39. Invisible / Bob the Skull
Title: I See Dead People
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, Harry
Word Count: 1,503
Rating: PG (language)
Summary: Harry has an annoying visitor.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files are not mine. Just passing through.
Notes: Inspired by an episode of John Edwards' Crossing Over.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
There was no buzzer or tinkling bell on the shop front doors by which a visitor could announce his or her presence, but then it wasn't strictly necessary. The wardings that surrounded the threshold and the defensive sigils, invisible to the naked eye, were more than enough to alert Harry to the arrival of company. If he was in residence, usually he could sense them before they set hand on the tarnished doorknob. But today was slightly different. Today he was deeply engrossed in something Bob was saying as they tried to decipher a cryptic rune left behind at one of Murphy's crime scenes.
"Now take this symbol here," said the ghost, tracing a spectral finger over the rune in question on the charred piece of foolscap. "See how there's just the barest hint of a line beneath the loop?"
"Yeah, I noticed that. Like they wrote something down then changed their mind and erased it."
"Exactly," said Bob. "Then drew the new symbol over it."
"Okay . . . I think I see what you're saying . . ." Harry scowled down at the image. "Damn. They merged the two."
"Without ever realizing their error," nodded Bob, pleased by Harry's reasoning. "Instead of beginning clean on a new piece of parchment, they wrote over the old. As you know, once inscribed, a symbol remains unless obliterated in the proper way. You can't simply scrub it away with a pencil eraser. Clearly the work of an amateur."
"So they merged two runes together without realizing it, and created an entirely new symbol from the combination of the two!" said Harry triumphantly. "That's it! Bob! I think I know what happened to Murphy's missing-"
"There is TRAGEDY within THESE WALLS!!!" cried a voice as the shop doors slammed open with a loud rattle of protest.
Harry and Bob both looked up from the parchment with twin expressions of surprise and annoyance.
"Oh, great," groaned Harry. "Just great. Exactly what we don't need."
"Is that who I think--?"
"Yeah. Moaning Myrtle."
"Come, Miklos! There is a soul in DIRE NEED of our help WITHIN!"
And into Harry Dresden's shop strode one Myrtle Price-Winchester, public access cable channel's self-proclaimed Psychic Psavior. She was much larger in real life than she appeared on the television screen, stout and round and heavy enough to shake the wooden floors of the old building with her size 10 triple-wide step. Her hair was dyed platinum blonde and cut in a page boy around her pale moon face, made all the more stark beneath her stylish, wide-brimmed black straw Sunday Best hat.
In direct contrast to the rotund Myrtle, in her wake trailed a bare slip of a man dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt emblazoned with the Psychic Psavior logo. He was heavily laden with straps holding camera bags and equipment, freeing his hands to steady the bulky video cam on his narrow right shoulder.
Harry glanced a question at Bob who merely shrugged. It was far too late for him to simply vanish; they'd both been seen, as was clearly evident when Myrtle stomped directly toward them.
"Which of you is the owner?" she asked imperiously.
"That would be him," said Bob helpfully, obligingly pointing a long finger at Harry.
"Gee, thanks," muttered the Wizard and stepped around the desk, carefully placing himself between Bob and the corpulent ghost hunter. "Can I help you?"
"It's I how I may help YOU," said Myrtle, grabbing his right hand and pressing one of her ivory business cards into his palm. Turning ever so slightly, so that her good side faced the eye of the camera, she said, "There is a SPIRIT within these walls, crying out for RELEASE!"
"Really," murmured Bob. "I'll alert the media."
"Bob," warned Harry.
"Your pardon. Clearly, someone already has."
"Mock me if you will," said Myrtle melodramatically, "But I can sense the Spirit World! I am in tune with the psychic vibrations of ghosts and souls in distress. And oh, the tragedy I feel here! Lost love! Heartache! Betrayal! If you but listen, you could hear her anguished cries!"
"Her?" Harry couldn't resist a glance over his shoulder, barely repressing a smile. "I've got a girl ghost?"
Bob narrowed his eyes at Harry.
"Yes. Oh yes!" Myrtle raised fingers the size of sausages to her temples, rubbing them slightly. "I can see her within my mind's eye. She's trapped here, within these walls." She began to walk through the storefront with heavy, calculated steps. "So alone! So very very sad . . ."
"You sound pretty sure of that," said Harry.
"I've been doing this a long time," she proclaimed, still rubbing her temples as she moved closer to the desk where Bob stood. "Ever since I was a little girl, I could communicate with the dead. I am sensitive to their presence. They're all around us!"
"Indeed?" said Bob wryly as she passed within a foot of him without so much as a glance. "How many would you say are within this room right now?"
"Bob-"
Unphased, Myrtle turned to face the camera and said for effect, "There are many spirits that walk within these walls. A dozen, perhaps; maybe more. But there is only one that cries out for release! Only one that-"
"SHIT!" The cameraman muttered an oath and slipped the heavy video cam from his shoulder. "Hang on, Myrtle."
In a twinkling, the airy Psychic Psavior became a disgruntled, impatient diva. "DAMMIT, Mik. How many times have I told you, never stop me in middle of a reading!"
"Yeah, I know, I know," said the youth as he fumbled with a compartment on the device. "But the battery just crapped out right in the middle of the shot."
Myrtle planted ham-sized fists on her ample hips. "Did ya think to put fresh ones in before the shoot, asshole?"
The cameraman gulped. "Absolutely! It's the first thing I checked this morning, honest! It should have lasted a couple'a hours at least." Digging into one of the bags dangling at his hip, he pulled out a fresh battery pack and jammed it into place, shutting the compartment door. "There! See? No time at all." Hoisting the camera back onto his shoulder, he encouraged, "We’re ready to go."
"I've lost my momentum," she grumbled. "Where the hell was I?"
"'There are many spirits that walk within these walls,'" said Bob helpfully. "But only one worth mentioning."
"Yes! Thank you." Myrtle patted her helmet of hair into place, plastered on a smile, and turned once more to her invisible electronic audience. "I am hear to RESCUE the poor, doomed lover's SOUL."
Bob folded his arms across his chest. "This ought to be entertaining."
Harry had to admit, it was rather amusing in a painful, bad-art-cinema sort of way.
They stood side by side, man and ghost, content to stay out of the Psychic Psavior's way as she proceeded to go about her shtick. There was much bemoaning the fate of the doomed spirit, who Myrtle claimed was named Isabeau; a French maid who lost her heart to a cold shipping magnate of Chicago's heyday. Under the camera's watchful eye (and a second change of battery), Myrtle pleaded and cajoled and, after great emotional distress, convinced the 'ghost' to cross over into the Light.
The Soul Rescue, as Myrtle termed it, took precisely 16 minutes. With the insertion of commercials, it would pad out nicely to 30 minutes for another episode of the candid Psychic Psavior.
"This place is CLEAN!" she declared with a final flourish.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Lady-"
"No! No need to thank me! It is my God Given Gift. My calling! There is no charge for my services! Fair well, gentlemen, and know that you may rest assured that Isabeau has been reunited with her lost love." Turning on her heels, she gave an imperious wave of a pudgy hand. "Come, Miklos! There are more souls to rescue!"
"Where we goin' now?" asked the cameraman, hurrying close behind in order to keep her in frame.
"The Coffee Time on the corner. I felt a strong psychic disturbance as we drove by," Myrtle proclaimed as she swept out the door, nearly scraping the threshold on both sides with her wide hips. "There's a dire soul in need within! I can sense it!"
"If she senses anything, it's probably a couple of pissed off customers," said Harry as he raised a hand and called a breath of wind to slam the door closed behind her. "Some performance, huh?"
"The only thing missing was a pair of hip boots and a shovel," said Bob derisively. "The lady has the psychic sensitivity of a turnip, and I believe I just insulted the turnip."
"Think so?"
"She wouldn't recognize a ghost if it walked up and pinched her on the ass." The spectral sorcerer answered Harry's grin with an exaggerated shudder. "And thank you, no, I was not tempted in the slightest."
Author: Cyloran
Fandom: The Dresden Files (tv-verse)
Characters: Bob, Harry
Word Count: 1,503
Rating: PG (language)
Summary: Harry has an annoying visitor.
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files are not mine. Just passing through.
Notes: Inspired by an episode of John Edwards' Crossing Over.
Table: Here There be Ghosts
There was no buzzer or tinkling bell on the shop front doors by which a visitor could announce his or her presence, but then it wasn't strictly necessary. The wardings that surrounded the threshold and the defensive sigils, invisible to the naked eye, were more than enough to alert Harry to the arrival of company. If he was in residence, usually he could sense them before they set hand on the tarnished doorknob. But today was slightly different. Today he was deeply engrossed in something Bob was saying as they tried to decipher a cryptic rune left behind at one of Murphy's crime scenes.
"Now take this symbol here," said the ghost, tracing a spectral finger over the rune in question on the charred piece of foolscap. "See how there's just the barest hint of a line beneath the loop?"
"Yeah, I noticed that. Like they wrote something down then changed their mind and erased it."
"Exactly," said Bob. "Then drew the new symbol over it."
"Okay . . . I think I see what you're saying . . ." Harry scowled down at the image. "Damn. They merged the two."
"Without ever realizing their error," nodded Bob, pleased by Harry's reasoning. "Instead of beginning clean on a new piece of parchment, they wrote over the old. As you know, once inscribed, a symbol remains unless obliterated in the proper way. You can't simply scrub it away with a pencil eraser. Clearly the work of an amateur."
"So they merged two runes together without realizing it, and created an entirely new symbol from the combination of the two!" said Harry triumphantly. "That's it! Bob! I think I know what happened to Murphy's missing-"
"There is TRAGEDY within THESE WALLS!!!" cried a voice as the shop doors slammed open with a loud rattle of protest.
Harry and Bob both looked up from the parchment with twin expressions of surprise and annoyance.
"Oh, great," groaned Harry. "Just great. Exactly what we don't need."
"Is that who I think--?"
"Yeah. Moaning Myrtle."
"Come, Miklos! There is a soul in DIRE NEED of our help WITHIN!"
And into Harry Dresden's shop strode one Myrtle Price-Winchester, public access cable channel's self-proclaimed Psychic Psavior. She was much larger in real life than she appeared on the television screen, stout and round and heavy enough to shake the wooden floors of the old building with her size 10 triple-wide step. Her hair was dyed platinum blonde and cut in a page boy around her pale moon face, made all the more stark beneath her stylish, wide-brimmed black straw Sunday Best hat.
In direct contrast to the rotund Myrtle, in her wake trailed a bare slip of a man dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt emblazoned with the Psychic Psavior logo. He was heavily laden with straps holding camera bags and equipment, freeing his hands to steady the bulky video cam on his narrow right shoulder.
Harry glanced a question at Bob who merely shrugged. It was far too late for him to simply vanish; they'd both been seen, as was clearly evident when Myrtle stomped directly toward them.
"Which of you is the owner?" she asked imperiously.
"That would be him," said Bob helpfully, obligingly pointing a long finger at Harry.
"Gee, thanks," muttered the Wizard and stepped around the desk, carefully placing himself between Bob and the corpulent ghost hunter. "Can I help you?"
"It's I how I may help YOU," said Myrtle, grabbing his right hand and pressing one of her ivory business cards into his palm. Turning ever so slightly, so that her good side faced the eye of the camera, she said, "There is a SPIRIT within these walls, crying out for RELEASE!"
"Really," murmured Bob. "I'll alert the media."
"Bob," warned Harry.
"Your pardon. Clearly, someone already has."
"Mock me if you will," said Myrtle melodramatically, "But I can sense the Spirit World! I am in tune with the psychic vibrations of ghosts and souls in distress. And oh, the tragedy I feel here! Lost love! Heartache! Betrayal! If you but listen, you could hear her anguished cries!"
"Her?" Harry couldn't resist a glance over his shoulder, barely repressing a smile. "I've got a girl ghost?"
Bob narrowed his eyes at Harry.
"Yes. Oh yes!" Myrtle raised fingers the size of sausages to her temples, rubbing them slightly. "I can see her within my mind's eye. She's trapped here, within these walls." She began to walk through the storefront with heavy, calculated steps. "So alone! So very very sad . . ."
"You sound pretty sure of that," said Harry.
"I've been doing this a long time," she proclaimed, still rubbing her temples as she moved closer to the desk where Bob stood. "Ever since I was a little girl, I could communicate with the dead. I am sensitive to their presence. They're all around us!"
"Indeed?" said Bob wryly as she passed within a foot of him without so much as a glance. "How many would you say are within this room right now?"
"Bob-"
Unphased, Myrtle turned to face the camera and said for effect, "There are many spirits that walk within these walls. A dozen, perhaps; maybe more. But there is only one that cries out for release! Only one that-"
"SHIT!" The cameraman muttered an oath and slipped the heavy video cam from his shoulder. "Hang on, Myrtle."
In a twinkling, the airy Psychic Psavior became a disgruntled, impatient diva. "DAMMIT, Mik. How many times have I told you, never stop me in middle of a reading!"
"Yeah, I know, I know," said the youth as he fumbled with a compartment on the device. "But the battery just crapped out right in the middle of the shot."
Myrtle planted ham-sized fists on her ample hips. "Did ya think to put fresh ones in before the shoot, asshole?"
The cameraman gulped. "Absolutely! It's the first thing I checked this morning, honest! It should have lasted a couple'a hours at least." Digging into one of the bags dangling at his hip, he pulled out a fresh battery pack and jammed it into place, shutting the compartment door. "There! See? No time at all." Hoisting the camera back onto his shoulder, he encouraged, "We’re ready to go."
"I've lost my momentum," she grumbled. "Where the hell was I?"
"'There are many spirits that walk within these walls,'" said Bob helpfully. "But only one worth mentioning."
"Yes! Thank you." Myrtle patted her helmet of hair into place, plastered on a smile, and turned once more to her invisible electronic audience. "I am hear to RESCUE the poor, doomed lover's SOUL."
Bob folded his arms across his chest. "This ought to be entertaining."
Harry had to admit, it was rather amusing in a painful, bad-art-cinema sort of way.
They stood side by side, man and ghost, content to stay out of the Psychic Psavior's way as she proceeded to go about her shtick. There was much bemoaning the fate of the doomed spirit, who Myrtle claimed was named Isabeau; a French maid who lost her heart to a cold shipping magnate of Chicago's heyday. Under the camera's watchful eye (and a second change of battery), Myrtle pleaded and cajoled and, after great emotional distress, convinced the 'ghost' to cross over into the Light.
The Soul Rescue, as Myrtle termed it, took precisely 16 minutes. With the insertion of commercials, it would pad out nicely to 30 minutes for another episode of the candid Psychic Psavior.
"This place is CLEAN!" she declared with a final flourish.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Lady-"
"No! No need to thank me! It is my God Given Gift. My calling! There is no charge for my services! Fair well, gentlemen, and know that you may rest assured that Isabeau has been reunited with her lost love." Turning on her heels, she gave an imperious wave of a pudgy hand. "Come, Miklos! There are more souls to rescue!"
"Where we goin' now?" asked the cameraman, hurrying close behind in order to keep her in frame.
"The Coffee Time on the corner. I felt a strong psychic disturbance as we drove by," Myrtle proclaimed as she swept out the door, nearly scraping the threshold on both sides with her wide hips. "There's a dire soul in need within! I can sense it!"
"If she senses anything, it's probably a couple of pissed off customers," said Harry as he raised a hand and called a breath of wind to slam the door closed behind her. "Some performance, huh?"
"The only thing missing was a pair of hip boots and a shovel," said Bob derisively. "The lady has the psychic sensitivity of a turnip, and I believe I just insulted the turnip."
"Think so?"
"She wouldn't recognize a ghost if it walked up and pinched her on the ass." The spectral sorcerer answered Harry's grin with an exaggerated shudder. "And thank you, no, I was not tempted in the slightest."