The Edge Of The Cemetery (2 page)

The following morning I went over to see Billy. She lived with my much beloved elderly neighbor, Justine Wilkinson. Justine was Billy's grandmother's cousin, but it was much easier to refer to her as Billy's aunt. We share the sixth floor of an Art Deco apartment building in Pacific Heights that was converted to condos back in the ʼ50s. Each floor originally had five one-bedroom apartments with formal living and dining spaces, a den, and a good size kitchen. I have one of those, but when Justine's very wealthy father purchased her unit, he bought three and combined them, making Justine's the largest in the building, and by far the nicest.

Margie, Justine's new companion, chef, and sometimes chauffeur—and a retired ghost killer—answered after my first knock. She had a slight scowl on her face when she opened the door, but smiled when she realized it was me.

Margie was hired to replace Anne, who was Justine's previous companion. Anne turned out to be a spy for Vokkel and the half-sister of Vokkel's closest minion, Edgar; she subsequently died for those relationships, right along with Vokkel. Margie came highly recommended by Aris and the Watchers, and Justine seemed to be quite fond of her, so that made her A-Okay in my book. She was a tall, sturdy woman with salt and pepper shoulder length hair that was always neatly pulled back into a pony-tail, and she had an endless supply of khaki pants and polo shirts that she wore like uniforms.

“Hello, George. I'm so glad you're here!” Margie was a good natured woman and almost always in an upbeat mood, but she seemed a little distressed this morning, and I was pretty sure I knew the source. Billy.

Billy, like me, was one of the most powerful ghost killers to have been born in quite some time. In fact, the last two that were as powerful as us were my mother and Billy's grandmother, Wilhelmina Wilkinson (also known as Billy), who were both dead now. Billy was also one of the most brazen, obnoxious, and generally difficult people I'd ever met. She had piercing green eyes and a wicked ability to use those optical beauties like a weapon—an especially focused glare usually meant impending danger to the recipient. It was unsettling, and had sent many a stronger man into a state of panic. But, much to my surprise, she'd become one of my closest friends.

Reluctantly, I asked, “What's wrong?”

Margie sighed. “Nothing…no snide remarks, no eye-rolls. She's been positively pleasant and polite! I can't take it anymore; if I don't get one of those devastating glares from her soon, I'll lose my mind! But thankfully she's also much better, and with a hope and a prayer,” Margie made the sign of the cross and looked upward toward Heaven, “you can get her out my sight for a while.”

I looked down at her in surprise, “She's been nice?” This was new…and a bit disturbing. I would have thought that being locked in the house for the last few days would have ramped up Billy's obnoxiousness tenfold.

Margie gave a hint of a smile, “Yes, even Justine is worried.”

“Where is she?” I asked, still stunned by this strange behavior.

“She's in the living room. Go, I'll bring some coffee,” Margie said as she pushed me toward the entrance of the room.

Billy was sitting on the couch, her legs curled underneath her, reading something on her iPad. She was wearing flannel pajamas, her hair loosely pulled back. The large lump that had graced her forehead a few days before had entered the final stages of healing and was hardly noticeable now. Ghost killers come with a slew of fun skills; seeing and killing ghosts, exceptional speed, strength and agility, and the
crème de la crème
, we heal very quickly. That last one was my favorite, as it came in handy whether it was a nasty paper cut or a nasty fight with a possessed victim. Either way, it was a winner.

“How ya feeling?” I asked, trying to shake the shock of Margie's complaint from my voice.

“Better…what's wrong?” she asked, almost politely. Who was this woman?

“I…ah…well, Margie says you've been acting strange and she's concerned.”

Her faced hardened and her eyes flashed, her signature dagger-like stare attempting to cut me in half. She said, “I've been trying to be nice to the woman who's been waiting on me hand and foot so I could get better and
help
you!” she chuffed. “And obviously the sooner the better; what happened to your face?”

I'd come out of last night's Tenderloin fray with a few cuts and bruises, but nothing too bad. I smiled broadly at her less than pleasant attitude…my detestable Billy hadn't gone anywhere after all. Margie had come in with the coffee tray just as Billy finished berating me, and as she passed me, she winked and said, “I knew I could count on you to bring out her shining personality.”

I sat in the arm chair nearest Billy and asked, “Seriously, how are you feeling? You look pretty good.”

“I'm fine,” she said amicably enough. She poured two cups of coffee and handed me one. In a not-so-amicable tone, she asked, “So what happened? Why are you all beat up?”

I regaled her with the previous night's exploits and she cocked her head to the side and asked, “No musketeer sighting this time?”

I frowned. “Now that you mention it, no, I didn't see it. But it happened pretty fast and we got backed into an alley, so it could have been around.”

“Someone has to be pulling the strings, right? I mean, ghosts and demons don't work in groups, not without someone encouraging them to do it. It's like they're trying to lure us to them….”

She was right, it did feel like that. Normally the ghosts and demons hunted on a solitary basis, and aside from the surges that Vokkel had called in, we didn't see multiple demons or ghosts working together. Not only that, but most demons weren't able to possess their victims for more than a minute or two at a time. However, in the last week or so, we'd encountered attacks that were clearly organized, and more importantly, the demons were in full possession of their victims for ten minutes or more; in many of the recent cases, much longer, depending on how long it took us to eradicate the demons. In our world, there are levels of both ghosts and demons and ghost killers. It couldn't be a coincidence that powerful demon attacks were happening in the backyard of two of the most powerful ghost killers.

“Yeah, I don't know what to make of that. They were pretty damn strong, and Pete had a lot of trouble keeping up…he almost got his head bashed in. I'm glad you're feeling better, because I
obviously
could use your help,” I said with a sarcastic grin. She glared at me and I laughed in return, causing her eyes to take on a threatening hue. “Come on, you need to get out for a bit; go get dressed.” My tone didn't invite argument, and for once, she didn't put one up.

It was almost lunch time, so I thought I'd drive her down to Louis' Restaurant out by the Sutro Baths and the Cliff House. After lunch I thought we'd go find some ghosts to kill. What better way to spend a sunny San Francisco afternoon?

I loved Louis'; not only did it have a spectacular view of the Pacific, but it had a friendly ghost in residence. I didn't know her name, but based on her apparel, she died in the 1940s. She's featured in one of the many old pictures hanging on the wall, too. I asked the waitress about her once (referencing the photo on the wall, not the actual ghost), but all she could tell me was that she thought she worked there many years ago. I think she hangs around to keep an eye on the place, to make sure they continue to run it like they have for the last eighty-plus years.

Although most ghosts are bad, some are not…they just didn't manage to keep going when they died. Many good ghosts gesture to us (ghost killers) to send them on, but some don't want to go. Louis' 1940s ghost is one of those.

After lunch I gave Billy the option of hitting the San Francisco Veterans Hospital or the large private hospital closer to home. Hospitals (along with unsavory neighborhoods like the Tenderloin) tend to have more than their share of ghosts, either looking for victims or already haunting victims. She was feeling patriotic, so we hit the SFVA and visited the various outpatient and ambulatory clinics, as well as portions of the hospital, managing to take out several ghosts. Some vets went home wondering why they'd been there in the first place, (once a victim is relieved of their ghost or demon, they don't remember being sick or disabled).

The following evening….

From somewhere to my left came Billy's scream of frustration and anger, but there wasn't much I could do about it. I'd spent the last ten minutes getting pummeled by a possessed man; he was about my age, but much bigger and much stronger. Linebacker comes to mind. I had managed a few well-placed round-house kicks and a series of body-blows, but he just kept coming. As big and strong as he was, he was also pale and sickly. I'd seen him vomiting earlier, but none of that mattered because his illness was caused by the demon that had complete control of him, and that demon would force the unwitting man's body to fight to the death.

I hated having to physically hurt these poor possessed souls, but at that point, it was me or him—his demon was so adept at keeping the man between us that I hadn't had a single opportunity to vanquish him with my trusty yellow friend. I was even willing to risk the ultimate shock and jab him bare-fingered, but I just couldn't get close enough. This was an incredibly powerful demon, and he was making his already strong victim that much stronger.

They'd been backing me down the lawn toward a four-foot wall, which bordered a seaside cliff. The wall was the only barrier between me and a thirty foot drop into the frigid Pacific Ocean. I thought I could survive a dunk in the water, but not if I hit the jagged rocks that made up the shoreline instead.

I decided to charge him, if only to get some distance from that wall. I held my pencil out in front of me and crouched into a run, and so did the man. He was so much bigger than me, and when our tired and battered bodies met, he caught me off guard by grabbing a hold of my shoulder with one huge hand and my thigh with the other, essentially lifting me up off the ground. His momentum kept us going all the way to the wall, and suddenly I was flying through the air.

When I hit the water, all of the fogginess from my recent beating evaporated. I was terrified, and survival was my only concern. Fortunately, I landed about fifteen feet out from the rocky beach, but the waves were pushing me toward the rough shoreline at an alarming pace, and if I didn't get control, I'd end up pulverized by the rugged rocks.

On the drive up from San Francisco, I'd used my phone to look up the property on Google Earth, and recalled seeing a small pier at the base of the cliff. If my internal compass was working—and I had doubts due to the recent blows my head had taken—the dock should be close by. I turned in the direction I thought it was, took a sea swell to the face that felt like a sharp slap, and went under for a minute. When I surfaced, choking out salt water, I saw white safety lights and realized it was the dock. Before another wave rushed me closer to the shore—and what would surely be my death, or at least extreme disfigurement—I swam like my life depended on it…and of course, it did. I hit the pier piling with my forehead, causing a bright flash across my vision, but still managed to grab at the barnacle and oyster encrusted wood and hold tight. Although they were sharp and cutting into my hands, the sea life attached to the piling was keeping me from slipping on the otherwise slimy surface and back into the rushing ocean waters. I pulled myself along the wooden cross supports until I reached a ladder that descended into the water, and climbed to relative safety.

I needed to catch my breath, but more importantly, I knew Billy was in trouble back up at the hotel that sat near the cliff. The sound of Billy's voice yelling down at me spurred me into action, and I scrambled up the cliff-side staircase. I was halfway to the top when I realized that she wasn't yelling in distress—at least not her own distress—but yelling at me to, and I quote, “Stop screwing around, George, and get your ass up here!”

I laughed. It hurt like hell, but I couldn't help it. The earlier pounding I'd taken had included several upper-cuts to the lip and chin, and even more body blows to my ribs and stomach. Not only that, but my hands were chopped liver from the sharp barnacles and oysters that I'd recently clung to. I was a mess…but still, I kept going.

When I reached the top, Billy was fending off a tall, athletically built woman in a lovely silver evening dress. The woman had a large carving knife in her hand and a nasty demon at her back. The women lunged, knife aimed directly at Billy's chest. Fortunately, Billy was damn fast and quickly leapt to the side, then darted back with lightning speed and stabbed the woman's demon with her chopstick, vanquishing it into a swirling grey mist. The woman, who had no idea what was happening to her, promptly fainted.

The wide expanse of lawn, which spanned from the hotel to the cliff wall, was brightly and beautifully lit by the full moon. Unfortunately, that beauty was spoiled by the macabre scene before me. In addition to the woman Billy had just saved, two other people were sprawled unnaturally on the lawn, and I was pretty sure they were dead. A teenage boy stood off to the side, nearest the path to the parking lot, with our new archenemy, the 17
^th
century musketeer, at his side. I didn't think the boy was possessed, but based on what I'd seen of him earlier, there was plainly something wrong. They were observing the mayhem, and I thought I saw pleasure in their expressions. Two more demons and their victims remained…Billy was in pursuit of one, and the other was my linebacker nemesis and his oh-so-powerful demon.

Billy was now at the top of the lawn by the hotel terrace with a female demon and her victim. The demon was wearing a graceful 18
^th
century evening dress in a dark chiffon fabric that flowed elegantly around her as she moved, and of course she wore round-rimmed glasses. The lights from the terrace lit her face, and I could see that she'd probably been quite beautiful in her more corporeal days, but death had changed that. I'd become quite adept at identifying the fashion of the last several centuries…it was a necessary tool in order to determine the strength of the demons we faced—the older the clothes, the older
and
more powerful the ghost or demon. Aside from the demon who'd been standing next to the boy, these final two were the oldest we'd come across on this particular ghost killing adventure, which was probably why they had been walloping us with such ease.

The 18
^th
century ghost's victim was a man; not a very tall one, but broad with an athletic build. He was swinging a croquet mallet with demon-fueled force at Billy, keeping her from killing his demon and saving his life. I heard her cuss loudly as the unwilling man connected with her leg. I could see her out of the corner of my eye…she went down, and the man, with his demon at the helm, grabbed her by the arm and tried to drag her towards the parking lot,
and
the musketeer. I started after them; however, my cliff-tossing foe and his demon had other plans.

The linebacker's demon was decked out in the traditional uniform of a British regular…or if you prefer the more colloquial term, he was a redcoat. His uniform was dusty and dirty and his pants were stained in what I thought was probably the blood of his centuries-old enemies. Even his round-rimmed glasses seemed to be coated in dust.

The man, who'd been quite ill from the demon's haunting over the last several hours, looked less formidable than he had just a short time ago. But I knew that no matter how sick he was, as long as the demon had control, the man's body would fight viciously. He rushed me, but I wasn't going to be caught again. I went left, then right while simultaneously jabbing the former British soldier. With a sigh of relief, I watched his ghostly form turn to mist and float away as his victim slumped to the ground.

Just before vanquishing the redcoat I'd caught a glimpse of Billy again—she'd managed to separate herself from the man, but he'd recovered and was backing her up toward the terrace. Now that the redcoat was eradicated I headed that way. The terrace was strewn with overturned patio furniture and broken planters and their contents. I heard a low moan and headed in its direction. The man Billy had been battling was slumped against some lounge chairs, covered in dirt and battered flora. Aside from the fact that he was beat up and more or less unconscious, he looked to be okay. I looked around for Billy. A string of expletives rang out from my left and I smiled.
Ah, there she is
.

“Billy, you okay?” I asked, trying to catch sight of her amongst the wreckage.

“No, I'm not okay! What the hell was that?” Billy snarled.

“I don't know…,” I said quietly. There are technically three categories of ghosts; low-level, which are the newly dead, meaning they've only been dead for twenty to forty years; mid-level ghosts are older, usually having died forty to eighty years back; and the high-level are the oldest, sometimes hundreds of years dead. Those I considered demons instead of just ghosts, because the longer a ghost haunts and the more victims it kills, the more powerful it becomes. The powerful demons were always a threat, physically, but usually only to their victims. However, as Billy had mentioned the day before, it felt like we were being lured into these battles so the demons could hurt
us
as well as their victims. But the teenager was the most disturbing, because I was positive that he killed two people by using the power of the 17
^th
century demon that seemed to be his companion and not his tormentor. I was also positive that I'd seen him before…unfortunately, my brain was a bit too rattled at that moment to focus on where.

I glanced toward Billy's voice. She'd managed to push most of the debris off herself, and now that I saw her face clearly, it wasn't pretty. She had a gash running across her forehead; the blood that oozed down her face was infused with potting soil, giving it a thick, muddy appearance. She had more cuts on her left cheek and chin, and her shirt-sleeve was ripped and soaked in blood. I checked the man again, and then went to Billy. She pulled away and swatted at me when I tried to assess her wounds.

“Stop that. I need to see how bad this is.” I grabbed the back of her neck to hold her still. She said something very unladylike, but very Billy-like, and I smiled painfully. Her injuries looked superficial and her belligerent attitude was spot-on…she was going to be fine.

I slumped down on the terrace floor next to her and tried to take a deep breath. I was pretty sure I had a broken rib or two, and now that the action had stopped and the adrenalin flow had slowed, I began to shiver uncontrollably from my dunk in the very cold ocean.

“What happened to you? Why are you all wet…? Shit, look at your hands, they're wasted!” Billy's tone was gruff, but I heard concern too.

“The redcoat's victim beat the crap out of me and threw me off the cliff.” I held my hands up for a better look. “I had to climb up that dock I told you about, it was covered in barnacles and oysters…. I'll be fine.” I moaned and promptly passed out.