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13 The apparition quirked an eyebrow, drawing its hand to the three ragged and bloody holes its chest. “A bit late for that,” it quipped in the Bronx accent he’d worked so hard to eradicate. “What the hell . . ?” was all he could manage to say. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but the specter remained: Harry Denby had come to haunt him. And, as if to underscore the uniqueness of its identity, he realized suddenly that the face before him was no mirror image such as he was accustomed to always seeing himself. It was the face he showed to others. “Tell me you’re not lost for words,” it continued conversationally. “Go away.” Harry looked at him dubiously. “Can’t do that,” it declared. “You don’t exist,” he persisted, feeling ridiculous for arguing with an hallucination. “I resent that,” it told him. “I think therefore I am. Isn’t that how it goes?” “You - don’t - think!” he spat at it through gritted teeth. “You’re a character, something made up; make-believe, nothing more!” “I beg to differ with you. I think a great deal. For instance, I think you find it difficult to accept my continued presence.” “What is there to accept?” he spat sourly. “I should have known better than to mix any alcohol with a barbiturate.” “Is that what you think I am? A delusion caused by an excess of drugs?” It folded its arms and viewed him with an expression of mock exasperation. “Perhaps I should have rattled some chains in the basement.” For a moment it seemed to be seriously considering doing just that, then shook its head. “Nah. Too much of a waste of time. You’d just go tearing off downstairs trying to find some concrete, logical source for the noise. Maybe you belong here more than you think.” He sighed. “Fine. You’re Marley’s ghost. What now? I’m going to be visited by the three spirits of Easter?” No sooner had the sarcasm left his lips than the conditioned imagery of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit flashed before him. He scowled and squeezed his hand around the Glock, albeit not on the trigger. “I don’t need this shit!” he shouted. “Get the fuck out!” “Tsk, tsk!” the apparition scolded, shaking its head again. “Such language! I would have expected something more imaginative from you.” It sat down on the edge of the bed with a disturbing solidity, creating an indentation as if it had weight, while he felt his own seat shift slightly. “Actually, it isn’t often that Good Friday falls on the thirteenth . . .” it paused with a smile, but getting no reaction, continued, “But you wouldn’t seriously believe I was His ambassador, would you? Nor would I make a suitable substitute for Marley, whose chains were all of his own making, since it was you yourself who forged all of mine.”
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