The Medium

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The stairwell smelled like m*******a, stale urine, and old blood. Lenny had taught students from this kind of neighborhood. Hard-eyed children who wore loose pants to hide the knives they brought to school and long sleeves to hide the bruises they got at home. There are poor neighborhoods, and then there are bad ones. This was a bad one. He could smell it rising up out of the stained concrete floors. The air there had gone dark and sour long before a murderer like Sebastian moved in.

Ghosts filled the walls, so many ghosts, and some of them were Sebastian’s fault. A few of them reached out, but Lenny couldn’t stop for them. He kept following the enormous back drifting down the hallway in front of him, even though he wasn’t sure why. Sebastian’s steps were silent. Lenny’s shuffled. It didn’t matter, because there was no one near to hear them. The doors were closed and bolted.

Then they were inside an apartment, and that door was closed and bolted, too. Sebastian locked it. Three deadbolts. Two chains. Lenny’s mind wandered. He wondered whether this could possibly be where Sebastian saw his clients. It didn’t look like a professional’s office. It barely looked like an apartment. There was a couch and a chair and a table with a few tattered paperbacks—all Westerns, oddly enough—eight-tracks, and a half-full coffee mug, white cream coagulated on the surface. That was the extent of the furniture. The kitchen off the main room looked like it had been converted into storage.

Somewhere on the next floor up a boom box was spewing profanity.

A huge hand closed over his shoulder and steered him toward the chair. The wood creaked when the backs of his thighs hit it, and something popped inside his head. He could remember the stairs and the hall, but before that… nothing. There was a gaping hole between the hotel bar and this tenement complex. He couldn’t even recall what the outside of the building looked like. They had been sitting at the table, finishing a last drink, and then… nothing. Nothing until this place.

The overheads flickered on, highlighting horrible green wallpaper, peeling around the baseboards. Sebastian crossed in front of him and sat on the end of the couch, leaning back with a half-smile on his face. Lenny had begun to expect that if Sebastian smiled again, it would be unspeakably creepy, but it wasn’t. Sebastian had a nice smile. It was even apologetic.

“So,” Sebastian whispered eagerly. Lenny almost couldn’t hear him under the boom box. “So, what’s it like?”

The complete about-face threw Lenny off. He looked for an opportunity to get the hell out of there. There was one window, taped over with aluminum foil to keep out the Texas heat. He’d never been good at moving quickly, but he could probably have gone out that way. It would hurt, but it was a way out, and he would heal, and even crazy murderers don’t necessarily want to go flying into the street in the middle of the night. Lenny wasn’t fast, but he could probably drag himself to a convenience store by the time Sebastian made it down the stairs.

But he didn’t throw himself out the window. He couldn’t be sure whether that was his decision or Sebastian’s.

He fidgeted instead. “What’s what like?”

Sebastian sat forward with his elbows on his knees, dislodging a paperback from the table. “Being both. I’ve never even heard of that. Didn’t know it was possible.”

“It’s p-possible. It’s just not a very g-g-good idea.”

Sebastian’s laugh filled the apartment. He had a good laugh, just like he had a good smile. It was hard not to laugh with him, but Lenny still remembered those words: no one to miss you. The window beckoned, but he didn’t try to leave. It was hard to be sure, with everything happening so fast, and that laugh ringing in his head, and those eyes drilling into him, but he was beginning to suspect that he’d been kidnapped.

“So,” Sebastian repeated. “What’s it like? Not a good idea, sure, but you seem to be doing okay for yourself.”

“Easier to b-blend in, I g-guess.” Maybe Sebastian was just curious. Immortality often led to mind-crushing boredom. Hobbies were a good way to fight that, but hobbies could easily turn into obsessions. Maybe his was learning. No matter how old you get, there is always something new to learn. If Lenny told him what he wanted to know, maybe he would leave him alone.

Sebastian tilted his head, politely expectant.

Lenny went on.

“Can’t k-kill. But I’ve never felt the need to, so it’s all g-good. I think it messed up some stuff when I changed. My hearing’s okay, but it’s not real g-good. I’ve got b-b-bad balance. Some other stuff, too. I g-guess it was like drugs interacting. Neither thing really works the way it’s supposed t-to, any more.”

“Is it true mediums can control dead things? Including the undead?”

“Media. It’s media, not mediums. And ‘c-control’ is too strong. More like influence, and only in ways that help.”

He stopped, not sure why he had said that. Most people don’t like hearing that someone has any kind of influence over them, even if that someone would never use it and could never do any damage even if he did. Lenny didn’t want to come across as a threat. But Sebastian had his own brand of influence going on, the kind that could pull information out of people like scarves out of a magician’s sleeve. Lenny swallowed hard.

“Heh. I’d like to see you try. I heard you can’t change a medium. Obviously wrong, but…”

“Not against their will.”

He grinned, and this time, the expression was ugly. “I guess it follows that you wanted it, then.”

Lenny nodded. He wasn’t about to talk about Kate. He wasn’t about to explain. Sebastian wouldn’t like his reasons, and he wouldn’t like her reasons, and Lenny didn’t like the line of thought that always brought him back to wondering whether he or Kate had ever had any choice, those years ago.

Something moved behind Sebastian, the shape of a man almost too faint even for Lenny to see. He wasn’t a proper spirit, only an echo, and the echo had been fading for a long time. It was one of Sebastian’s ghosts, someone whose memory had been imprinted into the building by a violent death at the same time the rest of him went Wherever he was ultimately going to end up. Lenny managed to tear his eyes away from Sebastian for a fraction of a second, trying to get a better look at the memory standing behind him. It was harder than it should have been. He half expected a dramatic warning, even though it had never worked that way, but the memory just stood there, his legs disappearing into the middle of the couch. He watched Lenny over the top of Sebastian’s head.

When Lenny looked back down again, Sebastian’s mahogany eyes were narrowed with speculation, the same look someone might give a dime in a mud puddle, not sure whether it’s worth the effort of picking it up, even if he needs an extra ten cents. He glanced back toward the ghost, squinted through it, and looked back at Lenny.

It was wrong. Everything was wrong, and more ghosts filled Lenny’s peripheral vision, other memories and a few real spirits. One of them whispered I’m sorry like a mantra, over and over beneath the buzz of the electric lights. They knew something Lenny didn’t.

“Listen, I’m g-g-gonna have t-to g-g-go p-pack. I have a b-bus to c-c-c-…”

“Have a drink before you go.”

“What?”

“Just one. Look, I…” The apologetic smile returned. It was tragic. “If I gave you my phone number, would you… sometime… Do you think you might…?”

“Oh. Uh, sure.” Lenny nodded, trying hard not to look relieved. It was hard not to feel bad for Sebastian, whatever his problem. “Look, I’m d-down this way, sometimes. Not much, but sometimes. I c-c-could come see you. Some weekend, maybe?”

He probably would, too, even though he didn’t want to. Sebastian needed help, and that’s what media are for.

Sebastian smiled again, that moment of ugliness gone, and got up to go to the kitchen. Lenny didn’t watch him; he was too busy feeling like he’d dodged a serious bullet. There was the pop and hiss of two bottles of beer opening, a pause, and one of them found its way into Lenny’s hand. Sweat beaded on the glass and dripped onto his khakis.

“You’re scared,” Sebastian said as he sat back down. “I’m sorry about that. I just…”

He didn’t have any words to explain, just shrugged. Lenny got the picture. He had no social skills, and his method for making friends was mildly terrifying. At least his taste in beer was good. Lenny sipped reluctantly. He’d already had enough, but turning down a peace offering might be dangerous.

“It’s okay. No hard feelings. I’m mostly just c-confused.”

Sebastian’s expression didn’t change, but the smile became fixed, expectant. The ghosts in the corners of the room began to disperse, as though the show was already over. “I just can’t figure out your angle,” he continued. “You’re on my turf, in my bar, playing like you want to be my friend. Pretty subtle, I’ll grant you. You actually had me going, for a while. Come back on weekends, my ass. And here you are, sticking around like you hadn’t even thought about running. I honestly can’t tell whether you’re for real or not.”

Lenny wanted to point out that Sebastian was the one who threatened him, brought him there by force and was poking around in his head where he absolutely didn’t belong. He wanted to point out that, even though Sebastian scared the crap out of him, he could make himself overlook all that, because that is what a medium does. He didn’t get the chance.

Lenny didn’t even see him move. Sebastian must have had centuries on him to go so fast. One second, Lenny was trying to excuse himself, watching the ghosts to see whether they could give him a hint; the next, Sebastian was standing in front of him with his hand closed over Lenny’s jaw, not so tight it hurt, but too tight for him to move without breaking himself.

Lenny scrambled. His hand shot up reflexively to grasp Sebastian’s wrist, and Sebastian squeezed. Something in Lenny’s face cracked loudly, making him gag. Sebastian hissed like an animal and spit words at him in Spanish too fast and too old for Lenny to understand. His crazed eyes were wide and eager.

He pulled Lenny up close to his face, still talking. Most of Lenny’s brain was taken up with figuring how to get the hell away, but part of him realized Sebastian wasn’t talking to him; he was talking to himself, low and fast. Lenny could hear the power in his voice, even if he couldn’t understand the words. Sebastian was convincing himself of something, weaving back the same spell he’d used on Lenny. His eyes changed when he made up his mind, went a little crazier, if that was possible.

Sebastian dropped his victim. Lenny stepped back, tripped over the chair, and fell hard. His face throbbed, and he could taste stale, dead blood. His blood. He got one arm underneath himself and began to push himself up when something like a fighter jet whistled overhead and came down on the back of his neck, flattening him again. Something pounded steadily inside his head, vaguely reminiscent of a heartbeat. It took him a moment to realize someone was at the door.

Sebastian dragged him upright and bent to whisper in his ear.

“Relax,” he said, and Lenny did.

Sebastian threw Lenny over his shoulder like a rag doll, carried him through the apartment and dumped him on the floor in the bedroom. Lenny couldn’t see anything but the awful, green wallpaper. He heard a door open, felt a vicious impact against his ribs, and was enfolded in darkness.

The closet smelled better than the rest of the building. It smelled like cedar chips, like Sebastian. Lenny heard his footsteps, the front door, a woman’s voice. Sebastian sounded happy to see her, which most likely meant that, even if Lenny called for help, she wouldn’t be one to give it. He tried anyway. He tried to scream, to reach the doorknob. But his voice didn’t work, and neither did his arms. Every muscle stayed slack.

He concentrated on the pounding in his jaw and in his side, because there was nothing else he could do. But after a minute, that began to fade, too. It diminished to an ache, then to a twinge, then to a tingle. He couldn’t feel his hands, and his head felt like a balloon, and there was a bitter taste on the back of his tongue, underneath the tang of blood and beer. He tried to be angry, and he tried to be afraid, but it was too much effort. The voices in the other room stretched like taffy, and the floor was soft, and he sank down into it.