Free Resurrection House by James Chambers

can decide whether I failed or succeeded in protecting you. You’ve been everything I’d ever hoped you could be, kiddo, and when I’m gone, you’ll really be free. So trust me now. Okay? Go downstairs and let Jennifer help me with what I have to do.”
    Chloe yanked her hand from her father’s fingers and bolted out of the room.
    “You’re lying,” Jennifer said to Mr. Barnes.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You told me earlier that Marion means to take Chloe next,” Jennifer said. “This may not end with your death. Chloe will suffer exactly the way you have.”
    “You can stop her,” said Mr. Barnes.
    “If it’s Marion’s spirit that’s after you, I might be able to interfere long enough for your soul to pass out of her reach but that’s all. She could still come back for Chloe. Saving you solves nothing. The only thing that might is if you let her take you and hope she’s satisfied at that and leaves Chloe alone.”
    “Do you think that’s likely?”
    “No way for me to guess,” Jennifer said. “But I don’t see any other way to help your daughter.”
    “I’ve spent my whole life helping her,” said the dying man. “And what a fucking mess I’ve made of it. Now it’s my time, and all I want is some peace. If you stop Marion from taking me, I’ll wind up where I belong, good or bad. So, I’m leaving this up to you. You’re Chloe’s friend. Save me or don’t, let me have my fair shot or not, whichever you think will be best for my daughter.”
    Jennifer knew a single binding incantation, gleaned from her research. She could try it and hope it would be sufficient to hold Marion Barnes, but she feared it would not be enough. She wasn’t sure she should use it to help the dying man at the expense of her old friend.
    She lifted the hem of her shirt, knotted it above her bellybutton, and then stood in the mirror, hoping for some sign among her tattoos. Nothing came at first. Sweat trickled through her hair and dripped down her back. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, closed her eyes, and felt the room swimming around her. It was baking and hazy. She opened her eyes and felt the pull of her tattoos, drawing her line of sight along her abdomen, over her ribs, across her chest to her neck and the bulge of her clavicle. The black ink flowed like melting ice, drifted, and roiled, and then as swiftly as it had happened, it ended.
    Jennifer turned back to Mr. Barnes. “I must have something that belonged to your wife to make this work. Chloe told me you got rid of all her clothes.”
    “Not all.” Mr. Barnes pointed toward the closet. “Top shelf. Shoebox.”
    Behind old pillows and stacks of books and papers, Jennifer found a tattered cardboard container. A pink, silk scarf lay coiled inside like a petrified newborn. Jennifer removed it and let it unwind.
    “She was wearing that when she died,” said Mr. Barnes.
    He gasped abruptly for air, and then seemed to diminish as if he had just expended his last reserve of energy. His eyes shimmered with dying light, and his face turned ashen.
    A blur of motion crossed the corner of the mirror and set Jennifer’s skin crawling with goose bumps.
    Gulls flapped at the windows.
    In seconds the tapping began.
    Mr. Barnes shrank into his voluminous bedding. His machines launched into a series of pleading alarms. His body trembled, and he coughed up something gray and sticky from between his cracked, blood-crusted lips, and then his head fell back, and his last breath passed out of him. The heart monitor recorded a fading beat, and Jennifer guessed Chloe’s father would be dead in seconds.
    Glass cracked. The noise cut through the air like a snapping whip. Another broken pane followed.
    A horrible noise gurgled from Mr. Barnes’ throat, and his cardiac monitor howled a single, prolonged note.
    The windows erupted inward, spewing thin slivers of glass pecked loose by the frenzied gulls. The birds hammered their beaks relentlessly against the ragged