by Steve Toase

Enamel chips and the iron underneath corrodes. The water gets in and rots the metal, unseen and unhalted. And so it is with the projector that rises from the center of my dining table, rust spots showing where the edges got knocked over the years.

Nothing made it out of my granddaughter’s house uncorrupted. Certainly not Danielle when they carried her in a transparent white body bag, lifted by two paramedics to keep up appearances of dignity. The projector, the only thing of hers I was able to keep, stood no chance. And the business card tucked in the top. I take it out of my pocket, turning it over and over, reading the name “Mr Aisgill,” phone number written between the cloud of mystical symbols, and tuck it away once more.

I reach under the table and check the plumbing connections. Of course, the projector is imperial fittings and in my house everything is metric. I was able to afford to update my house in a way she never could.

All the connectors are wrapped with emergency repair tape. I check again, feeling for any water leaking out of the pipes. Finding none, I make my way to the kitchen, step over the clutter of pans across to the sink and find the stopcock, flinching slightly at the bloom of limescale around the joint. Turning it anti-clockwise, I listen to water gush as the system refills and I wait.

• • •

Pressing the on button, I can picture Danielle repeating the same action, her nicotined finger wearing away the faint printed symbols. Somewhere inside the device there is the sound of pressure building. A fine mist that is little more than smoke appears above the Delftware petals. The air smells slightly of chlorine. I press another sequence of buttons, shuddering at a muscle memory that isn’t mine. Grease-stained lenses sparkle with light and flicker, then fill the center of the projector with uncertain shapes.

The focus dials are notchy and it takes some patience to settle the image. Some kind of variety show re-run is playing. The figures start vague, then fill out as I watch. A couple tango across the stage, plump limbs shaped in heated water.

I watch the silent jerky movements before turning it off. The projector sighs and the vapor falls from the air to collect in the tiny reservoir. I open the small tap to drain it away, imagining the forced jollity of light entertainment was the last thing she watched. I do not touch the projector for another two days.

• • •

The ghosts come soon when I find the dead space between the channels, and splinter the scent blocks into the hollow at the center of the projector. Tuning to them was easy as if the settings were used to this gap between places.

The vapor fills with static, gray snow, and I almost reach out and put my hand in the air to see if it is cold to the touch. I do not, as I’ve seen scalds before and have no desire to feel the sensation of my own skin sloughing off.

They are faint at first, tasting the familiar in the vapor, and slowly dressing their limbs and torsos in the water. Finally, their heads unfurl from their chests, eyes of phosphorus staring as they shift in the confines of the projector.

I do not recognize them, though I know they have lived in the house for a long time. Silent and lost. Trapped between plaster and brick. Smeared against a house that outlived them all.

Reaching underneath, I unfasten the drainpipe, and hold the end into a plastic pot. Turning off the projector, the ghosts fall as the vapor falls, and I catch the rushing water, tightening the lid before any can escape.

• • •

For several days I repeat the process. I do not know if the same ghosts appear, or if new ones manifest each time. They are faint and always uncertain of their own form. A house can hold infinite presences that take up no space, until I give it to them. Each time I unfasten the drainpipe and collect the used water in my small plastic pot. When it is full, I mark it with “1” and start another.

• • •

They cremated her, my granddaughter, so she took up even less space in the dirt than she did on the land. They let me take the ashes. There was no money in keeping them as they did everything else.

I spread newspaper on the carpet like she used to when polishing her shoes for the week, and I tip out the powder that was once a person, sorting through for the fragments of bone that even the flames and grinders could not reduce. There is not much to show for twenty-five years on a planet.

The jar of perfume is small and mainly empty. I pour a few drops into the projector’s central reservoir and watch the bone fragments float on top. The room fills with the scent of her skin; honeysuckle and witch-hazel. I have to wait a few moments before I can continue.

• • •

The projector comes to life, and at first I don’t recognize her in the steam, but then it is not the clearest medium to recognize anyone. She is not frail or broken. She is not bent by grief, and when the figure moves around within the snow of the untuned signal they walk with no pain.

She does not recognize me. The eyes that glitter from signal interference cannot see me. For a moment I consider letting the heat blister my skin, just for one more chance to hold her hand, but there is no hand to hold. Not yet. I hold off disconnecting the drainpipe, watching her dance in the vapor. I think she waves, and that is too much for me. I turn off the projector and collect the used water. It smells faintly of honeysuckle.

• • •

The knock is confident, as if it is a certainty that the deliverer of the knock should be on the other side of the door. I get up and let the man in. He looks exactly as he does in his photographs. His hair is bleached as are his teeth. He is well-fed and the collar of his pressed linen shirt is slightly too tight against his neck.

“Mrs. Summerscale, I presume,” he says, as if he is welcoming me, not the other way around. I nod and shake his hand.

“Mr. Aisgill,” I say. “Please come in.”

He walks past me and sits down in the only armchair. I turn around one of the dining chairs to face him.

“How did you find out about me?” he says, smiling with each syllable.

“I came across one of your social media adverts,” I lie.

He nods, a look of sympathy on his face.

“Many of the bereaved find me that way these days. It’s the word of mouth for the new age.”

I nod. Even though he is a small man, he takes up a lot of space in the room, and when he leans forward the space shrinks even further in his presence.

“So, how can I help you?” he asks, sympathy dripping from his voice.

I look down at my shoes. He’s not the only actor in the room.

“I was watching a comedy the other night,” I say, pointing toward the projector. “While changing programs, it got stuck on some untuned gap between the channels.”

“It looks like a very old model,” he says, peering at the projector. “One of the first generation.”

“Second,” I correct him. “The first were bare metal, but rusted too quick from the vapor.”

He looks at me for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve blown it.

“It was my sister’s,” I say to fill the space. “After she went into the nursing home, I did some research to see how much it was worth.”

He sits back in the chair and nods.

“I saw some figures in the static, but I wasn’t sure,” I say.

“It’s quite common. The dead seem attracted to the gaps between,” he says. “You see the dead don’t have any form, and they crave it—”

“Do you think they are ghosts then?” I ask. He settles into his sales patter and the only thing I contribute is to punctuate his monologue with nods.

“The thing with the dead is they crave shape. They have nothing to anchor themselves to in the real world. So, the combination of the untuned signal and the vapor gives them somewhere to place themselves. To become. Now, the problem with that is they still have no voice. No way to communicate with the living. That’s where I come in. I can of course talk to the dead when they’re non-corporeal,” he laughs, and I join in, hoping he does not see this is just a mask.

“But once they take form in the projector it is much easier for someone in my line of work to communicate their needs and desires.”

“So, you’re a conduit?”

“I fulfill the role of certain senses the dead no longer have. They can see and hear through me. I give them a voice, and that is something that cannot come from water vapor. Of course, my services are not cheap, but I do guarantee results.”

“I’ve read your testimonials.”

He holds out his mobile, ready for me to transfer the money across.

“It’s half price for the first session, and if you’re satisfied then we can discuss a payment plan going forward.”

I search my pockets for my own phone, click through to the app and ready the transfer, tapping my device to his and watching the debit go through. I saw the payment plan he agreed with my granddaughter. The credit agreements and the responsibility of the estate. For a moment I think my mask is going to slip, but I maintain my cover.

He smiles and I smile back.

“Would you like a cup of tea,” I say, standing, and walking halfway to the kitchen.

“That would be lovely,” he says, smiling. Perfect teeth. Perfect bleached teeth.

“I’m afraid I’ve only got Earl Grey,” I say, hand on the kitchen door handle.

“It’s all I drink these days,” he says. “In the work I do it helps to have delicate flavors.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I say and close the door.

• • •

I take longer than I need to make the drinks, watching through the gap as he opens cupboards and drawers. Looking for bills to see my financial position. See how long he can drain my accounts for. I pour his tea into the already-prepared cup and avoid inhaling the steam.

• • •

He tries to hide it, but I notice him flinch as he takes the first mouthful.

“Sorry. I think the milk is on the turn,” I say.

He returns himself to serenity once more. I notice a small patch of grease at the corner of his mouth. He notices me staring and wipes it away, then drains the cup. This is part of the act. The comfort with hospitality. The ability to drink in gifts and offerings like some kind of ancient godling.

He puts the cup on the windowsill, being careful to place a coaster underneath.

“Shall we get started then?”

• • •

We take up positions on either side of the projector. I operate the switches, watching the vapor rise between the petals. Once the mist is held in place, I turn on the lenses and tune the device to a midway point between the channels.

The ghosts unfurl, arms and legs spreading across the shifting medium of the mist, like shadows seen in waterfalls. I watch their eyes open, pinpoints of light. His performance starts straight away.

He grasps my hand as if it is a fix, palm damp against mine. His head tips back and his eyes roll away. The full service. The voices come in different registers, shifting and dancing until they settle on a woman who died in her fifties. My aunt Bella

He’s good. Every detail I seeded across the internet for him to find is there in his portrayal. The slight West Country accent. A hint of lung damage from the cancer that eventually took her fictional life. The reassurances and platitudes of the professional. Happy place. No more pain. He hits all the beats. I imagine my granddaughter watching the same show, his acting skills giving voice to her husband. The person she trusted more than anyone.

I do not know who the ghost in the mist is. Whether they are one that has appeared before, one I milked of their essence, or someone new. I suspect that the walls are full of fragments of the dead. I’ve seen them all my life.

• • •

The spirits he’s created for his show-and-tell leave him. He slumps back against the chair, exhausted. I make him the second cup of tea. He sips it, preparing himself this time not to flinch at the slight taste of fat. I watch him drink.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a spirit make themselves known with such presence,” he says “With such vigor, but with such frustration that they couldn’t say everything they wanted to. Do you feel that you got everything you needed?”

He pauses and puts his hands on his knees to catch his breath as if the effort of acting such a simple role has exhausted him. I do not sympathize. My role is far more complex. Playing the weak and vulnerable when I am anything but. I turn off the projector and the ghosts fade, the last thing to go their eyes as if they are watching him to see what happens next.

“Maybe we should book another session straight away, while I still have space in my schedule. I have lots of regulars, but I feel that I have important work to do here,” he says. “Important healing work that you need.”

I nod and pick up his cup. He has not questioned why I have not had a drink myself. He is used to getting things others don’t. In the kitchen, I run a finger through the thin smear of fat around the rim of his cup.

That was the hardest part to source. Grease from a hanged man. By the time you’ve reached my age you’ve been to a lot of funerals and know a lot of undertakers, and there are a lot of suicides out there. I watch him through the open door. He goes to stand and looks nauseous, falling back into his chair.

I do not know how long it takes the dead to shift from the liquid in his stomach to the muscles and nerves of his chest. The marrow of his ribcage. Soon they are in his jaw. In the enamel and pulp of his teeth. He tries to speak and cannot.

I say nothing, as I walk across to the sideboard and unlock the drawer. Take out the photo of Danielle, my beautiful granddaughter. Bereaved twice. Once through the loss of her husband and once through the loss of everything else. I stand the frame in front of him. She recognizes herself and dislocates the unfamiliar bones as she wrests control away from the fraud made authentic.

“I love you, Nan,” she says. The words and intonation are hers though the voice is not quite right. I know there are other ghosts spiraling around inside the man in front of me. I do not care about them. I only care about her.

“I can’t stay,” she says. “This flesh is old and rotten.”

“I know,” I say, and take her hand. His hand. I can see him trying to fight the spirits inside him, but there are too many. I wonder how he feels to be the genuine article for once in his life. The true channeller of the dead.

“Can you feel me?” I say.

They shake their head.

“Not really,” they say. I nod. The fragment of bone is the final piece I have, and the perfume is nearly empty. I pour them into the center of the projector, and turn it on. Heat atomizes the scent. Even though I know Danielle no longer lives, though I am talking to her, I think she has just walked into the room in person instead of squatting in this corrupted meat. The thing that was Mr. Aisgill smiles, but I can tell it’s Danielle smiling.

“My favorite,” she says. The figure unfurls in the fumes, dressed in the fragrances of honeysuckle and witch hazel. Dances in the mist.

They stand. I can see Mr. Aisgill still fighting, and I admire him for that at least. She walks him across to the projector, and as much as I wish I could see her gait in his steps I cannot.

His neck strains as he realizes what she is about to do, but there were too many ghosts in the water he drank willingly and they are working together.

Steam blisters his chin and lips as he inhales, swelling his tongue, eyelids laminating into thin sheets of peeling skin. I imagine the sensation of burning alcohol condensing deep in his lungs, burning away his voice, his gums fusing to the raw skin of his cheeks. The figure in the projector has gone. When I look at his scorched face, I see a smile I recognize and smile back. The ghosts walk him toward the door, out into the street. Later I find traces of his blistered skin on the door handle.

When I hear the emergency sirens a few minutes later I go out to watch, watch them load him onto a stretcher. I hear later that they saved him, kept alive with pumps and oxygen, and I do not feel a moment of sympathy for the man who bereaved my beautiful granddaughter a second time and me only once but totally.