Page 3 of Dead Vengeance

The handwriting is a messy, spidery scrawl. I wonder if it’s Gerald’s own hand. Probably jotted down from over the phone while he had a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth.

He lights one of those cigarettes now, evidently unconcerned that I’m here breathing in his every exhalation. “Here it is,” he says. “The perfect first case for you. This one’ll get you believing in no time.”

I can’t help the slight laugh that bubbles up, but the way his eyes snap over at me shuts it down fast. “Um. Is it a very bad ghost?”

A fog of smoke covers the page for a moment as he breathes out. “He keeps calling me, this guy. Getting pretty anxious. Seems he’s got a few ghosts on the go all in one place.”

Hearing the words spoken aloud feels surreal. A haunting. A haunting that I’m supposed to take care of.

Time to make myself seem professional. I lower my voice and frown very seriously. “What kind of entities are we dealing with, sir?”

I feel so ridiculous right now.

But, “Fucked if I know,” Gerald mutters, shoving the papers my way. “Why don’t you take a look?”

Not quite the help I was expecting, but okay. I drag the pages closer with my fingertips.

Let’s figure out who this weirdo is.

Right there at the top of the form, a name: Archer Gravely.

With a name like that he’s probably a billion years old.

According to this, he’s lost count of how many ghosts he has. He says they’re dangerous. Going to get everyone in town killed. He needs someone to come help urgently.

Probably some mad, lonely octogenarian, shuffling about his mouldy old house, hearing the neighbour’s TV and thinking it’s spirit voices.

It’s quite sad, really. Maybe he could use someone to come for a cup of tea. Talk him through it. Get social services involved.

Or maybe he’s completely insane. Maybe he’ll think I’m the ghost and try to kill me.

But why would he try to kill a ghost? Can you kill a ghost?

“Can you kill a ghost?” I ask Gerald.

“That will all be explained tomorrow. You’ll receive top-of-the-line, on-the-job training, nine a.m. sharp.”

“On the job?” I repeat. “At…?” I look down at the page, but Gerald quickly picks it up, squinting to read the address.

“At sixty-nine Cockshoot Grove, Big Spanking cum Bottomly-on-the-Wold.”

I stare at him.

He stares at me.

Laughter—noxious, traitorous laughter—claws its way up from deep within. Traitorous, because Gerald’s face is deadly serious. Either this is a prank on me, or this is a prank on him, and if it’s the latter, I really shouldn’t laugh right now.

But come on.

“Sixty-nine Cockshoot Grove?” I force out.

He glances down at the page. “That’s right.”

“Big Spanking?”

“Aye. Big Spanking cum Bottomly—”

“Cum Bottomly?”