Spookshow 10: Spookshow, #10

By Tim McGregor

As Christmas approaches, reluctant psychic Billie Culpepper receives an unwelcome surprise in the form of an eviction notice. Her shock at being evicted is quickly replaced by surprise when her beau suggests they finally buy a house together. Billie agrees to go house hunting only to find that every home has history, and trying to find a house that doesn't have old ghosts proves tricky for someone who can see the dead.

Detective Mockler faces a challenge of his own when he's put in charge of a newly formed cold case unit to clear the backlog of old homicides. He dives into the new job eagerly only to hit an unexpected snag that could prove troubling to both himself and his psychic girlfriend.

When the search for a house proves futile, Billie stumbles across her dream home; a quaint fixer-upper with vintage charm and a lack of ghosts. But nothing is ever simple when it comes to the paranormal and the new home-owners find themselves under assault from a violent presence that can elude Billie's psychic abilities.

Meanwhile, John Gantry, the occult expert/con man, faces his own terrifying ordeal when he learns that his family is coming to visit for the holidays.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim McGregor
• Release date: Sep 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393721680

Tim McGregor

Tim McGregor is a novelist and screenwriter behind three produced feature films, all of dubious quality. Although the last one did star Luke Perry. His first novel, Bad Wolf, is available as an ebook. Tim lives in Toronto with his wife and two children.

Book preview

1

THE FIRST TRUE snowfall of the season hit mid-December, and it hit hard. Ten centimeters of the stuff with no sign of letting up anytime soon. Billie Culpepper, reluctant psychic and saloon owner, had heard the forecast and knew it was coming, but had still been caught off guard. The Merry Agnes, her small bar on the corner of Cannon and MacNab, was without a snow shovel. Pocketing a handful of bills from the cash register, she had rushed out to the corner store to purchase one and hurried back to put it to use.

The snow was not the powdery light stuff depicted on Christmas cards. It was wet and heavy and hell to shovel, but the sidewalk needed to be cleared. Billie was in no position to get sued by someone for slipping on the ice outside her saloon. She put her back into it and when she hurried back inside the Merry, her muscles ached from the exertion. One of these days, she promised herself, she was going to be prepared. But that was not this day.

Pretty, isn’t it? said Kaitlin Grainger. A year younger than Billie, but with fancier taste in clothes and an almost dangerous fascination for the paranormal. Seated on one of the bar stools, Kaitlin watched the snow tumble and flicker through the cone of light from the streetlamps. I love the first snowfall.

Except when you have to shovel it, replied Billie. How much are we supposed to get?

Kaitlin tapped the screen on her phone. They’re calling for twenty centimeters. Just in time for Christmas.

Yup, real pretty, Billie said under a scrim of sarcasm. She’d have to be vigilant about keeping the sidewalk clear of snow, but was not looking forward to shoveling it again. How’s the Christmas party going?

Bit boring. But Jen’s having a good time.

The Merry Agnes was a small bar, but it had one booth at the back; a six-seater that often filled up fast. Crowded into the booth was Jen Eckler and her Christmas party for the Dollhouse staff. A small affair, since the staff of the narrow dress shop consisted of one full-time employee and two part-timers. Jen usually held her Christmas party in the shop, but since her oldest friend now owned a cozy bar five blocks from work, she had decided to have it here. A low-key affair with a few platters of food and endless rounds of cranberry martinis. Joining the party was their friend, Tammy Lanza, who, like Billie and Kaitlin, was always invited to the Dollhouse holiday booze-up.

Glancing over at the small party, Billie scanned the drinks on the table and started to make another round of martinis. This was the first holiday party at the bar and, since it was Jen, she was keen to make sure it went well. She was pouring the last one when Tammy claimed the empty barstool beside Kaitlin.

Uh-oh, Billie said, gauging Tammy’s expression. Did the party take a bad turn?

They’re bartering holiday schedules, Tammy replied. Figured I’d come chat with you before I fall asleep.

Kaitlin popped an elbow onto the bar. Where’s Rowena tonight?

Home. She’s got that flu that’s going around.

Tis the season, Billie said.

Tammy looked bored. You guys got plans for Christmas?

The holiday was coming up fast and Billie let out a small groan at its approach. The last month had flown by so fast that she was shocked every time she looked at the calendar. Where had November gone?

We’ll go to Maggie’s on Christmas Eve, she said. Spend a few days there and come home Boxing Day.

Kaitlin took up one of the martini glasses Billie had prepared. What about Ray? Won’t you visit his family, too?

With his dad gone, he doesn’t really have any family left. He’s got a cousin out in Whitby, but they aren’t close.

Tammy turned to Kaitlin. What about you? You staying in town?

I’ll go visit the folks, Kaitlin replied with a shrug. Then it’s the usual. My mom will ask why I don’t have a boyfriend yet and then we’ll go out for Chinese on Christmas Eve.

That’s a tradition?

It is if you’re Jewish.

Billie sensed something behind Tammy’s inquiry. Aren’t you going home for Christmas?

Tammy shook her head. After what happened at Thanksgiving? I think I’ll skip it this year.

What happened at Thanksgiving?

I took Rowena to meet the family. It did not go well.

Kaitlin leaned forward. You didn’t tell them about Rowena before?

I did. Tammy’s defensiveness was immediate. I told my mom, but it was over the phone. I guess it didn’t really sink in until we walked in the door. It did not go well.

Billie winced. Were they rude to Rowena?

Not to her face, but there all these weird micro-aggressions, you know? My dad barely said anything and mom kept on with the pinhead questions like, who does the dishes and who picks up the bill at a restaurant. I was dying inside. It was awful.

Billie recalled meeting Tammy’s mom once. Long ago and very briefly. Not enough to get a sense of the woman. I’m sorry, sweetie.

Did you talk to your mom about it? Kaitlin asked.

Of course. But she just played stupid, like she didn’t understand what she’d done wrong. Rowena was totally cool with it, but I am not going to subject her to that again. Tammy hoisted one of the martini glasses. So, if anyone’s in town on Christmas day and gets bored, call me. We’ll be home.

What about Rowena’s family?

They’re in Mexico. We’d go visit them if we could afford it, but we can’t. The martini went down in two gulps, finishing with a sneer on Tammy’s face. Christmas sucks.

Billie watched their friend go back to the table before sharing a wry look of sympathy with Kaitlin. Holidays can be tough.

Why is that? Is it just the family thing?

Billie shrugged. I guess. Expectation might have something to do with it, too, you know? There’s a lot of pressure for it to be magical and special and all that.

Everything framed with twinkling lights and cheap tinsel, Kaitlin agreed.

And it’s the same thing every year. High expectations and all that pressure for it to be perfect. Why do we do it to ourselves?

Because, silly, Kaitlin said, raising her glass in another mock cheer. It’s the ghost of Christmas past. It comes around every year.

Billie laughed. Your cheeks are turning pink. Maybe I should cut you off.

That’s my holiday cheer, honey. You know, being merry.

~ ~ ~

Pushing through her apartment door in the dead of night felt like staggering across a finish line. Billie kicked off her wet sneakers and checked the time on her phone. 3: 35 AM. Typical bar hours, she told herself, but a hard fatigue was dragging her bones and she feared a cold was coming on, or worse the flu that seemed to be ripping through the city like an epidemic. All she wanted right now was to collapse on the ratty sofa with a hot cup of tea but the effort of putting the kettle on seemed overwhelming.

Honey, she called out, I’m home. The apartment was empty. Ray was staying at his place tonight, but she hoped to see the Half-Boy who had become her roommate and ghostly protector. The narrow apartment was dark and forlorn, absent of even his otherworldly presence. It was also chilly from a bad draft in the old sash windows.

The one bright spot was the Christmas wreath in her hand, a gift from Jen for hosting her staff party. Ever the budding Martha Stewart, Jen’s gifts were tastefully conceived and artfully homemade. The wreath was wrung from the sapling stems of fresh pine and holly, and adorned with bows of red velvet and stars fashioned out of silver tinsel. A traditional Victorian wreath, Jen had claimed. Billie held it to her nose and breathed in the heady pine musk that always triggered a sensory recall of the season.

She wondered where to hang it. Outside her apartment door seemed the obvious choice but that would mean she would barely see it and its lush smell would be wasted out there in the musty hallway. Maybe on the inside of the door or somewhere in the living room where she might catch more of its smell. She wished she had a fireplace, even a fake one. Anything with a mantel that she could set the wreath on and maybe even hang a few tacky stockings from. She recalled the fireplace in Cordelia’s house; five feet wide and shoulder height with a huge mantel and a fire that never went out. Hearth envy, was that a thing?

The next place I live, she said to herself, is going to have a fireplace for sure.

The wreath was left on the small desk as she plodded to the bathroom to brush her teeth. After changing into a set of frayed, but warm, flannel pajamas, Billie padded back into the living room to turn out the lights. Catching sight of her ghostly flatmate made her smile.

The Half-Boy sat perched on the edge of the desk and, as always, blood from his severed stump legs dripped and pooled on the floor. He held the pine wreath in his hands and seemed utterly mesmerized by its archaic charm. And why wouldn’t he be? Jen had crafted the wreath with a certain Victorian flair which would hearken back to the time when Poor Tom Cleary had walked the earth as a living soul. What year had he died? 1906, wasn’t it?

The ghost boy was oblivious to her presence as he brushed his fingertips against the prickly green needles. Billie studied him for a moment, wondering what Christmas would have been like for him in his brief life. A dirt poor kid in a shantytown of Irish immigrants on the edge of the city’s bustling limits. Did the Cleary family have a tree or decorations? Probably not, she mused. That was for the upper class, not struggling migrants despised by the local population. Never mind presents or a feast of Christmas goose. Maybe Christmas was just a day off for people who struggled hand to mouth in that time.

Do you like it? she asked the boy.

He looked at her with his strangely inscrutable eyes and, as always, said nothing. His attention turned back to the ring of green pine. When she placed a hand on his small shoulder, she felt solid mass there. Billie doubted she would ever understand the strange connection they shared, but Tom was no ethereal vapor to her. When she touched him, he was as solid as the table on which he sat.

I can’t decide where to hang it, she said. Why don’t you pick a spot. Surprise me. I’m off to bed.

The boy looked over the shabby apartment and frowned as if he too was unsure of its placement.

When she awoke the next day, she didn’t even notice the wreath at first. Never a morning person, she was effectively dead to the world until she had a cup of coffee in her hand. The apartment could have been on fire and she wouldn’t smell the smoke until that first hit of strong java. Settling onto the ratty sofa with a steaming mug, she looked up to see the wreath hanging in the window. The scent of pine was still present but diluted now.

Good choice, she said, although the boy was nowhere to be seen. In some ways, Tom was like the opposite of a cat. He spent his days elsewhere but always came home when the sun went down.

She shivered. The apartment was cold this morning and the only warmth was the mug in her hands. Had the boiler died in the night? Wouldn’t be the first time in this old and shabbily maintained building. She got up to see if the radiator was hot when a sudden movement flared in the corner of her eye. A whisper of a sound as an envelope slid under her door. It lay there amid a scattering of salt from the protective barrier she maintained at the threshold to the flat. Retrieving the envelope, she read the handwritten scrawl on the front: Sybil Culpepper, Apartment 4.

She pulled the door open, but the hallway was empty. Had the delivery person slid it under and sprinted back downstairs?

Whatever, she grumbled, and opened the unsealed flap of the envelope. The coffee in her mug spilled when she saw the bold typeface at the top of the letter. This is what it said:

EVICTION NOTICE

2

WHY YOU GOTTA keep at me with these questions? the woman barked. Why ain’t you out looking for the guy who did this?

Detective Ray Mockler bit down on his frustration and kept his mouth shut. A lot of people didn’t like the police, and some were outright hostile to cops, no matter what the situation. He got that. It made things difficult, and sometimes, it could easily turn into a shit-show. Case in point, the woman sitting at the kitchen table before him in a cramped apartment off Grosvenor Avenue.

I know this is difficult, he said, and the questions may seem pointless, but we need to go over everything. You were the last person to see your boyfriend alive. Your information is the most valuable at this point.

He wasn’t my boyfriend, the woman complained. She was looking at her phone again. This is bullshit. Hassling me when you people ought to be out catching the guy. I gotta tell you how to do your job?

The woman’s name was Jordan; early twenties with platinum hair and a surplus of attitude. Todd Sudzman, her on-again, off-again boyfriend, was found dead behind a sports bar on King East early yesterday morning. They were at the bar together until midnight, when they got into an argument and Sudzman stormed out. That was the last time anyone had seen him alive. Jordan was not a suspect in Sudzman’s death. She was with two friends who both vouched for her whereabouts.

Mockler took a breath and started over. Jordan, I need you to think hard about this. You said your boyfriend got into arguments with two other men at the bar. What did they look like? Age, ethnicity, hair colour. Anything at all?

I told you I don’t remember. Her eyes were on her phone, a finger scrolling through the screen. Todd was always getting into fights. Can’t you check the cameras in the bar or something? Get some DNA and shit?

The bar had no security cameras. And Jordan’s question about DNA derived from watching too many cop shows. The facts in the case were pretty straightforward. The deceased was a violent hothead with a string of assault charges behind him. Sudzman had gotten into arguments with two separate men at the bar and then, after getting into an argument with Jordan, stormed out. His body was found cold the next day in the lane behind the bar. There were a few contusions on his face but no other injuries. The working theory was that Sudzman had gotten into another altercation outside the bar, been knocked out and left unconscious beside the dumpster. The patrons left the bar without noticing the unconscious man and the temperature had plunged to minus twenty centigrade. He had frozen to death. His assailant hadn’t meant to kill Sudzman, but it was still homicide. Mockler first interviewed Jordan earlier that morning, but the woman’s replies to his questions made little sense. He had backed off to give her time to process and now, hours later, had returned to question her further about the people in the bar that night.

Jordan had yet to provide any useful information about the events in the bar. She wasn’t just upset; she was hostile and accusatory.

Why can’t you just do your job? she said. Wasting time hassling me? I’m the victim here.

Mockler gritted his teeth and resumed his questions about the men her boyfriend had argued with. Had she ever seen them before? What did they look like?

Jordan shook her head and kept scrolling through her phone. This is fucking harassment. My taxes pay your salary, man, and you’re sitting here with your thumb up your ass? Shit.

Hey! Mockler barked, loud enough to rattle the glasses on the sink. Put your phone down. I need you to focus and answer my questions. Now!

The woman startled, but she didn’t put the phone away. She did the opposite, raising it up level and hitting the record button. Police harassment right there. I’m filming this. I don’t feel safe.

Something snapped. It was inexcusable, and he knew there would be consequences, but at the moment, Mockler didn’t care. Whiplash fast, he snatched the phone from her hand and slapped it face down on the table. These questions are not difficult. The sooner you answer them, the sooner I can find the guy who killed your boyfriend. DO YOU UNDERSTAND!

His voice boomed through the small apartment like a thunderclap and the woman backed across the room in genuine fear. He had gone too far, and he knew it.

Detective Ana Barata, the officer working with him, appeared in the doorway. Scanning the scene, she sized up the situation and waved Mockler out of the kitchen. Let’s swap out, Mockler. I’ll meet you downstairs.

He left the room without another word. He had lost his cool and made everything worse. Now Detective Barata was left trying to put out the fire he had started. Pounding down the steps to the front door, he heard the young woman barking up a storm at Barata over his behaviour.

The cold air was bracing but welcome after the stifling atmosphere of the cramped kitchen. Crossing to the parked car, he contemplated the two apologies he’d have to make. One to Barata for the chaos he’d caused and the second to Jordan herself for losing his temper. It was no big revelation that the job was getting to him; he’d known that for a while. But now it was affecting the job he was trying to do in a circuitous chicken-and-egg loop. Maybe it was finally time to look for a new line of work.

A bright chirping sound emitted from his back pocket. He retrieved his phone to find a text from Billie. It was short and to-the-point.

I’M BEING EVICTED!

~ ~ ~

It’s said that the English do Christmas particularly well, and in Hannah Barstow’s case, it was absolutely true. She loved the season so much that she started listening to Christmas music in mid-November and had all of her favourite holiday movies cued up on Netflix. As the holiday approached, she would plan out activities for each day like decorating the house, getting the tree up, or making gift lists. Today was the first of three scheduled Christmas baking days and as soon as school let out, she ran all the way home.

This first day of baking would be easy but traditional; simple sugar cookies cut into tree or star shapes with royal icing and sprinkles. They held a strong nostalgic vibe as her mum used to make them every year. Now it was Hannah’s turn to take over the tradition. The plan was to make enough to last until Christmas, plus extra to bring round to the neighbours and any family they visited. Not that there was a lot of family to visit. Dad had a sister up north they never saw and a brother in the army, stationed in Kabul. On her mum’s side there was only uncle John who was across the pond in Canada. And he was officially dead, so there wasn’t much chance of him popping in for a visit, was there?

Busting through the door, she dropped her school bag on the bench and scurried to the kitchen with her playlist cued up on her phone. Dean Martin cooed about it being cold outside as she clattered out the bowls and measuring cups, eager to get the kitchen dusty with flour. She was reaching into the fridge when a noise from upstairs poured molten crap all over her Christmas cheer.

Her parent’s voices, echoing angrily through the house as they tore into one another. Again. The grinches.

Scowling, Hannah leaned against the counter and listened to them bark and stomp the floor. This was a doozy, one of those all-out battles that could drag on for hours. She didn’t have a clear notion of what they were fighting about. They were English, after all, so when the row started up, they would discreetly go into another room and close the door behind them. This had been happening more and more over the last month and Hannah had no idea what had kicked it off. Was one of them having an affair? Or blown through a wad of savings on something stupid? To be perfectly honest, she didn’t care anymore. They fought and bickered over the stupidest, pettiest shite these days. It seemed anything would do for an excuse to have another round in the marital boxing ring. Hannah was sick of it all by this point and was only interested in the net outcome. Either they head off to couple’s counseling to work it out or they crash on the rocks of divorce. Either way, she hoped they would fast-forward to the conclusion rather than prolong everyone’s misery with more fighting and, in the process, ruin Christmas for all of them.

Hannah looked down at the bag of flour and a dish of softened butter on the counter. The idea of happily making sugar cookies while listening to saccharine Christmas songs had lost its appeal. Like milk left out to spoil, the holiday spirit turned sour, and she put away the assembled bowls and measuring spoons. Sod Christmas, then.

The really frustrating part was that she couldn’t even stomp off to her room in a proper teenage outrage because her parents were upstairs and both of the bleeding idiots would make a show of pretending everything was fine around her. Hypocrites and Grinches, that’s what they were. Merry frigging Christmas.

Bored, she rifled the stack of mail on the kitchen table. Among the bills was one oddly shaped envelope. The terrible handwriting looked familiar and when she saw the postmark from Canada, she tore the envelope open in a frenzy.

A Christmas card from Uncle John, but like her uncle, it was daft. The picture on the card was just flowers, generic and nothing holiday related. She opened the card, and frowned. The printed greeting was crossed out, with a handwritten note scribbled over it. Thusly:

GET WELL SOON!

Happy Flipping Christmas

Hann, Connie,

Hope you’re both well. Just wanted to send a message that I won’t be making it home to blighty Southend for Christmas this year. Too much going on here to get away. Plus, you know, I’m dead. Sorry. Love to you both.

XO

You-know-who.

P.S. Burn this after opening.

Well, that’s just great, Hannah said aloud. She tossed the cheap card away and flopped into a chair. It wasn’t bad enough that her parents were clawing at one another, now Uncle John wasn’t even going to visit for the holidays. This was officially the worst Christmas ever. She wanted to know why he couldn’t make it. She wanted to bark at him for being a selfish prick. Again. She wanted to talk to him, but her uncle was notorious for being unreachable. No phone, no physical address and no email. Not even a lousy Twitter account.

Hang on, she thought. She wasn’t able to reach him directly, but she might be able to get a message to him. Two months ago, she had spoken to one of his friends in Canada, hadn’t she? Not just a friend, but the one he had told her about. The psychic. What was her name?

Billie. That was her name. And Billie’s number was logged on her mobile. Easy-peasy.

3

THE EVICTION NOTICE felt personal. Billie had been in this apartment for five years and never once had a problem with the landlord. She even liked the guy. Sal Moretti was a grumbly old guy who owned a construction company over on South Sherman and who preferred doing business the old way, meaning a handshake and a wad of cash for a deposit. They had an unspoken arrangement in that, if she didn’t complain about the disrepair in the building, he didn’t raise the rent on her. In fact, in the entire five years she had been there, he had never