The Eternal Footman

By Kurt Godwin

You don't know me. Not yet. I don't have a name, or even anything like an identity. I'm just kind of a nobody, drifting through life and going quietly about my business. Or I was. Then one day evil came to town. Murder, fear, and horror followed. And if I want to stop it, I have to destroy my quiet life and disturb the universe. I have to find out why I exist. I have to discover the true nature of whatever god rules from on high. He's got some things to answer for.

The Eternal Footman is part hardboiled detective story, part existential drama about a lost man fighting to make sense of the insane world in which he finds himself trapped.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kurt Godwin
• Release date: Jan 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386236818

Book preview

1

You don’t know me. I promise.

I see you, squinting at me, running through the entirety of your available memory, recalling every face you have encountered and the few names attached to them, or descriptors, or anything that will indicate who I am to you. Maybe the guy who owns the condo down the block. The manager of the grocery store. An ex-girlfriend’s cousin. You know me from someplace, and it’s right on the tip of your tongue.

I’ll save you some time. You don’t. Not yet.

You don’t remember me because you can’t. Even looking at me right now, you’d have trouble describing me. When you turn your head, small things will already be lost to you. The color of my hair, for instance. Tonight, when you are still trying to recollect where our paths have crossed before, you’ll find me almost impossible to recall. My face will have quietly drifted from your memory like fog, always at the edge but never within reach. My voice will be like a whisper in another room, the words totally washed out. By the time you wake up tomorrow, our time together will seem as if it never happened, no more consequential than a bird’s shadow across the ground.

That’s why I can safely talk to you now. Why I can confess all I know, and believe me, I know more than anybody you have ever met. More than I was ever intended to know. More than I ever wanted to know. I have seen the inner workings of The Universe. I can expose more mysteries and wonders than a church full of preachers, prophets, and priests.

How about we make a deal; you let me unburden myself, and in exchange I’ll reveal everything I’ve learned. Even if I come off sounding like a crackpot, it’s still a damn good story.

It’s really a shame you won’t remember any of it.

2

The heavy clatter of dishes in the sink had all but ceased, replaced by the even heavier dull hum of silence. When it gets that quiet, simple breathing can sound like an approaching hurricane, so I pushed myself tighter against the wall and inhaled as lightly as I could. The total quiet laid upon the room like a patient etherized upon a table, tranquil yet full of anticipation, broken only by the sudden sharp intake of breath from the kitchen, the kind of sound which indicates a barely suppressed sob.

From where I was crouched, I could look down the long hallway and see the woman hovering over the sink. Her hair, once a beautiful red and copper, was frazzled and shot with grey. Her head hung. Her body was tense and rigid. She was absolutely frozen in place, stiff with the terror of knowing she was not alone, but too petrified to turn around and look.

It wasn’t me she sensed. Even if it had been, and even if she called the police, she would have been unable to describe me, and they’d be unable to find me.

No, the one she sensed was the one I was there for. The boy.

I felt badly for this woman. I had for years. Every time I saw her it got worse. I remember when she was younger, when her hair wasn’t so grey and her eyes were not sunken and ringed in black. She had moved into a beautiful three bedroom house with her simple, blue collar husband, full of love and ambition and plans to turn walls and floors and drywall into a home.

In the years since she had suffered terrors and nightmares that few could imagine and nobody would believe. At first she complained to her husband about the odd goings on, the noises on the stairs and the disembodied childish giggles that seemed to echo through the house. Complaints led to pleading, pleading led to hysteria, and hysteria led to medication.

In the ensuing years she had learned to suffer in silence. The woman who had passed through the threshold with grand visions of her beautiful home was now too afraid to turn around in her own kitchen.

I alone knew why she was afraid. Over the years, before she and her husband had come along, I had seen this same home and those strange sounds run off other families. Some made it through a few months, others mere days.

The woman in the kitchen had been forced to stick it out for years, placating a weary husband who did not believe her enough to take a hit on the mortgage.

The stillness hovered around us like a miasma so thick that I could feel myself breathing it in and spreading it through my body, causing my brain to play a greatest hits package of every lonely, weary moment of my entire long existence. Mostly, in those moments of perfect solemn silence, I saw the faces. Thousands of them. The young and the old. The scarred and the decayed. Each and every one of them terrified to look upon me. Like I am some kind of monster.

I’ll be honest, it gets to you after a while.

Watching the woman then, I saw her body quake a little, and her fists squeezed so tight that I could almost hear her fingernails bite into the flesh of her palms.

He was there.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

Heavy wooden shoes on the stairs.

Clomp.

Jumping from one step.

Clomp.

Down to the next.

Clomp.

Another sharp inhale from the kitchen. Another suppressed sob.

Clomp.

I couldn’t see him just then. He was confining his jumps to the top steps, just out of my sight. He probably knew I was there. We’d played this game before.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

I glanced down to the kitchen to catch a glimpse of the woman. She still couldn’t turn around. Her shoulders shuddered. A dish shattered.

The little bastard at the top of the stairs laughed. Light and lilting, as if he were playing with a litter of puppies. It would have been cute but for the fact that it came from the ghost of a dead child mocking her torment.

He jumped and giggled and jumped and giggled, torturing her and toying with me, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I had to wait for him to get within my grasp. If I lunged for him and missed, he’d be gone again and we’d be back at this another day.

Georgie Phillips was eight years old when we first met in 1946. It was an Easter Sunday in April, and his mother Georgina had dressed him in a little charcoal grey suit with matching bowtie and heavy black shoes, topped off with a brown paperboy cap, a concession his mother allowed provided he wore his Sunday best all through service and the subsequent breakfast with the pastor. With time to spare, George, who had always been a precocious boy, used his mother’s lack of attention and his father’s indifference to scamper out of the house in search of his friend Kenneth.

Kenneth had somehow managed to get his hands on a small collection of French erotica, some of which featured photos small enough that Georgie could gaze upon them while they were concealed within his hymnal. I have long speculated that for little Georgie the thrill in those photographs was less in the implied sexuality and more about committing a big time sin while seated near his parents in the middle of Mass. He was a little shit, but he was still just a little boy.

Georgie knew his time was limited. His mother had just begun to pull her hair into a tight bun, and his father was only midway through the first of two pre-service bourbons. Experience told him he had fifteen minutes to run two blocks, find Kenneth, and return to the living room sofa while betraying no sign he’d done something as naughty as go out the front door and dirty up his church clothes. He darted down the little side street where he lived, keeping his pace at just above a leisurely jog and conscious of any sign of sweat forming on his head or back. His mother was an utter lunatic for order and appearance, and even the slightest drop of perspiration might give him away. Still, he could feel valuable seconds ticking away, and he almost imagined the exotic French women in those photographs pouting and getting bored and maybe even starting to get dressed. He picked up the pace as he turned right onto the once small town’s main street. He bobbed and weaved among Sunday strollers, his mind full of grey breasts and patchy, pitch black pubic hair.

Little Georgie never saw the man emerge suddenly from the hardware store. They crashed into each other with jarring force.

The man only staggered backward and slumped against the wall, watching with a sad expression as Georgie fell backwards and tripped over a small stack of newspapers. He twisted as he fell out into the street and landed on his hands and knees, and he cursed as he realized that his palms were scraped, and even worse, the knees of his suit were scuffed and dirty.

Then the car hit him, and explaining to his parents what had happened to his clothes was no longer Georgie’s problem.

By the time I arrived at the scene, Georgie had done what too many newly and suddenly deceased had done. He panicked and ran home. This happens from time to time, especially with children. Fear takes over, and when people are afraid, they think immediately of home. That’s why there are so many child ghosts. Fear makes them reluctant to move on.

It took a matter of minutes to track Georgie to his home, but there was no way to go in and get him. His parents were still inside and unaware what had happened. Within moments they would begin to search for him, and I couldn’t have them finding me as well. Within an hour, they would be notified of their son’s tragic accident, and the place would be packed with police, relatives, and generally nosy people. I knew this would be tricky, but figured if I waited until the funeral I could sneak in and spirit him away before anybody knew either of us had been there.

We were now into our seventh decade together.

The early days of his second life were typical of a young spirit. I watched from the window as he pleaded and screamed and cried and waited for his parents to see him, to somehow acknowledge that he was still there. Activities like this manifest in chilly air, and the occasional living person hearing something faint usually attributed to a combination of nature and grief playing tricks on a vulnerable mind. The energy of the recently dead is powerful, but too scattered to be any real trouble.

I watched and waited as Georgie did what he could to force himself back amongst the living. It was sad and pathetic, like seeing a homeless puppy wandering down a dark road and knowing it was just destined for the front of a car. I had to wait, hoping the mourning black and funeral procession would finally convince him to give up the ghost, so to speak.

The day came, and Georgie sat on the staircase watching helplessly as his mother and father and other family members filed out, stern faces hiding their grief. His father had needed an extra bourbon for the occasion.

I was waiting at the bottom of the driveway when the last car left. Georgie and I locked eyes. I waved politely and smiled my most comforting smile. He just stood there looking at me. Then he slammed the door shut.

This wasn’t entirely unexpected. Children aren’t supposed to talk to strangers, and the one guy in the world that can see him when his own flesh and blood cannot is definitely a stranger. I’d dealt with this plenty of times, but a knock on the door and my most soothing voice usually worked. So I knocked and waited. Knocked again. Waited.

George, I said softly. How about you come down and we talk.

Nothing. Not a sound from inside.

Georgie, I know how you must be feeling. I know you’re frightened. If you come down, I can explain everything.

I waited. I thought I could hear his footsteps padding down the stairs and eager fingers reaching for the doorknob. I pressed my ear to the door. George?

Buzz off, weirdo!

That was unexpected. After all, I was just trying to help. George, listen to me, I—

The door flew open. A moist, salty spitwad hit me right in the face. The door slammed shut. I told you to buzz off, creep!

I’d dealt with my share of indignities over the decades. I’d handled every kind of reaction. Fear. Anger. Blubbering. I bore them all with as much dignity as I could. Being spit on by a little brat just pissed me off. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I snapped just a little. I banged the door with the palm of my hand. George Ezra Phillips! Yeah, that’s right, I know your stupid middle name! You open this door right goddamn now!

You want another of those, freak?! ‘Cuz I can cook one up in a hurry! I heard him snort and hack and snort and hack, reloading another phlegmy projectile.

I took a few cautionary steps back. Fine, you little punk! I was just here to tell you that you’re dead, and maybe to take you where you’re supposed to go now! But hey, good luck out there! I turned and started down the driveway. I felt a little pang of guilt for how harshly I’d broken things down to little Georgie, but wiping the gooey green missile from my face cleansed me of any self-reproach. I turned back. "Enjoy watching your parents move on. Watching them eat meals you’ll never get to taste! Watching Christmas without any toys! Just sitting there, watching."

I’d trotted out the big guns. A giftless Christmas always hit home.

The door behind me opened.

Mister?

I stopped, but refused to face him. I wanted him to come to me. I also wanted to avoid another nasal blast. I could still taste it, and I had to fight the urge to gag.

I’m... I’m really... dead? He asked timidly.

I turned to him and tried my most sympathetic smile. It was not easy. I kind of wanted to smack him.

Yes. I felt no reason to cushion the blow. You’re dead. Gone. Bye bye. A worm feast. Splattered across the front of a car.

He looked himself up and down. Touched his chest and arms and legs and head. It was sinking in for him. So why am I still here?

I took a step toward him. I noticed him flinch and step back. Not good. I froze.

That’s why I’m here. I’m gonna take you to the next place.

Where’s that?

I get asked that all the time. The honest answer was that I didn’t know. It was above my pay grade. My job is to guide the recently departed to their place of crossing over and not ask questions. So, I had a variety of stock answers, depending on who I was escorting. Sometimes it’s peace and tranquility and a reunion with loved ones. Other times it’s been glory and gold, and every man a king.

It’s a place where every day is Christmas. There are toys and chocolate and... pies, I said as I racked my brain for everything that a kid would love at Christmas. Don’t judge. I had a job to do.

Little Georgie seemed to mull it over. That sounds like a load of crap. Mom told me what Heaven is like. It’s all harps and angels and people singing.

Well, has your mom ever been there? I asked, only implying that I had. I haven’t, but he didn’t need to know that.

So I’m like, what... a ghost?

I cursed under my breath. He didn’t take the bait. Basically, yes. But once you move on—

Yeah yeah. So I can see everyone and they can’t see me.

Seems pretty obvious so far, right? I took a step toward him, wondering what game he was playing.

I opened that door. Ghosts can’t do that sorta thing.

It’s tricky. It’s a matter of intent and focus, really. Even I don’t fully understand it. Another thing I didn’t fully understand then was how stupid it was to tell him that. I was naïve. I was just trying to help the kid by giving him answers without fully grasping why he was asking them.

It all became clear a matter of seconds later when an evil sneer crossed his face and he slammed the door shut.

I flew at the door and hammered it with my fists. George, you don’t want this to go bad! I can make that happen! It was an empty threat. One, I had no idea exactly how to punish him if he didn’t want to go, and two, the kid’s short and neglected life had already been ended when he was crushed by a Nash Slipstream, so things had pretty much already bottomed out for young George Ezra Phillips.

I heard him stomp up the stairs in those heavy shoes. That was a good sign. If I had one thing going for me, it was that disembodied spirits burned through energy like a jet engine burning through fuel on takeoff, especially when manifesting. Soon he would lose form and shape, becoming just a random, drifting cold spot until his life force refocused and returned.

I stepped back and glanced around the nearby houses. Nosy neighbors always made this job more difficult, and the post-war suburban boom effect of houses being built pretty much right next to each other had made simple extractions a dicey proposition. I’ve gotten better, but in the early days it was no walk in the park. For the moment I was in the clear.

The front door was dead-bolted, so I worked my way around the side of the house. I tried a couple of bottom floor windows. All of them were latched. Around back I found a door that let into the kitchen. I tried the knob and it opened. I allowed myself a second to believe maybe this wouldn’t be that difficult after all.

Inside, the home was deathly quiet. A gloom had completely enveloped it. Everything was cast in a strange blue hue, and the little light that trickled in seemed like a beams of floating dust. I took slow, tentative steps, but the floor creaked and groaned as if the whole house was protesting my presence. So much for the element of surprise.

The kitchen led to a hallway that ran parallel to the stairs. I stopped at the base. George, you need to come with me.

He didn’t make a sound. I found myself hoping that he hadn’t already burned himself out. There was no method I was aware of for escorting a formless spirit.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked up. Shadows drank the dim light. I couldn’t see a thing. Outside, it was broad daylight, but inside was like a gothic tomb. If a swarm of vampire bats had swooped suddenly down on me, it wouldn’t have been even remotely surprising. George, at least let me know you’re up there.

That was when I heard the giggle for the first time. Light. Childish. Sadistic. Come and get me, he said.

George, this isn’t a game!  I started up the stairs.

The vase flew at me from the dark. I saw it just in time to turn my head. It cracked me across the left temple. Pain and ceramic shards exploded down