Geist, p.5
Geist, page 5
“Do you see anything?” Victor asked.
She shook her head and opened the front door with a creak.
One by one, the company entered the lobby. Victor raised his staff, illuminating the faded wallpaper, as moans echoed behind the swollen doors. Charles and Beatrice followed him, glancing at dusty portraits of dead tycoons and taxidermized pig heads. Indeed, the closer Victor looked, the harder it was to tell the difference. Eventually, his legs grew fatigued; the smoke of the Devil’s Hour was neither conducive to nor healthy for mortal lungs.
“Let’s stop to rest a bit,” he wheezed.
“You sure that’s a good idea?” Charles asked.
“Fine by me,” Beatrice replied. “I’ll stand guard.”
#
Despite the time’s distortion, Victor knew the Devil’s Hour was halfway over—he’d learned to tell by the growing reek of brimstone. He sat on an old armchair as Charles leaned against the wall. Victor’s mind wandered to Yuko, imagining what she was doing right now. He winced but said nothing, laying eyes on Charles, who rolled yet another spliff.
“Probably not the best time to get high, huh?” the stoner said.
Victor was lost in thought. As much as he loved Charles, he never imagined an aging hipster giving him relationship advice. In many ways, Charles was more worldly than he was, able to navigate Haight-Ashbury’s standup scene in the 80s, a transferable skill in Yoshiwara. At that moment, Victor realized how much he undervalued the comedian.
“You alright-a?” Charles asked.
“Yeah,” Victor lied.
Charles sighed. “Don’t look so glum, man. What’s up?”
“I’m sorry,” Victor began. “For dragging you into this.”
“That’s not what’s going on. Spit it out, dude.”
“O…okay, I’m sorry I took you for granted back there, and—”
“Granted? Are you kidding me?” Charles laughed. “Dude, when I figured out that you were some kind of…Aspie Jesus, ‘course I was jealous. I mean, you heard my daemon. It was all anger directed at my wasted youth.” He looked Victor in the eye. “In some ways, you’re my second chance at that. You don’t judge me for being such a shithead.”
“Pothead,” Victor corrected. “Not a shithead. Still, you were jealous? Really?”
Beatrice kept her distance by the hall’s end. She intended to let them have their “bro-talk,” her fingers never far from her sword’s hilt.
“C’mon, I was always the middleman. Even when it came to dealing Robby coke as an undergrad.” Charles shook his head. “Dammit, you’re making me all sappy. Point is, when I awakened to my geist, I think it was partially ‘cause I realized something. I don’t have to be the hero to kick some ass. Especially when this time, it isn’t even my story.”
Victor looked away, smiling sheepishly.
Charles raised the rollup to his lips. “I would offer a joint. But you don’t smoke, right?”
“Actually, I’ll take one.”
“Wait. What?” The spliff fell from Charles’s mouth. “You sure…?”
“There’s worse things I could be doing in Holy Gothica.”
An awkward silence passed until Charles rummaged through his pockets. “Fuck it.” He handed Victor an empty glass bowl. “Let me know when you’re ready. Once we get back, I mean. This was my big bro’s pipe. I had it on me when we got teleported into this hellhole.”
Victor took the chillum with care. “Charles—”
“Shut up and listen.” Charles’s eyes dampened. “He OD’d on a speedball about a year before I met you. Couldn’t even make it to the funeral. That still haunts me, but hey…. At least I have you, right?” He sniffled. “That’s why I’m so protective, brother.”
Victor laid a shaky hand over his friend’s shoulder. He didn’t know what to say, let alone if anything needed to be said. Regardless, he felt a certain purity between them.
“And you’re not a replacement.” Charles shook his head as if to smother his feelings. “Like I said, just my second chance, and—dammit, let’s get going. Time’s running out.”
With that, Victor tucked the pipe into his pocket, following Charles and Beatrice into the factory. He thought it oddly heartwarming how misery brought them all together.
#
Fear became frustration as Victor’s search led to nowhere. The staircases were long collapsed, and most doors were either locked or jammed. What rooms the company could access were looted, except for an occasional blade or scrap of stained paper.
“Any luck?” Victor asked.
“Nah,” Charles said. “I can see why you were weirded out, though.”
“Agreed,” Beatrice added, closing an empty drawer. “But if everything creepy in Holy Gothica was actually dangerous, we’d have been dead a long time ago.”
Victor leaned against the battered wall. “Sorry….”
“Don’t feel bad, dude.” Charles walked down the corridor; the floorboards creaked under his boots, louder than before. “I’d rather be too careful than—”
Just then, the panels collapsed under his weight, and Charles plummeted into the darkness. Victor and Beatrice darted to the pit, barely able to see him six feet underground.
“Charles!” Victor called. “A…are you okay?”
“Y…yeah,” Charles wheezed, hoisting himself up. “Don’t know how, but yeah.”
“You’re lucky,” Beatrice said. “Could’ve fractured your spine!”
“Good thing I didn’t,” Charles muttered as he looked about. “Shit. You guys might wanna take a look at this.”
Without a second thought, Victor leapt down and joined him. The faint stench of chemicals filled the air. Brightening his electro-staff, Victor beheld a series of masonry tunnels, plastered with photographs of strippers and prostitutes—faces cropped.
Charles brushed the filth off his jeans. “What is this?”
Moments later, Beatrice landed, a firm hand over her broadsword’s pommel. As Victor stepped forward, something bounced off his boot with a clatter; a glimmer of silver caught his eye. As his friends went ahead, Victor knelt and picked up an old silver locket, when—
“Victor,” Beatrice called. “I think we’ve found something.”
Victor tucked the trinket into his pocket and joined his friends in an “office” to the right. An old, battered desk was propped to the side, and above it a corkboard covered in maps of Yoshiwara, scribbled schedules, and organized photos. Beginning to piece this together, Victor tore off a list of names pinned to the bottom, some of which he recognized.
HIMIKO FUKUHARA
MARGERTE MOLLY
SALLY “TRYXIE” O’DOUL
Charles leaned over his shoulder. “Is that—?”
“Murder victims,” Victor choked. “Just a few from Yoshiwara.”
“Whoever squats here is the real deal,” Charles said.
“Then where’s the Dollmaker?” Beatrice shook her head and wandered to the next room. “Damn though, this place is—” Her voice rose to a gasping shout. “Oh, God!”
Victor and Charles bolted after her. In a darkroom bathed in crimson light, they saw photos of doll-masked corpses, resting in toxic baths, hanging about the walls like a collage of grisly trophies. At the rear of the room, Victor beheld an altar of darkness, surrounded by halos of blood-runes, covered in melted candles, bits of flesh, and porcelains shards, each meticulously placed to appease the dark powers. In the center was a monstrous tree of faceless mannequins, cracked in neglect and abuse—an idol of sadism.
“We need to get out of here,” Charles said.
A series of televisions flickered on, buzzing with eerie static, surrounding them with images of a grim silhouette—speechless yet mocking. A “serenade” warped into their minds, a bastardization of the baroque, underpinned by a pounding heart. Victor clenched his ears, bombarded by the wrong music—vision blurred.
“Snap out of it!” Beatrice drew her sword. “Get ready.”
Shrieks of metal carried through the air as Victor pulled himself back to the present. A grotesque shape lunged from behind—an arachnid of porcelain legs and torsos, twisted and fused together by black magic. Its skittering limbs were centered on an oblong camera, lens clicking and whirring as it let loose an erotic moan.
“Oh, man.” Charles drew his twin knives. “That’s just wrong.”
Awkward and cumbersome, the voyeur lunged forth. Victor stumbled back, knocking over a tray of fluid and photopaper. “C…come,” he stuttered. “Dante!”
In a burst of cobalt light, Victor’s geist lunged from the flaming aether. Its coattails fluttered in the swirling smoke, rabbit ears long and flowing, clutching its halberd with strength born of will. As the daemon kicked with slippers and spiked boots, Dante parried its manic blows—the knightly poet was forced ever backwards.
The daemon’s bulb flashed, blinding him with sheer light.
Before sight returned, Victor was knocked on his back as the daemon pinned him down with its bladed heels. His sword and staff clattered on the ground as the voyeur uttered a chilling purr. With a swing of its halberd, Dante dove forth and impaled the fiend through its chest; tarrish gore splattered over the walls. The voyeur gave an all-too-human moan, leaping up to the ceiling ducts, and then—
Silence.
Grabbing his staff, Victor brightened its electric light, searching for the voyeur. Dante never strayed far, hand stretched out as if to summon a bolt of divine fire.
Charles’s eyes widened as he inched back. “W…where’d it go?”
“Stay frosty.” Beatrice pressed her back against Victor’s. “I don’t—”
Charles let out a blood-curdling scream. Victor spun around; the daemon lifted his friend by the neck, and with a flash of its bulb, fled with its victim.
“H…help!” Charles cried.
As Charles’s babbling faded down the hall, Beatrice leapt over a worktable and charged through the nearest door. Sword in hand, she barreled after the voyeur as Victor and Dante gave chase ever deeper into those tunnels, following a trail of black bile.
“Hang in there, dude!” Victor shouted.
Throughout the complex, Dante blasted its way through the swollen doors, following the shrieks and moans. Finally, Victor came to a web of wires, lights, and cables, where the daemon balanced itself over a pile of broken glass, cradling a limp Charles.
Victor’s terror bloomed into rage; Dante answered in kind.
The geist conjured a bolt of azure fire, but the fiend was far too quick, dodging the flare with spidery grace. When Beatrice caught up, she swung her sword and lunged with a roar. The fetishized nightmare slammed a boot against her chest, sending her reeling backward.
“Dammit,” Beatrice wheezed, staggering to her feet. “It’s way too fast.”
Just then, Victor felt something rattle in his pockets—the glass pipe. It began to burn in his coat, smelling of familiar spices and hashish. As he drew the bowl, Victor heard the Music of the Spheres playing in his mind’s ear, joined by an innermost voice.
“The time has come yet again,” said the Impresario. “By the power shared between you and your disciples, I hereby call upon another geist and form.”
Another song stirred in Victor’s soul—a separate power yet born of the same will as Dante. Behind his eyes, he saw a phantom image—a “man” in a ragged suit and derby hat, clutching an iron cane, tapping its foot. It was too gaunt to be truly human—rather, an impression thereof, wearing the pale mask of comedy.
“Behold,” the Impresario continued, “the geist of a cunning vagabond. A tramp, if you will. Such is more than the will of the cards, O’ Far Messiah.”
As the vision ended, Victor took a few steps forward. The voyeur turned to gaze at its true threat, cracking its kneecaps, wracked by tremors. With a wave of his hand, Victor dismissed Dante into the heavenly void, leaving only a spiraling blaze in its wake.
“Come,” Victor shouted, calling forth a geist. “Chaplin!”
With a burst of willpower, another silhouette emerged into existence. Chaplin was a thin rogue of a geist, walking with a severe limp— Victor knew better. This was a power born of friendship and humor, a trickster of humble origins.
Charles’s eyes rolled open. “Two powers? Not fair, man—”
The daemon uttered a devious giggle and took a swinging kick at Chaplin. Victor winced, but the geist evaded the blow. The daemon swiped again and again, though Chaplin was far too quick. With every miss, the geist slapped its staff against the voyeur’s shins until the fiend let loose a howl of rage, letting its guard down.
“Now,” Victor snapped.
Chaplin leapt high in the air. With a piercing blow, the geist impaled the daemon’s camera lens with its staff. The fiend collapsed with a quaking thud, its glass and flesh dissolving into a pool of fetid tar. Chaplin tipped its hat and limped off, fading into the aether.
Victor helped Charles to his feet. “Are you okay?”
“D…dude,” the stoner said. “What was that? I mean, I knew you had Dante, but….” His eyes narrowed. “That was different. New. What’d you change your geist into?”
Victor shrugged. “Charlie Chaplain, I guess? It makes sense, silent movies and all. It’s supposed to be born of our friendship. At least, that’s what ‘the voice’ said.”
It took Charles a moment to catch on, but he laughed. “Aw, isn’t that sweet? The personification of our bromance is a little tramp. Still, I’ve seen weirder.”
Victor smiled back but was far from at ease. Shadows still moved in the dark, agitated and restless. The clocks ticked again. “The Devil’s Hour is almost over,” he managed.
“I have a feeling we’re getting closer, though,” Beatrice said, calming down. “Once we meet with Edgar tomorrow, maybe we can figure something out.”
Back in the knacker’s yard, Victor watched the streetlights sizzle on as the veil of static lifted once more. Color crept back into the city; Charles and Beatrice meandered towards the Sunset Pagoda. Just then, something jingled in Victor’s pocket. Morbidly curious, he flicked open the old locket and saw a sepia photo of Lady Fukuhara—painted lips and ivory skin. Victor wanted to shut it, but something stopped him.
Hang on, she looks a lot like Yuko…!
Now more than ever, he feared the Dollmaker’s next move.
CHAPTER SIX
In the silent confines of the billiard room, Victor stared into an empty pint. His thoughts were corroded with dread—he was running on three hours of sleep. The arcade machines began to click and purr, warming up for the day. Victor hoped there was a coming end to this odyssey. He knew better. Then it hit him—Victor hadn’t taken a single pill since his descent.
It’s probably beginning to show….
He gazed out the window upon the waking city and wondered if any of the apothecaries carried Zoloft or Abilify. He shook his head; Holy Gothica wasn’t exactly renowned for its mental health system, let alone any medicine other than laudanum or liquor.
With that, he headed to the back bar.
Today marked Xanadu’s grand opening. Not even Yuko was up. Still, Leng lingered by the riveted bottles and shelves, fiddling with a shot glass of darts.
“You’re up damn early,” he said. “Gonna have your little meet up with Edgar?”
Victor’s mind was elsewhere. “Yeah….”
Leng threw a dart at the nearby board. It bounced off the rim, like all the others. “Anyway,” he sighed. “How are you holding up? Heard it’s going south.”
For once, Victor knew exactly what he meant. “It’s Yuko’s business.”
Leng nodded, unconvinced. “You’re cool with her—”
“Cool’s a strong word,” Victor snapped.
Leng threw another dart at the board. It hit a little closer. “Like I said, speaking from experience here.” He offered Victor the final dart. “Regarding the case, though. Maybe Edgar will throw in his two cents. Guy has a lot of tricks up his sleeve.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure how helpful he’s going to be.” Victor threw his bolt with surprising skill, stabbing the scarlet bullseye with ease.
Leng’s lips curled into a sneer. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”
#
When the clock struck eleven, the gilded gates creaked open. On the fringe of Yoshiwara, Victor endured the minutes dragging on as calliope music looped over the speakers. The line to the amusement park inched forward, winding in a spiral of velvet rope. Charles and Beatrice languished in boredom until they neared its entrance, its neon sign reading,
THE WORLD’S XANADU EXPOSITION
When Victor came to the ticket booth, he was greeted by an attendant behind a sheet of bulletproof glass. The figure was dressed in a baby blue uniform, smile stretched and hollow. Indeed, Victor was unsure if the attendant retained free will.
“Hey,” Victor said. “Three tickets, please.”
“Why, hello there, little boy or girl,” the attendant spoke from a speaker on his throat. “Entry is totally, utterly, and absolutely free today and today alone. Would you like to buy one of our annual passes for the modest price of three hundred and sixty-five thalers?”
“Uh,” Victor managed. “No, thank you.”
“Are you sure?” the attendant replied. “You will never find a better deal in all of Yoshiwara.” His movements were jerky, almost robotic. “Due to pesky regulation, specifically the Consumer Safety Act of 1877, we require non-verbal consent for all subscriptions. Please hit the YES button to receive a daily newsletter of our charity events, discounts….”
Despite his annoyance, Victor noticed a pair of buttons, one green and one red, flashing like emergency lights. He pressed the red button rapidly.
