Bureaucracy, a horror story

In the six and half weeks immediately following The Rising the government had to prioritise. Priority number one, obviously, was taxes. Say what you want about the religious and social implications of ghosts, everyone knows what really matters is how we charge people for them. After that it was crime and justice. Is a ghost culpable? Can you arrest one? Is the hauntee or the haunter financially responsible for property damage? What I’m getting at here, is that there were a lot of questions, and I spent a lot of time trying to answer them. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have devoted my life to pursuit of ghosts; proving they exist; writing articles about their importance in culture; establishing the lore that is now so crucial in the development of government policy, but frankly I hadn’t thought much about the long-term impact of being proved right. When little university student Vienna started writing her research articles on the representation of ghosts in women’s fiction, or the psychoanalytical potential of the parental spectre, she didn’t have top-secret government jobs in mind. This is the part they skip over in the movies. In Hollywood, when the main character irrefutably proves the existence of vampires or whatever, the President makes a speech, and everyone just goes about their lives! What they don’t show you is someone like muggins here, who is used to writing theoretical tosh about the symbolism of ghosts, and Mr Possibly-a-spy, who is used to committing war crimes on behalf of Great Britain, sitting in an undisclosed location trying work through the case law implications of property damage case type 16 “haunting - bleeding walls” being the financial responsibility of the ghost’s nearest living relative.

           We were on the verge of a breakthrough, or possibly a bust-up, it was getting harder to tell, when the red phone rang. In all the white-walled, stainless-steel-floored rooms I had found myself in recently, there had been one constant. The red phone. It sits in the back right-hand corner, on a little white table. It is seemingly plugged into nothing, and when it rings the noise is so shrill, that even the SpyKid I’m sitting with flinches. I know from the first couple of times that, whilst I am pretty much the authority on the ghost side of things, I am not allowed to answer the phone. So I wait, and the James-Bond-wannabe I’ve spent the last 2 hours arguing with crosses the room and answers the screaming phone. The ringing ceases so immediately that the proceeding quiet is almost tangible. I can just make out the tinny burr of a voice on the other end of the receiver. After a few minutes Action Man nods his head, and then, realising that a nod cannot be understood telephonically, responds verbally.

“Yes Sir.” I find his voice grating. It isn’t, not objectively. He has one of those nice, neutral, vaguely Scottish accents I associate with Glaswegian actors on American talk shows. Unfortunately, I had learned to associate his voice with the irritation of being unnecessarily challenged on things about which I am (to such an extent the government has basically drafted me) an expert. Only two kinds of calls came through on the red phone, and I knew from the set of his shoulders that the one we had just received had nothing to do with issuing statements, and everything to do with categorization. 

That was the third priority. 

It was all well and good charging people, but you needed to know what you were charging them for and with, and that required paperwork. It required rules, compound rules like the type coders use: if apparition AND telekinesis THEN Category 5 [Poltergeist, Type C - Hazardous], if apparition AND pyrokinesis THEN Category 9 [Poltergeist, Type A - Malignant]. The rules were more boring than they sounded, Categories 1 - 5 were for spectres, ghouls, cold drafts, and foreboding senses. 5 - 10, those were your ghosties with form, apparitions, poltergeists, revenants, and banshees. In theory one should be able to look at the Cat no. and descriptor (bothersome, hazardous, or malignant) and know right away how worried they should be. Most ghosts slotted nicely in categories 2-6, ranging from irritating, to dangerous. So far, I hadn’t been called out to categorise anything I’d rate above a 5. Something about 007’s face told me that was about to change.

***

The house grew from the forest around it like tree roots through tarmac, you got the sense that both parties were harming themselves in the pursuit of separation from the other. The facade of what had once been an impressive, wood-panelled home, was still largely intact, if you ignored the hollow, glassless windows, and the gaping hole where a door would once have hung. Most of the roof was gone, but the chimney had survived, a tree branch was now sprouting from it, stretching spindly fingers into the air like wooden smoke. A perimeter had been formed around the house; steel hooks strung with plastic barriers in an aggressive shade of magenta. The purple had been selected by the government comms office as the ‘signature’ colour of the newly established Department for paranormal investigations. Unfortunately the day-glow nature of the shade, as well as its comfortable position in the pink family, did give the entire scene something of a Bratz: homicide division vibe. This Barbie hunts ghosts. 

My grumpy escort, who had managed to maintain a stony-faced silence for the entire trip from central London to the clearing in which we now found ourselves, finally broke character. 

“Stay here, I’ll find the lead officer.” I fought the urge to mimic his tone; settling for a terse nod, and a dirty look when he could no longer see me. Initially, in the first few days after The Rising, I truly thought we might warm to each other. I figured we were both in a strange situation. And we were partners, in the police procedural sense not the romantic sense, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t be friends! I would be his geeky expert, and he would be my brooding law enforcement counterpart. He seemed against the idea. I ducked under the DPI tape, standing on the other side of the line meant I had technically disobeyed him, but given that I didn’t technically take orders from him, I don’t think it really mattered. I scuffed my shoes lightly into the leaves. They had all turned in the last couple of weeks, and a thick carpet of red and purple foliage covered the forest floor. I stood for a few minutes, checking my phone every thirty seconds, waiting for Rambo to reappear and lead me over to whichever DI had been drafted in to coordinate things. It was still light outside, but the temperature was dropping steadily, letting me know the sun wouldn’t be far behind. I shivered, my skin prickling under my thin coat. I weighed my options, freeze to death, or go and find someone and risk the wrath of my ‘partner’? I headed for the house.

The inside of the property was dank and dark. I listened hard, but I couldn’t hear anything. No one was inside, or at least, no one inside was talking, or moving, or breathing particularly loudly. I glanced back, but the clearing behind me was empty too. When we arrived there had been officers here, people in the all-white suits of the forensic teams, or in the purple arm-banded uniforms of commandeered police officers. Then there had been us, me, and him. I didn’t know his name. I had introduced myself, but he had so pointedly not that I was certain he’d been instructed not to. The more time we spent together, in those tense, white-walled rooms, the less I had cared. Suddenly, I found I cared a whole lot. 

I stepped into the house; the rubber soles of my trainers were quiet on the old wood. I moved towards the heart of the house. Kitchens and living rooms, that’s where most hauntings occurred. In literature you were looking for liminal spaces: doorways, empty fields, the road less travelled, corridors and unmarked graves. Somewhere that was nowhere. In real life you were looking for areas with the highest likelihood to be the site of a death or burial. Kitchens, living rooms, bathrooms, bedrooms, outside. In that order. Outside hauntings were rarer. It had to be an especially gruesome death to tie you to somewhere so impersonal. Those were your Weeping women [Category 6 - Type N, Hazardous], your possessed vehicles [Category 7 - Type H, Hazardous], and your murderous full-body apparitions [Category 8 - Type B, Malignant]. In a house like this, old as it was, isolated as it was, it would be almost impossible to predict what kind of ghost could be hiding in the dark. Panic made my skin warm, blood rushing to my face. I paused in the corridor between the entryway and the kitchen, taking a few moments to scrape my hair into a knot at the back of my head, regretting the ineffectual scrunchie I’d slipped into my coat pocket that morning.

I stepped hesitantly forward, extending my arm. The tips of my fingers brushed against the wood. It was rough, and unnaturally cold to the touch. As I breathed out my breath fogged in the air. I took another step forward, pushing the door more firmly open. Against one wall an old iron stove, against the other cupboards and a countertop, between them a broken table. On the countertop a forensics kit had been abandoned. There was a notable absence of any signs of life. I turned back, heading down the corridor at greater speed. In the living room there was a pile of empty cans, a few half-finished attempts at graffiti, another forensic kit. No one was here. My heart was thundering now, my breaths coming in gasps. Bathroom, bedroom. Those were the next places to try. I left the living room, heading back into the entryway, a vicious wind whipping through the doorless hollow at the front of the house. It whistled through the banister, and for a second a shadow seemed to appear and disappear on the landing above me. Whatever this was, whatever was in this house, it had taken out an entire squad of DPI officers and forensics scientists, not to mention Jason Bourne’s kid brother. I couldn’t psych myself out, not now. That was one of the first things we worked out, what anyone who had ever watched a horror movie could tell you, the person who stays calm, who thinks things out? That’s your final girl. I steadied my breathing, forcing my body to regulate itself, and then I started up the stairs. The wood creaked beneath me. If I wasn’t so focused on the undead, I might have allowed myself to worry about the strength of the floors. 

Outside the sun was starting to set, and inside the shadows thickened. I stepped towards the bathroom. Water stood in the bath. A lot of water. It was full, and stinking of mildew, and the strong tarry scent of carbolic soap. I backed hastily out of the room, moving down the hall to the bedroom. Whatever was in the house was up here, I could feel it. I bypassed the two bedrooms along the landing, heading for the one at the front of the house. The door of the master bedroom was ajar. I pushed it open, pulling my hand back quickly. The room was furnished, and in good repair. The wallpaper was flush with colour, even as the sun outside slipped below the horizon. The bed was full, and nicely made. A tall chest of drawers sat against the wall, above it a small mirror, set on top a jug and basin. It looked like the set of a thoughtfully dressed period drama. In the middle of the room were two figures. One I recognised, the broad set of his shoulders, the back of his dark head, the familiar wax jacket. The other I didn’t. I knew she was a ghost. Mainly because she was floating a foot off the ground, and I could see through her head to the wall behind. (Apparition, full body, partially insubstantial - Category 3.) Also because she was crying tears of blood and stroking Mr MI5’s face in a way I’m pretty sure not even his mother would dare to. (Able to make physical contact, fear-factor characteristic - Category 4.) I moved carefully and deliberately into her line of sight. I smiled, calm, gentle, encouraging. She scowled. She was a woman of about 30, thin and mousy, in a simple button front dress, probably 1930s. I catalogued her features like I’d been trained to, weighing what I saw against the index in my mind.

“This is my house.” Her voice was a many-layered hiss, it snaked around me, tightening, crushing. As much a sound, as a force. I steeled myself, trying very hard not to cringe away from the floating figure.

“It’s lovely.” I took a surreptitious step towards my partner.

“What are you doing here?” Another strike, lashing out like a whip. I flinched, but kept moving, inching forward as quickly as I dared.

“We got lost,” I pressed my hand against his back, “our maps aren’t very good.” 

She bared her teeth at me, her bloody gaze fixed to the place where my hand met his coat.

“He isn't yours.” It was almost a roar, behind her the jug on the dresser rattled. (Verbal force, mild telekinetic ability - Category 6.) I smiled at her, placatingly, like we were just two strangers having an easy conversation.

“Yes, he is,” I slipped my arm around him now, brought the other hand up to rest on his arm, pulling him back into me, “we’re married. We came here together. We got lost.” She was growling, her narrow arms lengthening, her figure stretching and distorting, her angry mouth widening into a pit of fangs. Behind her the bright wallpaper flickered, the handsome dresser momentarily broken down, the bed became rotted and moth-eaten. Through it all my partner was stoic, and not just how he usually was, he was vacant. (Shapeshifting, altering reality, possession - Category 8.)

“He isn’t yours,” it was a screech, “he’s mine. They’re all mine!” I took a step back, pulling him with me. She followed.

“You can’t have them. They’re staying with me.” Her words were garbled by her teeth. I kept moving backwards, pulling him with me. There had to be a barrier, a limit to her control. 

“You can’t have them!” She insisted, somehow becoming even more distended, her form morphing and melting into something uncanny and terrifying, “They’re mine! Mine!” I dragged him harder, moving us backwards as quickly as I could. We were almost at the stairs when he gasped, flinching violently like he’d been woken from a deep sleep. 

“Welcome back.” I shouted over the growing roar of the ghoul in the master bedroom. Then I threw him down the stairs. He braced for the impact, but the steps disappeared beneath him, becoming a smooth sheet of worn wood. I had no choice but to slide down after him, the wood tearing at my tights, leaving sharp splinters in the flesh of my legs. We hit the floor of the entryway one after the other, and I reached for him, pulling him to his feet, dragging him towards the doorway as the floor roiled beneath us. The wood around the lintel was spiderwebbed with cracks, growing before my eyes. I ducked his head, pushing him in front of me through the door. 

The leaves crunched under our feet, the motion-sensor lights the techs had set up earlier in the day flicked on bathing the house in stark, white-light. The unnatural figure of the ghost stood in the doorway, around her the wood of the lintel and the slatting on the house crumpled, shaking off the dust and dirt of decades. She screamed, and the house screamed with her, taking on the shape and sense of a furious face. (Able to possess inanimate objects, actively murderous, sole force behind a literal haunted house - Category 10.) On the floor beside me Mr Secret Agent was panting. His face was pale and waxy, the skin beneath his eyes bruise dark. He looked gaunt, like he had spent the last several days awake and starving. I offered him a hand, and for a moment I thought he would refuse it. When his fingers closed around mine, they were warm. I had to lean back to heft him up. Whatever adrenaline had been driving me before was starting to fade, my limbs weak and shaking. He didn’t seem as tall anymore, nor nearly as intimidating. Somewhere in that house an entire squadron of men and women, people who (when you got down to it) worked for me, needed our help. Somewhere else, somewhere in London, in the rooms under Thames House hundreds of experts were figuring out the bureaucracy. Thousands of minds like mine, people like him, working towards the common goal of making the extraordinary ordinary. For right now though, we were two tired, dirty, bleeding people in a clearing, in a forest… Possibly in Kent. And I didn’t know his name. I cleared my throat, waited for him to look at me, and presented my hand.

“Vienna Shade,” for the second time that day I wasn’t sure he would take it. When he did it was with a rueful half-smile, with a flash in his grey eyes that told me he was finally willing to work together.

“Winter Lock.” I grinned at him.

“Has anyone ever told you, you have an excellent name for a spy?” We both laughed, ignoring the shriek of the ghost in the doorway.

“Has anyone ever told you, you have an excellent name for a ghost hunter?”