The Ghostly Heart

(1st Place - "Supernatural Writing Contest - Closed"  Dec. 2015)
Also with music  !

There are some definite perks to being a wizard. Flexible hours, interesting work, and a fair amount of prestige. Oh, and the immortality isn’t something to scoff at, either.

But there are still downsides, I realized as another chunk of ancient wood broke off in my grip. It was an old door, rotten and crumbling, but it was clearly in denial about its age. It refused to let me pass without a fight.

The rest of the house wasn’t any better. Shingles hung from the roof like dry leaves, window panes were all cracked or warped, and the yard was a nigh-impassable jungle. There were no noises, either. No rustling leaves, no birds, no crickets. It was as if the whole lot was smothered in a great dampening bubble.

With a final effort – and a few choice expletives – I managed to wrench a hole in the willful door and slither inside.

The house was dark, as all proper haunted houses should be. The air was musty and almost visible. The sounds from each footstep only carried as far as the nearest wall, where they stuck as if in flypaper. A few lonely furnishings were planted here and there, draped with grey sheets and thick blankets of dust.

I wrinkled my nose at the earthy stench of mold as I turned my wizardly senses outward. Authentic magic, as you might already know, flows through the world like an invisible gas. It’s a by-product of the will to survive and is, naturally, strongest where there’s life.

But there was still magic in this lifeless house. A trace amount, only. It drifted through the stale air like the most tenuous of smoke, but I could still feel its presence. It was comforting, like having an old friend along for the ride. I could only hope it would be enough.

Well, time to earn my commission, I guess.

“Hallo!” I hollered. “Anybody... er, anyone home?”

There was more silence, but it was different now. It was an active silence. Looming. Watchful. Wrathful. It was the most deafening silence I’d ever heard.

“My name is Michael,” I offered. “Michael Reeve. To whom or to what am I speaking?”

The silence said nothing, glaring with every grain of dusty floorboard and every flake of disintegrating wallpaper.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but this house is sorta condemned, see. It’s time to move on and let–”

“Gettt outtt....”

It wasn’t really a voice, in the strictest sense. It was as if someone was aware of the concept of words, but didn’t understand the normal mechanics of speaking. Instead, the words were made of floors creaking, dust settling, and wind whipping through gaping window panes.

“As I was saying,” I continued, “this house is condemned and overdue for demolition. It would be easier for everyone involved if you could–”

“Gettt outtt!” the house repeated, adding an ominous rumbling of quaking floors to the symphony.

“Perfect, yes. If you could get out. I’m glad we understand each other.”

An agitated rattling seized my attention. I had enough time to leap aside as a three-legged chair whizzed past and smashed to kindling on a wall.

“You’re only making it worse for yourself!”

The house lobbed a coffee table at me, but this time I was ready. With a swift yank, I threw a threadbare vein of magic up and waved a hand. The magic got the message. The projectile table shuddered to a halt and fell with a crunch. I nodded in approval. It may have been old magic, but it still had some fizz in it.

Forever the optimist, I decided to give the house one more chance. “I’m sure we can come to a fair compromise. I am a wizard, you know.”

There was a faint hiss, like the march of a thousand tiny snakes. A great whirlpool of dust began flowing through the ancient sitting room. I no longer felt the gaze of an entire house. No, all the sorrow and malice was collecting and concentrating right here in front of me.

“Wizzzarrddd,” the dust storm slithered. I’m sure if it had a face, it would have sneered the nastiest sneer ever aimed at a person.

“That’s right. Michael Reeve: local wizard.”

“Nottt welllcome. Gettt outtt.”

“I could say the same. This isn’t your home anymore. You don’t belong here.”

The swirling, condensing figure twisted its increasingly head-like head.

“You scare people. You hurt people. Innocent people minding their own business. Enough is enough.”

A tarnished brass candelabra flew past and imbedded itself in the wall by my head.

I glanced at the quivering candlestick and turned to glare at the disagreeable specter. I swear I could see millions of tiny dust motes contorting into a smirk.

“Alright, I tried playing nice,” I growled. “But if you want it the hard way...”

I whipped a handful of magic at the apparition. The dust cloud exploded to avoid several streams of azure flames.

I stood in silence, trying not to notice the smell of a century of scorched dust settling neatly onto the floor.

“Where’d you go, you gritty bastard....”

With the grace of a stalking jungle cat, I crept out into the foyer. The house was watching me again, but it was distracted. The ghost was definitely plotting something.

Suddenly the floor heaved. Walls creaked, windows rattled, and I was launched back into the sitting room.

“Outtt!” the spirit screamed.

“Screw you!” I retorted.

Another quake threw me back to the floor.

And then I felt it. Hovering in an upstairs room was the epicenter, a raging orb of supernatural energy. See, ghosts grow by collecting memories, like a rolling snowball gathering snow. This spirit was old, and had accumulated more loneliness and anguish every year of its life. Er, death. And an unhappy ghost is a dangerous ghost. It had to be removed.

Easier said than done, of course.

A squadron of armchairs flew at me. I countered with another arc of blue fire and hoisted myself up the writhing staircase. More fire halted a pair of airborne bedroom doors at the landing.

I ducked into a bathroom. The spirit was one room over, pulsating like an enormous evil heart. With rage that potent, it didn’t need magic to be a threat.

It suddenly occurred to me that some kind of plan might be called for. Situations like this are almost never as simple as a mere show of force.

But on the other hand...

With all the focus I could spare in a house trying to throw me like a bronco, I called the magic to me. Ancient streams of energy flowed up through the crumbling house. There was an eagerness, as if the magic itself longed for a chance to be used again.

And who am I to disappoint?

I took hold of my arsenal and leaped out of my hiding place.

“Who’s hungry?” I roared at the giant heart.

The house shook. The ghost throbbed with waves of sickly green wrath.

I charged in as flames sprang up in my wake.

---

It was with an amused expression (and singed hair) that I watched a team of firefighters pick through the smoldering ruins. I felt guilty for causing such a commotion, but the house was trying to murder me. There’s only one way to respond to something like that.

It had definitely been an old ghost, I decided. Old and cranky. So old, in fact, that it had grown into the building. It spread and festered like a cancer. It filled every crack and saturated every beam. The only realistic way to defeat it was to remove the whole house.

Of course, my superiors probably wouldn’t approve. I knew that somehow the extermination of a ghost wouldn’t justify the extermination of a house.

Ah well. There’s just no pleasing some people.

End


---

The Ghostly Heart  
(5:22 - Instrumental)

---

For more Michael Reeve, see also:

FOLDER

Michael Reeve: The Lorelei Chronicles  (E) Meet Michael Reeve: professional wizard, wise detective, and eternal smart-aleck. #2024897 by BD Mitchell