Never Trust a Houngan

This is, absolutely, the last time I work with someone who does voodoo.

I should've seen it coming, of course. So, so many problems. Finding a genuine practitioner, for a start, and not some guy who's just read The Serpent and the Rainbow more times than is healthy. But even if I'd managed that, religious types just don't get what we do. They always have to filter it through their own worldview. I told this guy, Grey Eddie (god alone knows how he got the name when he's whiter than I am), straight up. "It's a ghost." I said. "Dead guy. You know. Woooooo." I didn't have a bedsheet handy, but if I did, I'd have put it on. But he wasn't having it; he just went on about loa and gris-gris, and bonye knows what else. But he came recommended, and all my usual guys were busy, so...yeah.

I should probably explain. I'm not - usually - much of a ghost-killer. I used to do a bit in my youth, but that crap's way too dangerous to be doing past forty. But spending fifteen years in the job without joining the other team (as it were) did get me a reputation as a guy you can rely on. So, I became a sort-of consultant. I hooked people with problems (dead-thing problems) up with people who could solve them. Safer, less work, and a good living. Except for the times when, against your better judgement, you hire a half-cocked, half-crocked houngan who may very well have just accidentally killed someone.

I was sitting at home, minding my business, not bothering anyone, when my phone went off.
"Boss." Grey Eddie says on the other end of the line. "We got a problem."
"What's that, Eddie?" I asked, already standing up to look around for my kit.
"It's the vase." He says.
"What vase, Eddie?"
"The vase I knock the loa into." He must be putting that accent on. Must be. "It look full when I leave. It look empty now."
"You mean, the ghost's escaped?"
"No. Think, loa trick me. Make me think it in vase, never go nowhere actually." My blood ran cold (and you don't know what that expression means until you've been in the business as long as I have).
"Did you tell the client he could go home, Eddie?" I was outside now, scrambling for my car-keys. There was a pause.
"Yeah." He said, sheepishly. I can't repeat what I said.

My kit was in the backseat - of course it was. I grabbed hold of it, and ran round to the driver's side. I jumped in, and was tearing up the road like a bat out of hell in seconds.

I should probably explain why I was so worried. Usually, hauntings aren't so bad for the victim; spooky, yeah, a bit unpleasant, whatever, can have the effect of making you realise that everything you ever knew about the world is a lie, blah blah blah. But this particular type of ghost is...problematic. It's what we call a ripper. Starts off like normal, appearing vague and indistinct and all that, but it's unusual in that it physically harms the victim. Just a gash or two initially, but getting progressively worse until, eventually...

This guy contacted me just in time. From the looks of him, he'd had a few night's attention already; waiting any longer would probably have been lethal for him (which is why I was using Grey Eddie in the first place). So, like any good ghostbuster, Grey Eddie told him to get out of the house until he'd had a chance to do his stuff. And, that done, he told him it'd be safe to come back. But, of course, he'd got it wrong. The ghost was still there. And while ghosts don't have much of what you'd call conventional psychology, the knowledge that people were trying to get rid of it was probably going to make it a bit impatient. Grey Eddie had performed the ritual early that morning, and, from the sound of things, had only just worked out what a balls-up he'd made of it.

Still, it might've been ok. I might've got there in time. But now, I was in a traffic jam. Not just any traffic jam, oh no. The biggest, most immobile disaster I'd ever encountered. I've seen mountains less stationary. A tree had come down on the road, you see. No particular reason, just up and prostrated itself in front of everyone. Evidently, the local tree-haulers were taking a day off, too, because it wasn't looking like going anywhere. I tried shouting at it. Tried hitting the horn. Tried praying (old habits die hard). They've all been exactly as successful as you'd expect.

So, to conclude, there's a very good chance a guy is going to die because I'm stuck in traffic. He might be dead already, of course, and he might still be going after I've managed to run the five miles to his place. But I'm not very hopeful. Rippers are bad-tempered at the best of times, even more so when some crazy guy with the world's least convincing patois has just tried to convince them they want to start residing in a vase. Death by traffic isn't something they'll put on a certificate, of course, but that's what it'll be.

I'm going to get out now. Wish me luck.