Chapter One: Necromancing a Necromancer

Dr. Matthew Campbell sits on the front steps of his newly-purchased home, his signature having dried on the deed merely a week ago.

Purchasing a home had been far more difficult than Matt could've imagined. He had assumed that a man in his mid thirties would have no trouble paying for a house in full, in cash. The problems, however, had been the following; firstly, it wasn't just any house, but 213 Green St., Goatswood, Connecticut—Hell House itself. Secondly, his face was far more recognizable than he'd hoped, and paired with his name caused publicity to stir immediately in the small town of Goatswood; and lastly, the fact that his doctorate was in Supernatural Phenomenon and Afterlife Studies did little to establish credibility within the community.

Matt smiles good-naturedly and takes a drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose, studying the scars on his hands, taunt and shining in the light of the fool moon. After quitting cancer, he had taken up smoking.

Tonight is the night. Publicity be damned, he could only hope the worst of the harassment had died down, finally giving him time to complete the last thing on his detailed list. He had spent the last few days completing the other items on the extensive list, including purchasing furniture, food, supplies. Tonight came down to the absolute finest of details, the tiniest fragments and futures he had been preparing for his whole life after the fire, the ritual he had set his sights on the very minute he attended his first college class.

He intends to bring Jonah back to life, or at least some semblance of it. The ritual he had spent the last decade of his life researching and perfecting was based on another so archaic and rare, Matt hadn't been able to find any "reviews" of it, no definitive proof it would work in existence. So Matt had made his own proof. The ritual had recently worked on an (ethically sourced) deceased goldfish. As far as Matt could tell, the fish was indestructible, and could even survive life outside water, though uselessly. Matt is aware that experimenting on a fish is no where near bringing an entire fucking human being back to life, but Matt's excuse is that he and Jonah have nothing left to lose.

And Matt really has nothing. After the fire, Matt realized he had lost the only thing he had ever really had: an irreplaceable, soul-deep connection with another human being. The night of the incident, Jonah had possessed Matt (with consent, of course), rather roughly shunting Matt's soul aside to make room for his own inside the same body. It had been cramped and loud, with Jonah's desperation, guilt and fear reverberating through their skull. His soul had been fire-hot to the touch and the brightest of blues. Matt had yet to witness anything so alive and beautiful since, and had literally dedicated his life in hope of one day meeting the ghost of him again. It's ironic that his near-death experience had made him feel so alive, prompting him to dedicate his life to death in the hopes of rebirth, reincarnation. Matt's parents didn't understand, for the most part. Peter was upset his son has spent so many tens of thousands of dollars on a "useless" doctorate; his mother, Sarah, had stated on more than one occasion that she would've been much happier if Matt had decided to be a priest, rather than a paranormal specialist and demonologist. Matt's response had remained the same, over the last decade: it was his money, his life, and he could chase ghosts if he wanted to.

Wendy thought it was cool as fuck and had remained supportive no matter what, even after marrying and having children. Matt had never married, obviously. Barely had dated, even. Matt could count on both hands his previous list of sexual partners, and on one hand how many real relationships he had; really like two fingers. None of them, male or female, could hold a candle to the neon blue of memory. None of them had that energy, none of them had possessed enough fury, or guilt, or passion, or tragedy.

Matt is completely aware that he is about to risk the afterlife of a person for purely selfish reasons. He just has to see those eyes again, will do anything to hear Jonah's voice out loud instead of only in his head. Matt is also aware that Jonah owes him exactly jack shit; there's even a chance Jonah will be unhappy to see him. It's entirely a possibility. The very first night that Matt had owned Hell House, he had tried to contact the spirit. No amount of effort with an ouija board, pendulum, or any form of scrying (water, mirror, or otherwise) proved fruitful. Matt had stayed up the whole damn night trying to contact the ghost, and had fallen asleep on the dining room floor, staring at the fire-stained wood and knocking on it gently with his knuckles. Twice for yes, once for no. Please. Please. Please. Answer.

Matt is also aware that there's a chance Jonah might not even be possessing the house anymore. He could've moved on, he could be in Heaven or Hell or somewhere in between. But Matt doesn't think so. Before Matt moved back into Hell House, reports had surfaced for years about paranormal activity within the brick farmhouse; first, when the half-burned shell had been renovated back to its former glory. The renovation had taken a solid three years simply because workmen were continually scared off. Workers from the reconstruction of the house claimed to have seen, quote "spooky shit;" the only family to ever live in the house after its rebuilding claimed to "constantly sense the presence of another, unknown force." There was even a failed attempt to turn the house into a tourist attraction, resulting in multiple accidents involving shattering glass and sudden, inexplicable fires. The thought made Matt smile—of course the "unknown" ghost wouldn't be caught dead, pun intended, being exploited for money.

Matt is sure Jonah is in there, but unsure why the spirit won't make himself known. Matt had planned on talking with Jonah first, of explaining the ritual and his plans. Literally a "yes" or "no" from the ghost would've been sufficient, as Matt hadn't wanted to go through with this without express consent. But the weeks wore on, and Matt had been checking things off of his list methodically. The house was a home again, full of furniture and personality. The room with the birds had been repainted with soft green, vintage furniture found, collected, and refurbished. Matt saw to the development of clothes for the boy himself: mostly all natural fabrics, lots of knits and corduroys, button-flys and leather short-boots with string ties. His fridge is stocked with food not too new or exciting, technology in the house remains sparse. A victrola proudly takes up the far corner of the living room, with plenty of Benny Goodman, Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton, and Josephine Baker. The vintage records had been particularly hard to find.

Surprisingly, the tools needed for the ritual hadn't been. The nearest witchery he could find was only two towns over, in New Haven, and the shopkeeper had everything he needed stocked. In fact, the shopkeeper had even offered extra services, to Matt's disgust; the woman, witch, had looked upon his face with wide eyes, and stated his name aloud before he could even introduce himself. She had rang up his purchases, discounted him by half, leaned over the counter (pressing her ample breasts to the glass) and offered to read his palm. Matt had smiled thinly and asked if she could read Latin, because he could. His left palm read: bind these spirits for use, for the rendering of flesh as a conduit, blood for the dead to feast….she had stopped flirting with him after that.

Matt reads the lines on his palms and snubs out his cigarette on the porch step, checking his watch: fifteen minutes to midnight. The moon is as fully round as it had been the night of the fire, and if he concentrated hard enough and held his breath, he could feel her energy in the air, hear the soft thrum. It's a shame Jonah took his cancer away; if he was still in the valley, he could've seen her energy in the air. If he was dead, he could've been with Jonah already. He had considered that route multiple times already but wasn't sure if he would've ended up on the same plane of existence as the ghost. So suicide was a last resort.

Matt walks through Hell House, turning lights off methodically as he goes, checking the pre-covered mirrors and windows. He leaves candles burning in the newly-painted bird room. He runs his hand down the night shift he had left draped across the soft cream bedspread, ready to be warmed by living flesh. The only light he left on in the house was the bathroom just down the hall from Jonah's prepared room. Matt had drawn an ice bath, just in case. Towels and tissues stood ready, as did an oxygen mask and defibrillator, just in case. One could never be too careful.

Matt descends the basement stairs, fingers limply gliding along the banister, a candle in the other hand. The door to the mortuary stands open, the smoked glass nearly black in the low light. Inside, the crematory stands dark and gaping. The round dining table, previously housed upstairs, stands in place of the metal gurneys that once inhabited the basement space. The room was empty otherwise. Matt had rid the space of all of its mortuary tools in spite, something he regretted now. They could have vaguely been connected to Jonah. But now it was just Matt, the table, the crematory, and the white-washed brick walls. The walls have runes scratched into them; it had taken Matt days. The round wooden table is painted with a black pentacle, eyes, and south-facing triangles. Bowls stand full of offerings and herbs: chili peppers, pomegranate seeds, figs, boneset, hyacinth, nettles, salt. Water and lots of it. Purple, black and red candles stood tall, carved, and anointed with hemlock. Hard to find in this day and age.

Matt's spellwork professor in college would've been awed, proud, and possibly disgusted. For in the middle of the pentacle, atop a red velvet scrap of fabric, was Jonah. Or rather, what was left of him. The ashes were so very fine with age, and Matt had very gently, lovingly, painted the remaining fragments of his skull red. Bloody red, actually. With his blood. Poetic, right?

Matt sits with the triangles pointed towards him, the eye socket of the upper right skull fragment staring blankly. Matt reaches and barely grazes the cheekbone with the pads of his fingers. He blows out his candle, and sits in darkness with a lighter in hand.

He can only pray. In the darkness, Matt can hear the thrum. He can hear it in the walls of Hell House, in the air he breathes. He can hear his breath as it travels in through his nose, his lungs, and back out. He wishes desperately to breathe life back into the bones on the table. A litany of prayers fill his head and eventually flows from his mouth. Dimly, he hears himself chanting in Latin. He prays to every deity he can think of, simply asking: please, please, please, please. Please let this work.

With shaking hands, he lights the candles one by one. Powers of the North, Guardians of Earth. Powers of the South, Guardians of Fire (at this, the table jolts), Powers of the West, Guardians of Water. Powers of the East, Guardians of Air. The Old Ones, the ones to come, God, the Father, Christ, the Son.

The table is now rattling steadily, the bowls of offerings clattering slightly. Matt's shaking won't subside. There is a pain building in the center of his forehead, so he closes his eyes. He hears his own voice growing louder, chanting, louder: Quorum nomina quaero, ut mortui resurgant. Spiro vitam in cadaver ossa et sanguis, et obstupuerit. Accipe industriam et vitam meam pascere golem. Dico ergo: Numquid sic iubeo, sic fiat semper. sicut superius, et inferius.

When Matt opens his eyes again, the ashes are swirling slightly in the air. The blood-stained skull is rising gently. With a deep breath, Matt grips the handle of his double edged blade, stolen exactly for this purpose. He stands, arm extended. He cuts his wrist slowly, methodically, slicing cleanly through runes (ligant animos), creating a steady stream. Blood runs from the socket of the skull, the ashes becoming muddy and dark. Matt feels lightheaded, disconnected. His own fear pounds through his veins and seems to make his blood run faster. Everything sounds dull, heard through cotton. Foggily, he can hear doors upstairs banging, windows rattling, the surging sounds of electricity crackling from every outlet, socket, electronic. Lights turn themselves on, and flicker. The skull fragment has risen high now, past height-level. Matt estimates it to be at least six feet.

Black spots are dancing around Matt's field of vision. This isn't good. He didn't expect this to take so much energy, but what exactly had he been expecting? This wasn't some petty fucking goldfish. This is a soul with a body and blood; this was to be Jonah. Matt extends his blade, slowly heating it over an open flame. With the other hand, he unceremoniously stuffs a handful of offered pomegranate into his mouth. He focuses on chewing them as he presses the blade to his open wrist, stemming blood flow. The room spins faster, and Matt feels as if he could pass out at any moment. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Matt slams his blood-stained fist onto the wood of the table in desperation. With one swift gust, the candles are completely extinguished. Completely unintended. It's so dark, too dark, Matt can't see. Has the moon outside vanished? It's pitch. He scrambles for his lighter, feeling around desperately, dumbly. He can hear movement, whispering, a slick sort of wet sound. Flesh. A tearing, ripping, rendering sound. Matt begins to gag; he turns his head to the side and vomits. His questing hand, stretched in front of him, brushes something cold and slimy, and he recoils as if burned. He stands quickly, and hears a clatter: the lighter, falling to the ground. In a moment of clarity, he stoops, snatches the lighter, conjuring the flame with a schick of his thumb. The flame burns low and blue, too low to see.

But then there is fire. Fire in the shape of the painted pentacle, and smoke. The table has caught fire. Matt can see. Two hands, palms downward, long bony fingers with pale skin stretched taut and unmarred. Two feet stand unburned, connected to delicate ankles, slender calves, and knobby knees. Through smoke, Matt can make out a pair of narrow hips, wiry black curls, a hollow stomach. Ribs are visible and Matt dimly wonders if he's starved. Twin nipples, twin collarbones, twin shoulders with more bunches of black curls underneath the slender arms. And the neck. The neck is long, too long, extended and arching as the head is tilted completely back. Black hair is slicked to a head, and a sharp jaw is working. An adam's apple is working. Matt can hear gagging, a loud gagging. Choking.

Fuck, he's choking.

Matt finally snaps into action, running to the door to flick on the lights before throwing the bowls of water on the fire. Jonah's body rises, his arms coming up, outstretched. He is hovering in midair. Jonah's hands scrabble uselessly at his neck and in the electric lights, Matt can now see the ectoplasm curling, thick and living, from the medium's mouth. The eyes are rolled back but open, whites staring at the ceiling. The body is shaking.

Spirits line the walls, so many people in the room, standing wordlessly. So many eyes open and yet Jonah is unseeing. A litany of curses is running through Matt's mind and he feels at a loss of what to do; he reaches out a hand, grasping the thin ankle hovering at his eye level.

And then it all comes crashing down. Gravity kicks in, and Jonah drops like a bird shot. The body crumples to the table, sending the whole thing crashing to the concrete floor. Jonah gags once, twice. His eyes roll back where they belong, and Matt catches the faintest hint of electric blue before they close. The body stops jerking, settling like dead weight on the floor. The head tilts to the side, and Matt can see the fine features, the high cheekbones and snub nose. A spattering of dusty freckles cover the bridge of the nose, and Matt wonders when his memory, the high definition camera of youth, had failed to remember these little details. Ectoplasm floats aimlessly from the mouth, nose, ears, tiny drops of it falling up to the ceiling from his eyes, inverted tears.

It takes a few moments for Matt to realize that Jonah isn't breathing, his flat chest halted. The certified spiritualist rushes forward, drops to his knees, brings his fist down hard on the still chest. He rolls Jonah over, stomach down, beating the boy's back. The skin feels cold under his fist, and Matt can hear himself crying, can feel his own snot running down his face.

"Fuck, fuck! Breathe, God damn you, breathe! Jonah, please. Oh God, please."

There's a rattle, and a cough. Matt's own heart stops beating as he feels the faintest pulse under his palm. Long hands scrabble on the floor, and Jonah is shifting, hunching, rising to his knees. He coughs again, ectoplasm and mucus flinging from his mouth and nose. It's now that Matt realizes the boy is drenched with the supernatural goo, his hair slicked to his head, it drips from his nose, arms. He looks about as gooey as a new birth. Thank fuck.

The reincarnated ghost suddenly loses his balance, falling to his knees to the cold mortuary floor, hacking pitifully. The blue eyes are cloudy, and his head remains bent forward, chin almost to chest as he continues to clear his mouth and nose. Eventually, the ectoplasm subsides. The room is still, the smoke having abated. Matt's heartbeat is pounding in his head, and he sits in shock next to the body hunched on the slick floor.

"Jonah?"

The medium's head swivels eerily to face Matt. The blue of his eyes still seems dull, two or three shades darker than they should be. They widen when they see Matt, and his head lolls slightly to the side. His limbs shift, one leg coming up underneath him, a palm braced to the floor. He begins to stand. Matt finally snaps out of his shock, slipping his hands underneath the boy's armpits, trying to brace him. Jonah gets into a standing position, only to crumple, a puppet with cut strings. Matt catches him before he can hit the floor, sweeping him up into his arms and against his chest, one arm supporting the back, the other crooked in the hollow's of Jonah's knees. The teen is unresponsive, even after Matt shakes him gently, and then roughly, those striking eyes already hidden behind lavender-thin lids.

Resigned, the necromancer heads for the door, nudging it open with his foot and continuing on to the stairs. He ascends one step at a time, pausing at some point to gather up a lolling arm, draping it over his own shoulders. Trudging all the way up into the kitchen, and down the hallway, up another flight of stairs, he gazes down at the body in his arms, studying each shallow breath it takes, the ribcage expanding and contracting, bones shifting under milk-pale skin.

"We're going to have to fatten you up." He informs the unconscious Jonah, a half-hearted smile forming and falling in an instant.

Had he been expecting a smile, or a laugh? The boy hadn't made a single sound other than retching, and he looks pitiful too, the kind of scrawny attributed to runty kittens oft found abandoned in cardboard boxes, not long for the world.

"Gonna fix you right up, though." The professor continues to fill the silence, a headache building behind his eyes.

"Gonna make all your favorite foods. I promise." As he flicks on the bathroom light.

Maybe Matt just expected a far more glamorous reincarnation; he certainly hadn't planned the table catching fire, or the shitload of ectoplasm still hovering near the mortuary ceiling. He had, however, mildly predicted the swift and sudden exit-stage-left response of Jonah's consciousness. The shock of being alive for the first time in seventy-something years would knock anyone the fuck out, and potentially permanently. And this is why Matt had loaded the tub with ice, filled it up with cold water. It was cruel, and definitely unusual, but no one has ever accused Matt of being a 'comfortable pace' kind of guy. He's more of a dead sprinter-a count to three, rip on two type. He sighs to himself, shifting Jonah's weight around as he rolls up his sleeves, bends at the hips, and unceremoniously dumps the teenager's body into the tub, cursing as he's sloshed with ice water.

The unconventional revival is immediate and effective. The necromancer laughs in relief as Jonah's eyes fly open on impact, his sudden gasp of shock extinguished into a series of underwater bubbles. Legs kick and arms flail, before Jonah manages to sit upright, chest-deep and turning blue at the edges already.

His eyes find Matthew immediately, leveling him with a glare hot enough to raze a cornfield.

"What the fuck!" he shouts, eyes scrunched as water drips from his sodden bangs.

Matt beams, immediately enraptured by Jonah's vintage accent wrapped around the word fuck and its drawn-out vowel, the sharp emphasis on the K.

"Just what, exactly—"

The 'what', more of a hwaught—

Jonah's sentence is cut short as he slips, once again landing hard on his ass to the tile floor. Matt finally snaps out of his hysterics and grabs a towel, handing it to the teen. Jonah wraps himself in the warmth, and stares hard at Matt, the medium's white-hot gaze downright palpable, searing Matt's flesh, rummaging around in his head, rearranging his bones and tendons. Could he read minds, is Jonah telepathic? It's a possibility, the professor ponders, trapped as he is under such uncomfortable, eerie consideration.

"Hey, there. Hi." Matt clears his throat awkwardly, offering his creation a lame smile. "Let's get you out of there and dressed, yeah? I'm sure your freezing. Can you stand?"

Matt moves to help, but Jonah bats his hands away rather angrily. He struggles to stand on his own, his long limbs slick and gangly, and once again crumples like a new foal. Matt laughs once before sucking in a gasp; Jonah's eyes are filled with tears and determinedly focused on the floor as he struggles to stand and cover himself with the towel at the same time. The shivers have turned into shakes, and Jonah is shaking so hard. The tears overflow and run down his pale face, drip from his nose. So much snot and tears and fluids tonight, Matt observes dimly. He stands and wordlessly gathers the boy up in his arms, Jonah rigid with discomfort. Like an angry cat, he allows Matt to carry him, submitting to the care with hackles raised.

The initial ecstasy of Matt's success is quickly deflating into concern and dawning guilt. Jonah seems entirely upset, angry and in tears all at once. He hasn't attempted to speak. Matt had expected and prepared for an onslaught of questions, not this tense, roiling silence between them.

Kicking the bedroom door open with his foot, Matt watches Jonah's face as the blue eyes rove around the room, taking in the soft green walls, friendly antique furniture, and the bed already turned down and waiting for him. Matt can see the quickest flicker of something in those damned neon eyes before Jonah's mask slips into place again. Matt sits Jonah down on the bed, kneeling in front of the teen.

"Jonah—"

"Could you…leave me be, please?" The reincarnation immediately interrupts, his crystalline stare fixed to some unknown point above Matt's head. "I need to…breathe…"

God, that voice. Low-toned, quietly proper. A talkie radio turned down low, pure somber nostalgia.

Matt motions wordlessly to the clothes he had so carefully laid out: a white cotton night shirt, the collar embroidered with tiny blue X's; the underpants so carefully modeled after the standard men's drawers of the 1920's, gathered with a string of buttons from waist to crotch, fluttering loose and long in the legs, down to mid-thigh. Long, gray wool socks. Jonah turns his back to Matt, and slowly begins to pull the nightshirt on. It's a long, arduous, awkward process, and Jonah's limbs seem to still not be working properly. Matt's hand clenches the doorknob so hard, it leaves impressions in his palm.