Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance (12 page)

"You can open your eyes now, Hart," she smirks.

Aaron blows his cheeks out loudly.

"But… I mean, how
…?"

"The delivery hatch in the fence next to the main gate is the weak point," says Zara, talking over his stammering. "I used the same approach as I do
with unwanted male attention: always have a plan for making a hasty escape. So what was it you were saying about women drivers?"

Aaron slumps back into his seat, looking a lot like a chastised child. Zara simply smiles and gives me a wink through her designer glasses.

"I think it's time we paid your dad a visit at the hospital."

"Thanks," I say feebly, almost guilty that I haven't shown more gratitude to someone who is risking life and limb for me and my
dad.

"That's okay," replies Zara. "You're doing fine. It's a long drive. Why don't you close your eyes for a bit?"

I haven't slept properly since the night I followed Dad and first saw the Hangman Ghost. The yellowed paper I found in Dad's attic is still folded safely inside my jeans. I slip my fingers into my pocket to reassure myself that it's still there, together with the old knife.

After the initial exhilaration of our escape, I have mixed feelings about our situation. We've given
Menzies Blake and Ludvig the slip for now, but how long will it be before the Hangman Ghost reappears? I appreciate the help of Zara and Aaron, but they are only young Agents. As for my dad, he's still in the hospital. Then there's me — the walking bad omen. We're not much of a team to take on a Necromancer and a Poltergeist. But it's my team, and it's nice to be a part of it. I find comfort in that last thought, resting my head back and closing my eyes. I'm convinced there's too much churning round my mind to sleep. Within seconds I'm out.

Chapter 15

Wednesday 18 September 00:00am

Menzies
Blake

It's The Witching Hour; my favourite time of the day, when the spirits are at their most active. The Agency mansion has many rooms, but my personal favourite is the crypt. I have the only key; access to this area is entirely at my discretion and is rarely given. The thick walls and subterranean setting make this a perfect place of refuge. It also happens to be an excellent location to summon spirits. I will relax and enjoy this moment and not allow the disappointment of tonight's mutiny affect my mood.

Ludvig
has prepared the crypt as requested. He is loyal, strong and keeps his mouth shut; the three best qualities I could ask for in an assistant. The cage of rats rattles with activity. The other items I need for the summoning are laid out across the stone table. I run my hands slowly across each of them in turn: the sack-cloth hood, the dark cloak, the noose and the Book of The Sentenced.

To perform a summoning involves a high level of risk. It's times like this when I think about the only thing left in the world that means anything to me. I take out my mobile phone and call my son. He moved abroad not long after turning seventeen. I don't know what time it is at his end, I just know that I need to speak to him.

"Hello?"

His voice is deeper than the last time we spoke. He sounds like a man.

"Hello Son, it's your father."

"I don't want to speak to you─"

"Wait!" I interrupt him before he can hang up. "I just needed to talk to you for a few minutes."

"I have nothing to say."

His voice is cold. I know he resents me for failing him as a father, just as I failed at being a husband. I practically forced him to move abroad even though it was for his own good.

"Well?" he asks, impatiently.

"Son, I just want to know if you are happier where you are now."

I hear him draw breath.

"I'm happier than when I was with you," he replies. "Don't call me again, or I'll change my number."

With that clipped remark, he hangs up.

I'm not sure what I expected. It would have been nice to hear him call me "Dad". I cough to clear the lump in my throat and remind myself of who I am. At least now I can start the summoning without fear. It's so much easier to risk your life when there's not much left to live for.

As my trance-like state descends, I allow my sadness to be overcome by stronger emotions. Anger seems like a good place to start. Zara and Aaron were wrong to defy me, although their alliance with the Hunter girl was to be expected. Agent Hunter has worked closely with both of them and they clearly feel some kind of misguided loyalty to him.
Idiots. They have needlessly placed themselves in grave danger. Hunter had been meddling in things he shouldn't have and was getting too close to discovering my pact with The Hangman. He needed to be subdued, just like his wife did on the Day of Dystopia.

As for Hunter's daughter, she presents a difficult problem. If I knew for sure that Sasha had no knowledge of her power, I could let her live. But now, the risk is too great. The powers we possess can only be passed down genetically. I'm all too aware that Sasha may have inherited something and this makes her a danger to me. This is the closest I've been to achieving my goal since the Dystopia
Day three years ago. I'm not about to let some stupid teenage girl get in my way.

I place The Hangman's dark cloak around my shoulders. In life, he was a large, muscular man, and his cloak sags from my shoulders. The wearing of the deceased's clothing is an essential part of the ritual. My kind has never had it easy; Necromancy was once punishable by death many centuries ago. It is one of the oldest art forms, dating back to ancient Greece. Classical Necromancers addressed the dead in a mixture of high-pitch squeaking and low droning. The times have progressed, and that's not my style. In its most simple form, Necromancy is manipulation of the dead. And this is precisely the reason that I do not need to worry about tonight's little revolt against my leadership. The ability to summon and manipulate the most deadly of Poltergeists gives you that kind of self-confidence.

The ritual always starts with a sacrifice. I pick one of the white rats from the cage, the biggest. It wriggles desperately like it knows what is about to happen. I stroke it reassuringly; at least it will be quick. I sink my teeth into its neck and it squeals for a few seconds before going limp. Dark red blood spills from my chin onto the stone table. I feel a surge of energy from having taken its life force, then toss the carcass behind me. The first time I did this it repulsed me; now I barely flinch. I wipe the blood from my chin with the back of my hand.

Next, I place the sack-cloth hood over my head. It was once the mask worn by The Hangman. Its purpose was to protect his identity, just as I must protect his identity from Hunter and the others. In reality, it became more than a mask; it would send fear deep into the souls of his victims-to-be. In my left hand I hold the noose. How many necks have had the life drained from the loop of this old rope? I'm already starting to feel the energy of The Hangman inside the crypt with me.

Finally, I open the Book of The Sentenced. Within its leather bound covers are the names of every victim, the date of sentencing and the date of their hanging. I begin to read them out, one after the other. It is a long process; The Hangman had many victims. With each name the energy within the room becomes stronger. I trace my finger down the last page and read aloud the final name on the record:

"Lou Hunter. Date of Sentence: Saturday 14th September. Date of Execution: Friday 20th September."

I have to wait two more days before he will consume Hunter.

The book slams shut and the temperature in the room drops. I feel a million miles from another living soul, but very close to an
undead one. What feels like a solid wall hits me, forcing the air from my lungs. I choose to close my eyes and compose myself.

I am the Necromancer. I am in control.

When I open my eyes and peer through the holes in the hood, I can see him, in all his resplendent glory. His face is pale, as pale as a burning bone. It's a face that doesn't belong in the real world; something that could only have risen from the underworld. His gaunt features are framed by long, black hair, which rat-tails down to his broad, muscular shoulders. Two rows of uneven, yellowed teeth sit within his shrivelled gums. Jack Ketch doesn't move his mouth to speak, yet his voice is crystal clear in my mind.

"Why have you summoned me?"

His voice is of an age gone by. He stares at me with his blank, soulless eyes. I hear every rasp of breath and can feel my heart rate slowing down as I match my breath with his. I have dealt with many spirits in my time, but none quite like this.

"Hangman, we must press ahead with our bargain. Hunter is your victim; I see his name in your Book of The Sentenced. Why do you wait to take him?"

The Hangman groans and snorts through his long nose.

"Do you know nothing? I am bound by the rules of my Earth life. I must wait until Friday. That is how it must be."

He is a frightening sight, yet I am not scared.

"Hangman, why did you choose Hunter as your host? You could have possessed anyone?"

"Falsehood," he replies, dismissing me in his ancient manner. I sense irritation rising in his voice. "I must have a reason to take a life. Hunter played my game, and lost. His soul is innocent and he has abilities beyond that of a layman. Hunter is my choice ─ my victim ─ and you will not question me. Once I have him as my vessel I will serve you as agreed. But it must happen on Friday. That is how it must be."

I remind myself that I am in control. The Hangman would do well to remember that I am the Necromancer and I do not like to be dictated to by the one I command.

"The situation has changed," I explain. "This matter is now far more pressing, I need you to─"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The single word is roared rather than spoken. It is accompanied by a blast of air, which pins the hood against my face and sends the cloak flaring up behind me. Several seconds pass before the stillness of the crypt returns and I am able to open my eyes. The Hangman's voice chimes inside my head and the stench of his rotting breath lingers in the air.

"I have my rules. Now I leave."

The figure before me starts to fade around the edges before disappearing altogether. I take a moment to compose myself before removing The Hangman's garments. Maybe it was naive of me to expect him to disregard the rules of his Earth life. He is bound by the customs of his day, when the victims were executed on the following Friday after sentencing. I must wait two more days and be patient.

The wheels of fate are in motion and nothing can stop what The Hangman has planned. He will possess Hunter ─ a fate worse than death ─ and afterwards he will serve me. After the possession, The Hangman will be both otherworldly and human. He will give me the power I need to control both worlds. The thought of it makes me salivate.

I open the door and call Ludvig into the crypt.

"We need to deal with the two Agents and the Hunter girl ourselves. Did you fix the tracker on their car?"

He nods. Everything he does is brilliantly efficient and I admire him for it. Hunter's name is in The Hangman's Book of The Sentenced; he's as good as dead. Now I just need to find Sasha and the two Agents and deal with them. Thanks to the tracker, I know exactly where they are headed.

Chapter 1
6

Wednesday 18 September 6:07am

Sasha Hunter

As I sleep, I flee from one nightmare to the next, pursued through my unconscious by the Hangman Ghost. Everywhere I turn, in the murky, shifting landscapes of my dreams, it's there. I wake in a cold sweat, clinging to the door handle on the passenger seat of the car. The first streaks of dawn smear across the early morning sky. I've only slept for a few hours and I feel jittery and weak, like an electric toothbrush that hasn't fully recharged. Zara is still driving, while Aaron has headphones in his ears, half asleep on the back seat. I stretch and sit
upright, trying to make sense of the strange neighbourhood we pass through in a futile attempt to get my bearings.

Dystopia Day changed London; while the heart of the city was quickly
rebuilt, other areas were left to rot. I stare out of the window at the derelict buildings and boarded up shopfronts. We pass by a large crater; it's one of the many plane crash sites. The temporary fence has now become a permanent barricade to keep people out, or to hide the destruction beyond. Bunches of flowers and hand-made memorials provide a bleak reminder of the human loss. It's hard to picture this area before the travesty of D-Day.

"It's not far to the hospital," says Zara, without taking her eyes off the road. "I managed to salvage a few things from your room at The Agency. They're in your bag."

Thankfully, Zara brought the only things that mattered to me: my asthma medication and the family picture. I sit and stare at it for a while, probably way longer than I mean to. I'm lost in my thoughts, until Zara speaks again.

"You miss your mother."

This isn't a question, more an observation.

"I miss her every day, but I feel that she'll always be with me."

I've got no idea what happened to my mother on Dystopia Day. Dad seems to protect the memory of her behind a shroud of silence; he refuses to say a word on the subject. As far as I know, Mum is gone and she isn't coming back.

There are countless unanswered questions about my family, especially about Mum. All I know is that her constant, protective presence has been with me for as long as I can remember. I stare hard at the three faces in the photograph. My eyes look happy; there's hardly a glint of crimson. All of the faces are unrecognisable now; even my own.

"I lost my mother too," says Zara. "It was three years ago, on Dystopia Day."

I flinch at her broken confession and switch my eyes from the photograph to the profile of Zara's face. She is fixed on the road ahead, emotionless.

"I didn't lose her in the physical sense. She had a mental breakdown and never recovered. An extreme case of Dystopia Dementia, the doctors said, or Hysteria as the press call it."

I can't believe we were both affected in such a similar way. Is it a coincidence that what happened to our mothers occurred on the very
same day, the day that the world blacked out for thirteen seconds? I want to ask Zara more about her mother, but I'm not so insensitive as to probe. Her words remind me of Blake's comments, when he said Zara was the perfect Agent except for her mother being imprisoned. Her prison is a mental hospital, it seems. Zara drives in reflective silence for a short while and there's nothing about her demeanour to allow me to read her emotions.

"It must have been tough for you, Sasha. At least you had your father. Things could be worse."

"Really?" I ask, surprised that Zara can find some kind of positive outlook on the situation. "How can things possibly be any worse? It's like I've fallen into some kind of bottomless pit of despair which keeps sucking me down and down."

"You could be dead."

She's right. But from what I've seen of ghosts and the afterlife, things hardly end when you die. They keep getting worse. Zara rubs her eyes beneath her glasses.

"I'm sorry, Sasha, I'm being a bit harsh. If I'm honest, it's because I'm a little envious of you."

Her words stun me, leaving my jaw hanging in dismay.

"I've lost my mum, my dad's in a hospital, I'm being hunted down by
a Necromancer and a Poltergeist. . . and you're envious of me?"

"Yes. Your father is a great man, the finest Paranormal Agent there is."

Her confession sends a surge of guilt flowing through me.  Maybe there is more to my dad than I've given him credit for. If only she knew how distant a relationship we actually have.

"You're special, Sasha. Nobody has ever possessed a talent to confront the dead like you do."

"But I don't understand anything about this so-called talent."

"You've got to think differently, Sasha. You know, young children and animals can see ghosts because their minds are open. They're not tainted by a cynical view of the world. You have to stop telling yourself it can't be true and open your mind."

"I'm not sure I'm the person you think I am."

"Give it a chance. It can take years to hone such skills."

"Hmm, I get the feeling I don't have years."

Zara smiles at my all too accurate analysis.

"You know, I think it's a trade-off for your asthma. Many people with the sharpest of sixth senses have physical disabilities. For example, one former Agent was an extraordinary clairvoyant. He had the power of Remote Viewing yet he was completely blind."

"What happened to him?"

Zara hesitates, like she just opened the wrong can; the one with the worms inside.

"He was killed in action."

We drive on in silence.

+ + +

After a short while the hospital comes into view and Zara pulls into the half-empty car park. Aaron announces his return to the world of the conscious with an overly loud yawn.

"What did I miss, ladies?"

He looks my way and winks again. It's irritating and charming all at the same time. He is becoming a host of frustrating contradictions to me. Aaron stretches and lets out another extended yawn, much to Zara's annoyance.

"We're at the hospital where they're keeping Agent Hunter."

"So are you two gonna let me in on your secret mission?"

Aaron squeezes into the gap between the front seats and looks to Zara expectantly.

"There's no time for a briefing. You'll have to catch up as we go. Wait here with the car, Hart. We don't want to attract too much attention."

"
Bor-ing," says Aaron in a sing-song voice, throwing himself back against the rear seat.

I could do with a bit of boring now and again myself. Zara tosses Aaron the car keys.

"Aaron, look out for Blake and don't go chatting up any nurses, will you?"

"I like it when you call me by my first name, Zara."

Aaron is far too sure of himself sometimes. He seems to be impervious to Zara's sharp tongue. I train my eyes on him and stew over the fact that he just winked at me and now he's flirting with her. Zara frowns at him and shakes her head, clearly used to this behaviour.

"Just do it, will you?"

Aaron makes a mock scout salute. "On my honour."

The hospital is quiet; it's way too early for visitors. Zara takes a white coat from the back of an empty receptionist's chair and slips it over her suit. She smiles and nods as we pass by unsuspicious porters. My expression of genuine concern only adds to the doctor and patient illusion as we walk the corridors.

A nurse sits quietly behind the desk in a glass-fronted office outside Dad's ward, her face softly illuminated by a reading lamp. She's deeply engrossed in a stack of medical reports and doesn't notice us as we
tiptoe along the shiny linoleum floor. As we approach Dad's room, I hesitate before opening the door, my heart rate increasing. What if Blake got to him first? What if Dad isn't even here? What if I'm putting him in more danger simply by being here? Zara gently rests a reassuring arm on my shoulder as I open the door.

Dad is tucked up under the starched white bed sheets; still, cold-looking. I creep
torward him, almost afraid to go any closer. Suddenly, he shoots upright into a sitting position like a vampire rising from a coffin. I gasp and Zara covers my mouth, stifling my scream. Her Precog skills at work, I'm sure.

"What took you so long?" Dad asks with a half-smile.

He opens his arms and I run into them, almost knocking him backward off the bed.

"It's good to see you, Sash."

He wraps his arms tightly around me, like he might lose me if he lets go. I feel so many emotions all at once: relief; confusion; fear. I bury my head into his chest, embarrassed to have leaked a tear.

"Good to see you too, Gordon."

His voice resonates in his chest as I press my head against it, taking me back to a distant childhood memory.

"I hope Sasha hasn't been too much trouble for you?"

"She's nearly as bad for my health as you are," replies Zara. "You should both come with a hazard warning."

Dad laughs. "Thank you, Zara. I knew Sasha would be in good hands."

"Hey, I am here you know?"

I hate the way Dad still treats me like a child. I want to be angry with
him, but I can't. I just want answers.

"Dad, what happened to you? And why is
Menzies Blake chasing us?"

"I'll answer all of your questions as soon as we are somewhere safe." He stands up and yanks away the tubes taped to his arms. "Now, have you still got the hangman game?"

I pull the old yellowed paper from my pocket.

"The Hangman Ghost gave us a clue using an Ouija Board. He told us he was four hundred years old."

"Good," replies Dad. "Now I know I'm right."

"But Dad, what if you make one more wrong guess?"

I'm worried that our last attempt to communicate with the Hangman Ghost ended up in utter destruction. Dad doesn't seem to share my concern.

"It's okay. I think I've worked it out."

He thought that the first time, too. I open the paper hesitantly. The hangman game is almost complete, with the head, body, two arms and one leg in place. Only Dad's two correct guesses — the obvious vowels "a" and "e" — hint at a possible answer. Two ominous words are written above the drawing of the gallows:

"Dad, are you sure about this?"

"Sash, I've spent a long time lying in this bed doing nothing but thinking."

He throws me a pen from his bedside table.

"Now write the words "Jack Ketch — that's K-E-T-C-H."

My hand has a noticeable tremble as I write the letters into the remaining empty spaces on the dotted lines. The last time Dad tried this it put him in this hospital and kick-started the whole chain of events that led me here. As I finish writing the "H", the ink morphs and forms into a new word:

"It's right!" I say, more with relief than joy.

Zara nods
cooly while Dad sports a satisfied smile.

"Jack Ketch was the first public executioner back in the Seventeenth Century. He was a real-life hangman of his day. That makes him four hundred years old. It was obvious, really."