A Dawn Most Wicked

The spirits congregated in the saloon. Hundreds of them. I had no idea why, but for every two ghosts floating on the decks there were ten in the saloon. They stoutly avoided the ship’s rear, yet packed themselves into this room. Maybe they—like those of us who were living and breathing— just enjoyed the paneled skylights overhead or the lush carpeting underfoot. It was the main place for passengers to dine, dance, and generally entertain themselves, so, best as I could reckon, maybe the apparitions were inclined to do the same.

When we finally scooted into the saloon via an empty passenger cabin, the temperature plummeted. Chill bumps exploded on my arms and neck, and I suddenly had to squint to see. The room shone unnaturally bright— not simply because the moon streamed through the missing front and back walls, but because the ghosts glowed bright as blue candles everywhere I looked.

Joseph gasped, and I couldn’t help but shudder. It was an impressive sight. Horrible, uncomfortable, and cold, but impressive all the same. Mutilated ghosts floated the entire length of the saloon, unaffected by the gusts of wind that funneled through every few moments. Their cries for blood laced together in a sound like bone rubbing on bone.

I had to cover my ears as we walked alongside the larboard wall, aiming toward the ship’s front.

But then I saw Joseph doing the same . . . and curiosity got the best of me. I lowered my hands until that scratching burn of voices was loud enough for me to understand.

“I will make you pay,” said one of the ghosts in a Creole accent like Joseph’s. “You will pay for what you did to me.” Then the other ghosts pressed in, hissing their judgments in that same swinging voice: “You killed me too late. All those people died because you could not see the truth in front of you. Their blood is on your hands, and my blood is on your hands. Blood everywhere.”

It felt like fingers slid down my spine. I shivered. What secrets was Joseph Boyer hiding? How many people had died—

“You did this.” A charred face drifted before me, its mouth hissing in the guard’s voice. A voice I’d only heard once . . . before I’d killed him. “You beat my skull in—”

My hands clamped back over my ears. Joseph ain’t the only one with secrets, I thought, looking back to the other young man. He had come to a stop ahead of me, halfway down the saloon and right next to a passenger cabin door. His back was pressed against the door as if to let the ghosts pass. . . .

And it actually seemed to work. The spirits drifted by him as if no longer aware. I hurried to join him, and soon enough, I also had my back against the wall. “Now what?” I asked, a slight wheeze in my voice. And always, always, clouds of steam.

“This is the first time I have ever seen ghosts with voices,” Joseph said flatly. “This is unusual.”

“Huh?” I snapped my face toward him. “That doesn’t sound good. Does that mean you don’t know how to stop ’em?”

“Hmmm” was his only reply, but then he rolled onto his toes and sank even farther against the wall.

I lurched back just in time. A little boy and girl slithered past, their arms eaten off. My heart did a sickening flip.

Joseph gave an audible gulp. “If these apparitions are able to speak, and they also have the ability to dredge into our pasts, to haunt us with nightmares and voices, then . . . I wonder . . .” His eyes fluttered shut, and with his hands rising, palms up, he left the safety of the wall. For several minutes he simply stood there with his arms outstretched and his brow knit.

Then, as one, the spirits pulsed. Every single one shifted backward several feet, as if pushed by an invisible wind.

“Holy hell,” I whispered, gawping at Joseph. “Did you just do that? And can you do it again?”

He exhaled sharply, and his eyelids popped up. “It requires a great deal of effort to join with spiritual energy.” At my questioning glance he added, “Spiritual energy. It is the electricity that makes us who we are—our soul. Some people are born with an ability to . . . to connect to it.”

“You’re one of those lucky people, I presume?”

Joseph waved a hand. “Under normal circumstances, wi. However, I cannot connect to these apparitions. They slip away like snakes.”

“Am I right to guess they shouldn’t slip away?”

“Wi.” His lips puckered up, worried and thoughtful. “Typically apparitions are the easiest spirits to deal with.”

“Oh?” I ducked back tight against the wall just as a legless woman came drifting by. . . .

But I wasn’t fast enough.

“You will hang for this,” she said in a gruff male voice. His voice—always the guard’s voice. “My blood is everywhere. On your hands. In your soul. And you will hang—”

“Why,” I blurted out, shouting over the ghost, “did you become a Spirit-Hunter, Mr. Boyer?” I forced my head to shift toward Joseph and away from this spirit.

But the apparition had reached him now.

“You did not save us.” Now she spoke in many voices—children and adults, all coming from the same ghostly throat. “We died because you refused to see the truth. You will pay for our blood. You will pay.”

Joseph’s teeth gritted, and his gaze bored into the apparition’s as he said, “I made a very grave mistake once, Mr. Sheridan. Lives were lost because I could not see what was plainly before me. There is no atoning for that mistake. All I can do is prevent it from happening again.” His eyes flicked sideways and finally met mine. “To ignore the past and to ignore the Dead—that is no solution. Unflinching and unafraid is the only way to move forward. Now, is there any other place the ghosts swarm?”

I shook my head, but my mind wasn’t thinking about the ghosts anymore. All I could think about was what Joseph had just said: There is no atoning for what I did. All I can do is prevent it from happening again.

It seemed to echo through me. The only path forward was to face my nightmares unflinching and unafraid. To own up and then move on. I had ruined lives. I had stolen and I had cheated. Nothing could change those facts. Nothing could change Clay Wilcox and his bounty either. All I could do was keep pushing forward.

Such a simple phrase, yet so . . . true.

“We may return to your cabin now,” Joseph said.

“Already? But you haven’t done anything.” I couldn’t keep the edge off my words. “You said you could stop the haunting.”

“And I can.” His eyes thinned to slits. “But I have seen enough to know that we are not dealing with normal apparitions.” He motioned for me to lead the way, so I set off at a slow pace, sticking as close to the wall as I could . . . and hoping that if I took long enough, Joseph might change his mind. He might do something now. Fix this problem. Fix everything.

But as we trekked, Joseph explained how his Spirit-Hunting methods worked—and it became clearer that he could do nothing to stop the ghosts. Not yet, at least.

“There is electricity around us, Mr. Sheridan. I think of it as the earth’s soul.”

I thought back to page 258 in my textbook. It showed the earth with lines pulsing outward—lines of electricity. “You mean electromagnetism.”

“Precisely.” Joseph paused midstride to flatten himself to the wall—and avoid a bloated man as he whispered past. “I gather all this electromagnetism into myself and use it to blast the Dead to bits. The broken soul then travels back to the spirit realm.”

“Land sakes,” I breathed. “It’s like a cue ball in billiards. But then . . . why not just bypass the whole electric field entirely? Why not use raw electricity? Surely it’s more powerful.”

“Such as lightning?”

“Yeah. Or even electricity from a steam engine . . .” I trailed off, freezing in place as a ghost with a torn-out neck swept in front of me.

“Blood,” it hissed. “Blood everywhere.”

Like flies to a shit pile the rest of the spirits swarmed. They twisted around and flew toward us, their dead throats wailing for our blood.

“Mr. Boyer,” I roared over the cacophony of shredded voices. “I think we’re gonna have to run for it.”