A Bloodless Year

Unseasonal snow in these parts. Bleached flakes trace the outlines of the dead trees. Victims from the summer fires. Scorched winter wonderland. Home to a slight breeze and a body. Woman. Throat slashed. Why always a woman? Pretty. Thin arms lying there at grotesque angles. Dirt and blood and snow.

I thought we were going to get through a year with no murders. No blood. I was wrong. Karina says that it’s time to go. You’ve done your bit, she says. Let it go, she says. I flip open my phone and dial her number. She doesn’t answer. Umm, something came up, I tell her recorded voice. I’m out past Black Jack Springs. I pause. There’s a body, I say. And then, It’s snowing. For a moment I forget I’m talking. Anyway, I say, don’t wait up. Okay. Goodbye.

Jackson comes up from the house. Cold, he says. El nino, must be. El what? I ask. El nino, Jackson says. He’s very young. Probably not even thirty. El nino. You don’t know what El nino is? I shake my head. The woman’s body is still there. For some reason I expected it not to be. Karina is right. It’s time to give this up.

Jackson says, The old man up...shit, sorry. The elderly man up at the house…

Jesus Christ, I say, I’m old with or without him. It don’t matter. Now stop faggot tapping around and get to the point. What did he say?

Says he saw headlights, Jackson murmurs.

What a pussy he is. Feelings hurt. Young cocks go thumping around with emotion and forgiveness. Expression this and that. Not one of them can handle a stern voice or eye contact, much less something more. Something real.

What time? I ask. About three in the morning, Jackson says. Bullshit. That old fart is in bed by nine, I say. Well, that’s what he said. Says he got up this morning to feed the cows. Found the body. Called it in.

I see two cows on the horizon. Thin and distraught. Silhouetted against the winter sky. Gray on gray. Sinewy meat. Diseased. Thank god Karina got me off that stuff years ago. It gives you cancer, she said. They pump them full of chemicals. Slaughter them by the hundreds. Cutting machines. Nothing done by man no more. Everything machines. In the end the only thing human will be art. And this shit. Machines never solved no murder.

Phone rings. A number I don’t recognize. 512. Austin number. No answer but they leave a message. Who was that? Jackson asks.

Last day of the year, I say. Forty years of this shit and they get me on the last day of the year. Huh? Jackson asks. A bloodless year, I say. No murders. One goddamned time I would have taken a bloodless year.

Really? Jackson says. You’ve never gone a year without murders? Jesus. That’s fucked up. It’s not like this is Chicago, you know what I mean?

Karina and I in church. It was during the summer fires. The whole sky was dark with smoke. Noon. No rain for weeks. Preacher said, these fires will cleanse us. He said, it is God’s way. To make something new from something old. Karina saying Amen whenever they ask her to. You see it in the big cities, Preacher continued. See it in the New Yorks. The Los Angeleses. You see it in the Chicagos, he said. Like Sodom and Gomorrah before them, these places have turned their backs on God, and for that He will punish them. And he will do the same to us. Even here in Texas, he will do the same to us. Unless we accept Christ into our hearts. Into our homes. Our families. And when we do that, he will protect us. Each and every one of us. He will protect.

Another phone call. Unknown. 512. Austin. Another message.

Can I help you gentleman? A young woman. Beautiful. Sandy blonde hair. Jackson’s age maybe. Dressed like a rancher. Cowboy boots. Brown. Blue jeans. Checkered shirt underneath a Carhartt coat. Also brown. Freckles on pale skin. Rosy cheeks from the cold. Perfect teeth. Strong jaw. Pursed lips.

Ma’am? Jackson says. Panting like a dog. My grandfather owns the land, she says. And the house. He said ya’ll were down here. He doesn’t know the days of the week, so there’s no telling what he said to ya’ll. I didn’t know if I could help. I’m Elise.

Phillip Jackson, he says. Detective. And this is…

Landry, I say. Marcus Landry. Firm handshake. Eye contact. Slight smile. Fuck me eyes not seen since my youth.

Can I invite you up to the house? she says. It’s freezing out here. Hot coffee?

I look at the body while Jackson says, That would be kind of you, miss. For some reason, she never remarked on it. Never even looked at it. Blue face. Lost eyes. Dried blood like a necklace. It could almost be her twin. Same blonde hair. Same build.

We walk up the hill to the house. The cows scatter. Snow falls. I dig my hands deeper into my coat. My blood is too thin for this weather. Karina came from North Dakota. Long time ago. She would laugh at me. Call me a wimp. My Karina. I smile. Jackson is talking up ahead.

You go to school there in Austin? he asks. Yep, she says. Senior. Go Horns. I come out every weekend to see Papa, but it took me so long this morning. Roads are terrible. Ice everywhere. Wrecks everywhere. We’re just not used to this weather, you know? Don’t have the equipment. Salt, or whatever. People don’t know how to drive in it. So dangerous.

My phone rings. Same number. Like lightning I am hit. Karina. My Karina. She is heading to Austin today. Doctors appointments. Icy roads.

Hello, I say. A pause. A voice on the line. Is this Mr. Marcus Landry? it asks.


Written by: Logan Theissen
Photograph by: Michael Ken

Common Denominators

When we last saw Anna, she was battling a particularly difficult ghost who attacked her in a parking garage. The ghost came to Anna's attention through her client Suri, whom the ghost haunted for fourteen years, inhabiting a series of different men. With Suri recovering from the ghost's latest attempt on her life, Anna plans her next move.  Read the whole Anna the Extractor Series--"The Extractor," "Bury Their Own," "Beloved," "A Tremor in Your Name," and "Stress in the Workplace," and "Calling" (an introduction)--to learn more about Anna and her supernatural adventures.

Anna leans against the cement wall at the edge of Allen Park with one foot propped up and her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets. Detective Michael Cohen called her yesterday evening to set up an appointment to discuss some of the facts regarding her previous client, Suri. The police found Anna’s profession amusing to say the least; it’s not everyday you meet a chick exorcist. After a few questions and making sure she wasn’t an accomplice for Suri’s attempted murder, they let her go.

A man with light brown hair and glasses approaches her from the sidewalk, an obsessive shine to his dress shoes and a too-crisp look to his windbreaker.

“Miss Hirsch? I’m Detective…”

“Cohen. Yeah, I know. It’s not like all my best friends are cops,” Anna says.

They shake hands and make their way over to a wrought-iron bench, which felt freezing through Anna’s skinny jeans.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions about Suri Mathis, just to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

Anna does not make eye contact, but looks out at the river, breathing in the chill of an early morning. Detective Cohen clears his throat.

“Miss Mathis was your client, correct?”

“Listen, man. If you’re just going to ask me a bunch of questions that you already know the answer to…”

“Hey, I come in peace,” Cohen says, hands lifted in surrender.

Anna meets his gaze and folds her arms over her chest as she says, “She’s been haunted by the same ghost for fourteen years. She hired me to extract it.”

“And were you able to?”

“Not entirely.”

“Did Miss Mathis happen to mention any characteristics about her assailant? His lifestyle, habits, hobbies?”

“No.”

“What about her previous assailants? There have been at least thirteen others, I’m assuming.”

Anna shakes her head. “She only described her dad. She said he drank. A lot.”

Detective Cohen nods, pulling out a large envelope from inside his jacket. He reveals a handful of photographs depicting dead women, all having suffered from different forms of violence.

“These women died within the last two weeks. There isn’t a common denominator that makes them targets. We’ve detained five of the six assailants involved in their murders. And you know what, Miss Hirsch? They’re the ones with stuff in common.”

Anna frowns, brow furrowed.

“Each one suffered from temporary amnesia when they committed the crime.”

“I didn’t realize that was a thing…”

“At first, we thought they’d all been drinking, blacked out, and then killed their girlfriends, wives, daughters. It was especially compelling when alcoholism came up in some of their histories. But when the blood alcohol concentration wasn’t matching up, it made things a little strange. We couldn’t just call it domestic violence under the influence.”

Detective Cohen puts away the photographs and leans back, draping one arm over the back of the bench.

“Suri’s boyfriend didn’t remember trying to kill her,” Cohen continues. “Neither did any of the others with restraining orders. I checked.”

“So, you’re telling me that the police department is willing to follow a lead suggesting possession by ghosts?” Anna asks through a scoff.

“Well, not the department. Just me.”

Anna scratches the back of her head and sighs, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. Detective Cohen folds his arms over his chest and sighs.

“My dad beat my mom once when I was in high school. He’d never hurt her before. And he’d never been a drinker, but all of a sudden he couldn’t keep enough Icehouse in the fridge. One night, he just started wailing on her. I got between them and punched my dad square in the eye. My mom screamed his name and then...it was the strangest thing. It was like a light turning on. He didn’t know what he’d just done, only that it was horrible.”

“What’s his name?” Anna asks.

“Huh?” Cohen murmurs, wading through the memory.

“You said he came to when your mom screamed his name.”

“Oh. Yeah. Lucas. His name’s Lucas.”

“Fucking hell,” Anna breathes, standing up and pulling out her cigarettes.

“What’s wrong with Lucas?” the detective asks, startled by her reaction.

She turns on him with a cigarette dangling from her lips and says, “That’s the goddamn ghost’s name, Cohen. The one who’s been haunting Suri. Your dad snapped out of it because your mom said the ghost’s name. That’s the power. She cast him out.”

“Jesus. This is unbelievable.”

“Listen, man. You better start believing real quick if you want this shit to stop.”

Anna finally gets her cigarette lit and sucks in, closing her eyes like it’s saving her life. It’s supposed to be so simple. Get the ghost’s name. Ask what he wants. Give him what he wants. Collect the money. But Lucas is playing a game. He’s making men kill the women they love most in their lives, and they end up alone.

“Just like me,” Anna whispers, remembering what Lucas said when she encountered him last.

Detective Cohen watches her, a question forming on his lips.

“That’s what he said. ‘All alone, just like me.’ He’s reliving something,” she says. “He’s reliving what he did.”

“How do we make him stop?” Cohen asks.

“He’s raging. We’ve gotta calm him down. I’ve gotta talk to him, but I need him to trust me. If I can get him to show himself to me - to haunt me - then I can help him.”

“Anna, he’s a murderer. He doesn’t deserve help,” Cohen states.

Anna grabs the collar of his windbreaker and yanks Cohen toward her with her fists. She looks him in the eye, noses touching.

“Look, asshole. No one deserves anything. We don’t deserve mercy. We don’t deserve justice. But if you want women to stop dying, then I need to help him.”

“And what happens if you help him?”

“He’ll cross over,” Anna says, letting go and stepping back. “And then whatever god you believe in will deal with him.”

Written by: Natasha Akery

Photograph by: Nathan Mansakahn