Nearly Departed, Page 2

  The man called September arrived at his beat-up green car with the unpleasant feeling of cold water running down the back of his neck. His attempts at locating the source of the drip had proved futile, and had left him with a stiff shoulder rather than a dry spine. He shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it into the back seat, followed shortly by his hat. A few seconds after climbing in himself, he remembered that his phone was still trapped in one of the overcoat’s pockets, and he reached back to try and find it. Outdated though it was, he fervently hoped that the phone had not fallen out while he was in Alberta “Moon” Bennett’s house, and he felt a sense of relief when his fingers finally closed around its shape. A quick check of the display showed that he had missed a few calls from “Thoreau’s,” but that was probably just Luke calling him in an effort to impress some girl he had met.

  Twenty minutes later, the car pulled into the driveway of a small house on the southern edge of San Francisco. The highways had been all but deserted, save for a few police cars and one very angry-looking teenager, and the trip had been otherwise uneventful. September set the car’s parking brake, grabbed his briefcase, hat, and coat, and walked up to the front door, which swung open as he reached for the handle. An attractive woman in her late twenties glared out at him, brushing a curl of chestnut-colored hair from her face.

  “How many times have I asked you to tell Luke to stop calling past nine?” she said. “If he has to call, he should call you on your cell phone. And he should learn to get dates without your help.” She reached out to take the briefcase, and pulled September into the house.

  “I missed you too, Alena,” he replied jokingly. The house was warm and inviting, particularly after the rain. Matching couches in a relaxed off-white color flanked the spacious area, and the marble coffee table at the living room’s center was piled high with dog-eared novels.

  “Still not enough to wear your ring, I see,” Alena joked back. She tossed a silver band at him, and he fumbled to catch it. “Honestly, Dennis, would it be that bad if people knew you were married?”

  He slid the ring onto his finger. Then, wincing, he reached up to peel the fake beard from his face. Tiny flakes of glue still clung to his skin, but he was immediately more recognizable as himself.

  “September can’t be married,” replied Dennis. “I mean, half of these women want to hit on him.”

  “On you, you mean.” She gave him a warm smile. Alena and Dennis Gufehautt had been married for nearly a year now, and she wasn’t showing any signs of losing her youthful beauty. Luke, Dennis’s best friend (and best man) had warned him that marriage would “Turn that fox into an elephant,” and was always quick to encourage Dennis to spend more time at Thoreau’s, the bar where Luke worked. In truth, his friend was mainly interested in using Dennis’ presence for his own prospects, since Dennis had been bestowed with minor celebrity status after mentioning the bar in his recently-published book. He wasn’t bothered by it, although Luke’s late-night phone calls did have the unpleasant effect of irritating his wife.

  “Me, him… It’s all relative. Hell, do you remember that hag from last week? She actually mentioned me by name.”

  “You, or you?” Alena asked jokingly. She shoved Dennis’ shoulder good-naturedly. “Go wash your hair. I don’t want any more gray stains on the pillowcases.” Dennis touched his temple experimentally and examined the tips of his fingers. The label on the spray he used claimed that the color would stand up to quite a bit of wear, although the pale ring that had been forming on the inside of his hat said otherwise. He smirked as he moved towards the bathroom, picturing a gray residue on the head of a wooden cat sculpture. No doubt it would be attributed to spiritual essence or something.

  “So, how did it go?” came Alena’s voice from the other room. Dennis waited before answering, fully aware that her interest was only for his benefit. Alena had never spoken against Dennis’ profession – which was more of a hobby, anyway – but he was well aware that she disapproved. In her opinion, his time was better spent writing, rather than in the presence of delusional and occasionally deranged followers of the occult. There had been times, he had to admit, when he had felt like he had gotten in over his head, and more than one occasion where the validity of his advice had been called into question. Secretly, though, it was the thrill of the act that Dennis enjoyed, and it was something that he just couldn’t find while sitting in front of a keyboard.

  “It went well enough,” Dennis answered finally. He opened the medicine cabinet and removed a small bottle of fluid, the contents of which he rubbed on his face. The oily substance made tiny clumps out of the clinging flakes of glue, and he plucked at them with a piece of wadded-up tissue. “I got the idea that she just wants someone to talk to.” He dabbed more of the fluid onto a portion of his skin that was still sticky. “Actually,” he continued, “I think what she really wanted was for someone to tell her more about her own haunt. I’m sure that there was more to her story than she told me, but since she doesn’t really believe it, it wouldn’t have been as satisfying if she had thrown all the details out there.”

  “Like what?” asked Alena. Dennis could hear her doing something in the kitchen, and felt a brief stab of guilt for having missed dinner that evening.

  “Well, she said that the spirit had been in her house since the Gold Rush, even though it couldn’t possibly have been that old.”

  “The house, or the spirit?” asked Alena.

  “The house,” Dennis replied. “But it means that she had a backstory worked out, and she didn’t tell me much of it.” He paused, trying to recall. “Or, if she did, then I wasn’t listening. Anyway, she was hoping that I would give her more material, or tell her something that she hadn’t already thought of.”

  “Did you?”

  Dennis tossed the used tissues at the garbage can in the corner, missed, and bent to pick them up. “No,” he replied. “If I had, then she would have been satisfied, and there wouldn’t be any reason for her to call Sam.” Samuel Harding was the name listed on the business cards that Dennis distributed. The two had met at Thoreau’s on the night of Dennis’ bachelor party, and Dennis had taken a hesitant liking to the man. He tended to be a bit overzealous in his desire to help people, whether they wanted to be helped or not, but he had a genuine concern that Dennis was both amused and impressed by.

  “So, are you going to shower, or should I get started on making dinner?” came Alena’s voice from the kitchen.

  Dennis paused. “You didn’t eat already?” he called back.

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Oh.” He felt another pang of guilt. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Dennis, it’s fine, just don’t take too long.”

  Dennis stood for a moment, then reached over and turned on the faucet. He caught the faint scent of pipe tobacco as he stripped off his clothes, and made a mental note to brush his teeth before exiting the bathroom. In another few seconds, he was standing beneath a warm cascade, which was a welcome change from the cold precipitation he had been caught in earlier. As he bathed, he played through the night’s events in his mind, augmenting them and adjusting them for later, when he would write them down, and in all likelihood, never think of them again. He let out a short sigh and ducked his head under the stream of water. The entire thing – the act, the business cards, the persona of Doctor September – had all started as a way for Dennis to get ideas for his next book. He had soon discovered that every alleged haunting he encountered was a predictable version of the same story. The details shifted and the characters went by different names, but for the most part everything else was identical. He would never admit it, except possibly to Alena (and definitely not to Sam), but when he had started with the façade he had secretly hoped that he would encounter a real ghost or specter or... something. The closest he had come had been his visit to a séance-holding psychic with an electrical problem, and that trip had only taken place because she had misinterpreted Dennis’ cryptically-worded
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  There was a mild sting in Dennis’ eye as a trail of dye-laden soap passed by, and he splashed some water at his face to clear it. He occasionally wondered when he had finally become disillusioned, but always concluded that it didn’t really matter. Sam paid a small finder’s fee for each new client that Dennis brought in, but the act alone was enough to keep him interested. Granted, it wasn’t quite the exciting story of a ghost-busting adventurer that he had hoped for, but the intrigue of masquerading as a pseudo-supernatural con artist was almost as good. Dennis smiled in spite of himself as he washed the last traces of gray dye from his hair. Out of everyone he knew, his friend Luke had been the most supportive of Dennis’ idea, and that had been largely out of a sense of personal pride. When Dennis had first moved back to California after a romantic misadventure, it had been Luke’s prompting that led Dennis to experiment with schemes such as this. Although his attempts had been few and hardly profitable, they had provided him with the necessary confidence and material to pursue Alena, get his book published, and move out of Luke’s tiny apartment. It was ironic, he thought, that a man whose hobby was essentially an extended con had found his greatest degree of success in writing a novel about the subject.

  The smell of spices and cooking fish greeted Dennis as he exited the bathroom. Although technically a vegetarian, Alena was nonetheless very skilled in concocting meals which Dennis found quite appetizing. He took a moment to peer into the kitchen before hurrying towards the bedroom with his armful of damp clothing, intent on dealing with the articles before sitting down to eat. He carefully hung the coats, shirt, and tie, and then tossed the remaining pieces at the hamper in the corner of the room. As with the tissues earlier, he missed, and spent a grumbling moment on his hands and knees as he tried to locate an errant sock. His search was interrupted midway through by Alena shouting that dinner was ready. He made another mental note to find the escaped clothing later and hastily pulled on a shirt and sweatpants.

  The table was set with two plates, each piled with a generous helping of salmon and rice. Dennis sat down across from Alena, who was already patiently waiting for him. As soon as his fork was in his hand, she began ravenously swallowing her food, pausing only when she saw Dennis staring at her quizzically.

  “What?” she asked through a mouthful of fish. Dennis shook his head with a grin.

  “Nothing.”

  Alena put down her fork and swallowed. “I know it’s something. What?” she asked again.

  Dennis shrugged and picked at his own food, peeling a small bit of skin away from the salmon. “I just haven’t seen you eat like that in awhile. Busy day?” Alena rolled her eyes and resumed eating, but at a subdued pace.

  “I shouldn’t have taken that extra class on. I know Antonio needs the time, but it’s getting to be a bit too much. I might have to hire another instructor.”

  Dennis nodded noncommittally, knowing full well that his wife preferred to work through her troubles on her own. She ran a small dance studio in downtown San Francisco, which kept her active both physically and otherwise. Her partner, a man named Antonio Cortez, had recently been offered a job as a supporting character in a local film, and much of his time over the past few months had been spent in rehearsal and preparation for the role. As a result, Alena had taken over the task of teaching his classes when he was unavailable, but the added effort was having an effect on her free time. Also, Dennis mused, apparently on her lunch breaks.

  “Well, I could stop by and bring you something if you want,” Dennis offered. Since the success of his book, he had nothing but free time, which was also a likely contributor to his habit of donning a fake beard and an old hat. Alena continued to eat, shaking her head as she scraped the rice together on her plate.

  “Thanks, but don’t you have to see Sam tomorrow?” she sat back and flopped her napkin onto the table.

  “That will take fifteen minutes, tops,” replied Dennis. “I can visit afterwards. How about I bring you one of those sandwiches you like? You know, from the place with all the birds painted on the ceiling.”

  Alena smiled, but there was a certain weariness to her expression. “I’ll just grab something from the market down the street.” Dennis shuddered inwardly as he pictured the place in question. Like so many similar establishments in the city, the shop Alena was referring to advertised its presence by the means of a large, broken sign that spelled out the words “LIQUOR, FOOD, PRODUCE,” and seemed to cater more to drunks and derelicts than famished dance instructors.

  “No, really,” Dennis pressed. “I insist. I’ll just swing by and drop it off, and you can eat it on your break. You won’t even know that I’m there, I promise.” This time, when Alena smiled, the warmth crept back into her eyes, and Dennis could see her relaxing.

  “I bet you use that line on all the girls, don’t you?” Of the many things he liked about her, Alena’s wit was probably top on Dennis’ list, and the fact that her jokes frequently caught him off-guard was rather appealing. True to form, it took him a moment to recognize the suggestive tone in Alena’s statement, and she laughed at the expression of dawning comprehension that crossed his face. She continued to tease him as they left the dining room, where the dishes remained on the table until the next morning.