What The Dead Know

Flash Fiction by Hillary Lyon

“You can’t keep any secrets from the dead. They know everything, they see everything. Past, present, future—it’s all the same to them.” Mikinos lit his clove cigarette, took a deep drag, then blew out a cloud of pale gray smoke.

Carlyle, seated across the red silk scarf covered table from him, waved the smoke away from his face. He then rubbed rubbed his forehead, a tell that he was getting very nervous.

“No need to panic, though,” Mikinos continued, noting Carlyle’s widened eyes. “The dead don’t judge—and they don’t intervene. They just observe.”

“Then why are they moving stuff around in my apartment? Why do they make noise when I’m tryin’ to sleep?” Carlyle ran his fingers through his thinning red hair. “Are they lookin’ for something?”

Mikinos rose from the table, adjusted the belt of his black satin robe, and walked over to the cold fireplace behind them. Lined up on the mantle were several odd statuettes, hand-carved from exotic woods. He chose one and returned to the table.

He held it up between them. “This,” he began, turning the small idol in his ringed fingers, “is the Great God Smazdok.” He set the carving on the table between them.

“The Great God who? Just looks like tiny statue to me.” Carlyle reached for the crudely carved ironwood idol. Mikinos slapped his hand away.

“Be respectful!” Mikinos folded his hands together. He raised his chin, looking down his nose at Carlyle. “This is a representation one of the Arcane Gods of the Afterlife.”

“Uh huh,” Carlyle said. “From what religion? I never heard of him.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Is he supposed to help me with my ghost problem?”

“Listen to me: You will take him home and place him on your night stand.” Mikinos slid the idol closer to Carlyle. “Before you go to sleep, you will offer him something valuable—a stack of cash, a pile of gold jewelry, or…perhaps a hand-written note listing all your passwords. And you will ask the Great God Smazdok for assistance with your ghost problem.”

Mikinos leaned back in his chair. “You must offer something important to you. Something secret, something precious.”

“Uh huh,” Carlyle said again. “And then what? I wake up next morning and my stuff is gone, along with these annoying ghosts?”

“Not exactly,” Mikinos murmured. He took his still-burning cigarette from the crystal ashtray on the corner of the table. “All your things will still be there.” He took a drag, then crushed the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray.

***

On the drive back to his apartment, Carlyle mulled over the advice from the Mystical Mikinos.

“No way I’m gonna give this dorky idol gold or cash,” he said aloud. Carlyle often talked to himself; it helped him organize his thoughts. He glanced at the idol, wrapped up in newspaper tied with twine, on the seat next to him. “But the idea of offering it a list of my passwords…that I can do.”

He flipped on his blinker and turned off to the side street that would lead him home. He continued his conversation with himself.

“This Mikinos guy—he seems okay, I guess.” Carlyle pulled into his assigned parking spot. He reached over and grabbed the idol. “Though maybe I shoulda gone to Father Martinez with this problem. He’d know what to do—probably sprinkle some holy water, say some prayers, and poof! All the annoying ghosts go away.”

He reminded himself that his boss, Mickey, had insisted he go see this mystic instead. Carlyle didn’t argue with him. Mickey was a made man.

He got out, clicked the fob to lock his car. As he walked up the stairs to his apartment, he gauged the weight of the idol in his hand. It was heavier than he’d thought.

That night, he unwrapped the statuette to examined it closely.

“Man, you’re one ugly mofo, ain’t you.” He turned the idol around. “Whoever made you didn’t even bother to polish you, much less add paint.” He set the idol next to the lamp on his bedside table. “That’s not very respectful.” Carlyle was accustomed to seeing ornate, lovingly detailed depictions of saints carved in Italian marble.

He went to the little room he used as a home office, pulled out a yellow legal pad, and set to work listing his passwords. Including the password for his late Aunt Mimi’s brokerage account. Millions! It held millions of dollars. All left to him, her only heir, when she died earlier this year.

Maybe it was her ghost bouncing around his apartment at night? Nah, he reminded himself, she was a sweet old gal. Why would she harass him?

Carlyle scribbled the last password, and tore off the page. “What’s a dumb little wooden idol gonna do with passwords, anyway?” He said aloud. “Not like it has tiny carved fingers to enter the codes on keyboards.”

He neatly folded the paper into a small square. “I guess it’s the act of offering, that’s what this Smazdok really wants. Proof of obedience.” He scoffed. “Kinda like my boss, Mickey.”

Carlyle placed the folded paper under the idol before he got into bed. “G’night, Smazzy,” he said as he turned off the light. “Hope you got what you want. Now,” he said as he pulled up his covers, “gimme what I want—peace and quiet and no more ghosties.”

***

Three o’clock in the morning. Carlyle was a deep sleeper, so he didn’t wake when the shadowy figure opened his bedroom door. Didn’t wake when it grabbed the roughly-carved idol from the nightstand. Didn’t wake when the figure stuffed the paper listing the passwords into its pants’ pocket.

It was only when the first blow was struck that Carlyle opened his eyes. The following series of violent, rapid blows closed them again.

Mikinos clicked on the bedside light to examine his handiwork. To make sure Carlyle was dead.

“There were never any ghosts, you mook,” Mikinos said to Carlyle’s rapidly cooling corpse. “Just me, the best out-of-town cat-burglar in Mickey’s organization, looking for this.” He patted his jeans’ pocket, where the folded yellow square hid. “It’s all Mickey wanted. You should’ve given this to him when your Auntie passed away.” He sighed. “But no, you had to keep it for yourself, you greedy fuck.”

He pulled the bed-sheet up over Carlyle’s mangled head. Blood began to seep through the fabric, blooming like a watercolor flower. “You know the gang shares everything. And Mickey gets the biggest cut.”

Mikinos slipped the bloody idol into the inside pocket of his black leather jacket. He continued, “All your stuff is still here—like I promised. Though you won’t be waking up in the morning.”

As he reached a gloved hand to turn off the bedside lamp, he added one more thing. “But now since you’re dead, you already know that.”

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Bio: Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her horror, speculative fiction, and crime short stories, drabbles, and poems have appeared in more than 150 publications. She’s an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. Hillary is also the art director for Black Petals.

Cover Art by Hillary Lyon

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