Free Dead Things by Stephen Blackmoore Page A

I say. “You let a ghost in here?”
    “He wasn’t dead when he showed up.”
    Darius likes to entertain. I don’t know where all his doors are and he’s not about to tell me, but about half the people in here are real. Some of them are really here and some of them are just dreaming that they’re here.
    The rest, like the cigarette girl, probably the singer and the band, too, are all products of his imagination. This is his kingdom, small though it may be, and he’s got complete control over it.
    He’ll randomly open doors and let people in. Some of them stay a long time, some are out in less than an hour. Most of them don’t remember they’ve been here except in dreams. I guess one of them died before Darius could get rid of him.
    “I can’t get him to go,” he says. He sounds almost desperate. “I’ve tried everything. Banishings, exorcisms. Tossed his body out into an alley. Hell, I tried to pick him up and throw him out.”
    “Master of your domain, huh? Couldn’t even get a grip on him, could you?”
    “No, and goddamn it, it’s driving me nuts. Get rid of him. That’s the price.”
    “Done and done,” I say. “Any of those bottles of hooch real?”
    He looks at the rows of booze behind him, selects a half-empty bottle of Stoli, hands it to me.
    “Be right back.” I grab a couple of whisky glasses from behind the bar, walk over to the drunk’s table, pull up a chair.
    “Hey, buddy.”
    “Hey buddy, yourself,” he says, his voice slurring. I’m thinking he kicked from alcohol poisoning. I’ve never known Darius’ concoctions to get anyone drunk. Darius’ place is about as sealed an environment as you can get. I’m betting that when he died his soul couldn’t get out. He’s not a Wanderer or a Haunt, or even an Echo. He’s just stuck.
    “It’s last call,” I say.
    He blows a raspberry, leans on a spectral arm. “Been last call for—Hey,” he yells, “how long I been tryin’ to get a drink outta you?”
    “Eight years, two months and fifteen days,” Darius says. I can see why he’s so desperate to get rid of this guy. A weekend with him would be enough to drive me nuts.
    “Well, one last drink and then I’ll take you home.”
    “Screw you, I like it here.”
    “Wasn’t a request.” I pour a measure of the vodka into a glass, put it in front of him.
    He reaches for it and his hand passes right through. Tries again. No go.
    “Man, that sucks,” I say. “Try mine.” I pour a measure into the second glass. Same result. I flip out my straight razor under the table, nick my wrist just enough to get a little blood going.
    “Maybe you should try the bottle.” I set it down in front of him. “Might have to get real close, though.”
    As he leans in I get a drop of blood on my finger and pass my hand down through him, flicking my blood into the bottle. His eyes widen. He starts to shake. He tries to pull himself away, but it’s too late. His face and body stretch and thin out as he gets sucked into the bottle.
    A couple seconds later it’s done and I screw the cap back on. I etch a rune on the bottle cap. Even if it’s opened he won’t get out without my say so.
    I shake the bottle and peer inside. Hard to see, but he’s in there.
    I feel a little sorry for him. He doesn’t know what’s happened. Sure as hell didn’t ask for it. Stuck in his own little hell with no idea how he got in there or how to get out.
    Just like the rest of us.

Chapter 9
    “I’ll take him out when I leave,” I say, sliding the bottle of Stoli into my jacket pocket.
    “You do that,” Darius says. He wipes at a non-existent stain on the bar with a towel. “All right. So, the long version.”
    “If you wouldn’t mind.” I’m starting to get antsy. I don’t know how much time is passing in here. It’s really up to him. I don’t want to lose any more than I’ve already lost trying to track him down.
    “She’s got a sweet gig. Lot of the old gods, they either bailed or turned into