Emily's Back, Part Four

We take my Prius because Crystal has to leave the minivan for Felix and the kids. Crystal stares out the window as the road rolls by. She hasn’t said two words in 40 miles. Is she mad at me? Worried about her kids? Scared of meeting Emily again? Or just rehashing her argument with Felix in her head?

            My parents argued all the time. That’s how I thought grownups were. After a long time, and a little help from therapists and friends, I figured out that you don’t have to shout at people to get what you want. I still don’t entirely understand it, but I’m getting better. I don’t punch my friends nearly so often anymore.

            Eventually Crystal leans back in her seat. Hills rise on the side of the highway. She sighs and stretches her arms over her head. “You know, I love him. And my kids. Even Ferdinand.”

            I check on a truck in the left lane, coming up fast. “Yeah. I get that.”

            She laughs. “But I never loved anything more than those summers.”

            Me too. Even now, outhouse and sleeping bags and all the rest, the cabin feels like the happiest time of my life. The first time I felt free to be me, without anyone judging who I was or what I thought or how I felt. Even when we argued about feminism, love, and magic. People listened to me. It was like a drug. It was why I kept coming back.

            “We’re close.” The sun is coming down. I pass the exit to the McDonald’s where I had breakfast yesterday. “LeAnn will be happy to see you.”

            “Can we stop?” She points at a sign for Burger King at the next exit. “I can’t really deal with all the vegan food she’ll probably try to shove down our throats.”

            I laugh. “Fine. Make sure you go to the bathroom.”

“Crystal?” LeAnn runs across the porch in the moonlight. “Oh my god, you’re okay!” They hug.

            I leave my backpack in the back seat as they walk up into the cabin. A bat zooms over my head. I’m hoping I won’t have to spend the night here again, even if it means driving all the way back to Chicago on dark roads.

            Inside LeAnn is chattering like one of Crystal’s kids, cutting a slice of homemade bread and offering her some corn from her garden. “So you’ve got kids? I bet they’re cute! What are you doing with your life?”

            Crystal looks at me with a grimace. “Well—the usual, you know? Driving around in a minivan. Soccer practice after school. Marketing stuff at my job. But hey, Rachel and I busted an asshole killing animals to try and raise his dead wife. That was kind of exciting. Aside from that . . .” She rubs her eyes. “My husband’s cool. The sex is good.”

            “That’s important.” LeAnn looks at me. “Oh, Rachel, are you hungry? I should get—”

            “I’m fine.” I lean against the door, my legs tired from driving. I’m tired and I want a beer. “We should talk about Emily.”

            LeAnn fills a plastic cup from her jug of water. “I haven’t seen her since the other night.” She sits down at the table. “I don’t know what to do.”

            “She was at my house last night.” Crystal tosses the bread back down on the cracked blue plate. “She scared my kids.” Her voice sounds as unsteady as the wobbly wooden chair under her butt

            Gretchen and Ben hadn’t seemed too frightened by the strange lady in the back yard. But Crystal probably knows her children better than I do. I grab a folding chair and sit down. “Why does she come here? Why does she talk to you?”

            LeAnn sets her glass down hard, spilling water over the thin white tablecloth. “Maybe because I’m still growing my own food? Drinking good water, making friends with people who are different from me? This place is where it all began. For her, me . . . all of us. Down at the lake.”

            Crystal glances at me. As if this is all my fault somehow.

            “What does Emily say?” Maybe I should have asked this from the beginning.

            LeAnn sighs. “She always asks if I want to come with her. Then she asks about the rest of you.” She looks from me to Crystal. “Then she tells me who she wants next. Then she goes back into the water. And I go to bed.”

            “She asks about us?” Crystal looks nervous. “Are you . . . is she picking the one she wants?”

            “She knew you worked in marketing.” I peer at LeAnn. “What did you tell her?”

            She looks away from me. “I don’t know that much about any of you these days.” It’s close to an accusation. “It feels like—girl talk, you know? I probably talk to Emily more than any of the rest of you. I haven’t seen either of you in years.”

            “I’ve been . . . busy.” Crystal looks around the room. “Doing . . . you know.”

            “Soccer practice?” LeAnn snorts. “Marketing stuff? That’s what you’re doing now? I’m not mad.” She shakes her head. “But I like it right here. I just didn’t run off to the cities like everyone else.” She looks straight at me.

            “Oh, for Christ’s sake, LeAnn, you’re the one hiding out here in the middle of nowhere!” My voice is shaking as a breeze rattles the window. “There are bats outside! You’re holding this place together with duct tape! You pee in an outhouse! You don’t even have wi-fi!” Suddenly I just want to kick the table over and walk out to my car and drive away. But I can’t. And not just because I’d strand Crystal here. 

            “Is that what you think?” LeAnn plants her hands on the table. “I’m just some redneck living out here in the country, and you and all your friends are so much better than me? I made this place, and it’s a good place, and I don’t care what you think!”

            “I think you’re scared.” I walk toward her, so pissed off I could spit. “There’s a whole real world out there, LeAnn, and some of us live there! And we do okay! I like my apartment, my car, my computer, my phone! Why are you still here?” I stop right in front of her. “Is it because of Emily?”

            “No!” LeAnn steps back from me, frightened. “What are you talking about? I’m not . . .”

            “Then what are we doing here? Why did you send me that message? Why is—” I stop for breath. “LeAnn, come on. Just tell us what’s going on.”

            Crickets. Maybe outside. Maybe in the walls. LeAnn and I stare at each other.

            I remember when I listened to everything she said. LeAnn was in charge, it was her house. But that was a long time ago. A lot has changed since then.

            “Just listen.” LeAnn leans down over the table, her face inches from Crystal. “You don’t have to go. Okay?”

            Crystal picks up a piece of bread. “Great. I guess.”

            I look at LeAnn. “So she can just . . . say no? Is that it?”

            “That’s what Emily always says. She says it’s in the book, no one has to come if they don’t—”

            The book? “We should burn that book. Right now.”

            “Hey, you were here with all of us!” LeAnn jabs a finger at my face. “You saw it—we all saw it! And you danced with all of us. But after a few years you all had better things to do, and you just ignored me! The crazy bitch living out in the country—”

            “I never danced!” For some reason this burns more than anything else she’s saying. Okay, I sat by the fire, watching them. Envying them, maybe.

            But I stayed on my ass, scared and—okay, a little dazzled.

            I can still picture the demon, big and powerful in the flames. I watched my friends whirl around the fire, chanting in a language none of us knew or understood. I stared at him—it. Something deep and powerful made me want to join in. And scared me. And I stayed back.

            Goddamn it, that memory of songs and dancing and a huge beast who wanted me still makes me horny. And somewhere deep inside my brain, I’m still ashamed that I held back. Because I wanted it too.

            I want to punch something. Or someone. “Fuck you! You danced, and everyone else! Crystal, you were there!” I turn on her. “Did you see me—”

            “Oh, both of you, shut up!” Crystal pushed the chair. “I can’t take this anymore!” She lurches towards the front door. “I hate this! I hate all of it!”

            “Crystal?” LeAnn pushes past me. “What are you—where are you going?”

            “Down to the lake!” She’s on the porch now, pulling her shoes off. “I don’t care about you or the rest of them anymore! I’m just tired of all this crap!” She steps down off the porch in her bare feet and staggers toward the path. “Kids, soccer practice, minivans, meetings, assholes . . .”

            She walks across the grass and down the path.

            “Rachel . . .” LeAnn looks at me as if now I have all the answer. “What’s she doing?”

            “If she can decide—” I try to sort it out in my head. “If she can say no, then that means everyone Emily took—they all left of their own free will? Connie, Robyn . . .” Robyn was my best friend in college. But like LeAnn and Crystal, I hadn’t seen or talked to her in years. “They wanted to go?”

            “I don’t know.” For the first time since I’ve ever known her, LeAnn looks scared and helpless. “What should we do?”

            Crystal’s already disappeared on the path, I hope we’re not too late. “I guess we go down to the lake.”

Emily's Back, Part Five

A soft breeze rustles the trees and spreads ripples across the moon’s reflection in the surface of the water. Crystal stands at the edge of the lake, wiggling her toes in the water.

            “Crystal?” I’m right behind her. “You heard what LeAnn said. You don’t have to go with Emily.”

            “I don’t know what I want to do.” Her voice is a choked whisper. “I love Felix, I love the kids, but sometimes it’s just—I want to scream.”

            “I do too.” I squeeze her shoulder. “You think graphic design is something every little girl wants to do when she grows up?”

            Crystal laughs. “Sometimes I just want to get away. From everything.” She gazes out over the water. “This might be my last chance.”

            “Guys?” LeAnn’s back by the trees. “She’s here.”

            Emily. Thin and pale, knee-deep in the water, the bottom of her gray shift wet.

            “Crystal.” She’s smiling. “It’s so good to see you again.”

            I hold Crystal’s shoulder tight. “What do you want, Emily?”

            “It’s an invitation to glory.” Emily holds out a hand. “Come with me, Crystal. Don’t you want to?” She giggles. “It’ll be wonderful.”

            “W-where?” Her body trembles.

            “You’ll be free. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” She looks up at the sky filled with stars. “It’s what we all want.” Then she looks at me. “What about you, Rachel?”

            And suddenly—oh god—I’m tempted. It’s a weird sensation. Five minutes ago the only thing I wanted to do was drive back to Chicago—back to my life, my job, my friends. But now everything that was pulling me back makes me feel like it’s holding me down—bills, clients, traffic, expectations, obligations . . . I don’t need any of them. I could go away with Emily. And Crystal. I’d see Robyn again. And I’d be free.

            Is Emily doing it to me? Making me want to go with her? I step back, breathing hard, trying to control my mind. I don’t really want to go. I have things I want to do, people I like. I haven’t gone to the Botanical Garden in ages . . .

            Crystal steps into the water up to her ankles. “Good-bye, Rachel. Thanks.” She reaches out for Emily’s hand.

            “Crystal—” I grasp her hand, trying to think of something to say. “You don’t have to. There are other ways to be free.”

            “Screw it.” She looks out at Emily. “I’m coming.”

            “Fine.” I let go. “What do I tell Felix? And Gretchen and Ben? When they ask where you are? When they want to know why you left?”

            I know, I know—I should rip up my feminist card and throw it in the lake. Your husband? Your kids? But it’s the only thing I can think to say.

            And they’re important too.

            Crystal glares at me. “That’s not fair!” Her voice is a hiss. “It’s my life too! I can do what I want!”

            “Just think about it! For one minute!” I’m half arguing, half pleading. “You don’t really know what it’s like. Emily could be telling you anything.” I look across the lake. “There are other ways to be free.”

            Crystal blinks. Emily waits.

            Bats fly around our heads.

            “Emily!” It’s LeAnn. A light flares down near the sand. “I love you, but I can’t let you do this anymore!” A flame jumps up.

            LeAnn has somehow collected a circle of branches and driftwood. She’s kneeling with her lighter in one hand, a can of lighter fluid on the sand.

            In her other hand she has the book.

            She must have grabbed it in a hurry, along with the fluid, before following us down. She holds the book high, making sure we can all see it.

            “No!” Emily splashes through the water and comes up onto the sand. “You can’t—”

            LeAnn rips out a handful of pages and drops them in the fire.

            Emily screams. “Nooo—”

            Then the water in the lake behind her explodes up toward the star-filled sky in a burst of steam and fury, as if a bomb’s gone off right beneath the surface.

            LeAnn leans over to protect the fire as water falls over our heads. Crystal stumbles to her knees on the wet sand, swearing like a Marine.

            And then the demon rises up from the lake.

            Just like before—huge and muscular, red horns, burning eyes like distant suns. Naked. And angry.

            LeAnn drops the book straight into the fire and pours lighter fluid all over it. The demon stalks forward, pushing wide black waves over Emily’s shoulders as she struggles to raise her head. I grab Crystal’s arm and pull her back toward the fire.

            The book is flaming now, its old pages crackling and curling. The demon steps over Emily’s body onto the shore, lumbering toward us like an ancient enraged god.

            Oh hell. He’s coming right at me. What do I do? He lurches forward, his face black with rage, his big—thing—jutting forward like a spear.

            So I do the only thing I can think of. I kick him in the crotch.

            Turns out a demon’s balls are just as sensitive as a human’s. Who knew?

            The demon doubles over and howls. I jump back, painfully aware that I’ve just made a powerful angry demon really angrier now. For my next trick? No idea. I grab for my back pocket. Will pepper spray work against a demon?

            I never have to find out. LeAnn laughs, jabbing a stick at the book in the fire, spreading the flames and fluid around, the book and its red leather cover turning into a pile of black ashes inside the flames.

            Suddenly the demon seems smaller. His horns look a little shorter, along with—other things. He bares his fangs with another roar that emphasizes his bad breath and poor oral hygiene, and then he turns around and leaps back into the lake—pulling Emily with him.

            I run into the water, but she’s wet and slippery and I can’t get hold of an arm or leg. She’s screaming in fear, and I’m scared to go out too far and give the demon a chance to grab me.

            I jump forward for one last grasp.

            I’m too late. When I come up, the demon is gone.

            So is Emily.

“Is he gone for good?”

            We’re back in LeAnn’s kitchen, drinking hot herb tea that tastes like swamp water. We’re wrapped in old towels that feel rough as canvas. LeAnn made sure the book was completely destroyed, and then we poured sand over it until the fire was out, and then we walked back up the path. Me shaking, Crystal crying, LeAnn silent.

            LeAnn shakes her head. “I don’t know. The book was in ancient Silurian or something, so I don’t know what it really said. I just kept it around for luck.”

            “Some luck.” I sip my tea and wipe my eyes. “Sorry. I guess we shouldn’t really celebrate burning books, but in this case—”

            “You gave me the idea.” She grins. “You also kicked it in the balls.”

            “Yeah.” I’m full of good ideas.

            Crystal puts her cup down. “I want to go home.”

            “You can stay. It’s late. I’ve got sleeping bags—”

            “I want to go home.” She stands up. “Rachel, thank you for—what you said out there. And for, you know—the kick.”

            I sigh and stand up too. “I wish we could have saved Emily.”

            “I’ll watch for her.” LeAnn hugs me. “Sorry. About things.”

            “Me too.” Maybe I’ll come back next summer. When some of the memories have faded.

            “Come back anytime.” LeAnn hugs Crystal. “Bring your kids. I bet they’d love to swim in the . . .” She shakes her head. “Maybe not.”

            But Crystal laughs. “We’ll see.”

It’s way after midnight when we reach Crystal’s house, and I’m too tired to head back to Chicago, so I collapse in the guest room again while she talks with Felix.
            I check my phone. Two calls. Damn it. I hit Return and wait. One buzz, two—

            “Hi, it’s me.” He’s probably watching Game of Thrones without me. “Are you okay?”

            “I told you not to call me.”

            “It was sort of an emergency.” I hear him sip a beer, and I want one right now more than I want world peace and a big plate of quesadillas. “But don’t worry.” He burps. “I took care of it.”

            Oh hell. “What kind of emergency?”

            “Uh, an angry ghost? You’ve seen Japanese horror movies, right?”

            I can top that, but I hold off for now. But then he says: “And a cute young blonde tried to seduce me. But that wasn’t really the emergency.”

            “What?” I can’t leave him alone for a few days? “Okay, I’ll be back tomorrow. And you’d better tell me everything.”

            “What time? I’ll make dinner. Or breakfast.”

            I sink onto the Star Wars comforter. “Good night, you idiot. I need to get some sleep.”

            He chuckles. “Yeah. I miss you too.”

# # #

Brief Candle

Cast members from a production of Macbeth are dying off mysteriously, one by one. Can Tom Jurgen find out what's going on before none are left alive?

Brief Candle, Part One

Swords clashed. Lights flashed. Soliloquies flowed. In the end, Denmark survived. Hamlet and his family, not so much.

            I’m not much of a Shakespeare guy myself, but I could recognize a good production when I saw one. I stood up with the rest of the audience, clapping and cheering at the curtain call.

            This would have been a nice date with Rachel, even though I was technically working. But Rachel was out of town, so I sat through Hamlet alone. Although a nice elderly woman two seats away chatted with me during the intermission. Her nephew played one of the guards.

            It was a small community theater in Wheaton, a western Chicago suburb. The theater group had a reputation for good productions, and I could see why. I waited in the lobby by myself as the people made their way out. I dropped five dollars into a donation box. Then I leaned toward a volunteer cleaning up the refreshment table. “Uh, I’d really like to talk to James Forrest. If he’s not too busy.”

            She smiled. “He’ll be out in a few minutes. Did you enjoy the show?”

            What could I say? “I always feel bad about Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”

            “Yeah.” She giggled. “Guildenstern is my boyfriend.”

            “Tell him he did a good job.” I grabbed the last cup of apple juice before she snatched it away.

            I waited ten minutes before Forrest came out. As Polonius, he’d worn tights and a ruffled collar. Now he was in sweats and a corduroy jacket. But his head was still bald, and his jaw was hard.

            “Mr. Forrest?” I held my card out. “Tom Jurgen. Do you have a minute?”

            “Uhh . . .” He stared at the card as if it were a program to autograph. “Private detective?”

            “It might be important. I’d be willing to buy you a drink, or a cup of coffee, or drive you home . . .”

            “What is this? Am I being sued?” Forrest pushed the card back at me.

            “Just look at this.” I pulled a theater program from my back pocket. Two years old, creased with time and sweat. “Do you remember this?”

            “Oh, for God’s sake . . .” Forrest groaned like a bored movie star. But then he looked at the cast list. “Excuse me—why is Sutton Marsh’s name crossed off here? And Abigail Euston? She was . . .” He looked up. “What is this?”

            I took a deep breath. “They’re dead.”

            “But I’m . . .” Forrest ran a hand over his bare scalp. “I was Duncan.” He pushed the program back at me. “I guess you can buy me a drink.”

The Mexican restaurant across the street was still open for the late-night theater crowd. Forrest ordered a glass of sangria.

            I unfolded the program again and ran my finger down the cast list. “Sutton Marsh, Macbeth, suicide. Abigail Euston, Lady Macbeth, hit and run. Rob Robinson, Banquo, overdose. Maria, Marta, and Marianne Moreta—the three witches? They died in a fire at their house.”

            “Oh, god.” Forrest’s eyes went pale. “Marianne was only fourteen. They were adorable. Smart and . . . they were just kids.”

            Yeah. I hated thinking about them. “Uh, then there’s Felipe Hidalgo . . .” I stopped. “Sorry. So are you getting the picture?”

            Forrest gulped his wine. “Who are you? Why are we here?”

            So here’s the thing: I used to be a reporter, until I got fired for reporting things my editors and the authorities wanted to cover up. Now I’m a private detective, and I keep getting the same kind of cases—the supernatural and the just plain weird. I don’t really like it, but I can’t seem to escape it.

            It scares me, but it pays the bills.

            “Felipe Hidalgo played Donalbain.” I pointed at the program. “His wife found him in the garage with the car running. It looked like a suicide, but he had a copy of this program in his lap.” I sighed. “No one wants to believe that someone they love could just—end it all. But she wanted some answers. And she thought it had something to do with Macbeth. All I had to go on was this program, so I started calling people. That’s when I noticed how many of them are—well, dead.”

            Forrest ran his fingers down the page. “Felipe was a fine young actor. And Sutton?” He leaned back on his bar stool. “Suicide?”

            Sutton Marsh had shot himself in the face with a handgun. But I didn’t think Forrest needed to hear the details right now. “I’m sorry.”

            He slid the program back toward me, and then waved an arm for another glass of sangria. “What do you want?”

            “First, I want you to be careful.” I nodded for a glass of water. “If you really want to help, help me find the others.”

            “You think there’s some kind of—serial killer targeting us?” Forrest laughed. “The Macbeth curse?”

            “Not exactly.” I didn’t blame him for doubting my sanity. “But this isn’t a serial killer either. The deaths are too random—suicide, hit and run, fire. It’s not a coincidence. People on this list are dying. So I’m looking at—other explanations.”

            Wizards and witches, angry ghosts, curses. I’d dealt with all of them

            Forrest stared at me. Then he looked down at the bar, his eyelids drooping. “‘When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain . . .’”

            He was getting it. And he wasn’t rejecting the idea.

            I sipped my water. “You’re the first person I’ve contacted who can still talk to me. Can you think of anyone who might want to—take revenge on the company?”

            “Revenge.” He chuckled. “You don’t know much about the theater world, do you, Mr. Jurgen?”

            “I was in the chorus of The Music Man in high school. Seventy-six trombones, and all the rest. I couldn’t sing.”

            “It’s all about ego and power.” Forrest sighed. “Sometimes. It’s community theater. No one gets paid. But most of the productions I’ve been in were full of talented people who only wanted to do their best. But some, well . . . even a high school musical can turn into a production of Caligula in the wrong hands.” He winked. “Complete with a Roman orgy.”

            “I must have gone to the wrong cast parties.”

            Forrest ran a finger down on the page. “Christopher Minnis—the director here? Good man, very talented. But he was a replacement. Dorian Parker started out directing the show. Until he got fired.”

            That sounded interesting. “What happened?”

            Forrest closed his eyes. “Dorian was brilliant, but he was horribly abusive. He made us repeat scenes endlessly, as if he were Stanley Kubrick. His swordfights could have injured people. He wanted Abigail to be naked whenever she plotted with Macbeth. He wanted the three young girls to wear skimpy black lingerie in their scenes. He called Sutton a no-talent hack when he refused to go along with a scene of him strangling Duncan before stabbing him. Sutton!”

            He groaned. “He sexually harassed Abigail. Lady Macbeth could only understand the desire for power if she let herself be taken by someone more powerful, he said, and it was clear that he meant someone like him. The females on the crew stopped going near him. One girl in the lighting booth quit. And he wouldn’t listen! To anyone. Not even . . . well, I’m just a character actor, but he could have listened to me.”

            “So what happened?”

            Forrest raised his head. “We all rebelled. Refused to rehearse with him. The theater management told him to go home, and Christopher came in. He kept as many of Dorian’s concepts as he could, without the nudity and dangerous fights. He’s a talented director, and so the show went on. Maybe not as spectacular as Dorian’s production would have been, but still, it was a solid show. Sold out performances. Standing ovations. But all of us—even Christopher—knew something was gone. It could have been great. But . . .” Forrest sighed. “We moved on.”

            “So what happened to Dorian?”

            “I don’t know.” He finished his wine. “It’s not like he stood up on the stage and threatened hairy vengeance. He was just gone. Althea, the manager, brought Christopher in and introduced everyone, and we went on with that night’s rehearsal. It was a little awkward at first, but when he didn’t yell or tell us we were stupid, everyone relaxed. And the show went on.”

            Forrest staggered from his stool. “I’m sorry. I should be getting home.”

            I tossed some cash on the bar. “Do you need a ride?” Forrest’s face was flushed.

            “I’m fine.” He coughed and waved a hand. “I can get an Uber. I just need . . .”

            He collapsed on the floor.

            A waiter ran up, but I was already kneeling next to Forrest, my hands on his chest. I’ve taken a few classes in CPR. I pumped his chest while the woman behind the bar called 911. A family at a nearby table scattered. “Come on, come on,” I chanted, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me. “I need your help. Come on . . .”

            The rest was silence.

So I woke up the next morning tired, depressed, lonely—and angry.

            Tired because I didn’t get home until 3:00 a.m., after trailing the paramedics to the nearest hospital and waiting until someone pronounced James Forrest dead. Depressed because I hadn’t been able to save him. Lonely because I couldn’t call Rachel—she’d been pretty clear about not wanting me to bother her while she was out of town.

            And angry because people were dying and I didn’t know how to stop it.

            Yeah, I’d talked to the cops when I first got the case from Felipe Hidalgo’s wife. At least, I’d called the one detective on the CPD who would actually speak to me, Elena Dudovich. But most of the deaths had been cleared—suicide, overdose, car accidents—and they hadn’t all happened inside Chicago city limits, which meant Dudovich couldn’t automatically get involved even if she believed me. Which she didn’t. As usual.

            Editors and cops had stopped listening to me a long time ago. But I’d never learned to sit back and accept it.

            So I made some coffee, ate a bowl of cereal, and then opened up my laptop to look for Dorian Parker.

            I started with the basic Google search. I found one Dorian Parker on LinkedIn, but she was a marketing manager. Someone named Dorian Parkes had a Facebook profile, but he lived in Seattle. Dorian—my Dorian—had almost no internet presence. No picture, no résumé or CV or list of credits, no profile anywhere.

             Adding “theater” and “director” to my search got more results. He’d directed a production of “In the Boom Boom Room” by David Rabe at a theater in Glen Ellyn, and Jean-Paul Sartre’s “No Exit” in Old Town right after that. And other plays, in and around Chicago. The reviews called him brilliant, but dangerous. “He frightens his audiences with his innovations as much as he challenges them with his unconventional approaches to the whole theatrical experience,” one reviewer said. Another wrote, “This production of ‘Titus Andronicus’ is not for the faint of heart, or anyone with a weak stomach at the sight of buckets of blood.”

            Google is useful, but I have a few additional online resources as a PI for tracking people down. I found a phone number and address for Dorian Parker. So after a sip of coffee, I called him.

            “Hello?” He sounded groggy, as if I’d woken him up. I remembered that this was Sunday morning. “Who’s this?”

            “Dorian Parker? My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. I’d like to talk to you about a production of Macbeth you were involved in two years ago.”

            “What? Jesus Christ . . .” He dropped the phone. I listened as he grunted and groaned, and waited until he found the phone again. “Who are you? I don’t know—”

            “Can we meet? I need to talk to you about some people involved in the play.”

            “Uhh . . .” Dorian groaned. “I guess. I’m not . . . okay. Give me a few minutes. Where are you?”

            He didn’t sound suspicious or angry. Just irritated at being woken up. We agreed on a coffee shop near his apartment up north, three hours from now.

            I spent the next two hours looking for more of the Macbeth cast. I got lucky and found several—the actor who’d played Malcolm, the brother of Donalbain, and the guy playing Lennox, who worked for King Duncan—the character Forrest had played. Neither one of them quite believed me when I told them they might be in danger, but they both got quiet when I read down the list of actors who’d already died.

            They both agreed to be careful, and neither one sounded suicidal. So I could only hope that I was saving them. Malcolm promised to call me back. Lennox wanted to get me off the phone as soon as he could. 

            I hit the number on one last name before leaving to meet with Dorian. Courtney Silvera had played one of the Three Murderers—they’d cast three women in the roles, and she was the first name I found contact information for. She picked up right away. “Hello?”

            “Hi, I’m trying to reach Courtney Silvera, who worked in a production of Macbeth two years ago? My name is—”

            “Wait, are you a casting agent? Or a director? I can’t talk to anyone right now, but you can find my credits at my website—”

            “I’m a private detective. My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m looking into a series of—incidents among the cast of a Macbeth production.”

            “Oh god.” Her voice was hoarse and ragged. “What kind of—what did you say? Incidents?”

            “Well, I don’t want to scare you—”

            “Scared? I haven’t been outside for three days!” She sounded close to panic. And hanging up. “What are you talking about?”

            “I’m hoping you can help me.” I kept my voice as low and calm as I could. “Can you tell me what’s happening?”           

            “Well—” She gulped. “Let’s see. I almost got hit by a bus. And then a chunk of concrete fell off a building in front of me. And my toaster oven caught fire. A bird pooped on my head!”

            I wasn’t sure about the bird, but the rest of the incidents seemed to fit the profile. “This is going to sound crazy, but someone or something seems to be going after people in the cast of Macbeth. I’m glad you’re all right.”

            “All right? I’m going crazy! Who are you again?”

            I reminded her. “So when did this start?”

            “Last week.” She sighed. “That’s when the bus almost killed me. I haven’t been out of my apartment since Thursday. I’m running out of food.”

            “Get something delivered. Just be careful. I’m trying to find out who’s—”

            “Yeah, who’s doing this? Some kind of serial killer? Or is it the Macbeth curse?”

            She caught on quick. “What can you tell me about Dorian Parker?”

            “Uh, terrific director?” She hesitated. “I mean, he’s a little crazy, some of the things he wanted us to do. But he came up with these great ninja costumes for me and the three murderers that we used even after he—you know he got fired, right?”

            “Was he angry about that?”

            “I don’t know! People were pissed at him, and then one day the manager was there and she introduced Chris to us. Chris Minnis, he was the new director. He was good, a lot calmer and saner. But less creative than Dorian. But the show must go on, right?”

            “Have you seen him or heard from him since?”

            “Nah. I did ‘Company’ right after that, and then I had classes. I’m getting my Master’s at UIC. I’ve been pretty busy.” She sounded less frightened now that she was talking about something different.

            “Good for you. Thanks for your help. I’ve got to—”

            “Wait!” Fear again. “What do I do?”

            I had no idea. “Be careful. Stay in your apartment. I’ll call you.”

            “You’re a private detective, right? Could you protect me?”

            “I’m not much of a bodyguard.” Rachel would tell her most days I can’t take care of myself. “I could recommend someone, but this isn’t the usual type of security situation.”

            “You’re telling me? But you know what’s going on. More than some rent-a-cop would.”

            I managed not to sigh out loud. “I have an appointment right now. I can stop by your place afterward. If you want.”

            “Could you bring me some groceries?”

Brief Candle, Part Two

Dorian Parker had wire-rimmed glasses, high cheekbones, and long thin fingers. He sipped his latté as I sat down and handed him my card.

            He looked me over, then glanced at the card. I got the feeling I probably wouldn’t get the part of the tough P.I. in any production he was directing. “Tom Jurgen? What can I do for you?”

            I sat. “You directed a production of Macbeth in Wheaton two years ago—”

            “Correction.” He lifted a finger like a teacher at a blackboard. “I was fired.”

            “So what happened after that?”

            “I went home and got drunk for two days straight. I may have smashed a dish or two.” He shrugged. “The usual. Why are you here?”

            I showed him the program. “All the names that are crossed out are actors who have died under strange circumstances. James Forrest died last night.” I repressed a shudder at the memory.

            Dorian scanned the list. “Oh my god. Abigail—she was a fine actress. Jim Forrest? And those three girls?” He gulped from his cup. “What are you saying? Hey . . .” He backed his chair away from me. “What exactly are you asking me?”

            I knew what it was going to sound like. “Do you know anything about why these people died?”

            “You’re accusing me . . .” His hands trembled. “How did they die?”

            “Suicide, car accident, heart attack . . . one cast member has survived multiple, well, incidents.” I waited. Silence is usually the best way to entice someone to talk.

            Dorian laughed. “You think I’m some kind of wizard who can manipulate time and space?”

            That was one possibility. I just didn’t want to go there yet.

            He looked down at the program again. “Yeah, I got fired. I like to push the edge. Challenge actors and audiences. Try something different. If I went around wreaking bloody vengeance on every company that’s pushed me out, there wouldn’t be any actors left in Chicago. Besides . . .”

            He slid the program slowly back toward me. “Why would I wait two years to work my weird magic? I don’t care about that Macbeth anymore. I’m directing a new play by a fantastic young writer that’s going to burn up the stage.” He winked. “Maybe for real, depending on if we can get the effects right.”

            Dorian had a point. Two years was a long time. “Can you think of anyone else who might want to hurt the cast after all this time?”

            His eyes flickered for a moment, and then he shook his head. “I really don’t remember them all that well anymore. It was a few weeks two years ago. If this was a play, and you were the hero—” Dorian looked me up and down again. “Well, I might consider the possibility that this is vengeance beyond the grave.” He grinned. “Banquo’s ghost.”

            I wasn’t sure if he meant Rob Robinson, who’d played Banquo, or just one of the other cast members who were already dead. “Well, thanks for your time.” I stood up. “Good lu—I mean, break a leg with your new play.”

            Dorian chuckled. “I’ll send you tickets.”

Courtney Silvera lived in the Logan Square neighborhood on the northwest side of Chicago. I picked up her groceries from a Jewel on the corner: bread, eggs, carrots, coffee, soda, and some other necessities. Two bags full.

            “Thank you!” She grabbed the bags as soon as I was inside. Courtney Silvera was in her late twenties—a little younger than Rachel—and she had short blonde hair and gray sweatpants. She wore a white T-shirt that looked like she’d slept in it for three days.

            I wondered at her willingness to let a man she’d talked to for ten minutes on the phone into her apartment. Maybe she was flighty. Or scared. Or just hungry.

            “Sit anywhere!” She ran to her kitchen to put supplies away. “I’ll make coffee. I need coffee, I ran out two days ago. Just push the clothes out of the way!”

            “Just some water, thanks.” A pile of dirty clothes sat on the couch in her small living room. I shoved them aside, trying to ignore a pair of zebra-striped underwear.

            “Thanks for coming.” Courtney brought me a Flintstones glass filled with ice and water. “I know I sound like a kook. I’ve just been so freaked out.” She perched on a footstool and rubbed her face. “I know, I have to do laundry. I’m just afraid the washing machine will try to drown me.”

            “As long as I’m here . . .” I pulled out the well-worn program again. “Do you know how to get in touch with any of these people?”

            Courtney looked at the names. “Oh, Jim Forrest—he was so nice. Sutton, well, he could be kind of a prick. Rob was everybody’s big brother. Abigail, well, Dorian was harassing her, so she was kind of prickly. The others—well, it was two years ago.Is this—hey, did they all die in this order? Because I’m all the way down here.” She pointed to the bottom of the list.

            “I don’t think so.” I had my laptop. I opened it up as Courtney sipped her coffee. In a few minutes I had the file.

            Sutton was at the top of the cast list as Macbeth. Abigail came second, although she’d died on June 21 and Sutton on the 23^rd. Robinson was further down the list, after Banquo, but he’d died third, before Felipe Hidalgo just last week. And the three girls— “Wait a minute . . .”

            GIRL DIES FROM FIRE read the headline on a local news website from June 22. Two days after Sutton Marsh. But when I clicked to read the link, the brief story told me something different:

Marianne Moreta, age 17, died from injuries in a fire at home that killed two of her sisters and her mother in her Homewood house on May 30. Her two sisters and mother died from smoke inhalation, but Marianne Moreta remained in a coma for several weeks before being taken off life support by doctors at the request of family members. The fire was apparently caused by faulty wiring in the house, investigators say. Marianne will be interred with her sisters and her mother at . . .

           

Oh, no. I clicked links until I found contact information for the father: Gerald Moreta. “Damn it.”

            “What?” Courtney leaned close.

            I closed the laptop. “I have to talk to a father whose children and wife are dead.”           

           

I’m no Ghostbuster, but I’ve met a few ghosts. Most of them are fairly mellow. They lived their lives, did good and bad things, and they’re ready to move on. But some are angry.

            Especially the children.

            Think about it: You’re an adult, you’ve done stuff—then you die. For whatever reason. It’s unfair. But at least you made it. You had friends, you accomplished something, whether finishing high school or college or just surviving in a war zone. Maybe you found love right before dying of cancer. Maybe you wrote a book, or a poem. Whatever. You’re going toward that white light, and you see your friends and family, and everything’s fine.

            But kids aren’t rational. They get angry. Especially when their deaths are long and painful—like dying in a fire. So they run away from the light and end up back here. Where no one can see them, or talk to them. What can they do?

            Sometimes they fade away. But sometimes they fight back.

           

Gerald Moreta was living with his sister, two miles from his burned-down house. She answered the door with suspicion all over her face. Was I an ambulance chaser? A pretend psychic? An insurance adjuster determined to deny her brother’s claim? But she showed me to the living room, her body tense, where her brother waited, drinking a beer with the TV on.

            He wasn’t watching the show. His face was slack, his eyes unfocused. He blinked when his sister said, “That guy is here.”

            He stood up and looked around as if he didn’t remember where he was. We shook hands.

            Gerald was middle-aged, like his sister, with gray hair and a face that seemed to have lost all feeling. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Moreta.” I sat down. “I’ll try to make this as quick as possible. This is going to sound strange, but I’m interested in a production of Macbeth that your daughters were involved in two years ago.”

            He looked around the room, uncertain. “The Shakespeare play?”

            “That’s right. There have been some—unexplained incidents involving the cast. I thought they may be related to what happened to your daughters.”

            His face clenched. “It was bad wiring. I’m suing the contractor.” He gulped some beer. “And that play—we all did our best to forget it.”

            I nodded. “Why is that?”

            Gerald’s neck turned red. “None of them helped. That man, that—director—he abused my children. And none of them did anything about it.”

            “Abused them?” I felt sick. “You mean—”

            “Not that like, goddamn it.” He slammed his beer on the end table, spilling some over a magazine. “But he yelled at them constantly. Nothing they did was right. He wanted them up there in their underwear. He harassed the other women in the show right in front of them. And they all just stood there and let it happen.”

            “They got him fired. Replaced—”

            “Too late.” He shook his head. “They got through the play, but they never wanted to do another one. Before that they loved being in plays. That was going to be their best one yet. And afterwards . . . they didn’t want to do anything. Sat in their room playing music. Hardly talked to anyone. Their grades went to hell, they didn’t want to see their friends anymore. That’s why they were home on a Friday night when kids are supposed to be out doing stuff. Why didn’t somebody do something?” He leaned at me as if I knew the answer. “Why?”

            “I don’t know.” I stood up. “Thanks for your time. I’m sorry for . . . your loss.” That always seemed like a stupid, awkward way to avoid the awful truth. But it was all I had.

            “Yeah.” He turned the TV back on. “Hope it helps.”

Back in my Honda, I called Courtney Silvera again. “Did Dorian treat the three girls badly?”

            “He treated everyone badly! He called Abigail a slut, he changed our blocking in every scene and then got mad when we forgot, he said I moved like a fat cow—no one got away from it.”

            “The father seems to think the cast could have something to stop it.”

            “What?” She gasped. “We got him fired, didn’t we? We put up with it as long as . . .” Then Courtney sighed. “Maybe he’s right. They were just kids.”

            I had a strong urge to find Dorian Parker and punch him. I didn’t even care if he punched me back. But that wouldn’t solve the immediate problem.

            Unfortunately, I didn’t know what would.

I stopped by the cemetery to visit their graves. A pile of flowers hid the tombstones. I didn’t sense anything, but that’s more Rachel’s thing. I tried calling her, but she didn’t pick up. I left a message.

            I got home tired and depressed as the sun was setting over the western side of the city. Googling “How to get rid of an angry ghost” didn’t get me anything more than a lot of links to The Grudge and The Ring, both the original Japanese films and the American versions. And their sequels. I opened a beer and thought about dinner.

            My phone buzzed. Rachel? But it was Courtney instead. Sounding nervous. “Could you—come over? I’m feeling weird.”

            I tensed. “Weird how?”

            “The doctor gave me some pills me to help me sleep. And there’s this one bottle of wine I was saving for a special occasion—”

            Oh, no. I pushed my beer aside. “Did you take any pills?”

            “No! I put them in the garbage. I just need . . . some help. I think.”

            “Okay. I’ll be right over.”

Twenty-five minutes later Courtney opened the door to my knock. “Thank you for coming!” She pulled me into the apartment and wrapped her arms around me.

            I let her hold me for a moment. Then I pushed her away as gently as I could. “Are you okay?”

            Courtney wore red shorts—tight red shorts—and a T-shirt that barely reached her hips. She was lovely, but I hadn’t noticed how, well, curvy she was before. She flipped her hair back and gazed at me, licking her upper lip slowly.

            “You’re cute.” She giggled. “I feel . . . funny.” She smiled up at my face. “Hey, do you have a girlfriend?”

            “Uh, yes.” Rachel doesn’t always admit to being my girlfriend, but I didn’t want to go into that now. “She gets very jealous.”

            “Oh, that’s too bad.” Courtney stroked my arm. “Where is she now?”

            “She’s out of town.” Okay, maybe it was the wrong thing to say. But I’m a guy. I clutched her hand. As much as I love Rachel—I think—and as much as she loves me—it’s complicated—I still had the usual male reaction to an attractive woman touching me.

            I shivered.

            “Oh, you’re all alone?” Courtney grabbed my shoulder and leaned close. “You don’t have to be lonely tonight. I’m feeling kind of wild.”

            “Actually, I—we—you don’t . . . wait a minute.” I backed away. “Courtney, listen to me. I think I know what’s going on.” 
            “Come on, it’s just us.” Courtney swayed in her bare feet. “I know the place is a mess, but we can—”
           Then she dropped backward onto the sofa, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. “Oh, god, I can’t breathe! I can’t . . .”

            Oh hell. I crouched down next to her. “Hang on,” I whispered. “Hang on.”

            Courtney looked up at me, desperate. Her throat pulsed as if she was choking. I grabbed her arm.

            “Hellllp . . .” She looked up at me. “P-please . . .”

            I couldn’t just sit here and watch her die. So I stood up and tried the only thing I could think of.

            “Marianne?” I looked around the room. “Marianne Moreta! Are you here?”

            Courtney shuddered on the couch. “Ohhh . . .”

            “Marianne!” I shouted loud enough for the neighbors to hear me, but I’d worry about that later. “Come here and talk to me! Come on!”

            Courtney sank down, moaning. “Mmm . . .”

            “Marianne!” My throat was dry. “You shouldn’t do this to her! Listen to me! Please!”

            Nothing. I grabbed Courtney’s hand. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Hang on. Just—”

            Suddenly the air in the middle of the room shimmered in a spiral shape, dark and shadowy, growing wider and wider as we watched.

           And then a young girl in black stepped through.

           “Oh, god. What is that?” Courtney blinked her eyes as if she was just waking up from a drunken sleep.

            Marianne’s body was a shadow, light flowing through her slim arms. She turned her face toward Courtney, then me, then to Courtney again, silent. Accusing.

            “Is that—” Courtney reached out. Her hand went through the girl’s shoulder. “Is it—but she’s—” She looked at me. “Do you see it too?”

            “I see her.” Could she see us? I tried to peer into Marianne’s eyes. They were dark, her lids almost shut. But her shoulders trembled. In fear or anger? I couldn’t tell.

            Courtney stared at me. “What do we do?”           

            I wanted to run out the door, down to my car, and drive away. But that wouldn’t look very heroic. So I looked at Courtney. “Tell her—tell her you’re sorry.”

            “What?” Courtney glared at me.

            It was all I could think of. “Tell her you’re sorry for not helping her during the play. Come on, tell her!”

            “But I didn’t . . .” She backed away from the ghost. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t . . . do anything.”

            “That’s the problem.” My chest felt tight. “Or at least that’s what she thinks. What her father thinks. Nobody did anything to help her. She was a kid. Her sisters were kids. They were looking for someone to help. It’s not your fault, and it’s too late to change things, but she’s angry and hurt. Tell her.”

            Courtney gazed at Marianne. She sank down onto her couch, on top of a pile of clothes, and crossed her arms over her bare knees.

            “Okay, I’m sorry.” Courtney’s voice was a whisper. “Marianne? I’m sorry. I guess I should have done something. We all should have. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Us. Please forgive us.”

            Suddenly her shoulders shook. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I mean—damn it!” Was she sobbing? “Yeah, I should have helped you. And your sisters. I was scared. But . . .” She picked up a dirty gray T-shirt and wiped her face with it, then threw it on the floor. “Like I said. I’m just sorry.” She wiped her arm across her nose, sniffling as tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh-okay?”

            Marianne seemed to think about her words. Then she slowly turned her face toward me again.

            “She’s sorry.” My voice cracked, my throat dry as sandpaper. “They’re all sorry. You don’t have to hurt any more of them. They know. If they don’t, I’ll tell them.”

            Without breathing, Marianne seemed to sigh. Then she lifted her face and looked around the room, as if hoping to keep it as her last memory. Finally she nodded, lowering her head, letting her arms droop.

            The shadow faded, and Marianne was gone.

            “Oh, my god.” Courtney dropped onto the couch between two piles of clothes. “Did that really happen? Are you crazy, or me?”

            “I think she’s gone.” I hoped so. I might still have to spend a day or so calling the rest of the cast. Asking them to apologize to a ghost would be difficult to sell, but they’d all been in Macbeth at least once. They probably could tolerate the possibility of ghosts.

            Courtney looked down at her bare feet. “Oops. Did I—did we—? I should change clothes.”

            “You were fine.” I tried not to check out her legs one last time. “I should go.”

            “Okay, but—” She stood up and rushed toward me. She hugged me again, tighter this time, and kissed my cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

            I patted her head. “No problem.”

“I told you not to call me.” It was Rachel. Late that night.

            “It was an emergency.” I sipped my beer, still tired but feeling better. Especially with Rachel on the line. “I took care of it.”

            “Oh.” She seemed disappointed. “What kind of emergency?”

            “An angry ghost.” I paused. “And a cute young blonde tried to seduce me. But that wasn’t really the emergency, I guess.”

            “What?” Rachel wasn’t in the same room. Or the same state as far as I knew. But I still braced myself for a punch on the arm.
            “Okay." Rachel took a breath. "I’ll be back tomorrow. And you’d better tell me everything.”

            “What time? I’ll make dinner. Or breakfast.”

            “Good night, idiot.”

            “Good night.” I smiled. “I miss you too.”

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