Read by Keleigh Wolf (final story in podcast, here)
“What’s with the ghouls?” you want to know. “Why so fucking rude all of a sudden?”
Oh no, Derek. Were you blanked in the corridor? Did they stop talking when you walked into the canteen? If you must know, they’re annoyed because you cut their pay and benefits. And frustrated because you just did it, ignoring pre-agreed commitments to discuss significant changes in working conditions. They probably think you’re the one who’s being rude.
“They should talk to the wraiths,” you say. “They seem happy enough.”
Hey, Derek, maybe talk to the wraiths yourself. They’re pretty fucked off too.
And you really wouldn’t want to talk to the revenants. Even I try not to talk to the revenants, and I talk to literally, fucking everyone.
Apologies. It’s been a difficult week.
And, sorry again, but, Derek, you’re being a prick. I get that you’re new and you want to make your mark. We know it’s a competitive world and we need to adapt. But gradually? Take us with you? These aren’t the dark ages, although that’s where we’re heading if you don’t fucking calm the fuck down.
What’s with the ghouls today, you want to know? Why so fucking rude?
You’re lucky that rude is all they are. Ghouls take pay and conditions very seriously. If you piss them around, they react.
When I say react, please bear in mind that ghouls ransack graveyards and are seven times stronger than humans. In this context, “react” means “tear off your arms and scream in your face.”
Not nice, although, surprise, the screaming is worse than the thing with the arms. Believe me, I’ve seen both. So maybe just talk to them before you start dicking around with what they get paid and when you expect them in the office.
And yes, please go and talk to the wraiths if you think they’re so happy. I’ll think you’ll find you’re wrong, because you don’t know what we do, or how.
Wraiths, for example. They manifest. Either to people on the cusp of death, or friends or relatives of those who’ve just passed on.
Simple? Not really. How do they know who needs to be manifested to? Research, Derek. Research.
Wraiths care, and when you cut what we built into their contracts for prep, they end up doing it in their own time. They’re professionals. They do things right. So they put in the hard yards before they clock on, or after they clock off.
But don’t think for a moment they’re happy about it. Don’t think them swaying around with their mouths open and their blank, deathless eyes locked onto yours represents contentment. They, too, are mightily pissed off. They’ve been wailing about it to me for days.
What’s the end-game here, Derek? Reduced overheads? Aren’t we cut to the bone already (see what I did there?) Who are you trying to impress?
Where were you before? Wasn’t it Wellness? Well, forget everything you learned at Wellness. This is the Dark Side, the Cinderella of the operation. No-one likes us, and we care very much.
Hey, Derek. How do you think talking therapy is going to help you line-manage this amount of malevolent flakiness? You know, there’s a reason this shit-show is always on the edge of chaos. That’s because everyone who works here is fucking chaos, spreading confusion and terror as a counterweight to all the lovely things in life. Like Wellness, which, apparently, you left shortly before it went tits-up. Or Angels and Auras, which, apparently, is where you want to be.
Sounds divine.
You’ve evidently forgotten this (which surprises me, given you went through basic training with the rest of us), but angels aren’t lovely in the abstract, only in relation to the rancid fiends we’re responsible for here. How would you know how exquisite an angel was unless you had something hellish to compare it to?
Like a revenant.
I’m going to be frank, Derek. I don’t think you knew we had revenants on the books. I don’t think you know what they actually are.
I’ll tell you.
Revenants are the animated corpses of often not-pleasant individuals, brought back from the realms of death.
Work with me. What do we have? Malevolent spirit? Tick. Fetid corpse? Tick. Enough preternatural strength to escape its own grave? Tick. Relentless passion for finding and tormenting the living? Tick, tick, fucking tick.
The living, Derek. That’s you and me. Revenants stink and they’re going to kick the shit out of us.
Why? Well, not that you’d know this, coming from the land of scented candles, but revenants have quite thin skins (metaphorically speaking - they’re actually quite leathery). When you confuse them with standard ghosts, which you have, they take it as an insult.
When you send them a letter outlining your plans to reduce costs and improve productivity, and that letter starts, “Dear Entity”, they assume you’re lumping them in with passive, spectral duffers like crowd demons and ectoplasm.
Revenants pride themselves on being far more demonically pro-active than either of those wafting semi-manifestations. All crowd demons do is lurk at weddings or third-tier folk festivals and photo-bomb mortals’ social media feeds (“Who’s this fucker?” “I literally have no idea!”). They’re pathetically annoying.
Ectoplasm is what it says on the tin (and no, it doesn’t come in a tin, although if it did, at least we’d know where it was - in a cupboard, behind the soup). Ectoplasm just … drifts. Most people assume it’s vape-smoke. To be honest, Derek, if you wanted to cut something completely rather than salami-slice the overall budget …
Want to know who else I’ve had in my office? Shadow people. At least I think I have. There were these shadows. In the shape of people. Between the door and the cheese-plant. Maybe they were just … shadows.
But, Derek, demons … Bad news. The demons are also extremely irate (I mean, they always are, but, you know … )
Why, Derek? Why did you slash the employee welfare budget?
Again, the devil is in the detail (and lots of other places). Demons possess people, who’ll do anything to make it stop.
Which means exorcism.
Ever been removed from a physical entity by exorcism, Derek? It’s pretty full-on. It takes a lot out of you and requires serious rest and recuperation.
Now imagine having to do that without the requisite down-time and corporate-funded psychic intervention. Very tough.
And imagine that happening every six weeks (statistically, the average duration of demonic possession, from initial entry to holy excision).
Unsustainable. But that’s what you’re proposing. No wonder the demons are even more incandescent than they usually are. They’ll burn out, and we’ll have HR on our backs and no-one needs that. Think about it, Derek. Tell me you’re at least going to think about it.
But, here’s a thing. I’ll tell you who isn’t pissed off. Poltergeists. They have the best gig in town, so they’re never pissed off with anyone, but especially you because you’ve left them completely alone.
Phew. Good news, right?
No! Terrible news. Why? Because balance. Because fairness. Most of my time here is spent making sure we at least give the impression that everyone is getting a fair crack of the whip (which some enjoy more than others - looking at you, Headless Horseman of Mull, although obviously you’re not looking back at me).
When you write to everyone (yes, the now infamous “Entities” communication) to say you’re slashing pay, hours, benefits and perks, but specifically, specifically tell poltergeists they’re exempt, it goes down very badly indeed.
If anyone needs a break this side of the celestial light, it sure as hell (pun intended) isn’t poltergeists. Singling out literally any other team would have been better. Ghost orbs, for example. They need cheering up. No-one takes them seriously. People see them and think, “Dust?”
Of course, you wouldn’t know that. You don’t get a handle on that kind of detail poaching quinoa.
Why the favouritism? Is it because you’ve actually heard of poltergeists? Have you seen a film with one in it? Have you got one at home you’re trying to keep on the right side of? If you like, I can send a demon round to scare it off, although the demon I’m thinking of is an unpredictable fucker and might decide to stay, and, Derek, a poltergeist will look like a whole bag of fun next to a demon. A poltergeist is just noise and broken crockery. The demon I’ve got in mind will inhabit your soul. Again, ever been exorcised, Derek? Someone I know has, and let me tell you, it’s not a pretty sight.
Could you have made things any worse?
Possibly. I heard a rumour about corporate uniforms, with jaunty, branded caps. Good luck asking a revenant to wear a jaunty, branded cap. Good luck getting your arm back after you try. Have fun getting one on a doppelganger (you’d need two, obviously, no, one … two … one?). Enjoy trying to fit one on the Headless Horseman of Mull. Or maybe he’s exempt.
Derek? Derek? Are you meditating? Stop that and listen. I need to tell you something.
I need to tell you that you’re not safe in this job. Actually, you’re not safe, full stop. But you should know that right now you’re hanging onto this promotion by your finger-tips. And being sacked down here is not the same as being sacked up there. Severance is different in the underworld. Something gets severed, and it’s not your pay.
There’s talk of a strike. Think about that. Your “entities” are that hacked off. Think about the damage that’s going to do to the spiritual world. Think how effing righteous everyone is going to be upstairs, when they realise that downstairs is working to rule.
Think about that picket line, Derek. Have fun crossing that.
Who’s going to lead them, you ask? Who’s going to pull together this rag-tag army of malevolence and rotting flesh, this stinking miasma of evil?
How about someone who knows the business inside and out, who’s spent the last four centuries - four centuries – rising up through the ranks, learning the trade and serving her time.
Someone who cares about this rancid mob, Derek: their violent idiosyncrasies and anti-social peccadilloes.
Who nurtures them.
Who listens.
Who can throw a protective arm around them and expect to get it back afterwards.
That’s right. Remember the short-list of two for this job? You and someone else? Who did you think it was? Nosferatu (fictional character, by the way)?
It was me, Derek. Me. I came within a Golem’s thumb-nail of being top dog, diabolical Hound of the Baskervilles, principal ogre of the eternal night.
But you had the vision, didn’t you? And the people-skills (ironically). And a
Power-point.
And, of course, if you ran into difficulties, you had me, your right-hand woman. Font of all knowledge, infernal and unholy.
So Derek, don’t worry about the ghouls and the wraiths, or the demons or the banshee or the boggarts. Well, do worry about them. Always worry about them.
But worry most about me. Worry about your deputy.
If you want to look out for Number One, Derek, keep a very close eye on Number Two.
Watch me, Derek. I’m watching you.
(c) Mark Barlex, 2022
Mark Barlex is a journalist at the BBC. He began writing fiction in 2021 (insert joke here) after short courses at City, University of London. His stories have been published in Bandit Fiction, Flash Fiction North, Bath Flash Fiction, and Your Fire Magazine. He lives in south London.
Keleigh Wolf is an American poet, performer, journalist & activist. She performs as Coco Millay with Poetry Brothel London & she also founded The Little Versed Poetry Collective, produces and hosts the Propaganda Poetry radio series, and is Poet in Residence at Kabaret @ Karamel.
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