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Call Off Your Ghost (for Martin)
Oct. 29th, 2019 08:56 pmHe'd heard that weird things tend to happen in the city, and that Halloween is one of those times where things tend to happen, so he shouldn't be surprised. And yet.
At 9:05 p.m. on an unremarkable Tuesday Eliot feels a sudden and intense wave of vertigo, which is odd in that he hadn't been drinking and he's also sprawled more or less comfortably on his couch. He sits up, wincing, but the feeling is gone as quickly as it came on. There's no other immediate effect, and Eliot frowns. It could be some effect of large-scale magic, but he has no way of knowing where it came from, or what might occur. He goes to the fridge for a St. Crosse (mandarina almost tastes like a childhood dream about a tangerine, and they're good for a sour stomach besides), cracks it open, and thankfully hasn't yet taken a sip when he turns and sees the ghost standing directly in front of him.
"Motherfucker!" Eliot shrieks. He's not proud of it, but there it is. And then he throws the can of seltzer, which of course passes clean through the apparition, who frowns and looks perturbed. It's the figure of a man, his features seeming to shift and warp like sunlight underwater. Well whatever the fuck he looks like he's can't just turn up unannounced in someone's apartment. Eliot doesn't even think about it; he thrusts his arms out and wills the thing the fuck away from him.
It's raw magic, messy and instinctive, but it gets the job done. In an instant the force of the spell shunts the specter about twenty feet backwards; it passes through the kitchen window with a horrible squelch and Eliot can see it, hovering outside in the air like a puff of smoke. The window is covered with a smear of what he can only assume is ectoplasm, in the shape of a human head and torso.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Eliot grumbles, shaking his hands out and rummaging in the drawer of the coffee table for some chalk.
He spends the next fifteen minutes muttering and scribbling wards on the windowsills, and when he's done Eliot's reasonably certain he won't have any more uninvited guests. He looks out the window to check on the ghost, now bumping against the glass, a grumpy little stray balloon. "Sorry compadre," Eliot says in the ghost's general direction as he checks his phone and starts composing a text. "I'm not in the market for a fucking roommate."
At 9:05 p.m. on an unremarkable Tuesday Eliot feels a sudden and intense wave of vertigo, which is odd in that he hadn't been drinking and he's also sprawled more or less comfortably on his couch. He sits up, wincing, but the feeling is gone as quickly as it came on. There's no other immediate effect, and Eliot frowns. It could be some effect of large-scale magic, but he has no way of knowing where it came from, or what might occur. He goes to the fridge for a St. Crosse (mandarina almost tastes like a childhood dream about a tangerine, and they're good for a sour stomach besides), cracks it open, and thankfully hasn't yet taken a sip when he turns and sees the ghost standing directly in front of him.
"Motherfucker!" Eliot shrieks. He's not proud of it, but there it is. And then he throws the can of seltzer, which of course passes clean through the apparition, who frowns and looks perturbed. It's the figure of a man, his features seeming to shift and warp like sunlight underwater. Well whatever the fuck he looks like he's can't just turn up unannounced in someone's apartment. Eliot doesn't even think about it; he thrusts his arms out and wills the thing the fuck away from him.
It's raw magic, messy and instinctive, but it gets the job done. In an instant the force of the spell shunts the specter about twenty feet backwards; it passes through the kitchen window with a horrible squelch and Eliot can see it, hovering outside in the air like a puff of smoke. The window is covered with a smear of what he can only assume is ectoplasm, in the shape of a human head and torso.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Eliot grumbles, shaking his hands out and rummaging in the drawer of the coffee table for some chalk.
He spends the next fifteen minutes muttering and scribbling wards on the windowsills, and when he's done Eliot's reasonably certain he won't have any more uninvited guests. He looks out the window to check on the ghost, now bumping against the glass, a grumpy little stray balloon. "Sorry compadre," Eliot says in the ghost's general direction as he checks his phone and starts composing a text. "I'm not in the market for a fucking roommate."
