Chapter Twenty-Four: The Withered Lover
Sitting at breakfast the next morning, Jonah steals glances of his companion's faces—Eric and Wendy, both of them looking rested and sleep mussed, laughing over coffee—and wonders if either of them know, if either of them heard anything. He's worried they can see it, written on his face and skin like a confession. Jonah had woken early in the morning from a deep, dreamless sleep, warm and nestled in Matt's sleep-heavy arms, cuddled close to the professor's front, tacky with dried spend. It had seemed like so much, as Jonah had frantically scrubbed it from his skin, cold and shivering in the unfamiliar bathroom.
Matthew had been nothing but reassuring and loving, after he eventually woke, engaging in sweet kisses and soft nothings in the pale morning light. That was all well and good, in the privacy of Matt's bed, but out here in the kitchen, in company? Jonah's nerves feel shot, like he's sitting on a damning secret. But everything seems fine. Matthew, Eric, and Wendy all chat amicably about everything and nothing, mostly discussing the woes of small-town life, which Jonah can agree with. He does his best to contribute, talking here and there, to try and seem normal. Matthew is holding his hand under the table, rubbing firm little circles into the back of his hand. Jonah's sure the professor is going for reassuring, but honestly, it's just helping Jonah recall other touches—a warm palm, a strong grip—
Jesus fucking Christ, this is hopeless.
Jonah doesn't think he's literally ever felt this way, and definitely not as strongly. He had felt a few stirrings in his time, sure. Most notably, some rather, ah, sordid thoughts and feelings for Eugene, associated with the ill-fated petting party they attended the night before his death. But that was just a flicker, a candle's-flame compared to the inferno of sinful notions he feels now, towards Matthew. And he'd never actually done anything before, with anyone, save that one kiss—nothing like what happened last night.
But didn't you get what you wished for?
Not exactly! Jonah berates the little voice in his head, blushing. It had been more intense than he imagined, surely. Jonah had masturbated before, of course. He'd thought he had some idea of what that act would be like, facilitated by another, but he was absolutely wrong. It had been entirely different, so much more, so much better—God, he was going to have to make it up to Matthew…maybe he could do what he did in that one dream? Kneel in front of Matthew, undo his trousers, see how deep he can—
"Hey, uh, Mr. Aickman?"
Jonah snaps out of his daydream, visibly startling, and rather red in the face.
"Sorry, what?" Jonah asks Eric, hoping and praying to God he doesn't look as, ah, hot and bothered as he is.
"I was wondering, after Matthew leaves for his classes today, if you'd wanna have a day out on the town with me? There's this new movie out, about ghosts, I was wondering if you'd want to see it with me—"
"Ah, a film? Sure," Jonah replies, genuinely curious about what the movie theaters of today are like.
"Oh Hell yeah, this is gonna be so fun! I'm so stoked," Eric gushes around his mouthful of pancakes, syrup shining stickily on his chin.
Well, at least he's endearing…
Matthew squeezes his hand under the table, smirking ever so slightly, and Jonah wonders, not for the first time, if Matt could read his mind, if they're somehow telepathically connected.
After breakfast, Wendy announces that she needs to leave, eager to get back to her children, and her life, now that Jonah's safe and secure in Matt's hands, as she wryly says to the awkward, happy couple. Jonah hugs her for a long while, probably longer than propriety allows, but he finds he's already missing her, that he's come to love her like a sister, during their time together. He tells Wendy as much, and the woman hugs him back harder, rocking them from foot to foot.
"I love you too, Jonah. Remember, regardless of my idiot cousin, you're always welcome in my life. We need to have a visit soon, I'm sure the kids are missing you already. Sarah too, and Peter, we all need to get together, spend more time than just two meals."
"I would love that. I miss them too, already, Matthew's parents, and your kids," Jonah replies honestly, giving her one last squeeze before they part. Wendy actually looks a little teary, her doe eyes warm and sad. She hugs her cousin goodbye as well, whispering in his ear, quietly berating him.
"You better do right by this kid, I swear to fucking God, Matt—"
Matthew does his best to reassure her, expressing his love and care for Jonah, but the sentiment doesn't seem to entirely reach her, her disappointment, concern, and weariness apparent on her face. Jonah finds it sweet, and an honor, her concern for him, her good-natured condemnation of her cousin's wrongdoings, despite their blood relations. The Campbell family is a kind, caring clan, prone to honesty, transparency, and genuineness. Jonah can't imagine they could've turned out any differently, considering their matriarch, Sarah Campbell—the epitome of godliness, of an actual Christian, operating in a christ-like manner of unconditional love and forgiveness. Peter better be thankful for her with each beat of his heart.
After she leaves, breakfast is cleared away, Eric and Jonah wash dishes side by side, as Matt flits around the house, gathering books and papers into his canvas bag. They get dressed together after, Matthew helping him choose his outfit—the black jeans, with the marble-patterned shirt—tye-dye, Matthew calls it, nodding approvingly at Jonah's new wardrobe. Jonah helps him pick out his clothes, too—a black button up and dark wash jeans, a brown corduroy waistcoat, and a brown bow-tie. Jonah thinks he looks devastating as all Hell, absolutely dapper…maybe Matthew will let him pick his clothes more often.
"Can you walk me through the spell again, kid, but in more detail? What offerings did you use, what wants did you state? Was your intention clear? Who all showed up? You referred to something called the One, and you said your own mother—"
"I'll explain in more detail after class, dearest, you're going to be late." Jonah chides, as he helps gather Matthew's hair in a low, messy bun, his unruly curls barely complying. Matthew had finally been able to ask about the pocket watch, not having a good moment to bring it up after they first saw each other again, after almost a month apart. He'd been absolutely fascinated, holding the watch gently as he'd stared into the bright, ice-blue glow emitting from within.
"So, this is your soul? It's exactly as I'd imagined it, just as beautiful," he'd murmured, sighing.
After they're dressed and ready for their separate days, Matthew had stopped him, giving him a long, lingering kiss before taking the watch in hand again. He held it in his palm, gently squeezing, marveling at its warmth, at the steady heartbeat thrumming inside.
"The love of my life, heart and soul, contained in something so benign…you're so powerful, Jonah, the most powerful witch. I am awed by you."
Jonah flushes at the praise, beaming, as Matt turns the watch this way and that, examining the moving gears and ticking hands.
"I'll have to protect it with my life," Matt mumbles to himself, as he turns to leave. Jonah's smile slips into a forlorn expression, realizing the gravity of Matthew's statement, finally understanding the edge of fear and worry to Matt's tone, the glimmer in his eyes.
He's worried about fragility, impermanence…he's worried for the transitory nature of my existence.
The film was a feast of color and sound. The frames moved quickly, and synced up together seamlessly, with actual audio and voices coming from each actor. It's staggering, how much film has improved. It was so easy to escape for a while in the darkened room, in the sea of disembodied heads, backlit but a massive screen; a window framing a fantasy, the sound of it all around, and so intense, rumbling through the seats.
It had made Jonah's pulse race, the sheer bombardment of it. He was on the edge of his seat the whole time, barely noticing Eric right next to him, laughing every time the reincarnation startled or jumped at the horror on the screen. Eric had teased him for it, as they had left the plush, confetti-patterned carpet of the theater behind, stepping out into the bright sunlight, Jonah left blinking and disoriented. It felt almost like a sense of loss, leaving the movies behind.
Jonah ultimately enjoyed the film, even if he found some of the gore and subject matter a little…distasteful.
"Which ghost was your favorite? Mine was the the Angry Princess—"
"Obviously, she was your favorite simply because she was naked, and, well…rather well-endowed—"
"Ugh, no! No, she was my favorite because her scenes were the creepiest, and bloodiest! I loved the bathtub scene, it was so fucking sick—"
"Yeah it was, it did make me feel rather ill—"
"You just don't get the appeal, Jonah!" Eric exclaims, exasperated at Jonah's lack of enthusiasm.
"Maybe not. Maybe you should contemplate why it appeals to you so much, maybe re-evaluate some of your feelings regarding women—"
"God, I promise it isn't that deep. By your logic, your favorite was probably the Torso, considering he's half of a buff dude."
"Haha, funny, but no. His ghost was one of the more creative ones, though. Sometimes it really is like that, you know, with ghosts. They do look like however they died, and sometimes that may very well be in pieces—"
"What did you look like as a ghost, Jonah?"
This question brings Jonah to pause, staring at Eric, the TA's expression of excitement and interest never slipping, obviously unaware of the potential rudeness of the question.
"Well, what do you imagine, Eric? I was burned alive in a crematory. I resembled a melted marshmallow, all twisted up, rather shapeless—"
"Shit, dude, that's intense. No wonder Matt was terrified of you, crackling and shedding along the hallways—"
Jonah can't help but laugh, an ironic cackle that Eric echoes with a grin.
"True, there was certainly copious amounts of ash. I have them on me, you know? Along with a bit of my skull, here in this watch—"
"Fuck, what? That's super sick, can I see?"
"No, I don't think it's the best idea to open it—"
"Bummer! I've never actually seen human remains in real life—"
"Why do you want to, it's always awful—"
"Is it, though? I mean, you were a mortician, didn't you see the beauty of—"
"Absolutely not, Eric, I'm going to stop you right there. A body can seem…poetic, maybe, as it's the remnants of a life. Something that should be respected. But it's just a husk, there's nothing left of the person's spirit, usually—hopefully—and I've found that living people are a lot more beautiful than dead ones."
"Maybe you were in the wrong line of work if you feel that way about the dead—"
"It's hard to like the dead, necessarily, Eric, when I'm surrounded by their twisted faces and energy all the time."
"All the time, really? Like…do you see ghosts constantly? You can't just turn it on and off?"
"Goodness, no, Eric. It's not like a radio, I can't just decide not to see ghosts. And they really are everywhere, believe it or not. This Earth, all the grounds on it, are ancient. People have died all over this dirt. They stand in parking lots and grocery stores, churches, hospitals, in the middle of the street sometimes."
"Can you tell how old they are?"
"Usually. Spirits, as their stagnant existence in limbo drags on, begin to fade, wearing out like an old photograph. A lot of the time it's more like a smear of shadow, or a whisper, rather than a full apparition. Sometimes though, if the person's energy had been particularly strong, they'll look more full-bodied, tangible. I can usually date them by their clothes, then. The worst, though, are the fresh ones, looking like anyone else, anyone alive, except they usually look lost and confused, standing still or wandering mindlessly, sometimes whole and hale-looking…other times, I can tell how they died, if they were disfigured."
Jonah's explanation renders Eric finally, blessedly silent, stopping mid-stride to look at Jonah, his eyes wide, clenching a half-eaten bag of popcorn to his chest.
"What about here, right now? How many are there?" He finally asks, looking concerned about the potential answer.
"What, like on this street? Well, we've passed many. Dozens of shadows, a handful of full imprints. I've only seen one fresh one, two, if we count the dog in the street—"
"A dog?" Eric whispers incredulously, looking up and down the street, like if he tries hard enough, maybe he can see them too.
"Yeah. Most animals have souls, you know. All mammals, some cold-blooded animals, even some aquatic life, depending on their mental and emotional capacity. Insects, never, though—"
"God, that's wild, that's so fucking wild." Eric groans, rubbing his face, looking rather pale and overwhelmed.
"Well, you'd probably find it beautiful, considering how you feel about corpses—"
"Ah, no. I get it now, what you meant. While I do find death and morbidity fascinating, I wouldn't want to see it all the time."
"Trust me, it gets old very, very quickly."
"Do you ever mistake them for, like, real people? Do you ever get scared?"
"When I was a child, for sure. I'd talk to ghosts all the time, and it was certainly frightening, when one of them is just standing in the corner of a room you're in, or like a scarecrow in a field—"
"Do they ever respond, when you talk to them?"
"Almost always, if their energy is still strong enough, palpable enough. Most of the dead are no longer truly coherent, though. They usually just repeat their last words, or a particular phrase they liked, over and over, like a loop—"
"What's the craziest thing you've ever heard a ghost say?"
Jonah pauses to consider, motioning at Eric until the man passes over the popcorn. Jonah munches the cold, buttery kernels thoughtfully before answering.
"Well, if you want, like, actually mentally ill, the spirits in the sanitorium were always saying things. Usually they were just pleading to be free, to escape the hospital. But sometimes, they said the damndest things—unhinged, terrible, awful things."
"Like what, though?"
"Are you really sure you want to hear this shit, Eric?" Jonah sighs, stopping to sit on a park bench, pulling his cigarettes from one of the nifty little side pockets in his shorts.
"Yeah dude! Just something, Jonah, I love spooky shit, just like one example, at least? Please?"
Eric watches the reincarnated medium light his cigarette with a Led Zeppelin Zippo lighter, holding it like a joint, two fingertips to the filter. It's odd, jarring, the modern contraption in his vintage hands. He sits funny too, legs crossed primly at the knee, almost ladylike, but Eric assumes that was a genderless thing, back in the day. Maybe how he holds his cigarette isn't. His head is tilted, one hand to his chin in contemplation. His gaze, as clear and blue as a cloudless sky. looks a hundred years away, staring off into the distant past. He sighs eventually, shaking his head.
"I don't know, Eric. One of them, a boy my age—around ten, then—with his throat slit…he liked to linger in the day room. He suggested to me I blind and deafen myself, if what I see and hear is why I was hospitalized in the first place."
Eric makes a sound between a laugh and a gasp. He looks horrified. His mouth moves soundlessly, as if aborting several sentences at once.
"Another time, a woman came to me in a nightmare and asked me if I could help her find her baby. She clutched her insides to the gash in her stomach with both hands. I did, by the way. Find it. Its tiny skeleton was wedged behind the boiler in the third sub-level of the basement. I couldn't tell the gender…I brought it to her, where she was stuck, in her old cell. She said she couldn't remember what she did with it. She moved on at least, after that…I never figured out how to get Arnold, the boy, to move on. He didn't know why he was stuck."
"And if you want to talk about being scared…there was the ghost of a Negro man who liked to haunt the shore, in a cave under the beach. I had got out successfully, one night, I was running, trying to get to the water, to drown, when he caught me. Physically. It's rare, very rare, for a spirit to be able to physically manipulate anything in this realm. He caught and held me fast. He was screaming, screaming, screaming…he kept asking me, 'do you see me?'. I told him I could. So he spat in my face, and called me the Devil."
Jonah laughs suddenly, and the expression on his face is haunted—a twisted, sick sort of smile that doesn't match the manic expression of mirth in his eyes. He smokes his cigarette, his knee bouncing.
"Can't blame him, honestly. I thought he was right for a while, after that. I'd look in the mirror, wondering if I really was the Devil, if maybe I wasn't me, just a puppet, possessed. There's some truth in his diagnosis, especially now."
Jonah pauses in his recollections to glance at Eric. The man has gone very pale, sitting stock still, staring at Jonah with eyes like saucers. At some point, he'd dropped his popcorn.
"Was that spooky enough for you, Eric?"
He doesn't respond.
Jonah leans forward then, waving a hand in front of Eric's face, as if to rouse him. It works, the college student—with a major in paranormal studies, for fuck's sake—shrinks away from him.
"Have I frightened you, Eric?"
Eric slowly shakes his head, clears his throat. He hasn't ever been this quiet, not in the two days Jonah has spent around him. Jonah enjoys the silence while he can, settling back into an expression of peace. He admires the park. It's lush, still in bloom, big fat hydrangeas, fragrant azaleas. Birds peck at abandoned french fries, bath in the marble fountain. It's nice, even with the fading Victorian woman crying in the grass.
"Four things." Eric eventually begins, his voice shaking slightly."One—yes, I am frightened, a bit, at least sufficiently spooked. Two—I'm sorry I asked, but I'm grateful to you for telling me. I've learned more from you in one afternoon than I have six years in college. Which brings me to three: have you talked to Dr. Campbell about all of this? About what being clairvoyant is actually like? What Limbo is like? You should, if you haven't…he might give up trying to be a medium, like you. I know I never want to be, now. And fourth, finally…please, please, and I cannot stress this enough—never, ever use the phrase Negro aloud. That's racist as fuck. It's the twenty-first century. It's African-American, now. Or Black, though that can be insensitive to some."
"Noted, Eric, thank you. Thank God you told me."
Eric just nods.
"As far as talking to Matthew about second sight," Jonah continues, "we haven't, not really. Not to that extent. He's never asked. I kind of figured he already knew, considering the time he spent in the valley. It's different for everyone, anyway."
"You two need to discuss, heavily, and I mean it. He's literally giving a presentation on the subject at the university today…I'm honestly shocked he didn't insist you come, pull you right up on stage—"
"When is it? The speech?"
Eric pulls out his telephone and peers at it, a black little rectangle similar to Wendy's, one that hinges open like a large locket.
"Uh…it started just a few minutes ago, actually—"
"How long will it run?"
"Uh, about another hour?"
Jonah stands suddenly, the look on his face unreadable.
"Do you think we can make it?"
The auditorium would be a beautiful environment, if it wasn't packed to the gills with people and swarming with colorful auras. Jonah can already feel the headache coming on, the energy prickling along his skin, as he and Eric stand at the back, steps away from the massive, heavy oaken doors.
Matthew stands in all his glory center-stage, talking with his hands, his smooth, even voice seemingly amplified, easily reaching all in attendance. In the outfit Jonah picked for him, his hair pulled back, facial hair trimmed, he looks every inch the Department Head he is. It's a little jarring, for Jonah, used to seeing his partner in life and death in the comfort of their own home, looking like a rock-and-roll ragamuffin in his ripped up clothes and long hair. Wendy had referred to her cousin as a dirtbag, which Jonah found hilarious.
Behind the doctor is a large screen, on which are projected images that change every few moments. They seem to be potential images of ghosts, or what people think may be ghosts—smudges of whitish smoke, a still shadow in a window, the illusion of a twisted face in a dusty mirror. Jonah finds these images to be quaint, almost cute, naive expressions of some other, blissfully unaware.
A sentiment Matthew is currently discussing, and Jonah once again marvels at their shared wavelength.
"The 'ghosts' captured in forged or coincidental photographs are just fantasies. The depictions of ghosts and spirits in media and fiction—they are often truly just fiction. Misinformed and almost hopeful. The issue with how we have come to view spirits, or ghosts, in today's society, is that we have come to view them as something different from ourselves, as some other type of entity."
"Spirits, apparitions, are not very different at all from the living. We, the living, those of us mostly healthy, and firmly present here in this realm—we are all just energy, contained within a corporeal, coincidental form. Spirits are simply displaced energy, people just like you and me, who no longer happen to possess a physical body. And I use that term, possess, purposely—this is why a spirit can possess the living, if their energy is powerful enough. All they need is a body, even if someone else's energy is still inside it. I was possessed once, rather famously. I won't speak further on it in this discussion—you can Google me, if you wish, and if your question isn't answered, feel free to call the department."
A laugh scatters throughout the crowd, and someone whistles. Matthew nods graciously, smiling at the crowd. Almost every seat is packed, almost every individual clad in some shade of black, respectful and attentive. This group seems to take him seriously…Jonah can't help but wonder how different the reception could be at other universities. The home-plate advantage, if you will.
"Now, at this stage in the presentation, I always see hands raise, as they are now, and they're usually to ask one of the following four questions. Allow me to address them presently."
Matthew draws himself up taller, puffing out his chest, gripping his own waistcoat in a haughty gesture.
"Now then, Dr. Campbell," his voice booms, pitched high in a skeptic's tone of fearful superiority, the crowd laughing and immediately catching on, "what about demons, then, hmm? They possess folks all the time!"
He responds to his own question wryly, a hand to his chin, as if thinking.
"Well, dear sir or madam, they technically do. But a demon doesn't possess someone, no…they overwhelm their host. They take the individual's energy and displace it, much like a spirit, disembodying the victim to another plane, almost like an astral projection. And that, unfortunately, is how people lose their souls to a demon. That's what makes a demon dangerous, and a ghost, who simply posessess, a lot less so. That's the short answer. For a much longer, and better, education on the topic, I suggest attending Dr. Berry's presentation on demons, here in this auditorium at six p.m. next Friday."
"Now, that bit about a human's soul, that brings us to the next question. Dr. Campbell! What is a soul? The answer to that question is shorter, as it is subjective, and up for debate. Is it our consciousness? Our ability for higher thought, only attributed to the human species? Is it our morals, ethics, religion? It could be, it might be. But most simply, at its basest—what we do know—is that a soul is a person's energy, the non-corporeal something running through our neurons and nervous systems like electricity. That energy doesn't need a corporeal form to inhabit. As I mentioned before, that's how a ghost is possible. A person's energy doesn't always die along with their body—sometimes it's displaced to inhabit spaces in this realm, just on a different plane."
"Leading into the next question and answer—how does that energy get displaced, tainted, and/or stuck in that plane? Well, a person's energy can be displaced or tainted in many ways. Death, most obviously, but it can also be illness, or trauma, any influence strong enough, including strong emotions, mental breaks, even drugs. I lived in that plane for most of my teenage years, due to illness—cancer—and the drugs used to treat it. I could see spirits, their energy, their souls, all around me, while I was there. And what causes the soul to linger in this plane? A plane Dante Allegheri so aptly named Limbo? It's the unresolution of what put them there, in the first place. I couldn't leave, while I still had cancer. Every displaced spirit has a reason to be there…if you're able, I implore you to ask them, and try to resolve their problem. That's the only way they can move on."
"If the individual is still alive, and their energy is simply tainted…direct them to a competent therapist."
Matthew's most successful joke yet. He has to wait for the laughter to die down, before continuing.
"And finally, the last question: what do ghosts look like? If one is able to see ghosts—and if you can, I empathize with you, I truly do—how do I spot them? That's simple. They look like you, and you, and you," Matthew states, his voice slightly hushed as he points to people in the crowd, the room becoming still.
"They can look like anyone. Often though, they look how they did when they died. That can be as gruesome, or benign, as it sounds. The elderly-looking woman haunting your local hospice, who died of natural causes, lingering on to watch her grandchildren from afar? Lovely. The man who likes to linger sadly in your stairwell, his neck bent wrong, his face swollen beyond recognition? Less so."
"You okay?" Eric whispers, having witnessed Jonah's full-body shiver, the vessel rubbing the back of his neck, as if sore.
"Just peachy," Jonah mutters in response, doing his best to smile and dismiss Eric's concern.
"Questions?" Matthew begins wrapping up, on that cheerful last note. Hands slowly rise, and Matthew answers them one by one, usually in a short few sentences, deftly addressing all aspects of the student's question.
"Hey, want to skedaddle before the mass exodus?" Eric asks, a hand on Jonah's shoulder, already pulling him towards the door.
"No, I want to hear all the questions. People are leaving already, let them." Jonah replies, shrugging free. Eric just sighs, looking bored.
"You were complaining earlier about your lack of education, and you want to leave already? Seems to me your primary resource works in the same office as you, and writes your paychecks."
Eric leans back against the wall, his eyes to the floor, sufficiently cowed into submission.
"Besides, there's only one left."
"You, third row, blue hair."
"Dr. Campbell. I've followed you almost religiously, I read every interview…if this question is insensitive, I deeply apologize. Some of the more gruesome details of the Hell House case were omitted from press releases…I'm genuinely curious. What did the ghosts of Hell House look like? There were hundreds, right? What was that like?"
Matthew sighs and scrubs his face with a palm, looking tired for the first time in his presentation. He gives her a smile, though, his answer short and laced with his typical dry humor.
"I appreciate your patronage, dear follower, and your consideration. To answer your first question, it was really loud in that house."
Jonah laughs. He's the only one to laugh.
"To address your second question," Matt begins unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up, exposing his toned, scarred arms. He steps closer to the front of the stage, turning himself from side to side, letting the lights catch and flash along the taunt, shiny skin.
"They looked like me. They looked just like me, all written-upon in Latin. But their skin was gray, their eyes always open, clouded white and unseeing. Besides those droves of souls, though, there was one other, in that house. The ghost of the medium that haunted the house. My primary companion within that special layer of Limbo."
Matthew's voice has gone soft, and deep, the tone of reverence in his voice clear. The handfuls of attendees still lingering all hang on every word, expressions mixed between awe, fear, and rapture.
"He looked like you, or me…but only in silhouette. A little stilted, maybe. A little wrong. Like a dead tree, all limbs. A body, when charred, loses mass and density, burns down to muscle and bone. A stick figure with a normal-sized skull, burned and blackened from head to toe. He would stand or hobble along on disfigured feet, sometimes crawling on elbows, dragging himself along with twisted, gnarled little hands. Always reaching for me."
"Jonah, are you alright?"
Jonah can barely hear him, Eric's voice sounding muffled and far away. He turns to talk to him, but finds he can't quite see him, not clearly, his concerned face (when did he get so close?) wavering in and out of focus in the blackness spidering along the edges of Jonah's tunnel vision. Hands are on him, supporting him, and Jonah realizes it's Eric, holding him, his hands gripping Jonah under the elbows.
"He tried so hard to reach me, to communicate with me. The sounds he could make were unintelligible—pained gasps and wheezes, horrible croaks and crackles, his tongue and throat, his vocal chords, all burned up. He'd inhaled the flames, screaming for his life. So he came to me in dreams, instead. Possessed me in my sleep, filling my head with the voice he'd had in life. He begged, and begged, and begged for help. He only ever asked, never ordered. So polite, and kind to me, even in his situation. He'd tell me stories, when I couldn't sleep. He would talk me through my own pain. But I hesitated to help him, to return his empathy. How could I, when he terrified me so completely?"
A memory: Matthew, seventeen, his brown eyes bloodshot and dull, wide as saucers, ringed in heavy black bags. His thin frame, skin grayish and stretched tight over bones, pink across the chest and shoulders from radiation, shaking like a leaf in a storm. Ready to blow away and cross over, any second.
Matthew, sick and vulnerable. Frightened out of his mind.
Jonah's knees give out, folding beneath him. Eric's already there, as if he knew, as if he saw it coming, catching him and lowering him with a grunt to the floor. Jonah's hands scrabble along the carpet, trying to push himself back up, but they're numb, they feel wrong, they won't work right. Someone is making an awful sound, a gargled croak like the one Matthew had described.
Eric's face, now inches from his own and fading fast in the encroaching dark, is shiny with tears. His mouth is moving, but Jonah can't hear him over his own gasps, the roar of fire in his ears.
Such poor taste, Jonah thinks to himself, the blackness encroaching upon his vision nearly overwhelming, tinged at the edges with yellowish light.
Suddenly, Matthew is there, his warm, scarred hands cupping Jonah's face, his worn brown eyes peering through the blackened tunnel with concern and fright.
"Shit, Jonah, baby, you alright? Eric, what the fuck happened—"
"Well, Dr. Campbell, you were describing what Jonah, er looked like, in Hell House, and he started going down—"
Jonah comes back slowly, on his knees on the wooden floor of the auditorium. People are milling around, exiting the hall. Some of them have stopped to stare, watching the occultist who just gave a speech on ghosts kneel and touch a boy on the ground, seemingly overcome by the speech. Some of them look concerned, others snicker and laugh. A flash—someone is taking a picture—
Matt whirls around, snarling something mean at an onlooker. He's gathering Jonahup from the floor, hauling him up from the armpits, steadying the shaking medium against his side.
"We've gotta get out of here. Jesus, they're like fucking vultures. Eric, help me get Jo to the car—"
"Wait, wait, Dr. Campbell—!" A woman's voice is calling, but Matthew is paying her no mind, as he helps the struggling Jonah out of the heavy auditorium doors, into a foyer, and out into the cooling pre-autumn air, the sun going down rapidly.
"God, Jonah, I'm so sorry," Matthew is saying, as he's gently but efficiently bustling Jonah to the parking lot, his rusted Dodge parked feet away, "if I would have known you were in the audience, I wouldn't have—"
"What, described his ghost in such awful fucking detail? Why would you, anyway, it's kind of sick of you—" Eric interrupts, berating Matthew. Eric looks angry, his concerned gaze fixed on Jonah, now leaning heavily against the hood of Matt's truck. The kid is taking deep breaths, as if to calm himself, still looking pale.
Jonah listens to the two men argue, Matthew uttering half-formed excuses and apologizes, while Eric reminds the occultist of the morals and ethics of paranormal studies.
"I swear you fucking romanticize everything—"
"Dr. Campbell, Matthew Campbell, please will you talk to me?"
Jonah watches a woman run across the parking lot towards them. He could've mistaken her for a spirit, if not for her insistence, and the brown, sludgy aura surrounding her. A shadow clings to her back, a writhing frey wisp like smoke. She looks frantic, her mouth drawn, panting as she runs, her gray, storm-colored eyes surrounded by crows feet and dark purple bags.
"What?" Matt finally acknowledges her, snapping, clearly annoyed at her interruption. The woman comes to a stop a foot or so away, wringing the sleeves of her cardigan in skinny, red-tinged hands. She looks like she could cry.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt, when you're so clearly dealing with…something, but I really must speak to you, please—"
"What about?"
"You're an occultist, right? A demonologist? I've been trying to reach your for weeks, but the department kept turning me down—"
"Probably rightfully so. What are you, a gawker?" Matt's voice is cold as he studies her, still half-supporting his partner with an arm around his shoulder.
Matt fishes two cigarettes out of his breast pocket, interrupting her stuttered pleas to ask Jonah if he'd like one. Jonah nods, and Matt lights his cigarette for him before lighting his own, the woman's nose wrinkling, stepping back from the smoke. She's worrying a crucifix necklace with a shaking hand.
"No, no, I came to ask you for help—"
"Help with what?"
"Well, I've read a lot about you, followed your story through the news since the Aickman case, I found out you teach here. I drove all the way from Missouri just to attend your lecture on ghosts—"
"Well, that's nice of you. Want me to autograph something?"
"Jesus, Matthew, just hear her out, " Jonah finally snaps at his lover. Something about the woman's aura, her frenzied, disturbed energy, makes Jonah think she's much more than just an avid fan.
"Thank you," the woman whispers, nodding at Jonah, studding him with a fleeting look before turning back to the professor, "I came to ask for your help with a haunting."
Matthew tilts his head and takes a deep draw from his cigarette, seemingly finally listening to her.
"A haunting? What kind of haunting?"
The woman finally comes closer, pulling forth polaroids from her purse, blurry images—a girl, her hair standing straight on end. A chair, seemingly levitating. A picture of several clocks side-by-side, seemingly all stopped at three-oh-seven in the morning.
"My family and I, my husband and five girls, we just moved into an old farm house in Spokane. It's been Hell, living there, but we can't move. We poured all of our money into this house, but it's unlivable. Please, the girls are terrified, so am I—"
"What symptoms are you having? What's going on?"
"So many things, unexplainable things. The girls keep seeing apparitions, we hear things in the night. Things touch them, doors open, close, and lock on their own, things levitate—"
"Levitate? You're sure? And have you seen an apparition yourself, or just the children?"
"Well, I haven't but—"
"Are you sure they aren't just spooked living in an old house?"
"No, please, you must listen to me. There's more—they knock me and the kids around, leave bruises. All the clocks stop at the same time every morning, and there's this awful smell—"
"What does it smell like?" Jonah asks, leaning forward, pulling away from Matthew.
He's staring at the woman intently, his cigarette held half-smoked in a limp hand. He can't help but notice how she doesn't back down, meeting his gaze with a look of desperation so intense, it gives him a chill.
"It smells like rotting meat."
Eric watches as Jonah and Matt turn to look at each other, both with an incredulous, worried sort of expression. Matt looks entirely serious now, while Jonah looks concerned.
"The smell of rotting flesh is often attributed to demonic possession…you say the girls have seen things, felt things touch them? The clocks stop?"
"Yes, something keeps pulling one of our girls, Mia, physically out of bed each night, and just a few days ago, something pushed Rob—my husband—right down the stairs."
"That sounds like spirits, though. Potential ghosts," Jonah states, looking thoughtful, "what time do the clocks stop at?"
The woman motions to the picture.
"Three in the morning, three-oh-seven, all of them, every morning, even wristwatches—I've tried winding and resetting them but it never works—"
"Hmm…certainly sounds like something. Are you looking for advice?" Matthew asks, finishing his cigarette, stubbing it out.
"Well, I need help. I've been to so many churches, churches of all kinds, but they won't even come to the house. I need—"
"What, you need me to come exorcize your home?" Matt laughs dismissively, waving a hand. "I'm not really a ghost hunter, lady, nor an exorcist. The most I could do is confirm or deny that you're being haunted—"
The woman breaks into tears.
"I thought, considering your work with Hell House—"
"I was seventeen, then, lady, in the eighties—"
"Matthew."
Matt pauses, turning to consider his twin flame. Jonah steps forward and takes the woman's hand in his reassuringly.
"We'll check it out, see what we can do."
"Jonah, what the—"
"Matthew," Jonah holds a hand up, effectively silencing his partner.
Eric can't help but find it funny, the power the witch has over Matt.
"I think you forget who I am, what I can do. What I specialized in. Paired with your knowledge and expertise, we could truly, potentially free her family of whatever is haunting them—"
"Are you seriously volunteering us to go exorcise her fucking home? We can't do that, Jo, you—"
"Please, please!" The woman cries, "I'll pay you, everything I can, I'll do anything—"
"We'll do it, don't worry." Jonah reassures, quitting her tears. Matt stares, aghast, looking entirely disapproving.
"You said you live in Missouri? Where? How long of a drive is it from here?"
"Springfield. It's about two days, twenty-eight hours total—"
"Two whole days." Matt scoffs, shaking his head.
"We will be there in two days, then." Jonah states firmly, turning to Matthew with a glare. "We'll leave tonight, get there as soon as we can."
"God, please, please! As I said, we'll pay you—"
"You better." Matt snaps, walking away, getting into his truck pointedly.
Matthew watches, disgusted, as the woman continues to grovel to Jonah, who is listening to her with complete patience and sympathy. He watches Jonah write her address and phone number down. Jonah waves, as if to say goodbye, and the woman springs forward to hug him, still openly crying. Matthew watches as Jonah holds her, hugging her back awkwardly, rubbing her back. His effervescent gaze meets Matthew's through the car window, and Matt sighs.
Damn this beautiful, empathetic medium.
After, Eric and Jonah pile into the truck, and Matt drives them back to the apartment, after pit stopping by Matt's office in the Paranormal Studies building.
"Jonah, just what the fuck possessed you to say yes to that woman? It could be a crock of horse-shit, and it's a twenty-eight hour drive—"
"It's not, Matthew. There was something, a spirit or energy, clinging to her the whole time, sucking the life force right out of her. She and her family are definitely being haunted, are definitely in trouble, and we're probably the most qualified people on earth to help her—"
"Are we though, Jonah? You've literally only been alive again for a few months, you almost just passed out based on a verbal description of a ghost alone—"
"In my defense, your description of me was disgusting and tasteless. You forget who you are speaking to, Matthew. I am the most powerful medium of this age. I know that for a fact. I spent my powers in my first life aiding the evil intentions of my father…if I'm going to be alive again, I may as well use these powers for good. And you, you damned black witch, literally resurrected me. Necromancy is a form of magic so powerful, it's beyond exorcism. Why don't you want to help her?"
Matt has fallen silent. Eric watches his profile, his face twisting as he drives. He looks cowed, pale. He looks worried, and conflicted. He doesn't respond.
"Probably because his only real experience has been serving his own intentions," Eric mumbles, immediately feeling Jonah's horrified, understanding gaze on him, "Matt's only ever used his craft for your benefit, Jonah…or his own benefit, depending how you look at it."