The Ghost of Tom JohnsBy: Matt MitchellAt dawn Slick approached the Outpost dragging a dirty pine coffin across thesandy beach. He’d worked hard that night and was tired, but still had a lot to dobefore he could rest. A hard thump sounded from the coffin and Slick stopped,eyeing it for a moment before continuing, nodding his head as if in tune to a songheard only by him.When he got to the Outpost he dragged the coffin inside and stood there for aminute. He took a rosary from the front pocket of his jeans and lifted the lid of thecoffin, holding the rosary out in front of him. Inside, there was a gray, witheredcorpse of a man and two buckets of iced beers. He took the buckets out and easedthe lid back into place, noticing the cadaver’s right hand was giving him the bird.Slick drank one of the beers and collapsed in a chair, too weary to continue.Within minutes he was asleep, and didn’t wake up until three hours later, jumpingout of the chair and getting busy with his preparations.Some time later, he was singing, sitting on the bare-sand floor, “

That voodoo,baby, that you do

…” He was wearing motorcycle boots and jeans and a thick blackbelt. It was hot, so he’d taken his shirt off. Every now and then he would pick it upto wipe the sweat off his face and chest and armpits. His hair was greasy and blondand hung down in his eyes. His beard stubble was four days old.In one of his hands was a small wooden bowl and in his other hand was amuddling tool, which he was using to mash the fruit of a honey-locust tree intopaste. Finishing that task, he sprinkled a little bone dust into the paste and muddledit some more. He kept adding ingredients here and there and muddling, occasionallypicking up his shirt to wipe his face off, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.Once his mixture was complete he began dipping locust thorns into it, one byone, until he’d collected about fifty of them. The afternoon waned, but Slick sang on, “

let me live, beneath your spell… won’t you tell me dear, why, when you appear…

” He knew some of the words but had no clue about the tune so he just croonedhappily without care that he was mucking it up.The walls of the Outpost were block, each with a small square window exceptthe north wall, which had the door. All the openings were covered with loose canvascurtains that were whipped about by the briny ocean breeze. As darkness fell Slickbuilt a small fire in the center of the hut’s floor, the smoke rising and dissipatingthrough a hole in the peak of the thatch roof.Beside him lay his leather satchel. There was a chair behind him with a woodenframe. It had thick, worn, mottled brown cushions, and the remaining ice bucketwith a few beers left, covered with a small square towel. His tee-shirt hung over theback of the chair, wet with sweat. He could smell wood fire smoke and sea brine onthe breeze. He worked through the afternoon, making his preparations. It was goingto be a busy night, touch-and-go at best.Later, he heard a sharp thump and his eyes glanced to his right where the pinecoffin sat, closed, against the wall. He’d already put the shotgun back in the coffinunder the corpse, but there were other things to worry about more than the shotgun.He swallowed and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He scratched his headand stood up, his expression stern and he stepped over beside the coffin. Anotherthump sounded from within. He opened the coffin. Tom Johns had been the name onthe tombstone, and he was valuable because he was a man who’d died but neverfound the will to move on to the other side. The corpse lay there, unmoving, but

bound by thick hemp rope. Slick reached into the coffin and suddenly the corpse wasshocked to life, writhing and moaning.Slick drew back momentarily, but shook his head and reached into the coffinand pushed a tuft of what looked like green grass back inside of the ropes. Thecorpse fell straight back into its rictus-faced death posture, still as the night. Theonly things that suggested it might not simply be a rotting corpse were the clearly

unrotted

eyes that stared up with hatred as Slick reached down to slide the lid backinto the place. Before the lid was completely closed, however, Slick noticed the buttof his shotgun had come out from under Tom Johns’s shoulder. He slid the stock of the shotgun back underneath the corpse. Then he pushed the lid back into place,breathing a little sigh of relief as he did.Slick checked his watch, then picked up his satchel and pulled a box of twelvegauge shells from it. He put four shells in each of his two front jeans pockets, thenput the rest back in the bag. He just had time enough to sit down and pull a beerfrom the icy bucket underneath his chair when a thick, deep voice spoke fromoutside the door. “Fear the night,” the voice said.The proper reply, according to the agreement, was

turn on the lights

, but Slickwas never one to follow proper procedure. “Fear me instead,” Slick said, taking cigarettes from his satchel and lightingone with a stick from the fire.The door’s curtain pushed aside and a man walked into the room, stopping justinside the doorway. He was wearing a thick, black cloak with a hood pulled over hishead. He reached up with black-gloved hands and pulled the hood back to reveal aseverely disfigured face: one eye was sewn shut with thick, visible stitching. Onecorner of his mouth sagged as if he’d had a stroke and was also stitched shut. Hisskin had the appearance of tanned leather where it wasn’t scarred or marred in someway, but there were no open sores visible. “You’re healing up well, Rushdie,” Slick said with a wry smile. His accent wasBritish, but he was far from Great Britain. He was on the gulf coast of Florida withthe vast Everglades behind him. The tropical breeze continued to play at thecurtains. “Mary wants her merchandise,” Rushdie said. His voice was gravelly andslurred. “Mary’s welcome to it,” Slick said, nodding toward the coffin. “Tom Johnshimself, in a wrapper.” There was a sound outside like an auto and the glow of headlights swam acrossthe walls. Slick observed the light and then gave his visitor a sideways glance and ahalf-grin and said: “You got followed, mate.” The man’s ragged face managed to look offended. “No.” Slick drank the rest of his beer in one long draught. “We’ll see, then, won’twe?” he said, wiping his mouth. “Hello?” came a voice from outside. “Come on in,” Slick said.The curtain moved aside and a man cautiously entered, wearing jeans and abrown jacket with a badge on it. His service revolver was drawn but aimed at theground. He paused when he saw Rushdie. “Don’t mind him,” Slick said to the ranger. “His name’s Rushdie. He’s a demi-human, but he won’t bite you.” “And what’s your name?” the ranger asked. “Slick,” he said with half a smile and a sideways glance. “But I’m just ahuman.”

The ranger looked at Rushdie, but then locked back onto Slick, and Slick knewright then that the ranger was in Rushdie’s pocket. “Got any i.d.?” the ranger asked. “Up my arse,” Slick said, then added, nodding toward Rushdie, “Settlesomething for me, did you or did you not follow this pig’s arse here?” The ranger looked at Rushdie. “I didn’t.” “Liar,” Slick said. Rushdie and the cop were definitely in cahoots. Slick wasalmost surprised he was still alive by now. “What’s in the box?” the ranger asked. “Same thing that’s up your arse,” Slick said. “Shite.” The ranger mocked offence, then raised his revolver and aimed it at Slick. “Onthe floor, now,” he said. “You too,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Rushdie, butkeeping the gun on Slick.Rushdie’s face registered vague offence at the ranger’s demand, but then heaverted his eyes and looked like he was searching the ceiling for a bird or a bee thatmight be flying around. Once Slick was flat in the sand with his hands on his headthe ranger looked at Rushdie and said, “You get your rotted ass on the floor rightnow.” Slick smirked, face in the sand, knowing that one of Mary’s boys would neverdebase himself by bowing to any authority, no matter what deal they’d struck. As if in answer to Slick’s thought, Rushdie did kneel, but went no further and, in fact, if anything, only held his chin higher still. The ranger seemed satisfied well enoughwith this gesture and turned his attention to the coffin. With one eyebrow cocked, hesaid, “Now, what have we here?” With the toe of his boot he tested the lid of the coffin and, finding it loose,flicked it over and off the pine box. “Ooh, that ain’t good,” he said. He turned andeyed Slick and clucked his tongue and said, “What is it, child slavery? Molestation?” he asked.Slick and Rushdie exchanged looks, and then looked back up at the ranger,who ordered Slick to crawl over beside Rushdie. Then he made them both put theirhands on their heads, and asked them to “fill in the details.” “Well, it’s like this,” Slick said, “This gimp here called me and asked for aghost. Only a ghost ain’t so easy to deliver, see? You need a

vessel

, so I had to dighis body up so I could transport him. Rushdie’s just a courier.” The ranger’s puzzlement was apparent on his face. “I gotta say,” he said, “I’veheard a lot of tales in my time but that’s a doozy. So what you’re saying is… this girlhere is a ghost?” Again, Slick and Rushdie exchanged looks. “Girl?” Slick asked.A loud snap emanated from the coffin causing all of them to turn toward it. “I guess a ghost made that sound, eh?” the ranger laughed. He spat.Slick was shaking his head. Rushdie remained dour. “Tell you what,” the ranger said. “I’ll forget about all this. You two fellows canleave, the same way you came. But just leave this little girl here. I’ll take care of her.” “HA!” Slick said, his hands still on his head. “You signed on with a bloodynecropheliac!” “If you’ll pay closer attention, Slick, I believe I’ve actually signed on with apederast. He believes Tom Johns is a little girl,” Rushdie said.Slick looked quizzically at the ranger, who was staring transfixed into thecoffin, his trousers stiff with his erection. It dawned on Slick that Tom Johns’s ghostwas a shape-shifter. “Well this should make the price jump up a bit,” Slick mumbled. “Shapechangers are at a premium right now.”