Page 3 of The Girl with a Thousand Faces
“This is her,” Chungpo said. “My dear old Ahma.” A hint of irony underpinned the affectionate term.
“No shit.” Mercy cleared her throat then said, more loudly and more politely, “Good afternoon, grandmother.”
Silence.
“What are you doing?” Rat Tattoo said, in a low hiss. “You are supposed to banish her!”
“She doesn’t talk to anyone,” Chungpo added. “She won’t talk to you, either.”
“Shut up, stupid eggs,” Mercy told them, then raised her voice again. “Grandmother? Can you hear me? Please answer, if you can.”
The men were right to be cynical. Despite having unfinished business, ghosts were not always willing to communicate, and it sounded like they had already tried that here. But ghostsdidanswer to Mercy. Always. She had a way of speaking, of putting force into her words, that seemed to draw their attention.
As usual, it worked. The elderly woman paused in her stirring and partly turned her head.
“Is that you?” Her face was still hidden by a fall of shoulder-length hair, black strands shot thickly with gray. “Aiyah, you were gone so long!”
Another waiting woman, Mercy thought resignedly. There were many kinds of waiting-women ghosts, from wives pining for dead or unfaithful husbands, to mothers wasting away as they hoped for the return of a child, to young girls with broken hearts, and so on. She felt sorry for them, but also annoyed bythem. Bad enough to spend your life waiting on other people; even worse to spend the afterlife doing it, too.
Still, it was the kind of opening she needed.
“Sorry, grandmother.” Mercy took a cautious step forward. “I am just a guest in your home. The person you were waiting for is… Actually, whoareyou waiting for?”
Feverescent eyes peered through a veil of monochrome hair. “My grandson. My handsome, clever grandson!”
“Oh? Did he go somewhere?”
“Out.” The ghost seemed to dim briefly, like a faltering candle. “My grandson went… out… when I got sick. He said he would get a doctor and come right back.”
Chungpo wiped his hands, as if his palms were sweating.
“But he did not come back, did he.” Mercy was swept with a sense of resignation; she suspected where this was going. “Did he leave you here? Alone, and sick?”
“He is coming back.” The ghost shivered. “Very soon. Very soon!”
Cheeks reddening, Chungpo edged back into the shadows.
“Why haven’t you banished her?” Rat Tattoo cut in. Even in this cold room, he was flushed and red, too. “End her suffering! What kind of exorcist are you, anyway?”
“I’m a ghost talker, not an exorcist,” Mercy said, sharply. “Interrupt me again and I’ll bind your spirit to a bedpan.”
She couldn’t really do it, but Rat Tattoo didn’t know that. He blanched and fell silent.
To the old woman, she said, “Listen, grandmother. If your grandson was going to come back, why did he lock and bar the doors?”
“I… don’t know.” The ghost finally tilted her head up, and there was nothing horrific or scary about her features. Only a pained sadness in the sunken face. “He took my money when he left. Said it was to pay the doctor.”
Chungpo swore under his breath.
“Fuck a crab,” Mercy said, and sighed. “Grandmother, you are dead. I don’t know if the sickness killed you or starvation did, but either way, the only ‘help’ your grandson gave was to hurry you along and make sure you could not escape death. He waited till you were bedbound, stole your money and your jewelry, and locked you in here to die.” She looked at Chungpo. “Am I right?”
The man glared. Gold bracelets clacked on his wrists as his fists curled.
“No!” The ghost began to cry with black tears, smoke trickling from hernostrils. “No, he would never!” Long cooking chopsticks dropped from fragile hands and dispersed into ethereal mist. Her body flickered like a television with a bad signal.
Rat Tattoo grabbed Mercy’s shoulder with some force. “If you are accusing us of—”
Bao hissed, fur standing on end. He was only a small ghost, but the sudden noise was enough to make the man release his grip in shock.
