Joe Golem and the Drowning City: An Illustrated Novel (4 page)

At first, when Molly had accepted the truth—that Felix could speak to the spirits of the dead—it had unnerved her to think that ghosts might be all around her and she would never know. But in time she had realized that the spirits of the dead were not the things she ought to fear. If ghosts existed side by side with the living … if souls lingered after death … then she had to admit to herself the probability that other things existed as well. Dark things.

The windows were open only a crack and a light breeze swirled through the room, disturbing the curtains. The painted eyes of dozens of statues and paintings of saints and virgins watched over the proceedings, the one element of Felix’s work that actually was a charade. When Molly had begun to understand what it was Felix did here, she had insisted that the religious imagery would give clients more faith in his abilities, and thus make them more open to the spirits they sought to contact. To Felix, his gift was entirely ordinary and a séance could be conducted anywhere, but Molly had persuaded him that others did not view contact with the spirits as so commonplace, and that clients needed assurance that what he did was extraordinary.

Now, standing in the eastern corner of the room, Molly looked around and admired her handiwork in the séance room. Enough morning light seeped in to cast a pleasant, warm glow, but around the table the shadows seemed to shift and eddy like the breeze, or the currents in the street below.

The entire theater creaked and moaned like the timbers of an old sailing ship, a result of the water flowing in and out of the lower floors, so that it felt as if the entire building breathed in and out around them. Normally Molly found it soothing, but today she had sensed something off from the moment the séance had begun.

She might have spoken up, but Felix had always made it clear that hers was a supportive role, and that she was never to interrupt a séance in progress. Her presence there in the corner was meant as a reassurance to clients that Felix did not engage in any chicanery. Had she sat at the table, they might have suspected her of helping him create some illusion or other, but out in the open where they could see her, it was clear she was there precisely for the reason Felix stated—to aid him should he be overcome by effort and require fresh air, or water, or someone to fetch a doctor.

In the time since Molly had come to live with him, nothing of the sort had ever happened, though Felix was often unwell. Now, though, watching him closely, she worried at how pale and drawn he looked, and the way he had stiffened in his chair.

Felix frowned deeply, his lips drooping into sadness for a moment before the muscles in his face twitched into a wince, as though he had inhaled the scent of something that filled him with revulsion. His breathing changed, coming in short sips, almost as if he were sobbing.

Mrs. Mendehlson sensed the disturbance at last, and her expression grew troubled, yet she had such trust in Felix that she kept her eyes firmly shut, the crinkles at their edges telling a long tale of grief and woe.

“What is it, Mr. Orlov?” she asked. “Is something wrong with David?”

Molly wanted to put a stop to it right then. Felix had not made contact with David’s spirit, at least not yet.

Though Felix always assured her that there was nothing to fear, every time she watched him conduct a séance, Molly found herself worrying for him. And just as he predicted, every time he made contact with the spirit world he emerged without any worrisome aftereffects, save the lingering sadness that so often accompanied his conversations with the weary dead.

Now, though, she studied his troubled expression and a quiet alarm began to sound inside of her. Felix had seemed uneasy when he dropped into his trance, and Molly had imagined—as she always did—Felix searching a dark room with only his hands to guide his way, listening for the whispers of those who waited there. Today it had been almost as if he were surprised by the contours of that room, like the whole experience was unfamiliar.

“Felix?” she ventured softly, because he hadn’t replied to Mrs. Mendehlson, and surely even in his trance, unsettled as he was, he must be able to hear her.

Molly felt a trickle of ice go down her back, the fingers of something that should not be there. She had just broken two of her employer’s cardinal rules—not only was she not to interrupt a séance, but she was absolutely never to call Felix by his first name in front of the clients. He ought to have at least shown his irritation, but wherever Felix Orlov was in that moment, he could not hear her.

“Yes, something’s wrong with David,” Mr. Mendehlson said, his beaklike nose wrinkling in distaste. “He’s dead.”

Stung, Mrs. Mendehlson flinched and opened her eyes, shooting a stricken, heartbroken look at her husband.

“Alan, you bastard,” she hissed. “I know he’s dead. But that doesn’t mean he’s gone. It doesn’t mean I can’t still love my son!”

Molly barely listened. In the golden light filtering through the room, dust motes swirling, she blinked and tried to focus on Felix. Something had gone wrong, yes, but whatever it was it had not finished. Though the focus of the séance had been shattered, Felix remained closed off from the world, still holding tightly to the Mendehlsons’ hands. The old conjuror’s face had gone dreadfully pale and sweat beaded on his forehead and cheeks.

Had he touched something besides a departed spirit in that other realm? Had he made contact with something … evil?

“Felix?” Molly asked. “Please open your eyes.”

The table jerked, legs scraping the floor. Mrs. Mendehlson yelped and her husband uttered curses. Molly took a step forward, wanting to go to Felix but not wanting to break his rules … his trust.

It had occurred to her more than once that when he opened himself to the spirits, something else might find its way into him, and as she watched him begin to shake, that fear returned. Had he been invaded? Possessed? If he opened his eyes right now, would it be Felix Orlov looking out at her from inside the shell of his body, or something else?

Her heart fluttered like the wings of a captured bird, and she held her breath as she took two steps nearer and bent to look under the table. It jerked again and the edge struck her forehead. She grunted with pain and blinked to clear her vision. Beneath the table, Molly could see Felix’s legs jerking spasmodically again.

“What is it?” Mrs. Mendehlson asked fearfully.

“Not a damn ghost, that’s for sure,” her husband sneered. “It’s all an act. The man’s a charlatan.”

“Shut up, you stupid man!” Molly screamed, turning on him, tears beginning to burn the corners of her eyes. “Can’t you see he needs help?”

Felix began to choke, a wet, glottal sound that turned into words, but they weren’t words in any language that Molly had ever heard before. He seemed to cough them up two and three at a time in a harsh, grinding tone that became a chilling chant.

The Mendehlsons shrank away from the conjuror as though whatever had transformed him might be contagious. Spirits spoke through Felix from time to time, and she wondered if this was like that—something speaking through him. But if so, was it a human spirit or something
other,
something demonic?

Again she cried his name, shaking him. She struck his face lightly, but received no response. His eyes had been closed, but now they opened and she saw that they were rolled upward, showing the red-tinged whites. Felix smiled thinly, but it wasn’t his smile. Whatever the conjuror had invited in—or whatever had forced its way inside him—uttered a wet, phlegmy laugh.

Molly swung her hand back, ready to strike Felix again, much harder this time, but then he began to shake worse than before, his whole body juddering in the chair. As she watched, his skin began to hiss and wisps of white rose up from his flesh.

Was this ectoplasm? She had heard of it, of course—the strange, gauzy substance said to be excreted from the skin and orifices of some mediums, in which invisible spirits might cloak themselves in order to manifest for the living. Felix had once seen it exude from the skin of another medium but told her it had never happened to him before.

The white wisps grew darker, and Molly smelled something burning. She realized that this was not ectoplasm, but smoke, as if Felix’s blood were on fire.

Mrs. Mendehlson screamed and leaped up, knocking her chair over.

Her husband sat and stared. “What is this? What the
hell
is this?”

Felix turned and looked at Molly—truly looked at her. She felt he knew her, that this was Felix, not some outside force—and she saw terror in his eyes. He began to shake his head, trying to tell her something. Staggering, he rose to his feet, crashing into the table and catching himself on its edge, barely able to stay upright. His skin had gone from pale to a soft, sickly green, and under his shirt, his torso seemed to shift.

Shaking, Molly backed away from him and collided with a shelf of books and knickknacks she had hung on the wall. A ceramic sculpture of the Virgin Mary fell and shattered, sending shards across the wooden floorboards.

Felix closed his eyes, and Molly watched as he surrendered to despair.

The tiny echo of breaking crystal erupted into a loud shattering of glass, and Molly turned in time to see a second window explode, glass tearing the curtains. Metal canisters hit the floor and rolled in strange arcs, trailing clouds of hissing yellow gas that ballooned quickly, fogging the room.

Molly tried to call out to Felix but she had begun to choke on the gas. Tears ran down her face, and when she tried to breathe she could only cough and cough. She glanced around, peering through the swirling gas, frantically searching for her friend.

The Mendehlsons were shouting, stumbling away from the table, running for the door, which burst open to reveal a hulking figure silhouetted on the threshold. The multifaceted lenses of his black gas mask gleamed with reflected light, and for a moment Molly could hear him breathing through the air tubes, even over the hissing of the gas canisters.

Two more men in buglike gas masks burst through the broken windows, landing on the floor with a wet squelching noise. Smaller than the first, more the size of an ordinary man, they wore long coats over gleaming black wetsuits that clung to their bodies, and she could smell the ocean on them. Others rushed through the door behind the gasping hulk, who grabbed Mrs. Mendehlson’s head with both hands and twisted. The snap of bone echoed off the walls and then she fell, lost in the yellow fog of gas.

Mr. Mendehlson began to scream, but Molly didn’t see what happened to him. Felix collided with her, knocking her toward the door that led upstairs. Molly hit the door, her hand snatching at the knob, and she threw it open. Accidently or not, he had reminded her of her only path to escape.

Amidst all the gas, she didn’t think the men had noticed her yet, but she paused at the bottom of the stairs, glanced back, and saw two men dragging Felix toward a shattered window. She wanted to scream, to attack them, but Felix had shoved her toward safety, and if she had any hope of helping him, she had to remain free. Still, she only made it halfway up the flight of steps before she hesitated again, frozen by her fear for him. The mist began to creep up the stairs as she stood listening to the shattering of idols and the thump of footfalls below.

There came a creak from the bottom step. Molly stiffened, holding her breath as she stared at the cloud of gas swirling, filling the stairwell. Another creak, and she could just make out the silhouette of the huge gas-man—the one who’d been first through the door—coming up after her. How had he seen her coming up the stairs in the midst of that cloud? She stared for a moment at the strange, clunky mask.

And then she ran.

Molly bolted up the stairs and the hulking man pursued her, his sickly breathing making her wonder what was under that mask, and praying she would never have to see.

Chapter Three

Molly flew up the steps, the hulking gas-man chugging after her. A heat of panic rushed through her, and her skin prickled with terror, her heart drumming in her temples. She darted through Felix’s door and flung it shut behind her, throwing the bolt, forgoing the chain. The gas-man’s steps boomed on the stairs.