Spirit killer

...Stuck between Earth and a place he could only imagine would be bliss, he tried to fit in as a quintessential ghost on a quest to find his brown-eyed, sloppy-faced dream girl. The one he now knew was not of the old world he once plodded through.

He had a few strikes against him. First, he was bit young to be hanging with some of the famous ghosts in Kansas City. To them he was an upstart, and there’s nothing like being snubbed by a ghost to humble a man. Or whatever he was. This was new territory, and he was ready to find his woman. But how? Such questions can be distracting, especially for the newly dead. And distraction often leads to aimless wandering.

The fog was thick the night that Fred got lost. So much so, that he wasn’t sure how far he’d drifted from the Olathe Memorial Cemetery where his body was interred.

Fred heard the voice first, much like a sound of the earth itself.

“Here now, who’s that coming?” mumbled a man in a voice that might have been the rustle of October leaves skittering across grass.

Fred drew closer, filtering through a stone wall with the words Union Cemetery engraved in it. A shadow formed from the mist, but appeared well defined to Fred. The man’s suit was unadorned, setting off a beard that grew down to the middle of his chest, a style common in the 1800s.

“Dangitall,” the man grumbled. “McCoy!” His voice was like a gust of wind. “McCoy!”

A shape rolled upward, revealing itself to be a balding man, clean shaven, neatly dressed in the same manner.

“John Wornall you shout to wake the dead.”

“You are dead John McCoy."

Fred froze. It was clear to him now where he was. This was not good. Not good at all. He molded himself to a tombstone. Senior spirits had zero tolerance for him, chasing him away like a stray dog. These were his heroes. 19th century Kansas City founders. The best of the best. And he'd wandered into their cemetery.

"There.” Wornall pointed.

McCoy narrowed his eyes. “It can't be.”

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Wornall said. “We need a tracker before she spooks out again. Where’s a good mountain man when you need one?”

“Bridger!” McCoy hissed. “Jim Bridger, I know you’re out there!”

“Shhhhh. . .” A figure crouched low behind a tree, closer to the woman than the others. Jim Bridger signaled to them to duck down, the fringe of his leather coat tickling the fog. Fred tip-toed closer for a better view.

The old mountain man continued. Two fingers to his eyes and then to the woman.

“He sees two,” McCoy interpreted. “One moving. One being dragged.”

“Again? Near that same portal. Who’s she got now?”

Bridger glared at the two and covered his mouth.

“He says, 'Shut up, Wornall.' You’re a loud-talker.”

“I am not –”

Bridger pointed at the two and drew his finger across his throat.

McCoy clamped a hand over Wornall’s mouth. “He says I’m to shut you up or he’ll kill you before she does. And then he’ll kill me for knowing you.”

Wornall pushed McCoy’s hand away. “We’re already dead.”

“Retire then. He’ll retire us both.”

“He’s bluffing. He don’t know how. Nobody can do that.”

“Except her,” McCoy gestured to the woman.

She stopped at the cemetery gate, releasing the lifeless form with a thud.

Bridger eased around the tree trunk and took aim.

There was movement near the prone spirit. White hot light exploded from the form, illuminating the area. The earth opened with a great noise. Streams of liquid light bull-whipped out of the limp form and into the earth.

Bridger fired a load of salt.

The woman screamed, grabbed her arm and ran.

Fred popped up. It was her. His barbecue babe. His black-haired beauty. The spirit he’d seen woofing down a Z-man at Joe’s.

“Dangit! Not enough salt. Now, boys!”

The three took up chase.

“No!” Fred shouted, leaping from his hiding place.

He ran after them, but they were faster. The older spirits were shooting comets to Fred’s clunky drifting.

“No,” Fred cried out and stumbled. “Not her.”

They were gone. Broken-hearted, Fred trudged up to the form and plopped down. She certainly wasn’t the fabulous woman he thought she was. Clearly, not a good entity at all. He peered at the spirit's shape, devoid of light, fizzling and popping like static on a broken television set. Fred reached out to touch it.

“No-no-no-no!” Wornall sputtered, zipping ahead of McCoy.

“Stop!” McCoy shouted.

“Don’t,” Wornall spoke in low tones. “Move. A muscle.”

Fred froze. “Why –”

“Looks like Jesse Chouteau,” McCoy cautioned.

Wornall bowed his head. “Another Kansas City spirit, gone.

“What?”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “François Gesseau Chouteau. As in Chouteau Bridge?”

“Founder, first European-American here,” Wornall stated. “Away visiting the Mahaffie House in Olathe today. Fred, touch that shell, it collapses, you go with him.”

Bridger ambled up. “Well ain’t that just a powder keg waiting to go off? You Fred?”

Fred nodded.

“Dang greenhorn. Ain't even earned your stripes yet."

Bridger crouched across from Fred, the crackling form between them. “One less greenhorn. I say we walk away. She’s picking us off like flies. Chouteau will fizzle out soon enough.”

“Bridger," Wornall drew himself up to his full height, "I take offense. As a Christian man and –”

“Which you ain’t no man no more,” Bridger muttered.

“As an interested party then, and an upstanding citizen of this community, I advocate that we save young Fred.”

“Dang lost cause.” Bridger handed his rifle to McCoy. “Hold this. You for or against?””

McCoy hesitated. “He’s here for a reason. For.”

Bridger cracked his knuckles. "Ain’t no stopping her. Greenhorn can't even fly yet. Waste of energy."

A form in a top hat materialized.

“What’d I miss?”

“Your’re late, Majors,” McCoy said.

“Alexander Majors is never late. Merely delayed. Much like my Pony Express riders. And I see we’re to be entertained." He nodded to Fred. "Sir, I deduct by your proximity to our former friend and current concern that you are about to be retired. Although I don’t doubt Bridger’s expertise, let me explain your pending demise. And Bridger, if you fail, nice knowing you."

Bridger waved without taking his eyes from his task.

Majors crouched down and lowered his voice. "Son, a retired spirit's shell is all kinds of unstable. Its essence is gone, but still holds all the energy it’s ever absorbed that allowed it to exist. When it implodes, it’ll grab for the nearest spirit in a vain attempt to hang on. That'd be you. Bridger?"

Bridger shook his head. “Keep talking. We got a problem. It's stabilized but she didn't get all of him.”

"Fred, is it?" Majors continued.

Fred nodded, going a shade whiter.

"Yes. Well, Fred. This is why we dislike new-comers. I heard you call out. How are you are acquainted with our nemesis?”

Fred choked. “She’s what?”

McCoy stepped forward. “You know her?”

Fred’s eyes widened. “I, uh –”

“I reverse my vote!” Wornall shouted. “You, sir,” he pointed to Fred, “are a turncoat and a traitor!”

“No!” Fred protested. “What did I do?”

“And in our own Union Cemetery," Wornall lamented. “McCoy, you explain. I am beside myself and cannot go on.”

“That’d be a first,” Bridger muttered.

“Fred, your girlfriend’s murderer. A Spirit Killer. And she's latched on to Kansas City for a reason."

Majors nodded. "Jealous. Spirit Killers find an energy source. In this town, it’s barbecue. They feed on it, then use that energy to retire its oldest entities, the foundation on which the city spirit was built. No more founding fathers, then no front line fighters. It's a downhill slide from there.”

Fred's shoulders dropped. "Can you be more specific?"

"What he means," said McCoy, "is that she's angry. Negative. Kansas City Spirit is positive, alive and kicking. We deal with the Spirit Killers. If we fail, The Negative seeps in. Sports teams lose, businesses collapse, the urban core crumbles.”

Bridger sat back. "Bad news. I can’t defuse this. But here’s a thought. We use Greenhorn as bait.”

“He’ll die!” Wornall exclaimed.

Bridger shrugged “Him or us.”

“No,” McCoy pursed his lips. “Fred, you can stop her. It all hinges on your inability to fly. We can’t hold her down."

Fred paused. Here was his shot at a new beginning in this realm. He looked down at the fizzling Kansas City founder, then raised his eyes.

"I'm in."

Bridger snorted. “Well, Greenhorn. Maybe not a waste after all. McCoy? Wornall? Fetch Patrick Shannon. Before he was mayor, he was a merchant king here. He’s got salt.

McCoy, Wornall, Bridger and the best shots in Union Cemetery took up positions near their fallen comrade. Majors nodded the signal.

Fred called out. “He’s not dead! Jesse Chouteau’s alive! We can, um, revive him! Stand back!”

Silence.

“You are the worst actor ever.”

Fred whirled at the sound behind him.

“And the worst liar.”

She was two inches from his face, black hair floating on the mist.

“No, look!”

“Oops. Missed some. Out of my way.”

The woman pushed Fred back with a force that knocked him into the wall. She knelt down to touch the form. It popped and a charge of unbalanced electric ions shot into the woman.

“Now!” Bridger shouted.

He threw Fred two heavy sacks of salt. Fred leaped onto the woman, pinning her to the form. She shrieked and wailed, trying to lift off the ground. Light exploded beneath them, throwing Fred clear.

The form of Jesse Chouteau collapsed inward pulling the woman down with it in a horrible vortex. Finally, only a point of static remained.

Fred stood and kicked salt over the tiny light.

“Fred?” Bridger climbed over the wall. “You just retired a Spirit Killer.”

Fred wiped salt from his face. “You didn’t call me Greenhorn.”

“Look,” Wornall waved his boot under Fred. “You’re levitating.”

Fred descended in front of the mountain man.

Bridger smiled. “Flying lessons tomorrow.” Bridger tipped his hat and walked into the cemetery. “Welcome to the team, Fred.”

This story was originally published October 27, 2015 at 1:55 PM with the headline "Spirit killer."