SHADE FRIGHT

Chapter 3

"Fifty Dollar Bill, get out of my bathroom!" I barked. "I mean it!"

"I'm just trying to be helpful," said Bill, trying to sound apologetic. "I'm not a dirty old man, you know."

There was a muffled hissing sound, so I poked my head around the shower curtain to make sure the coast was clear. Satisfied, I finished rinsing the conditioner out of my hair and turned off the shower.

"I'm pretty sure that little old men didn't hang out in attractive young ladies' bathrooms in your day!" I growled, still fuming. "For a dead guy, you have crummy manners."

"I have excellent manners," Bill's voice rang out from the hallway. "I'll have you know that I've dined with F.D.R., Churchill and Stalin. Mind you, Stalin was a boor. He'd be the one to hide out in the ladies' room, not me."

I dried myself off and ran a comb through my hair, then threw on my robe.

"I don't have time for a history lesson, Bill," I grumbled, as I stomped down the hall to my bedroom. "What do you know about large farm implements that disappear into thin air and trees that suddenly die?"

Bill appeared in the doorway and made a slicing motion across his neck with an index finger. He tilted his head to the left, and it promptly fell off, landing in his left hand.

"You know I hate it when young people forget their history," his head snipped. "In life, I was very important man."

"You talked to your dead mother through your dog!" I huffed, throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. "Nobody asked you to hang around, either – you could easily cross over."

"Speak no ill of my mother, missy!" he choked. "That woman was a saint!"

I gave Bill a sour look as I pulled up my socks.

"Put your head back on; you look ridiculous," I groaned, rolling my eyes.

"Fine!"

Fifty-Dollar Bill is my name for the spirit of William Lyon Mackenzie King, Canada's tenth Prime Minister and the guy whose face is on the fifty-dollar bank note. With over twenty-one years as Canada's national leader, he holds the record as the longest serving Prime Minister in the British Commonwealth. He was also a closet occultist and liked to commune with the spirits of Leonardo da Vinci, Sir Wilfrid Laurier, his dead mother, and several of his Irish terrier dogs, all named Pat. That now, more than sixty years after his death, the guy likes to commune with the world of the living, well... let's just say the irony isn't lost on me.

I asked him why he refuses to cross over, and he told me that dead people were boring, plus he gives political advice to a certain federal leader whose party will never form a government in a thousand years. While I can't explain why he'd back a losing party, I can say that despite his questionable manners, he's proven to be a valuable, albeit irritating, resource. During his life, he amassed a crap-pile of influential contacts among the departed. Better still, because he was a head of state and a highly educated man, his spirit contacts are far more reliable than, oh, say, the ghost of a dead chicken farmer.

"I need a favor, Bill," I said, slipping my feet into my Danner boots.

"Why should I do a favor for someone so utterly rude?" he asked, still sounding indignant.

"Look, I'm sorry for what I said about your mother — alright?"

"I didn't talk to her through any of my dogs. That is a myth made up by the Tory controlled news-media."

"I said I was sorry..."

He floated across the main hall and sat down on the antique chair next to my front door, then crossed his legs.

"Apology accepted," he said, obviously pleased with himself. "What kind of favor is it?"

"I need you to shake a few bones in the local cemeteries. See if any of your contemporaries have ever heard of large, inanimate objects that suddenly disappear and why." I said, throwing on my leather jacket.

Bill adjusted his tie and gave me a very serious look.

"This is about the dead trees, isn't it?" he asked.

I spun around and gave Bill a surprised look.

"You've seen dead trees? Where?"

He adjusted is spectral glasses and gave me a hard stare for a moment.

"Well... just a few clusters of dead tress and shrubbery on the outskirts of the city. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about?" I groaned. "Bill, I just got off the horn with an old farmer in Okotoks, whose grain bin apparently vanished into thin air, and the trees in the local vicinity are either dead or devoid of foliage. What do you think would cause that?"

Bill frittered with a red scarf in his tunic and frowned.

"How many creatures are you aware of whose sheer presence causes organic matter to suddenly die?"

"Reapers," I said, in a matter of fact voice. "That's what they do, isn't it?"

"What interest might a reaper have in a farm implement, then?" he asked, sounding like an old headmaster. "Don't you agree that it would be uncharacteristic for a reaper to make its presence known to those in the living world, outside of claiming the life of its intended?"

"Yeah, I know." I said with a nod.

"It's entirely possible that we're dealing with a creature far more sinister — perhaps something from the dark place."

"It's also possible that this old farmer is full of crap, and he's begging to have his picture in the Western Producer," I added. "I'm no skeptic, Bill; you know me."

"That I do," he said. "I shall make a few inquiries and report to you before day's end. In the meantime, I recommend that you bring your satchel, because you don't have a clue what you're potentially walking into."

"Agreed," I said, as I grabbed my leather jacket. "Talk to you tonight."