The Spook Who Sleuths: Case of the Immortal Curse

RAIN DRUMMED AGAINST my office window like a junkie’s fingers on a pawnshop counter. I nursed a ghostly approximation of bourbon—can’t taste the stuff anymore, but old habits haunt you just like, well, ghosts.

Name’s Roxie Hart, supernatural P.I. extraordinaire. Been dead since ‘45 after I zigged when I shoulda zagged during a particularly dicey OSS operation near Berlin. Now I solve the cases that leave the living scratching their noggins.

My door creaked open—I keep it that way on purpose, good for the atmosphere—and in stumbled a fella looking jumpier than a cricket on a hot skillet.

“You Hart?” he asked, voice quivering like Jell-O on a rollercoaster.

I leaned back in my chair, boots up on the desk. “Says so on the door, pal. What’s eating you?”

He was a funeral director, name of Mortimer Graves—I kid you not. Dressed in black from his slicked-back hair to his shiny wingtips, the daddy longlegs of undertakers.

“I have a... situation,” he said, twisting his handkerchief tighter than a sailor’s first knot. “I need you at a funeral. Today.”

“Last I checked, funerals weren’t exactly unexpected events in your line of work, Mort.”

“This one’s... different.” He lowered his voice. “The deceased might not be.”

I sat up straighter than a debutante at finishing school. “Come again?”

“Theodore Wexler, banking magnate. The funeral’s in three hours. But...” he leaned in close enough for me to smell the formaldehyde, “his body disappeared from my funeral home yesterday, and then a different body appeared. The widow’s insisting we proceed with a closed casket.”

“A substitute corpse?” My eyebrows climbed higher than a cat up a Christmas tree. “That’s a new one, even for me.”

Graves nodded. “The Wexler family is... influential.”

“And loaded, I bet.” I reached into my trench coat and pulled out my Spectral Signature Sensor—looks like a cigarette case that got frisky with a kaleidoscope. It glowed brighter than a lighthouse in a midnight storm when I pointed it at Graves. “You’re scared, but you’re telling the truth.”

He jumped like he’d sat on a thumbtack. “What is that device?”

“Trade secret, bub.” I tucked it away. “So, what happened to the original stiff?”

“I prepared Mr. Wexler’s body myself yesterday evening. Everything was in order when I locked up at midnight. This morning... poof. Gone.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “No signs of a break-in, and the replacement was just... there.”

I stood up, adjusting my fedora to a jaunty angle. “Well, Gravesy, my man, sounds like you’ve got yourself a grade-A supernatural snafu. Lucky for you, that’s my bread and butter. My fee’s fifty greenbacks a day, plus expenses.”

“The family is willing to pay one thousand for a quick, discreet resolution.”

I blinked slower than a tortoise on sedatives. “For that kind of dough, I’ll be more discreet than a confessional booth at the Vatican. When’s this funeral shindig start?”

The First Presbyterian Church of Hollowville was packed tighter than a sardine can with the lid half-crushed. Wexler had been a big cheese in town, and everyone who’d ever kissed his ring was there to say goodbye—or at least pretend to.

I slipped in the back, scanning the crowd. Easy to spot the widow Wexler—she sat in the front row, veiled in black, still as a statue, her black dress hugging curves like a race car on a mountain road. Even through the veil, I could tell she was a looker, the kind that would make a monk throw away his robes.

Graves spotted me and scurried over.

“We’re about to begin,” he whispered. “The family insisted on keeping the casket closed.”

“I need to see what we’re dealing with first.”

He led me to the side room where the casket waited. Mahogany and brass, fancy enough to make King Tut jealous.

“Open it,” I ordered.

Graves hesitated, fingers fluttering over the latch like autumn leaves in a breeze.

“I ain’t got all eternity, pal. Wait, I do, but let’s pretend I don’t.” I chuckled at my own joke. Death humor—it’s wasted on the living.

He finally popped the lid. The corpse was dressed to the nines in a suit worth more than most folks made in a year. Mid-fifties, silver at the temples—but definitely not Theodore Wexler.

I pulled out my Ectoplasmic Residue Detector and ran it over the body. The thing hummed louder than a hornet’s nest in a hurricane.

“Well, well, well,” I murmured. “Our substitute friend here isn’t exactly fresh from the morgue.”

“What do you mean?”

“This fella’s been dead for decades. He’s magical preservation work, not modern embalming. Someone’s playing with forces older than your granddaddy’s mustache wax.”

I needed more info, and I knew just where to check. Living detectives have their informants; I have the afterlife waiting rooms.

“Keep an eye on things,” I told Graves. “I need to check something.”

I ducked into an empty closet and closed my eyes, concentrating hard. Most living folks think the afterlife is instant—you die, you move on. Truth is, there’s paperwork. Bureaucracy. Processing. Most spirits spend at least a little time in the waiting rooms before they get their final assignments.

A little trick I picked up after death—I can visit the waiting rooms without fully crossing over. Perks of being an OSS agent with exposure to some hinky Nazi experiments before I kicked it.

I felt the familiar tug, like being pulled through taffy, and then I was there. The afterlife waiting room looked like a 1930s train station designed by Salvador Dali—all melting clocks and endless benches filled with the recently departed, looking confused and clutching their ethereal luggage.

I approached the front desk, where a bored-looking spirit in a pencil skirt was filing her ghostly nails.

“Heya, Gladys,” I said, leaning on the counter.

She didn’t look up. “Roxie Hart. Still playing detective with one foot in each world?”

“It’s a living. Or, you know, not.” I grinned. “Need to check if you’ve processed a Theodore Wexler. Banking type, mid-fifties, probably died in the last 48 hours.”

Gladys sighed and flipped through her massive ledger. “No Theodore Wexler checked in this week.”

“You sure? Check all the waiting rooms, would ya? Even the VIP section where you stash the rich folks.”

She gave me a look that could curdle milk. “I know my job, Hart. No Theodore Wexler anywhere in the system. Not even a reservation. He’s probably got a while.”

That confirmed it. Wexler wasn’t dead—at least not officially. Which meant whatever was in that fancy box back at the church was definitely not him, and his spirit was trapped somewhere else.

“Thanks, Gladys. I owe ya one.”

“You owe me seventeen,” she muttered as I felt myself being pulled back to the world of the living.

I materialized back in the closet just as the organ music started. The funeral was in full swing, minister droning on about ashes to ashes while the audience dabbed invisible tears. I scanned the crowd again, focusing on the widow. Something about her didn’t smell right, and I don’t mean her perfume.

I sidled up next to Graves, who was standing at attention like a soldier on inspection.

“Your boy Wexler isn’t dead,” I whispered.

His eyes bugged out like a bullfrog in biology class. “What?”

“Not officially. His spirit hasn’t checked into the afterlife. Won’t for some time.”

Before Graves responded, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the church’s fancy air conditioning. The casket on the altar vibrated, almost imperceptibly to normal folks, but to someone with my particular talents, it might as well have been doing the Charleston.

“Did you hear that?” I asked Graves.

“H-hear what?”

A low moan emanated from the casket, soft at first, then growing louder. The minister faltered in his eulogy. A few heads turned. The widow stood up.

“Continue,” she commanded the minister, who nodded nervously and raised his voice to cover the increasingly disturbing sounds.

Too late. The casket lid flew open with a bang that echoed through the church like a gunshot. People screamed. The minister dropped his Bible. And I got my first look at what was really happening.

The body inside was changing—melting, shifting, like wax under a flame. And rising from it was a spectral form, glowing with an eerie blue light.

“MARGARET!” the spirit howled, and every piece of glass in the church rattled. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

The widow—Margaret Wexler—stood frozen for a moment, then bolted for a side door. I raced after her, catching up in a small antechamber. She was fumbling with an ornate key, trying to unlock another door.

“Going somewhere, Mrs. Wexler?”

She spun around, veil raised, eyes wild with fear and something else—calculation.

“Who are you? What’s happening?”

“Roxie Hart, supernatural private dick,” I said, meaning detective, of course. Graves, who had caught up to me, made a choking sound, his face flushing redder than a fire hydrant. The widow, on the other hand, merely arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing at the corner of her crimson lips.

Internally, I smirked. Funny how it’s always the fellas who get their garters in a twist over the word “dick,” while the dames take it in stride. In my experience, women generally have a better understanding of what’s worth getting hot under the collar about—and vocabulary ain’t it.

“Your funeral director hired me to find out what happened to your husband’s body,” I continued. “Though I’m guessing you already know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice held steady, but her hand clutched her purse like it contained the Hope Diamond.

“Cut the act, sugar. Teddy’s spirit isn’t in the afterlife, and that corpse in there had more magic on it than a carnival fortune teller. What did you do to your husband?”

Her composure cracked for just a second—just enough for me to spot the fear behind those mascara-heavy lashes.

“You don’t understand what you’re meddling with,” she hissed.

“Try me, doll. I’ve seen more supernatural shenanigans than you’ve told truths to the tax man.”

She glanced back at the door she’d been trying to open and sighed. “Theodore discovered something... an artifact. Ancient. He thought it would grant him power, immortality.”

“Let me guess. It worked, but not the way he expected?”

She nodded. “He performed a ritual in our home’s vault. His spirit became trapped in the artifact.”

A crash from the sanctuary interrupted us. Screams and the sound of running feet followed. The congregants were fleeing.

“We’re out of time,” Mrs. Wexler said. “The binding weakens at midnight.”

I checked my watch—1:55 PM. “It’s not midnight, doll face.”

“It’s midnight somewhere,” she said cryptically. “The ritual follows Egyptian time.”

As if on cue, the spectral form of Theodore Wexler phased through the wall, glowing brighter than a neon sign in a blackout.

“MARGARET!” he roared again. The room temperature dropped faster than a soprano’s dress on opening night.

Margaret backed against the door. “Theodore, darling, I can explain—”

“Your explanations don’t interest me anymore,” the spirit moaned. “Where is the vessel?”

“Safe,” she said, finally getting the key into the lock behind her. “Where you can’t reach it.”

I stepped between them, hands raised. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let’s all take a breather here.”

The door behind Margaret swung open to reveal not a room, but a portal—a swirling vortex of purple and black energy that hummed with power.

“The ritual is almost complete,” she said, her voice suddenly deeper, resonant with power. “Theodore’s immortality spell was flawed. He needed a vessel to contain his spirit while his physical form was... prepared. But he never considered that someone else might use that same vessel for their own purposes.”

“You trapped him,” I said, pieces clicking together in my mind faster than a court stenographer with eight cups of joe. “But not to protect the bank. For yourself.”

She smiled, colder than a landlord’s heart in February. “Theodore discovered the spell, but I perfected it. His spirit trapped, his power mine to claim, and now, with his funeral complete, his fortune as well.”

She pulled an object from her purse that made my Ectoplasmic Residue Detector scream. It looked like an Egyptian canopic jar, glowing with an internal light that hurt my eyes.

Theodore’s spirit recoiled. “The Vessel of Ka!”

“Yes, darling. Your prison, my power source.” She held it up. “And now, to complete the ritual.”

Chanting words in a language deader than Latin, she pointed the vessel at Theodore’s spirit. Tendrils of energy shot out, wrapping around him like ethereal snakes.

“No!” he howled, struggling against the binding magic.

“Sorry, sugar,” I said, stepping forward. “But this shindig’s over.”

I drew and fired my Spectral Spook Zapper (patent pending) at the swirling portal behind her. The energy beam hit the vortex, causing it to undulate like a Baghdad belly dancer. The backlash knocked Margaret off her feet, sending the vessel flying from her hands.

It spun through the air and hit the floor. It didn’t break—it pulsed and let out a shock wave that knocked us all flat.

“You fool!” Margaret screamed at me. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

“Improvised,” I quipped, rolling to my feet.

The vessel glowed brighter now, cracks appearing in its surface. Light spilled out, and with it, whispers in that same dead language.

Theodore’s spirit gained strength, solidifying. “The binding is weakening,” he said. “Margaret, stop this madness before it’s too late.”

“Never,” she snarled, lunging for the vessel. “I’ve worked too hard!”

I positioned myself between her and the cracking artifact. “Lady, you’re playing with forces darker than a coal mine at midnight. Back off while you still can.”

Her eyes flashed with something beyond human. “You think I fear the consequences? I’ve touched immortality!”

“Yeah, and it’s touched you back,” I said, noticing the strange patterns appearing on her skin—hieroglyphics, writing themselves across her flesh.

Margaret wasn’t listening. She shoved me aside with strength no normal dame should possess and grabbed the vessel. The cracks spread immediately to her hands, light pouring from her skin.

“Yes!” she cried. “The power is mine!”

Theodore’s spirit grew more solid by the second. “No, Margaret. The curse is yours.”

The vessel shattered in her hands, releasing a blinding flash. When our vision cleared, Margaret stood transformed—her skin now ancient, withered like a mummy’s, the hieroglyphics burned into her flesh like brands.

“What... what’s happening?” she gasped, her voice a dry as a chalk dust.

“The curse of the Vessel of Ka,” Theodore said, now almost fully corporeal. “Immortality, yes—but not as you imagined. Those who betray the vessel become its new prison.”

Margaret’s scream turned to sand as her body hardened, becoming more statue than woman. Within seconds, she stood frozen, a perfect, horrified sculpture, eyes still terrifyingly aware.

Theodore turned to me. “Thank you, Miss...?”

“Hart. Roxie Hart, supernatural private dick.” Graves made a choking sound again, his face turning redder than a cardinal’s robes.

“You freed me from the vessel,” Theodore continued. “Margaret trapped me there, planning to use my spiritual energy for her own immortality spell while she took control of my fortune. The funeral was the final step.”

“Clever gal,” I said, glancing at the statue that was once Mrs. Wexler. “Horrible sense of fashion in the afterlife, though.”

“What... what happens now? About the funeral?” Graves asked.

Theodore smiled grimly. “I believe you’ll find my actual body back in your funeral home, Mr. Graves. Alive but unconscious.”

“And... her?” Graves nodded toward the statue.

“A museum donation,” I suggested. “Ancient Egyptian exhibit. No one will know the difference.”

Theodore nodded. “I should return to my body now, before the separation becomes permanent.”

“One more thing,” I said. “I’ve got friends in high places—and low places too. Death’s ledger doesn’t have your name on it for a good long while. Live better this time around, got it?”

He nodded solemnly. “I’ve learned my lesson about seeking power beyond mortal understanding.”

As Theodore’s spirit vanished, I turned to Graves. “Well, funeral’s off, I guess. But hey, at least nobody died. Well, nobody who wasn’t already dead.”

Graves handed me an envelope thick enough to choke a horse. “Your payment, as agreed.”

“Mighty generous. Maybe I should specialize in not-actually-dead cases.”

As I turned to leave, my form already starting to fade, Graves called after me.

“Miss Hart! How do I... find you if something like this happens again?”

I smiled, tipping my hat. “Don’t worry, pal. In my line of work, the cases have a funny way of finding me.”

And with that, I dissolved into the afternoon light, another supernatural mystery solved, another day... well, not lived, but you know what I mean. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with eternity and a bottle of ghostly gin that isn’t going to drink itself.

This dick’s work is never done.