Short Fiction: "An Exorcism for the Demon"

Previously published in the anthology “Shoot The Devil.” At the beginning of the Paxton Locke series, he’s relatively capable, but I’ve also made more than a few references to past cases when he was just starting his career. This was a fun bit of backstory to flesh out.

“Call me Paxton,” I said, taking a seat. Locke. Paxton Locke—license to dispel.

The cool thing for wizards to do, if you believe the fiction section of the library, is to advertise in the Yellow Pages. I’m a millennial; I wouldn’t even know where to find one. Plus, Craigslist is free. When I first started doing this professionally, I didn’t have to worry about marketing, but striking out on my own introduced me to an entirely new set of challenges.

It had only been three months, but I’d rapidly developed a nose for bull. My current client sounded like the real deal on the phone, but something about his tone made me uncertain. That was why I asked to meet instead of going directly to his house; just in case this was some sort of prank or hidden camera stunt.

Go figure—most people don’t take an online ad offering to clean up haunted houses seriously. But when you have a real problem, you’ll take any lifeline you can find.

Ray Ramsey sounded like a guy that needed a lifeline, but the man sitting on the other side of the table looked calm enough. Too calm? That remained to be seen.

He wore a blue DePaul baseball cap, the stylized outline of a demonic face staring out with red eyes under the white stitching of the university’s name.

“Hey, it’s DIBS,” I said, referring to the only mascot in college basketball with an acronym—the ‘demon in a blue suit.’ “My dad went to DePaul.”

His face was craggy and well-tanned, his forearms muscular and his hands calloused. Older than me for sure, but built well. Construction worker, maybe? I didn’t generally go for background checks. Maybe that’s something I should look into. I dismissed the thought—no matter what he did for a living, his down payment cleared in my PayPal account, so I made the trip.

“You’re younger than I expected,” he said, his eyes flickering away for a moment. He was looking at my hair, I knew. It turned white when I was sixteen. It’s the most visible symptom of everything I went through to reach this point.

“I’ve got the mileage to make up for it,” I shrugged and left it at that. Ray had problems of his own. He didn’t need to hear mine. “It’s your dime. How can I help you?”

“More than a dime,” he muttered, but one side of his mouth curled up. “You want coffee?”

“I’m good. How can I help you?”

He took a slow look around, checking to see if anyone was in earshot, then said, “I have an infestation.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it. Can you describe the nature of the … infestation?” I nearly said ‘ruckus’, but I didn’t think Ray would appreciate my making light of his situation or the implicit comparison to the teacher in The Breakfast Club.

Now his face went a little pale. “Movement out of the corner of my eye. Chills in rooms that were warm moments ago. Things falling off of shelves when they’ve sat safely for months.”

“Have you seen anything directly?”

He hesitated, cocking his head to one side. “I’ve woken up and thought people were standing at the foot of my bed. When I turned on the lamp, nothing was there. But the room was freezing.”

“Sounds like something,” I said. “How long has this been going on?”

“A few months, I suppose.”

“And you’ve had the house for how long?”

“Longer than that—five years.”

I frowned. The problem with knowing that ghosts were real was the inability to learn anything more about them. It wasn’t like there were tons of fact-based research papers out there. My only certain knowledge was what I’d gleaned from Mother’s grimoire. So far, that hadn’t led me wrong, but there were still holes in what it told me. For the most part, ghosts didn’t move around. They were usually, but not always created by traumatic events. And they usually stuck close to where they died.

As you can imagine, the Interstate highway system is lousy with them, usually standing and staring with expressions of hate as the cars pass by. That’s one of the main reasons why I try to do most of my traveling during the daylight hours.

“Weird,” I said finally. “Well, unless you’re pulling my leg, it sounds like you have something. Why don’t we go check it out?”

He seemed surprised that I made the decision so quickly, but he recovered and lead me outside. I’d ridden in on my dirt bike—its hell finding a good parking place for a Class C RV in the middle of Schaumburg—and followed Ray’s small Toyota SUV along bustling streets until he turned off into a quiet neighborhood.

Ray’s house was at the center of a cul-de-sac. He hit the garage door opener[ep1] and drove up the slight incline of the driveway. I eyed the various signs warning against parking on the street and pulled up behind him before killing the Kawasaki’s engine and propping it on the kickstand. If everything went well, I’d be able to complete our business and be on my way before the neighborhood HOA enforcers shifted into high gear.

Out of his car, Ray beckoned me into his garage, and I followed him into a tidy kitchen. The cabinetry and countertops gleamed—the place might as well have come out of an Ikea catalog.

“Hope the ghosts aren’t Swedish,” I said, chuckling at my joke. Ray turned to look at me, confused. I waved it off. “Never mind. Where have most of your encounters been?

“The living room, mostly. Some in the bedroom.”

“Let’s start in the living room, then,” I suggested. The knack I’d garnered from Mother’s grimoire helped pull the ghosts to me, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to start in one of their preferred spots.

The next room wasn’t quite as neat as the kitchen, but it came close—one of the magazines on the coffee table sat a few degrees out of true from its neighbors. If my client was as OCD as his house portrayed him, having a few ghosts around moving things had to be hellish.

Usually, I got a subtle sense of a place, but I wasn’t feeling anything out of the ordinary in Ray’s house. Usually didn’t mean certainty, though, so I took a position in the center of the room, between a recliner and the flat screen TV, then closed my eyes.

I’d learned the spell I used to talk to and dispel ghosts in the hope of talking to one ghost in particular, but the joke was on me, there. As awful as my father’s death had been, he’d left no spirit behind for me to connect with. Using that talent to keep myself in Pop-Tarts and pocket money was an odd career path, but it beat bagging groceries.

Come to me, I commanded, and as soon as I transmitted the psychic command, my knees buckled. Infestation, hell, it was a miracle that Ray’s house didn’t have ice on the wallpaper. There were so many spirits here that I couldn’t begin to do a headcount. My stomach sank toward the floor as the air in the living room dropped twenty degrees. They were coming, and I needed to be ready—

Pain exploded at the back of my head, and I faded into darkness.

The smell woke me up, but the throbbing of my head wasn’t far behind.

Groaning, I reached up to probe the sore spot on the back of my head. I don’t know what I’d been hit with, but it left one hell of a goose egg. My fingertips came back wet, and as I blinked my eyes to focus on them, I could make out blood.

What hit me? One of the ghosts?

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room I now occupied, intuition told me that my injuries had a more mundane source. I was no longer in the living room. From the cool feel of the concrete floor, I assumed I was in a basement.

“Great,” I muttered. “His house is haunted and he kidnaps me.”

The joke was on Ray, though—I could do a hell of a lot more than tell ghosts to move along. I just didn’t advertise the other stuff. If he thought he was going to keep me captive, he had another thing coming.

Standing, I squinted to better assess my surroundings. The only source of light was from a band along the floor about three feet wide—the gap of a door, perhaps? I headed that way, shuffling my feet and keeping my hands out. One hand hit steel as the other hit rough block. Exploring, I determined that the light did come from a door, though I couldn’t feel hinges or even a doorknob. A raised circle of metal occupied the space where a handle should have been, and the other side transitioned smoothly from door to jamb to block wall.

The hairs at the back of my neck stood on end. This was no haphazard construction—this door had been here for a long time, and I didn’t detect any weaknesses other than the gap at the bottom, which was far too narrow for me to wiggle my fingertips into. I pressed one cheek to the floor and tried to get a view of the other side, but the angle wasn’t right. All I saw was a blur of light.

“Lights,” I muttered under my breath. I slowly passed my hands along the wall, feeling for a light switch. On the side with the covered knob, I felt a rectangular raised section, but it didn’t seem to be a light switch. The face of it was ribbed and felt like plastic, but other than that—ah! My fingers happened upon a round, raised button on the lower right corner of the rectangle. I pushed it, heard a click, but I remained literally in the dark.

“Shit,” I said.

A red indicator lit up on the raised section of the wall, and an electronic-sounding voice said, “Language.”

I resisted the urge to jump back—it was only an intercom, and the voice was Ray’s, but it was flat—emotionless. I didn’t like the sound of it.

“Hey,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “Sorry about that. Looking for the light switch. That something you can help me with?”

For long seconds, nothing, then the light came back on. “Why not?” Another click, more pronounced, then—

The entire ceiling seemed to be made of rows of LED fixtures, and I flinched away from the sudden visual explosion, covering my eyes with one hand and peering through the gaps in my fingers until my eyes adjusted.

As I lowered my hand and took a slow look around the room, the sense of disquiet I’d felt since investigating the door intensified. The wall holding the door was solid, floor to ceiling. The builder of this room had paneled over the floor trusses with heavy plywood, mounting neat rows over overhead lighting directly to it. Lighter-colored, fresh block in the wall to my left showed where a window had been filled in—that was the way to outside, at least—but the real horror of the room lay directly across from the one-way door.

Rows of steel shelving spanned the entire width of the room, neatly arranged objects occupying each tier, a bizarre amalgamation that might have made sense to the one who arranged them.

To me? It was sheer horror.

Jars of unknown fluid held delicate hands with manicured nails, all of them neatly severed at the wrist. Bare skulls rested atop their component jawbones, staring at me with empty orbital sockets. What looked to be a terrarium or fish tank occupied a prime piece of shelf real estate. I couldn’t be sure what part of the body the limbs inside were from—the clusters of carrion beetles scuttling across the body parts covered them in a rippling sheath of black chitin.

It was impossible to say if each component of this bizarre trophy wall was a solo act or a piece of the rest. Either way, I had a pretty good idea as to the source of Ray’s infestation.

“Hey, Ray,” I said, pressing my back against the door. “I think I know how you can keep the ghosts from showing up, buddy.”

“It only started happening in the last few years.” His tone had turned thoughtful. “First it was just one, and I could think maybe I was losing it, but then there were two, then three …”

Hate to break it to you, champ, but you lost it way before the ghosts showed up. I took a deep breath and checked the other wall for anything I could use to escape. More concrete block, with no visible remnant of a window. Not good. All right—time to put an end to this charade. I focused on the core of my being that had changed that night, so long ago, and summoned the first power I’d been cursed with.

“Well, I can get rid of them for you, but you’re going to have to let me out of here.” My words left me with a near-physical weight. I called it the push, and it was magic as powerful as it was frightening. I could tell someone to do exactly what I wanted them to do. They’d not only do it, but they’d be happy to do so.

The way my Mother had used the power had shown me just how badly the push could go. The fact that she’d tested the spell out on me first often made me wonder just how damn dangerous it was if she was unwilling to be the first guinea pig.

Ray chuckled, and my heart sank. “That’s not how this is going to work. Don’t you see it? You’re going to be my little housekeeper.”

I stared at the red light on the intercom and resisted the urge to punch the wall. Powerful as it might be, it seemed that the push was incompatible with modern communication devices. That was annoying, to say the least. Fine. Stall him, and do it when he comes back. “That’s the deal, is it?”

“That’s the deal. Keep the ghosts away, and you stay alive. When I heard about you on the Internet and researched you, I knew you were the key. The news made fun of what you said when your father died, but you were telling the truth, weren’t you?”

I mouthed a curse. Go on Nancy Grace, it’ll be fine, they said … “And if I’m not interested?”

Another click and darkness reclaimed the room. “You’ll get thirsty or hungry soon enough. Bet you wish you’d taken me up on that coffee, now, huh?”

Without much else to do, I sat on the ground, leaned against the door, and tried to count all the ways that I’d screwed up. Ray had been smart enough to dig my cell phone out of my pocket, but I’d compounded the issue with the simple fact that no one had any idea where I was.

Of course, when it came up to an up-close and personal fight, I didn’t usually have much to worry about—I could always just order the attacker to back off. By sheer accident, Ray had negated my biggest advantage. The push wasn’t a weapon, but it was a damn good defense. The closest thing I had to a weapon was probably the telekinesis spell I’d absorbed from Mother’s book, but its power was inversely proportional to distance. I could pick up a can of pop if it was within ten feet, and that was pushing it.

Invisibility wasn’t much use in a pitch-black room, but maybe that was my way out. Ray had to come back at some point, didn’t he? I didn’t know much about serial killers, but it stood to reason that he’d take time to appreciate his macabre gallery of trophies.

There was one thing I could do. Gathering my will, I focused on the welt on the back of my head. The throbbing sensation faded away, and I could feel the swollen skin loosen as the swelling receded. In all the fantasy books I’d read as a kid, before learning that magic was no joke, healing was the domain of clerics, but no such division seemed to exist in the book of magic I’d studied.

I would never admit that I only found it while searching for a quick treatment for a bad batch of teenage acne, but the spell turned out to be a useful day-to-day trick.

Even with arcane powers, the concept of conservation of energy seemed to hold. Accelerating my metabolism left me shaky, tired, and more than a little hungry. Maybe I’d have been better off just leaving it be, but I had no way of telling if there were more lasting effects than a bloody welt. Healing it, at least I knew I stood a shot at being at full strength the next time my host came calling.

For now, though, I succumbed to fatigue as I leaned over and used my arm for a pillow on the cold concrete.

Why are you still alive?

It wasn’t a voice, so it couldn’t be loud, but woke me from a restless sleep nonetheless. Shifting into a sitting position, I took a quick look around my prison. It was still dark, but there was a not-so-dark section of the room, and it was headed my way.

The ghost had been a girl, and a pretty one. Sometimes their forms showed the grievous wounds that laid them low; in others, they looked essentially normal. Save for the whole transparent thing.

This one had lost a shoe at some point before dying, but it didn’t affect her balance—her toes hovered a few inches above the concrete, and soft blue light outlined her form. The hem of her dress fluttered in an ephemeral wind.

“He needs me,” I said, keeping my voice low. With the intercom, it was probably a waste of time, but it couldn’t hurt. “I’m supposed to get rid of you.”

I see. She nodded slowly. There are a lot of us.

“How many?” I was afraid to ask, but if I could keep her engaged, maybe she could help me.

She smiled and spun slowly in place, dancing to a song only she could hear. I don’t know. I can’t count, anymore. I’m just cold and I want to go home.

“Me, too,” I agreed. “Is he here?”

Somewhere.

Trying not to sigh, I rubbed my forehead with one hand. As best I could figure, based on my own experience and what the grimoire had to offer, ghosts weren’t a spirit or a soul. They were more of an imprint, a psychic echo—like the roadrunner leaving an outline of himself when he left the coyote in the dust.

As though the conversation had opened a floodgate, the psychic reverb of a subdued wail hit me, and I winced. It was not a comforting sound.

The source was a form huddled in one corner of the room, rocking slowly back and forth in time to the screams. She clutched herself with her arms, and though it made no logical sense, the spirit screamed through a gag made up of the same ethereal stuff as her body.

“Hey, I hear you, all right?” I snapped. Even as I spoke, I felt guilty. She couldn’t help what she was, and her death must have been a bad one. The shrieking paused for a moment, then resumed after she glanced at me with unknowing eyes.

She doesn’t talk much.

“I got that. What’s your name?”

Shoeless smiled sadly and began to twirl again. I don’t remember. Isn’t that silly?

“That’s one word for it—” The cold mass slamming into my chest cut me off, and I staggered backward more from shock than physical impact.

The third ghost was little—I could have tucked the crown of her head under my chin, and I’m only a bit over average height—but she was pissed, raking her fingers across my face and through my chest. I’ve seen some ghosts that could work up the energy to throw small objects, but this one hadn’t gotten to that point yet—the sensation was closer to a cool breeze than an impact.

“Look,” I said. “You’re not getting anything done there, and I’m not the bad guy.”

Killyoukillyoukillyoukillyou!

I was half-tempted to send her on, but I’d never tried it with more than one ghost in the room at once. Screamer was no help, but Shoeless might have enough awareness left to be of some use.

“No, you won’t,” I said, calmly. “Ray already killed you, didn’t he? And you can’t touch him. But I can.”

The little ghost froze, one hand inches from swiping at my face. Some of the bestial rage went out of her face, and she blinked at me.

You can?

“Yes. I just need your help. Once I have that, you can have peace.”

He’s a monster. A demon.

“Bullshit,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on hers. “He’s just a standard-issue killer. And he has no clue who he’s messing with.”

She narrowed her eyes but finally nodded.

How?

“Do you remember your name?”

Becky.

“That’s great,” I said. Holding onto her identity was a good sign that she had some higher faculties, and that was a lot more promising than having to work with Shoeless. “Do you know where Ray is now?”

Becky’s form blurred—in my experience, ghosts are fast, at least in the immediate area binding them, and I was getting a first-person look as she searched the house and returned to her point of origin.

Bedroom. Upstairs.

“Okay,” I said. “What’s through that door?” I pointed, so there was no misunderstanding.

She wrinkled her face as though I was an idiot. It’s a basement.

Resisting the urge to sigh, I nodded. If there was anything out there out of the ordinary, hopefully, Becky was still aware enough to mention it to me. My paranoid side worried that the door was trapped in some way, but my more reasonable side argued that there was no reason for Ray to do that. So far as he knew, I could get rid of ghosts and that was it. In this particular card game, I had all the aces up my sleeve.

I moved to the door and put my palm over the dummy cover. In the dark, there was no need to close my eyes, but doing so helped my focus.

My telekinesis spell gave me some level of feedback. I felt the workings of the lock with tiny, invisibly fingers. Probing forward, I studied the shape of the catch on the other side. It felt like nothing more than a standard deadbolt lock, reversed to turn this room into a prison. I took hold and twisted. Sweat broke out on my forehead—I was riding a fine line and breakfast had been a long time ago, but the lock clicked open. I pushed on the door, and it swung open with the soft hiss of breaking rubber seals.

Shadow shrouded the area outside of the locked room. The light I’d seen under the door originated from a small window high on the opposite wall. I headed for it, but before I made it halfway across the basement, I saw the bars mounted on the outer frame. That way offered no escape.

Take it easy, I told myself. Escaping the locked room negated any advantage my captor had—even if I was stuck in here, I simply had to wait until he returned and push him. After that?

I grimaced in the darkness. That was the hard part, honestly. With a few notable exceptions, I hadn’t had many positive interactions with police detectives—they tended to be suspicious by nature, and I couldn’t exactly tell them the truth. They’d throw me in the nearest mental hospital while trying to prove that I was Ray’s accomplice.

To ensure justice was done, I had to be sneaky. The room was my best bet—I could order Ray inside and lock the door after him. After that, I’d need to make sure I wiped any surfaces I might have touched and find my wallet, keys, and phone. Once I was safely away, an anonymous tip to the police would get the ball rolling.

Of course, Ray could always deny he had anything to do with the room full of trophies. Doubtful, given that he probably owned the house, but I’m sure there have been stranger alibis.

Hell, the cops in my hometown were evenly divided on whether I’d killed my dad until I used the push on Mother to force her to confess the truth. As much as I hated to bend other people to my will, I could do the same to Ray. When the police arrived to rescue him from his little house of horrors, he’d be all too happy to confess to his chain of depravities.

It was the right thing to do, but was it right?

The question is one I’ve asked myself since Mother cursed me with this power, and I still don’t have a good answer nearly a decade later. Every ounce of my moral fiber told me that the push represented every dark desire of the human condition. It’s dangerous, and if I ever abused it, I fear that I wouldn’t be able to stop.

In a sense, I suppose the fact that I still agonized over the ramifications of my power is a good thing. If and when I ever stopped asking myself the question would be the time to worry. It was one hell of a paradox—but that’s life for you.

The floor above me creaked, arousing the ethereal whispers of those residing in the basement.

He comes, Shoeless said, appearing at my elbow. Inside the room, Screamer’s cries turned into a terrified keening. Ray offered no threat to any of the ghosts, but we create our own demons.

Even in death, he haunted them.

I decided, then and there, that I wasn’t going to push Ray unless it was necessary. It was reckless, stupid, and needlessly risky, but I wanted to—no. I needed to prove to myself that I could get out of this without falling back on what was essentially a real-life cheat code.

A long tabletop ran the length of the wall under the barred window. Selecting a screwdriver from a hanger mounted on the block wall, I hurried to the door I’d opened and scratched a pair of x’s into each jamb, a bit above knee height and right below throat level. The telekinesis spell had another wrinkle that, strangely enough, used less power than actively exerting it. Given defined points, I could attach a line of force. In this case, my scratches served as the anchors for a pair of telekinetic tripwires. If I could get Ray to hit them with enough steam, he’d be thrown across the basement like a rag doll.

The floor joists creaked overhead.

Not much time, Becky muttered, and something told me she was right. I hurried back to the workbench and replaced the screwdriver. I moved back to the room. I couldn’t see the lines of force as I slipped back inside, but I could feel them—they vibrated my teeth as I came near.

Centering myself in the room, I faced the doorway and crossed my arms, waiting.

The basement brightened as Ray opened the door at the head of the stairs. It was a nerve-racking wait—the clicking and rattling of multiple locks took a good thirty seconds. From the sounds of it, he had the basement locked up tighter than Fort Knox. The hinges whined, and he shut the door behind him. Further rattling sounded as he secured the door behind him with what sounded like at least one padlock. Smart, but a potential roadblock. I hope he’s got the key on him.

He took the stairs two at a time, pausing near the bottom to stare inside at me. A look of uncertainty crossed his face, and he cleared his throat.

“What—what’s going on?”

“Sorry, Ray, it’s been fun, but I’m going to need to put in my notice.”

He clenched his fists and took a step forward, then stopped. He took a quick look around the basement, suspicious.

“There’s no trap,” I lied. “This is what happens when you pick a fight with the wrong person. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? You’re just a loser who likes to hurt women.”

The verbal jab worked—his face reddened and he charged at me with a shout. I resisted the urge to flinch, standing and waiting until he ran into my trap.

There was no noise or flash of light—Ray simply reversed from a flat-out run to flying backward across the basement. Arms waving, he slammed into the workbench, fell forward onto the concrete, then lay still.

Heart pounding, I forced myself to wait. After he didn’t stir, I dispelled my lines of force and crept across the basement. I needed his keys if I wanted to get out—once I was out of the basement, I could lock him inside and call the police.

I prodded him with my foot before I started patting him down in search of the keys.

Which was a mistake.

He seized my wrist in an iron grip, pulling me down. I stumbled across his body and hit the floor. Plan in ruins, I opened my mouth to use the push, but I was too late. He plucked what looked like a handgun from the waistband of his jeans and jammed it into my abdomen. The expected gunshot never came—instead, the sound of rapid electronic clicking filled the room.

I didn’t feel anything at first, which was a surprise, but then my abs cramped. As I curled in to relieve the pain, the sensation spread from there, and I lost control of my limbs, twitching and jerking. I tried again to grunt out a push but failed badly.

Standing and looming above me, Ray reached down and grabbed my throat. He dragged me into the center of the basement with frightening ease. He’d eased off on the Taser, allowing me to claw at his hands, but he lifted my head and casually tapped the back of my skull against the concrete.

Head ringing, I found I couldn’t climb to my feet, much less respond with a witty rejoinder. The room was spinning, and I cursed my stupidity as Ray strolled over to his workbench. Selecting an elongated trowel that seemed far too sharp for reasonable garden use, he straddled my prone form and shook his head in mock-sympathy.

“All you had to do was your job. Look on the bright side—nobody’s going to know how bad you screwed up when they bury your empty coffin.”
I blinked my vision clear as Ray began to lean over, leading the way with the trowel. My voice was a harsh rasp, and for some reason, I couldn’t grasp the push—but when I reached for my telekinesis, I found it.

I couldn’t push him away or freeze him in place, but I could shove mental fingers hard enough against the pocket where he’d tucked the taser. He didn’t even notice as it slipped out and tumbled toward the ground—and landed directly in my outstretched hand.

It was a great catch, but I couldn’t take all the credit. I’d guided it along the way, and even that small effort made me shake with fatigue.

I found the trigger and jammed the contact barbs on the taser’s business end against Ray’s leg. Holding down the trigger, I jerked my head to the side as Ray spasmed. The trowel scraped against the concrete as he fell headfirst. I had to let off as his chest crushed down on mine, but I wriggled out before he could recover from his own electric jitterbug.

“Ki-ki-kill you,” he managed, trying to push past the effects as I slid away from him. Swallowing, I cleared my throat, then responded.

“STOP,” I commanded, and he froze in place, staring at me with confused eyes. With the push, intent mattered more than words, but it seemed that I needed to at least be able to express something. In this case, one word was enough.

Ray stopped, frozen in position.

Becky appeared behind him, staring down at him. She raised her head, fixing my eyes with an unnerving intensity.

Kill him! Kill him NOW!

Exhausted, starving, and just plain ready for a break, I tried not to sigh. “I don’t need to, Becky. He’s no longer a threat.”

Shrieking with rage, she rushed toward me, swiping ineffective ethereal claws. I understood her anger, as frustrating as it was. Making eye contact once more, I gathered my will and focused it into a push addressed not just to her, but all the ghosts nearby. The house itself seemed to hold still, listening with anticipation at what I had to say.

“Your soul, your spirit—it’s moved on. You are not what you were before. You’re an afterthought, an echo of all the pain and terror that Ray put you through. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. There’s no reason for you to hang on.”

Becky froze, face twisted in rage, but she relaxed. Something like fear flashed through her eyes, but then she was gone. In one corner of the room, Shoeless smiled beatifically, staring above my head at something a million miles away.

Oh, she said, both surprised and happy. How wonderful.

I didn’t see the others go, but I felt them leave. A light rush of wind ruffled my hair, and then the house lay still, empty and at peace save for those that remained.

Staring at Ray, I said, “What the hell am I going to do with you?” He didn’t answer—the implicit command behind the push held back his words, but the sheer rage in his eyes was a sight to see. “Fine,” I said. “Here’s the deal. You’re going to hand over the keys to the door. Then you’re going to go into the other room and sit on the floor while I wait. I’m going to lock you inside. When the police arrive, you’re going to forget you ever called me and everything that happened after that. But you’re going to confess, and insist that you be prosecuted. Don’t let your lawyer try any tricks. Tell them you need to be in prison for the rest of your life.” I didn’t think Illinois had the death penalty, so I wouldn’t be taking that on my conscience, but there was always the possibility of parole. “Once you’re locked up, you’re free to go back to your normal nutjob self, Ray.” Hopefully, that last caveat would keep early release out of the picture, but I’d also need to keep tabs on him, too.

He stood, towering over me for one heart-stopping second before he dug a small keyring out of one pocket and shuffled into the room where he’d kept me and who knew how many others captive.

Revealing the truth of their shadowed existence to ghosts always made me feel low, as though I had just destroyed something incapable of self-defense. As frightening and nerve-racking as most of them can be, they’re not harmful. I like to tell myself I’m doing them a favor, putting them to rest, but I still feel a sense of guilt over it.

I shouldn’t have felt the same for Ray, who was very obviously a threat as well as a proven killer, but I did. As I watched him take a seat on the concrete floor, I couldn’t help but wonder just how wide the line was keeping us apart. He’d exerted power over his victims—was it all that different from what I could do, in the end? I’d never killed anyone, but I could. And with all the tricks up my sleeve, I might just get away with it.

A chill went up my spine, and not from the cool air of the basement.

In the end, maybe the difference was that little reminder in the back of our heads, urging and shaming us not to do wrong. Perhaps the problems come when we forget that small, still voice, and do whatever we like, regardless of what society or morality has to say about it. Becky had called Ray a demon and I’d scoffed at the notion, but who’s to say that she was wrong?

I’d met plenty of ghosts, but this was my first demon. And his face was all-too-familiar.