Four on the Floor, Part Two - Steemit Exclusive Urban Fantasy

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“What?”
“Her spirit is still in her body, and if it never left then-“
“Then she’ll rise as a zombie, and I can help her that way. But it’s no reason not to wake her up.” I roll my eyes, draw a concentric circle around her body.
“No!”
“Your concern is noted, your lordship.” I even take out my notepad and begin writing it out.
Lord Pumpernickel of Sillysocks is concerned that I can’t handle a zombie.
Pumpkin also had concerns about The Babadook, which only proved it’s possible for a plastic skull to talk out of its ass.
“There. Concern formally noted.”
“She’ll attack you! Look at the damage! Can imagine how much that must’ve hurt? And her spirit is still in her body, with that gaping wound that will never heal, and she feels all of it. How long has she been dead?”
That gives me pause.
She’s been dead a week. At least. We humans have a nice little feature called shock, or when your body experiences a pain so traumatic it shuts that pain down so you don’t end up screaming into the infinity. When you die, there’s nothing to keep the shock going, but of course, the spirit has usually moved on to wherever. Imagine the most terrifying pain that ends your life, and then, it comes back, and it doesn’t stop. Imagine it not stopping for a minute. An hour. Extend it to a week and you’ll start to understand Pumpkin’s hesitance.
“Long enough.” Long enough that there probably isn’t anything left of her in there, just rage and pain and suffering, the perfect cocktail for… “She probably a poltergeist by now.”
A ghost that’s gone violent, can’t be reasoned with. I was unlucky enough that the first spirit I saw was a poltergeist, and it wasn’t exactly shy. It was a screamer, too, wailing loud enough that my ears rung for two days, and jabbed me repeatedly with fingers that felt like ice picks hammering up my spine. All I remember clearly is screaming “FUCK OFF!”, but I was in such agony I sounded like I was speaking in tongues. It worked though, the ghost ended up in a plastic goat skull, but I never want to live through something like that again. Or die through, for that matter.
Still…
“I can’t leave her in there, Pumpkin. Eventually she’ll get out, and a spirit in that much pain will do a lot of damage, enough that even normal people will see it. If you’re not going to help I’ll just do it myself.” I take a breath and start writing. “Still, this is going to suck.”
After the runes are scribed from memory, I reach into my pack and draw a knife. It’s a short thing, a penknife with a faded scene that might’ve been of people fishing. According to Pumpkin, it was his when he was alive, a relic of a long dead relationship. He doesn’t talk about it, but I’m guessing it didn’t end well, seeing as the knife wasn’t found on his body, but buried in it.
I am perfectly aware that using a murder weapon as a ritual object is all kinds of fucked up, wrong, and just plain stupid.
“Abby?”
“Yeah?” I hold my hand over the circle, extend the blade.
“Don’t die, okay? We haven’t found him yet.”
“But we’re going to.”
And that’s why I use it.
“I’m not going to die, Pumpkin.” I press the point into my fingertip, biting my lip as the edge cuts in. “Promise.”
I hold my cut finger over the circle, blood seeping out, gathering into a drop.
“Liar.”
The blood, my blood, falls from the open wound almost in slow motion, enough time to up the volume on my phone, smearing the touchscreen with a streak. The word emerges as it has before, like a voice deep within not alien, but so familiar I can’t place the name. The syllables weave through my vocal chords, dance along my tongue for their final shaping, and emerge in Sigil, a language older than time but only recently named.
But my ears, my mind, they can’t comprehend the structure, the sound, and give up all too quick and translate the intent in English. “Rise.”
Even with earbuds in and the volume at 75%, I still hear the scream. It’s a sound, a counterpoint of dissonance against the steady patterned rhythm being fed to me, my lifeline. The treble, the notes, the melodies and layered structure are all torn asunder by the undulating, jagged screeching from a form that still will not allow itself to be beheld. All that remains is the foundation in my ears, the broken falsetto cries not overtaking the steady bass heartbeat that keeps my foot tapping steady.
That being said, the spirit has crossed the decibel threshold of pain.
Which, while it should go without saying, fucking hurts.
“I’m trying to help you!”
My response is the feeling of weightlessness as I’m thrown into a wall. My back takes the brunt, hitting flat, and when I drop to the floor I think quickly enough to roll out of it, lessening the pain slightly.
“The circle’s too weak, Abby!” Pumpkin yells, “She’s going to get out!”
“A.J.? What’s going…”
Les is in the doorway, and the screeching abates. This is not good. Les is a zombie, but he’s an intact body with a lost soul. A poltergeist could get herself a brand new body to play with and do God knows what to Les.
Fuck. That.
The word jumps out before I know it. “Oubliette!”
I’m knocked to the left, the force feeling like a shovel hitting me in the ribs, and when I look up, groaning, I see splashes of sparks and energy in the doorframe, coupled with enraged growls that almost sound like profanities.
She can’t get to Les now, but of course, I’ve just trapped myself inside with her.
So, it’s a mixed night, so far.