The Extractionists

The shaggy youth cladded in leather scurried down the steps and entered Mostellaria, a beloved Flushing basement dive on the corner of Main and 37th. The bartender pointed his chin to the corner. The young man followed the directions and found the one he sought dressed in a comfortable polo and brown chinos, reading the New York Times, and sipping from a bottle of IPA.

“Herr Geist. I think it’s time for us to work.”

“Vhat's your hurry?” Leering over his reading glasses, the older man responded with a slight German accent which his younger companion sometimes thought he exaggerated for a theatrical effect. “Sit! Have a beer with me.” He raised his arm to signal the waiter.

The leathered young man turned on the TV over the bar with the remote, and tuned to the Ghost Tracker already in progress. The Tracker himself was as making a passionate speech in front of the cameras and throng of reporters, “The hard working people of the country are sick and tired of their livelihood ruin, property devalued, and physically threatened by apparitions, paranormal spirits, and ungodly, immoral, and unethical phantoms which taunt them. Neither the government nor the churches are doing a damn thing about it. It is my aspiration to be the one who will rid these malicious presence and give the innocent people their lives back.” The running caption at the bottom of the screen indicated that the “paranormal scientist” is investigating a haunted house in Dorchester. Shots of a handsome cottage with dormer windows and orange brick chimney appeared on the split screen next to the talking heads.

“It’s infuriating how these guys spew these untruths about ghosts. No one in this country is ever hurt by one, the prices of haunted houses are actually eleven percent higher than the comparable homes in New York State, and in truth, no one can be corrupted by the spirits without being a willing participant themselves.” The hairy youth’s fist was pounding the table as he spoke.

“People are bored, so there is a prosperous market for these spurious fluffs where people are titillated by freakish deviants and reassured by the other’s misery. Not sure why you are so worked up about it. You are a werewolf, not a ghost.” 

“Yeah, but do you think the torch carrying lynch mobs would differentiate between spirits, monsters, witches, and the undead? No! We are all gallows baits to them at the end of the day.

The older man nodded in agreement, looked at the TV screen, and commented, “When I was a young man, those who wanted to be tough guys spent hours with weight piles, fence, hunt, ride, and survive under harsh conditions. Nowadays, people just wear a bushy beard, tattoo on their neck, and talk gruff.” Herr Geist commented disapprovingly on the TV star’s appearance.

“That’s because it’s the twenty-first century grandpa.  Men also don’t wear powdered wigs and knee breeches anymore like when you were a young.” The werewolf sniggered.

“Wrong century. It was more like tunics and togas in my day.”  The older man laughed, then looked at the TV again. “So what’s so unusual about this then? Isn’t he  just going to run around the house with a green camera filter to make it look like unnecessary night vision while asking ‘did you hear that?’ when no sound was to be heard all night and not find anything at the end?”

“It just so happens there are actually two banshees hidden in the attic.”

“Really? They actually found a real haunted house this time? Still, no biggie. Banshees can shapeshift into human forms and just walk out without attracting much attention.”

“Unfortunately they are new immigrants from County Galway and have not acculturated to learn shapeshifting yet. In the west coast of Ireland they didn’t need to change into human forms - people there see a banshee perched on the roof or on a tree, they simply wave at them and go on about their days.”

“Ja, ja. Changing shape is especially hard for adult immigrants. It took me years to learn. OK. Let's see. Banshees are a quiet bunch and only scream when someone is in danger. Could they just remain hidden until the Tracker gets bored and moves on?”

“That was their plan. The show usually stays in one location for only one or two days. But this time it’s receiving so much publicity with daily visits by local journalists and gawkers from surrounding towns that the producers decided to stay for two weeks.”

“So our banshee friends would have to endure the hiding longer - unpleasant for sure- but still doable.”

“Well, the kicker is that the female is actually pregnant and based on her communication via text message to her friends, she could be due anytime now.”

“Well! I say that it is indeed a conundrum.” Herr Geist took a long pull on his IPA. “Perhaps we should check it out.”

The pair drove upstate and arrived in Dorchester just in time for the Ghost Tracker’s daily news briefing in front of the house. They joined the reporters and rubberneckers on the front lawn and listened.

“As I emphasized over and over again. I will promise the utmost protection for the owners of this beautiful house as well as the residents of Dorchester and surrounding communities. No harm will come to you as long as I am guarding against the pernicious cruelty perpetrated by these wrathful monstrosities.” The vein on his tattooed neck bulged as the Tracker spoke.  

“He is getting more and more bombastic with his speeches isn't he? Grandiose, almost delusional at times I would say.” The soft calm voice emanated from behind them. They turned and saw a pale face with a knowing smile under the shadow of a broad brim hat, signaling them to follow her, away from the earshot of the gaping throng.

“Call me Vlada. I am the local vampire. Yes, Thanks to the high SPF sunscreens we can be out during the day now, but not for too long.”

“Otto, the poltergeist from Queens. This is Lou, my assistant.”

“I know who you guys are and I am glad you are here. Can you get that poor couple out? The ‘paranormal scientist’ is in the house 24/7. During the day there is also a steady stream of spectators outside so it’s not possible to escape.”

“And the nights?”

“No oglers around and he is alone in the house, but he is up late live streaming as a ghost hunting hero. He has a house surrounded by motion sensor alarms. Six in the front and four in the back.”

“Saw them - Bosch 2000s, which employs a combination of forward looking infrared, active ultrasound, and microwave tomography. When triggered, it would send alerts to the Tracker and his cronies via cellular signal and WIFI. What else?”

“Thermal sensors over each door and window.”

“Also rigged with wireless signals, no doubt. Thermal sensors are activated by sudden change in temperature - heat in case of humans and animals, but cold spots for ghosts like us. OK. How about inside the house?”

“Not sure.” We have no access to the inside.”

“You say he live streams from inside the house.”

“Yes usually until 2 am. Then he will call for Chinese food delivery.”

“Always Chinese?”

“It's the only thing that’s open at 2 am.”

“I see. Is there a place we can sit and view the recording of his live streams?”

“We can stop by my ranch not far from here. Most of us vampires are in animal husbandry now. Thanks to erythropoietin medication as well as iron and vitamin B supplement, we don't need to be sustained on blood anymore. But when we celebrate special occasions, we still phlebotomize from horses with local anesthesia - actually copying the method of vampire bats.”

In the modern kitchen of Vlada’s ranch house they viewed the livestream recordings in which the Ghost Tracker’s arrant boasting, intermixed with occasional outburst against his doubters online, were broadcasted while he tramped around the house. The poltergeist paused the screen after a few go-arounds.

“He has plenty of handheld devices - infrared cameras, night vision goggles, and electronic voice phenomenon detectors - which are only effective if he is awake. But these concern me -.” He pointed to various spots on several moving frames. “He has electromagnetic field detectors set up by the door, in the hallway, and on stairs. That’s at least three that I can see, but likely there are more. We ghosts produce electromagnetic energy fields like your vacuum cleaners and hair dryers which are picked up by these detectors..”

The poltergeist paused and took a deep sup of the coffee Vlada served, raised his eyebrow in appreciation of the flavor, then turned to Lou.

“Would you please get the following items: a can of hairspray, four 22 quart styrofoam cooler, duct tape, a broom, superglue, and a stick of incense.” The werewolf assistant wrote them down feverishly.

“And could you please do me a favor and ask around to see if any dressmaker can teach me how to tailor a burka? ” He asked Vlada.

When Otto Geist went to the van to check on his equipment, Vlada whispered to Lou “You work with him so I assume you understand his method of madness?” 

Grinning, the hairy youth nodded exuberantly.

The night of their undertaking was moonless, but it took all the werewolf’s self control for him not to howl. They parked the van just around the corner from the driveway to the cottage. Otto traverses the front lawn without setting off the multi-modal sensors, as the alarms are designed to be triggered if the receiver perceived changes in the bounced-back signals beamed out by infrared, ultrasound, or microwaves emitters which would indicates movement nearby, and since the poltergeist has, during his loitering among the gogglers and reporters earlier that day, subtly doused a layer of hair spray on the emitters of the sensors, effectively blocking all these outgoing signals, the receiver would not detect any changes in the return signals because there was none.

He continued toward the front door holding a large contraption made up of gluing and taping together four large styrofoam coolers with a broom handle affixed to the middle. He held it like an odd umbrella and, at 10 yards from the temperature sensor over the door - he held the styrofoam umbrella forward in the direction of the sensor and approached slowly. The styrofoam insulated his temperature signature and kept the thermo-alarm quiet.

Under the styrofoam umbrella he picked the lock, entered the front door, and stepped right in front of the electromagnetic field detector set up by the Tracker. In preparation the poltergeist had donned a burka which he learned to tailor from an Afghani jinni from Yonkers. Concocted of nickel and copper composited Faraday fabric, the burka effectively blocked all EMF radiation and prevented the activation of the detectors.

He swiftly ascended the stairs, found the banshees in the attic, covered them with Faraday gowns, and led them downstairs. As they passed the master bedroom and heard the loud snoring of the Ghost Tracker he paused with a devious smirk.

                                               *****

Each small town in the United States has at least one Chinese restaurant, the poltergeist thought, and in each restaurant a Chinese American family is working their fingers to the bones while carrying the ghost from the old country on their shoulders. Unlike other cultures who persecute their ghosts, the Chinese venerate theirs with family altars, daily incense, and feast offers on holidays. The night before their operation, he found Chang’s Garden which was the only Chinese restaurant in Dorchester. He waited until the family finished the last of their cleanings in the kitchen at 3 am and went up to their domicile above the eatery. He then lit the incense, inserted it among the azaleas bushes behind the restaurant, kneeled down, and touched the ground with his forehead.

“There is no need for that, as you are not our descendants.” Two figures emerged from the ether in front of the poltergeist holding hands. The man was tall and kindly and the woman petite and demure. “Just a regular bow would do.”

The poltergeist bowed, and the ghostly couple bowed back. “To what do we owe the pleasure of a far flung friend.?” The kindly man inquired.

Otto Geist explained that he was seeking aid for an immigrant couple from another immigrant couple. He described the dilemma of the banshees caused by the Ghost Tracker.

The old man shook his head when he heard of the named Ghost Tracker and made tsk tsk noise when the poltergeist finished his story. “Those who impetuously seek fame and fortune while forsaking kindness and honor …. “

“Oh shut up grandpa.” The woman suddenly piped in. “You can’t solve a damn thing by quoting Confucius all the time.” She turned to Otto. “Have no worries sonny. I know exactly what to do. There is a full bottle of valium in the second floor medicine cabinet from my insomnia days. I’ll pixie dust the shit out of that tracker’s kung pao chicken tomorrow night to keep his ass in bed for days.” She then grinned widely, rubbing her small hands. “Oh boy, a bambino banshee to be born in the year of the rabbit. The last rabbit banshee was Empress Wu in the Tang Dynasty.  Look out! This baby will be some butt kicker one day to be sure!”

                                              *****

Poltergeist went into the Tracker’s room, picked up his cellphone, waved it over his face to unlock it, and dial 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The operator inquired as he and the banshees exited the hallway.

“Sir, ma’am, are you still there? Can you hear me?” The operator raised her voice as the trio cautiously tiptoed past the thermo-sensor under the styrofoam umbrella.

“Bhris mo chuid uisce.”” The banshee announced as she entered the van.

“She said her water just broke.” Her husband translated for her from Gaelic.

“I know a mummy In Poughkeepsie who has been a midwife since the Middle Kingdom. She was the one who delivered Tutankhamun.” Vlada said to the werewolf who was behind the wheel. “Step on it and I’ll give you directions on the way.”

The tires on the van peeled out in smoke.

                                                   *****

The shaggy youth cladded in leather scurried down the steps and entered Mostellaria. At the usual corner he found the poltergeist sipping his IPA and watching the news which reported that the Ghost Tracker was found unresponsive by a paramedic after an anonymous 911 call. The hospital found a high level of benzodiazepine in his system. The question of substance usage was raised. His previous impassioned speeches and sensational promises were played in a recurrent loop and now took on an aura of maniacal outbursts with messianic complex.

“How is the baby?”

“Cuter than a button and shifting between banshee and human shapes effortlessly. Kids learn so darn fast. Grandma Chang has taken on the role of god-grandmother and Vlada is providing the mare's milk, apparently the best nutritional supplement for young banshees. So what’s your plan for the weekend, boss?”

“Well, Vlada invited me to visit her in her ranch, boasting the best sangria in the tri-state area.” He smiled. “And she promised no blood in it.”