Sisters of Mercy: Spookshow, #8

Prologue

THE CHAPEL WAS EMPTY when the injured man burst through the doors. His ashen face fell as his eyes swept the room for a priest or minister, or even another lay soul such as himself, but the pews were empty, the lectern on the stage vacant.

He always knew that he was going to die alone. Even as a young boy he somehow knew this. Loneliness and solitude had been ground into his very bones for as long as he could remember and, when the end came, he knew he would have to face death alone. Then again, he mused idly, didn’t everyone ultimately die alone?

Yes, he conceded. Just not like this. No one deserved this.

He shambled between the pews, eyes drawn to the glow of a dozen votive candles burning at the feet of the risen Christ. The wound in his ribs flashed with each wheezing breath and his teeth gritted together at the effort of kneeling before the statue. All he could think to do now was to pray. Even if the priest was here, there would have been nothing the vicar could do to save him. The only option was to beg for mercy to the Saviour to intercede on his behalf, to spare him the horror that was hounding him.

A fresh twinge of pain rippled across his torso, so sharp it took his breath away. He could feel the fabric of his shirt plastered against his skin by the sticky glue of blood leaking from his ribs. More blood dribbled from his palms and trickled from the tiny lesions in his brow. He gazed up at the plaster Christ with its delicate, almost feminine face and its feet of clay with their tiny wounds that matched the slivers of red in its palms. At how the crown of thorns left spidery rivulets of red down the lofty brow. They were twins in their suffering, he and this statue, but therein lied the cruel irony of what was coming to claim him and he knew that his prayers of salvation would reach no further than these deaf ears.

Then he heard it. A soft rattling sound behind him, like the tinkling of a wooden wind chime. He caught only a glimpse of the hateful thing before it slithered under a pew like a snake loose in the chapel, but far more dangerous, more venomous by far.

What day was it? Had it already been seven days? His thoughts were muddled by the pain, scrambled by the fear. Nowhere left to run. Threading his fingers together, he turned back to the statue and lowered his head in prayer like he had since he was a boy. Feverish with pain and terror, he groped for simplicity and directness. The Lord’s Prayer, whispered countless times in his life with its simple words and rhythmic cadence stuttered on his tongue, garbling his pleas for mercy. ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven….something-something-something…deliver us from evil.’

The rattling sound rose sharp in his ears as the chain of linked beads wrapped quickly around his throat and clenched like a python. With each exhalation, the beads articulated tighter until the man’s face turned as blue as the painted tunic on the plaster Christ. The flames of the votive candles guttered weakly as the praying man flailed, collapsing onto the red carpeting of the chapel floor. The last thought flickering through his oxygen-starved brain was that of family; the only sister he had, the mother and father he never knew.

Chapter 1

JESUS, BE CAREFUL, Bee.

Billie looked down from the top of the ladder set up outside the old diner. It wasn’t really that high, maybe ten feet off the sidewalk, but it still made her stomach queasy with vertigo. Just hold on to the ladder, she said. So I won’t fall.

Kaitlin stood below her, both hands clutching the ladder rails, one foot on the first rung to anchor it. Why couldn’t you get your handyman to do this?

Because I wanted to do it, Billie replied. Her hand was sweaty, making her grip too slick so she wiped it against the seat of her paint-speckled jeans. It’s the finishing touch.

At least you’re dressed it for it, Kaitlin complained. Her heeled boots, which looked snappy in the swishy marketing agency where she worked, did not provide the stablest of support for anchoring a ladder. I’m still in my work clothes.

Tammy, the third friend present, was balanced on a patio chair just under the ladder. Tammy, in her motorcycle boots and Motorhead tee, always looked ready to get her hands dirty. She looked at Kaitlin. Do you wanna swap places?

How heavy is that thing? Kaitlin nodded at the object that Tammy was holding, a long rectangle covered with brown craft paper like a mirror.

Tammy lifted the board off the ground, her biceps rippling as she did so. It’s got some heft to it.

Are you ladies done chatting? Billie said, looking down from the ladder. I’d like to get down before I remember I’m afraid of heights.

Tammy craned her neck, shielding her eyes against the bright August sun. Maybe we should switch. I’ll get up there and you can lift the sign to me.

No. I want to do this part, Billie replied. Even if it kills me. Which, she mused, it just might if it takes much longer. The past two months had been a blur of frenzied commotion as she worked her fingers to the bone getting the bar ready. She practically lived here now. Despite the fact that she hadn’t done a lot of renovation, wanting to keep the original layout of the diner, there had been unexpected problems. Replacing the ancient dishwasher revealed a web of corroded plumbing that needed to be gutted. Removing a light fixture unearthed old knob-and-tube wiring that had to be stripped out and updated to building code. Tearing out a sink in the downstairs washroom led to a cracked supply line and an inch of water flooding the basement floor. If she didn’t know better, she would swear the place was haunted by a mischievous spirit intent on foiling every repair. But there was no restless spirit here, of that she had been sure.

Her knees felt wobbly, the muscles in her legs stiffening from standing rigidly on the ladder rung. Working overtime on the new bar had left her sorely depleted and there were days when she wondered if she would ever not feel exhausted. It had been almost two months since the harrowing events at the house of Cordelia, but she had yet to fully recover from it. And this was after being laid up in bed for three days. Contact with the spirit world was draining, leaving a chill in her bones that never quite thawed.

You ready? Tammy said as she hoisted up the long sign.

I got it. Billie got a firm grip and raised the board up to its spot over the front door. The length of the board made it difficult to manoeuvre and she gritted her teeth hoisting it onto the preset anchors. The thin lip of the sill allowed her to rest the board in place and line up the pre-drilled holes in the brick with the holes in the sign. Digging out the galvanized screws from her back pocket, she clamped two in her teeth and reached down as Tammy passed her the cordless drill. She drove the screws into one end before climbing down to move the ladder and secure the rest of the new sign to the brick facade. The butcher paper covering the sign remained mostly intact, with only a few tears here and there.

Kaitlin looked sideways at Tammy. We still putting money on this?

Damn right, Tammy confirmed as they watched Billie drive the last screw in. "My money’s still on Billie Rays."

Kaitlin reached up to catch the drill Billie passed down. "All right. My twenty bucks says it’s Poor Tom’s."

Above them on the ladder, Billie started tearing at the paper shroud. You guys ready?

Ready? Tammy groused. We’ve been waiting all summer for you to make up your mind.

You can’t rush genius, Billie replied, fingers peeling the paper away.

Deciding on a name for the bar had driven Billie crazy for most of the summer. She had filled an entire notebook with different ideas for what to name her bar, but nothing felt right. She had enlisted her friend’s help for suggestions and all of them had stepped up. Tammy and Kaitlin had suggested Billie Rays and Poor Tom’s, respectively. Jen thought Culpepper’s was a perfect name, while Gantry insisted that Spirits was the name she wanted. Aunt Maggie thought The Gypsy Tea Room sounded nice and her cousin Earl had offered Travellers. Even Cordelia had pitched in, suggesting the name Sanctuary. In the end, she had come up with it on her own. Or partially on her own. Unable to sleep on a muggy night, she had taken a pair of scissors to the newspaper and proceeded to cut out random words. Dozens of small slips of paper littered the floor as she matched up random words, hoping something would pop out. It hadn’t, and after a while, she had given up and gone to bed. Coming back to it the next morning, she had found most of the tiny slips scattered across the floor from the breeze in the window, but two words were lined up perfectly. She knew in an instant that this was the name for her bar. Her first thought was that Tom had done it, rearranging the words as she slept, but that didn’t make sense. All of her efforts to teach him to read and write had failed. So, either it was coincidence or something else had visited in the night and arranged the words on the floor for her to find.

Either way, the name for her new establishment was settled, but she wanted it to be a surprise. Hiring a graphic artist friend of Tammy’s, she commissioned a sign to be made and told her friends that they would have to wait for the unveiling. That moment finally arrived as the last of the butcher paper wafted to the pavement.

What do you think? Billie asked, descending the shaky ladder. Don’t you just love it?

The two women squinted up at the sign with its raised black letters against pale pink, their expressions dubious, as if unsure of what they were reading.

The Merry Agnes? said Kaitlin doubtfully.

Isn’t it great? Billie effused with a clap of her hands, yet wondering why her friends were so slow to get it. Maybe the heat was getting to them.

Tammy’s brow furrowed. Wasn’t that your mom’s name?

Yup. Cool, huh?

But, Bee, Kaitlin said, her voice cautious, like a student whispering in a classroom. You spelled Mary wrong.

"No, dummy. It’s ‘merry’ as in fun, jovial. Get it?"

Kaitlin’s expression flattened, the smile on her face looking forced. I see it now. I think.

Tammy also looked uncertain, but she was trying. Was your mom jovial?

No, Billie replied, trying not to let her friend’s reaction annoy her. Not in the least.

Right. Kaitlin turned up the wattage in her smile, but it still looked strained. The Merry Agnes. Sounds great.

Yeah, Tammy concurred. Like Kaitlin, she too tried to bounce the mood back up to Billie’s expectation. Sounds like a ship.

The wind dropping from her sails, Billie took a step back and peered up at the sign. You hate it.

No, no, Kaitlin insisted, waving her hands a little as if to put out a fire. It’s just a surprise, you know. Unexpected.

She’s just pissed she lost the bet, Tammy assured her, clapping a hand on Billie’s shoulder. It’s a great name.

It was bullshit, of course, but Billie let herself be swayed. You think so?

It’s sweet, naming it after your mom like this, Kaitlin said, adding with a wink. Even if you did spell her name wrong.

A tiny laugh bubbled out of Billie. She squinted up at the sign again. The moment I saw it, I knew it was the right name. But now, well…shit.

It’s perfect, Tammy said, nudging an elbow into Billie’s ribs. I like the fact that it sounds like a ship. You could come up with a motto or something. Like, ‘Come party in the Merry Agnes’. Er, that came out wrong.

Another ripple of laughter escaped Billie’s lips. She squeezed Tammy’s hand in thanks.

Kaitlin turned to Billie. So is that it? It’s done?

There’s still a few finishing touches, but yeah. It’s ready. I even had a few customers last night.

You opened and didn’t tell us? Kaitlin’s eyes went wide, her expression hurt. Aren’t you going to have a grand opening or something?

I am, Billie replied. This is just a soft opening, to work out the bugs before the official launch.

I’m helping you plan the party, Kaitlin declared. No question.

Billie thanked her, but was caught offguard by the troubled look on Tammy’s face.

Maybe you can get some rest before that, Tammy said, brushing a hair out of her friend’s eyes. You look a little worn out, honey.

You don’t know the half of it, Billie thought as she gathered up the scraps of craft paper. Tammy wasn’t the keenest observer in their little quartet. Unlike Kaitlin or Jen, who both possessed an intuitive sense of changes in mood or health, Tammy was often oblivious to subtle shifts in temperament. For Tammy to notice her fatigue, she must look pretty bad.

~

The grave lay in the northeastern corner of the churchyard, next to a low wall of fieldstone that had been erected when Elizabeth the First sat on the throne of England. Most of the graves here were similarly ancient and space was at a premium, but occasionally a virgin plot of earth was allocated for current interments. Mr. Darby Orton must have had no small amount of sway with the local council to finagle a spot for his only daughter’s resting place.

The scraggly grass was wet and it soaked through John Gantry’s shoes as he stalked through the lichen-encrusted headstones, their inscriptions worn down to illegible grooves in the sandstone. The grave marker he sought was newer, standing out among its weathered neighbours like a fresh bloom among blighted weeds. The inscription on this stone was sharp with pristine engraving and clean lines that accentuated a shadow relief no matter which angle the sun lay. The inscription was simple and, in Gantry’s opinion, a bit twee. Her father’s choice, presumably.

ELOISE JANE GANTRY

1976 - 2013

Beloved daughter, may you find peace at last.

The prick. The epitaph hit like a hard boot to the stomach and Gantry wondered how much of that bonmot was her father’s true sentiment or a dig at himself. Ellie’s father, Darby Orton was a stern prig who had always detested him for leading his daughter astray and later condemned him for murdering his only child.

Fuck you, Darby, he growled at the headstone. You don’t know the half of it.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he laid it on the wet grass before the grave and eased down onto it. If there was one thing he hated, it was a wet arse from sitting on dewy grass. Snapping open his Zippo, he lit a cigarette before reaching for the bottle he’d brought with him. Turning the label to the stone, he addressed the grave.

Hello, luv. I brought out the good stuff. See the label. Do you recognize it?

The breeze picked up, ruffling the leafy shag of the ivy on the old stone wall. With a little imagination, the swaying leaves seemed to be nodding in affirmation.

You bloody well better remember it, he gruffed. I spent me last quid on it the night we faced down the parson. I had planned on the two of us finishing it off that night, but you insisted we save it.

In truth, the bottle was nothing special. Neither of them were flush with money at the time to splurge on something really flash. Over time, it seemed more fitting than anything flash.

Keep it, you’d said. Let it age and then break it out on our tenth wedding anniversary. Shame we didn’t make it that far.

Peeling away the foil, he popped free the cork stopper and tried to remember today’s date. Their actual anniversary had passed two days ago, but Ellie had always been as bad at punctuality as he was. She wouldn’t mind. He put the bottle to his lips and slugged back a healthy draw. Wiped his mouth as he grimaced.

Christ, that really is shit. Apparently, age doesn’t improve this swill. He raised the bottle in salute to the headstone. Happy anniversary.

The breeze had died away and the rustling ivy went still. Did that mean she was listening? Or was he just imposing his needs on the environment around him, desperate for a sign? For anything.

You know, I’m still kicking myself for being struck dumb when you appeared at Cordelia’s. He laughed, a chortle of cruel irony. I know. Me, at a loss for words. But it’s true. Once you were free, you flared up before me hot and bright, and there was me, mute as a stone.

Something hot stung his fingers. Forgotten in his hand, the cigarette had burned all the way down until it singed his flesh. He flicked it away.

The funny part is that I had a million and one things to say to you. All of it scripted beforehand, right? I’d imagined that moment so many times, you getting free and me being able to see you again. Christ, I had pages and pages of all the things I needed to say. And there I was, in the moment of truth, unable to stammer out a single word. Not the reunion I’d imagined, obviously.

He stretched out his legs and crossed one ankle over the other. Took another pull on the bottle, but it still tasted like the devil’s piss.

So here I am. With every intention of spitting out everything that I wanted to say then. Fidgeting, he scratched his head and chewed his lip. Cleared his throat and steeled his guts in an effort to keep his tear ducts dry. Christ. I’m still at a loss.

His voice cracked at the first few syllables and he lowered his head in shame. His body went rigid, fighting back the sobbing that threatened to possess him. Pushing it down, he took another slug on the bottle and wiped his forearm across his nose. It was another five minutes before he stopped gasping enough to speak again.

You know what the funny part is? His eyes cleared enough to focus on the letters scribed on the headstone. I don’t know what to do now. The last few years have all been about getting you free. About finding someone strong enough to dive down into Hell to pull you out. Finding Billie, gaining her trust, getting her to help. That was the only thing pushing me on, but now? Now, what do I do?

The air remained still, the ivy leaves on the old stone wall motionless. Had she gone? Had she ever even been here? He took another pull on the sour whiskey and then tilted the bottle and let the rest spill out over her grave.

Maybe I’m done here, he muttered. Time to put up the chairs and turn out the lights. Find meself a nice rock to crawl under and just fade to black.

Enough of the sodding tears, he thought as he wiped his eyes dry. When his gaze cleared, his eyes fell on the inscription chiseled into the headstone. Beloved daughter, may you find peace at last.

In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t such a bad epitaph after all. Peace at last. Hadn’t that been the whole point of the last few years?

The whiskey bottle lay empty in the grass before the tombstone, and, for a moment he regretted pouring it all out. But then he reached into his jacket pocket and slid out another. Same year, same maker’s mark.

Good thing I brought a back-up, he mumbled as he cracked it open and took a pull on the neck. With any luck, he could simply drink himself into the grave right here in this quaint spot. No one ever visited this old churchyard. He’d simply lie down and decompose, his bones slipping down into the dark soil next to hers.

Chapter 2

THE CALL TO 911 was logged at 5:22 AM on Wednesday morning, about a dead body inside a church. Patrol officers Chen and Walton were the first responders on the scene, arriving at the small church on Normandy Road at 5:35 AM. Ten minutes later, Officer Walton called it in to the homicide unit, requesting a detective on the scene. Given the location and peculiar details of the crime, she suggested they send ‘spooky Mockler’.

He hated that nickname. It had been a quiet summer so far, months had passed since anything spooky crossed his desk, and he had hoped that the annoying moniker would be forgotten. Apparently, that was not the case.

Pulling his car up behind the police cruiser, he climbed out and looked up at the church before him. Nothing special from the outside. A small, old church on a residential corner with a single bell tower that no longer held a bell. Officer Walton came down the steps to greet him.

Morning, Karen, he said, coming up the pathway to meet her. How’s the knee?

It still creaks when I get out bed, she replied. Officer Walton had blown it out chasing down a suspect three months ago. There was still a slight limp to her stride. She shook his hand and led the way into the church. Were you about to clock out?

He nodded. The night shift had been quiet and he was shutting down his computer when the call came in. Almost. Something different about this one?

Yeah. I’m sorry to dump more hours on your day, but this… Officer Walton shrugged as they passed through the church doors. I thought you’d better see this one.

You know I hate that nickname, right?

Yeah. Won’t happen again. She led the way through the rows of pews. The body’s just up here.

On the east wall of the nave was an alcove that sheltered a life-size statue of Christ. At the statue’s feet was a long table busy with small votive candles where the faithful lit a tallow under the mournful gaze of the plaster Jesus. The body was on the floor below the table, face down with its arms stretched out as if reaching out to the cold figure in the alcove.

Officer Chen stood guard over the body. He nodded hello to the homicide detective. What’s up, Mockler?

My Spidey senses, Mockler replied. What do we got?

Male, white, roughly middle-aged, Walton said. The parish priest arrived just after five this morning, saw the victim and called 911.

Mockler knelt down to study the body. Dark hair with a little grey in it. Jeans, a green golf shirt, and worn-out running shoes. No watch, no jewelry. Something dark around the neck. Blood on the hands. An open wound in the palm, like he’d been stabbed.

He looked up at both officers. Did you touch anything?

Just this. Walton held a leather wallet between her finger and thumb. It was sticking out of his back pocket. There’s ID in it.

What’s his name?

Alan Marsten, the officer replied, slipping out the driver’s licence. 85 Carling. That’s three blocks away.

Mockler bent closer to the victim’s hand. There’s a puncture wound here on the right hand.

There’s one on the left hand, too, Chen stated.

Stretching over the corpse, Mockler gazed down on the opposite hand. Looks like a defensive wound.

That’d be my guess, Walton said. She nodded at the victim’s head. Then there’s the weird part. The necklace.

The object in question was made up of thick wooden beads threaded on a brass chain and wrapped around the victim’s throat. Used as a garrote, the beaded chain had been pulled so tight that it had cut the flesh around the neck almost to the bone. The victim’s face, pressed against the floor, was dark purple. The mouth was open, the tongue distended unnaturally as the man had struggled for every scrap of oxygen. The eyes were bloodshot and, like the tongue, protruded unnaturally. Gruesome didn’t begin to describe it.

What is it? he asked.

I think it’s a rosary, Walton replied. You can just see the cross part poking out on this side.

Mockler came around to her angle where the end piece of a cross, also brass, was visible under the victim’s shoulder. His gaze rose to meet Walton’s. I guess this is the spooky part, huh?

It’s a first for me, she said.

Mockler rose up, his knees creaking. Let’s start processing the scene, then we’ll turn him over. Getting that chain off his neck will be a little tricky.

Rosary, Chen corrected him.

Whatever.

Plastic bags were slipped over the victim’s hands and cinched with elastic bands at the wrist. Photographs were taken. When they rolled the body over, the squished folds of the face remained stiff, the flesh almost purple from the blood settling. A few more photographs and then Officer Walton, her lips puckered in disdain, raised the victim’s head so the detective could unwind the beaded chain from around the neck. When Mockler’s fingers touched the brass, he immediately snapped his hand back, as if stung.

What is it? asked Officer Chen.

Mockler rubbed his fingers together. Just got a zap.

Static electricity? suggested Walton.

Sort of.

The beads clinked softly together like wooden marbles, the brass chain making a low slithery noise as it was pulled away. Gathering it up like a ball of loose spaghetti, he laid the chain on the floor and stretched it out to its full length.

Jesus, he gruffed, taking in the whole piece. It’s over four feet long. Who wears a necklace that would bang off their knees?

A hippie?

Kneeling down again, Mockler ran his fingers along the beads. It was old but sturdily made. The amount of torque required to cut the flesh to the bone would have snapped most chains but this piece had held firm to finish the task. Blood was smeared over the beads and the dull brass of the chain. Where the loop met, two small medallions hung. Like coins, both were stamped with icons and lettering. One of St. Christopher, another of the Virgin Mary. Below the medallions hung another foot of beads that ended in a heavy brass crucifix. Reaching for the cross, Mockler again felt a tiny spark of frisson when his fingers touched the metal. Was there something about brass that held an electrical charge? Turning the crucifix over, he examined it from all sides, but there was nothing unusual about it. The metal figurine on the cross was worn smooth, the brass shiny, as if buffed by countless hands.

Officer Chen handed him a large evidence bag and Mockler scooped the rosary into it, zipping it shut. Walton was studying the catastrophic damage to the man’s throat. Look at this, she said. You can see the actual bone here.

Chen came down on one knee to join her. Shit. Do you know how much strength that would take? To cut through the muscle and the windpipe like that?

Taking hold of the chin, Mockler turned the victim’s head to one side and then the other to inspect the wound. I’m surprised the chain didn’t snap, he said.

Chen nodded. Whoever did this must have some serious guns.

A chirping melody interrupted them, emitting from the victim’s person.