The Dead Book

Oct 31

10:15

A kid screamed and pointed at me. The mother whispered, 'Shhh. She can't help her looks. She's probably nice.'

I hate bus stops.

It's always like this in public, eyes avoiding at me. Children's fear hurts, even after all these years. Thus I work with haunted objects not in the field. More comfortable with ghosts than people. Spirits are left-overs in pain like me.

Recruitment should've been my partner's job. She disappeared two months ago. It's down to me to vet her replacement.

Book came in a month ago. Led to the man I'm meeting.

Whole situation stinks. Come out here and meet a prospective agent. Linked to the book how? We know nothing about the book and the names rippling in it except they're linked to him. Cover's not even human skin.

He's supposed to use it to exorcise the remnants of the Denton Massacre of 1905. And what if he can't? Poor spirits deserve freedom. All this time stranded on the wrong plane.

10:30

Prospective agent calls himself Al. Bullshit. Fits in at the old bunker in the pounding rain. Half-dead himself. He'd stink at field work, not personable. Just sits and stares at the book. Better than at me.

Wouldn't be bad to work with. Doesn't say much. Perfect.

Text from headquarters- ghosts at 11:30. Screw that, been studying the book, seventy-three names burned there. Not the name names of the seventy-three massacre victims. Tempted to ask Al.

Headquarters isn't returning my messages.

Al says he isn't exorcising a single ghost unless I give him back his book (his book?) and agree to pay his price.

I quote: "That's the way my exorcisms work, Doll. I need the book and payment."

Doll? I look like some sort of hellspawn. No one calls me doll.

Do I offer to pay him? We need to see that he can do the work. Not hiring him otherwise.

11:00

If headquarters doesn't call back, I'm running.

"I killed them," he said.

"The ghosts?"

"Why would I kill ghosts?"

I hate field work.

11:20

Air's getting colder- ghosts. My breath billows white.

Headquarters' text ordered me not to pay. Too late.

Five minutes ago: "Do you know what you're offering, Doll?"

"Exorcise this massacre. That's why we're here."

"Why you're here. I'm here for the book."

I tossed the tome to him. Headquarters own fault for putting me in the field. Al grinned and started to walk away.

"You can't leave!"

"Price isn't something you'll agree to. You'll know the meaning, others hear, but they don't believe."

"I'll pay."

My family died when I was seven. People said I lit the fire. I don't remember but the Agency helped. Possession, they said it was, and then they set my family to rest. Been in the business since. Ghosts remind me of my folks.

It's hell being trapped here.

With those souls howling, I would've pledged my soul. He spoke the price.

It was unthinkably high. The spirit voices whirled. Refusing meant stranding them.

"I'll pay," I said.

"Then this's yours." He tossed the book to me and walked to the crumbling bunker.

11:50

God. It. hurts.

Seventy-three names, all carved on my soul, mirrored from the book.

His price was a name. One name scratched from his black soul per ghost freed. And the exorcism freed every name- crossed off of his conscience and shackled to me. A weight dragging me to hell.

The names of his victims. No, they are not his victims now. They're mine.

He just lifted his arms and seventy-three ghosts burst, freed from their chains to the world. As each disappeared the names rippled, writing themselves off of him-onto me.

Al stared at me writhing. Worse than my skin melting off, the agony of a soul burning. And then he walked away.

"Book's yours." He laughed. Bastard. "My conscience's clean."

Been sitting here thinking. The pain- I'll grow used to, but... working the field.

Hell might be better.

* If you like the story, hit the star and let me know :) Each of your responses make my day better. (In Word this was 666 words, on Wattpad this amendment and vote plea make it 666 again.)