the guys she’d drained dry of their credit limit and their will to live before she moved onto him.

No, Jake’s luck dictated that he got the psychopath who thought he was someone else.

It had nothing to do with the missing casket. On the drive to work, he’d convinced himself that it was nothing more than a bizarre coincidence. Maybe the guy saw him freak out at the Halloween store, maybe it was some sick and twisted creep’s idea of a joke. Whatever weird mojo going on with the casket, it had nothing to do with him.

He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, scenting candles and cigars and that damned drawing room again. He wasn’t even sure he knew what a drawing room was. His apartment certainly didn’t have one.

No. It has nothing to do with you, remember?

Still…

Levering himself up, chair clanking back into its rightful position, he booted up his laptop, waiting impatiently until he could hit up a search engine. There were a handful of memos and post-its decorating his desk, several of them in vivid shades of radiation orange. Jake flicked through them, knowing full well he wasn’t planning on attending to any matter until his head stopped pounding, or until he found an answer to his mystery man. He was betting on the former, if he had to throw money away.

He didn’t have many details, but he typed in what he knew. ‘Ivory inlaid black casket’ and then, on a whim, ‘Samuel’.

The search engine only returned a handful of hits. Most of those referred him to a funeral parlor in New Orleans that specialized in gothic caskets, run by a guy called Samuel. Jake hit up the site just for the sheer hell of it. This Samuel’s picture was on the site-he looked nothing like the dummy in the casket, and nothing like the voice Jake heard last night. Soft. Cultured. English.

He frowned. English. Returning to the main page, he replaced `casket` with `coffin`.

Even fewer hits. Sam’s casket place in New Orleans still showed up. At the end of the list-a scant three pages long-Jake found a link to a British historical site. Bringing up the cached page, he scrolled through the dense genealogical text to find the highlighted terms, all neatly bunched together in a single paragraph:

‘One of the most popular stage magicians of the day was The Great Count Mirza, also known as Lord Jonathan Gilbert’s youngest son, Samuel Gilbert. Count Mirza’s was a controversial act in its heyday following the Great War, both for its content and the ensuing mystery of Samuel Gilbert’s disappearance in late 1921. Both Gilbert and his famous finale act, an ivory inlaid black coffin claimed to be used in occult worship, disappeared from the dressing room of a London nightclub. Lord Jonathan spent his remaining days seeking his son’s kidnapper, implicating along the way both the family of Gilbert’s recently deceased childhood friend, and rival illusionist Clarence Francis. No prosecution was ever brought.`

The article trailed off into an analysis of Lord Gilbert’s House of Lords sittings, and the bills passed during his tenure, but Jake could barely even focus on the screen. Words kept drifting through his awareness, as surely as the highlighted text.

Samuel Gilbert. Magician. Coffin.

The glittering, hazy aura at the edge of his vision crowded closer, until all he could see was a blurry image of the laptop, thick black text against a painfully white screen. He squeezed his eyes closed, palms against his temples, as if pressure alone could temper the ice-pick stabbing.

1921. It was impossible. Crazy. Ludicrous. Ridiculous. What the hell was stalking him, a ghost?

The lights flickered, sending a wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.

“Wow, Jake, you’re not looking good.” Tommy, his colleague, paused as he passed the open door. “You okay?”

Jake managed a weak nod. “Migraine, that’s all.”

He’d cultivated a reputation for evil migraines; it wasn’t an outright lie by any means, but they also served to cover up for the days when Jake’s other little issues kept him from even getting out of bed.

“Ah. Man you look at death’s door. Why don’t you go on home? It’s quiet here today anyway.”

“Yeah.” Jake cracked open his eyes, grateful that, for a moment at least, the aura receded. “I think I might.”

“You got anyone to give you a ride home?” Tommy asked. “Cause you ain’t looking too hot to drive, buddy.”

Jake thought about calling Carrie, but couldn’t deal with the thought of her incessant chatter. Either she’d insist on telling him about the great new pair of shoes she’d bought, or she’d keep prodding and niggling to find out what was really wrong. Jake tried to imagine her reaction if he told her he might be the stalking victim of a ninety year old Halloween dummy come to life.

It just wasn’t happening.

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “Meds should be kicking in any minute.”

Tommy looked at him skeptically. “Well, if you’re sure. If you can wait around an hour or so, I’ll take you, but-“

“No, thanks.” He managed a smile of gratitude, but he didn’t want concern. He wanted sleep and forgetting.

Sometimes the light of the migraine aura looked so much like mortar fire, like crackling gold across a black sky. He didn’t want to be around people if that happened.

“’Kay.” Tommy nodded. “I’ll let ‘em know you took off. Look after yourself, buddy.”

The flares died down enough for him to get back down to the parking lot, realizing briefly that he’d been in the car more than he’d been in the office today. Hell, he’d been in the Halloween store longer.

He took the drive slow, unsure sometimes what was the aura and what was a stop light blaring its colors.

There was no-one outside his building, or in the lobby, but he approached with caution anyway. At least he could refrain from entertaining an undead stalker two days before Halloween. And that he was even entertaining the possibility spoke of a need for more sleep and stronger meds. Much stronger.

He was on his floor, letting himself in when Mrs. Doyle from 4b stomped outside, all hair curlers and slippers, skinny cigarette and yesterday’s newspaper.

“Hi, Mrs. Doyle.” Jake smiled weakly.

“You get that damn salesman at the door yesterday too?” She demanded, making no pretence of chit-chat and a part of Jake was intensely grateful. “Or it was another of these damned trick or treaters. I hate this damn holiday, ain’t safe for old folks, I’m telling you.”

Jake had been mulling whether the trick or treaters weren’t at greater risk from the likes of Mrs. Doyle, when the actual content of her words registered. He froze at the door, one hand on the doorknob.

“He talked to you, too?”

“Damn right.” Mrs. Doyle took a drag on her cigarette, coughing loudly. “Don’t know what he was sellin’, but he sounded like a smarmy little shit. Glad we got those intercoms is all I say.”

“Yeah…” He watched her disappear back into her apartment in a cloud of smoke and rustling paper. “Me too…”

The stupidity of returning to a place where that man could easily find him reared up again, the migraine calling in reinforcements just out of spite.

Locking the door again, he turned back down the hallway; he could waste time at the grocery store a few blocks away, stock up on painkillers and ice-packs. If there was anything he knew that might ward off psychosomatic ghosts or real-life stalkers, then he’d load up on that, too. And if Samuel, or whatever the hell his name was, came back, well, Jake would take his chances with the cops.

He couldn’t stay here. Not yet.

Not till he was sure that whatever he was dealing with, it was flesh and blood.

* * *

After a night of enduring it, Samuel began to rethink his assessment of the glories of this advanced age.

If the car drivers had anything to do with it, he’d be lucky if he survived it long enough to see Ben again, let alone convince him that he spoke the truth.

Automotives had been dangerous enough in his day. He recalled the zippy little Sunbeam he’d purchased brand new in the year before his awful mistake. Driving around in it-admittedly a privilege and a luxury-the wind in his hair, the countryside rolling by under his wheels, he’d almost known what it meant to be invincible

These contraptions, hulking metallic beasts with roars louder than a bomber, wouldn’t feel so much as a bump if they hit him. And so many of them! Perhaps all classes owned vehicles in this day and age. They barely slowed as he tried to cross the street, and Samuel yearned for the sight of a simple carriage, or more pedestrians.

Although, perhaps fewer pedestrians made things simpler. They already stared at him as though he was the most peculiar sight they’d seen this century. One particularly indignant stare left him wishing sorely he could retaliate without drawing further unwanted attention to himself.

I’ll have you know, madam, he thought to himself instead, that these garments are from the best tailors in Mayfair. You, on the other hand, appear to have recently escaped the circus.

Somehow, he suspected voicing such an opinion would involve the police again. The people of this age seemed awfully eager to involve them in all minor disputes, and his explanation would have been odd at best.

Safer to mind his business and bide his time. Time mattered little now, and sleep was a chore he’d just as soon neglect for now. He didn’t venture far from Ben’s residence, afraid that one wrong turn would leave him hopelessly lost.

He’d been lost for far too long already.

When he saw one of the gleaming, deadly contraptions stop outside Ben’s door, he backed up into an alleyway across the street. If it was Ben, Samuel didn’t want to frighten him again.

He needn’t have worried; Ben didn’t even look around as he got out of the car. He headed for the entranceway without a second glance, but not before Samuel saw the pain etched onto Ben’s face.

Different face, different name, different voice, but Samuel would recognize Ben anywhere, even at the ends of the earth. He’d given up everything for a chance to take that pain away once, and he’d gladly do it again.

Samuel moved from the shadows without thinking, crossing the road as he might have in his day, paying little heed to any oncoming traffic.

A car honked its horn, the blaring noise echoing off the walls.

Ben turned, eyes wide. Samuel braced himself for an impact that never happened.

Evidently, Samuel thought, trying to put his thoughts and racing heart back in good working order, cars in this age were more adept at stopping.

“The hell are you doing?” the driver yelled, leaning out of the window. “Watch the frigging road, moron!”

“Ah, I…” Samuel glanced at Ben. “I’m truly sorry. It was my mistake.”

“Damn straight it was,” the man grumbled, revving the engine as he pulled out, driving around Samuel with a screech of tires.

On the other side of the street, Ben still watched him, staring in horror and-Samuel hoped-a little curiosity.

“I’m sorry to you, too.” Samuel began, before Ben regained his senses and ran again. “I truly have no desire to frighten you, believe me. Please, trust me.”

Ben’s eyes widened impossibly at that. Samuel pressed on, certain that this remarkable and unexpected window of opportunity would be small.

“I mean you no harm, I promise. I just wish to talk to you. I just want you to listen to me. Please.”

“I’m not Ben,” the man on the other side of the street mumbled, looking away, one pale hand rising to his temples. “I’m Jake. I’m not Ben. I don’t know any Ben.”

“All right. Jake, then.” The word tasted odd, but at that point Samuel would have called the other man anything he chose. What did names matter when the one he’d been waiting for, so horrendously long, was a scant few feet from him? “I am Samuel-“

“Gilbert,” Jake said dully, as though it was an everyday occurrence to recall a long-lost lover’s name. “Samuel Gilbert, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Samuel nodded, before lowering his gaze as the implications of Jake’s knowledge occurred to him. “If you know my name, then you must know-“

“I Googled you.” Jake shrugged, another flash of pain dancing across his face. He closed his eyes briefly, but clearly didn’t need to see Samuel’s perplexed expression to realize the strange term was lost on him. “Never mind. I found some information about you. About your disappearance.”

“Ah.” Samuel rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Perhaps Jake didn’t know all the details, in that case. “Yes, well. As you can see, that’s not quite, ah…”

Jake shook his head, holding up a hand to pre-empt Samuel finishing off that half-constructed thought.

“I can’t do this out here.” Jake turned for the door. “Come on. Right now, if you’re gonna kill me then you might put me out of my misery. I have nothing to lose.”

Bewildered and bemused by the remark-much of this age, and this man, bewildered him, he realized wryly--Samuel nonetheless followed, helpless to fight this turn of events. Had he not wished, hoped, yearned for this? He ought to grasp it with both hands, and yet something made him hesitate; perhaps it was the pallor of Jake’s skin, or the husky edge of pain in his voice.

“Are you all right, Jake?”

Jake turned, stared at him. “Yeah. Fine. Why?”

Samuel offered a small smile; Jake was as terrible as liar as Ben had been. “You appeared a little unwell.”

“I’m fine,” Jake repeated, even less vehemently, sending Samuel a look that, had he been up to the game, he should have interpreted with little difficulty. “I just want to get this over with.”

Not entirely the admission Samuel had hoped for, but how could he complain when Jake opened the door that led from that small room with the doorbells and speaker, inviting him into the residence proper? He gazed around the Spartan, utilitarian lobby, and a pang of longing raced through his blood for his estate, for his home, for the things he remembered.

Perhaps B--Jake didn’t remember those things any longer. He couldn’t, if he was content with this.

But then, his Ben had never been one for trappings. That had been Samuel’s province alone.

In a narrow hallway that reminded Samuel of the boarding houses where some of the theatre people stayed, Jake opened another door, gesturing for him to enter with the barest tilt of his head.

Even looking moments from keeling over, he was still lovely, Samuel thought. Gold hair that gleamed even in this dim and paltry light, blue eyes a little too bright, betraying a pain Samuel was yet to understand, but feared he’d caused somehow.

I always cause you pain, don’t I?

He paused, helpless to keep from reaching out, fingers brushing Jake’s cheek. With a sharp intake of breath, Jake stared at him, accusing and as confused as Samuel felt.

“If I could have stayed away from you, if I could have refrained from causing you any further pain, my love, then I would have. Believe me. Hurting you is the last thing I ever wanted.”

Close enough to feel the shush of Jake’s breath, Samuel allowed those beautiful eyes to transport him back to easier times. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the applause of the crowd, smell the dust and paint of the theatre. He could feel the wind in his hair as he raced the Sunbeam down country lanes, Ben laughing at his side.

Jake pushed him away, glaring. “I’m not Ben.”

As Jake strode into the room, Samuel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

The flat was more comfortably appointed that its exterior suggested. After the previous night’s escapades, Samuel longed to sit and rest, but resolved to wait until Jake invited him to do so; this age might have lost its manners, it certainly didn’t mean Samuel had to discard his.

Jake appeared to have no intention of inviting Samuel to do anything. Without a word, he crossed the room to a small galley kitchen filled with odd machines and utensils, and rummaged through the bag he carried.

Samuel blinked, saw Clarence rummaging through his briefcase. Blinked again, saw Jake retrieving a small rattling container. He watched, silent and patient while Jake filled a glass with water, emptying some of the container’s contents into his palm. Medicine, Samuel judged.

“You aren’t well,” he said.

Jake swallowed the pills, brushing off the concern with a half-hearted wave of his hand.

“You should rest,” Samuel said. He’d seen that bravado far too often to believe it was anything other than Ben’s stubborn resolve, refusing to accept help or show weakness. “We can talk later.”

“We talk now.” Jake’s voice was breathy, hoarse. He leaned against the edge of the counter, eyes squeezed shut. “And then you get the hell out of here.”

“Jake-“

Blue eyes snapped open, staring at him as though that new name was the last thing Jake had expected to hear.

“What do you want with me?” The desolation in Jake’s voice broke Samuel’s heart all over again, just like Ben had done that damp, foggy All Hallows' Eve morning. It was a different kind of pain-he hoped nothing would ever feel as hopeless and fathomless as the chasm that opened in his soul when he found Ben that morning-but a familiar pain, nonetheless. “What do you…?”

“Jake?”

Those lovely eyes fluttered closed, as Jake’s hold on the counter-the only thing holding him standing, Samuel realized a moment too late-wavered, and he teetered briefly before his knees buckled, limp body about to crash to the ground.

Samuel barely caught him before he hit the floor.