Welcome to the worlds of Strange Vistas. Every month you will find a new story here within the pages of SHADIS. The aspect of these stories that makes them so exciting is that every one takes place in one of your favorite gaming worlds. Set within the universes of role-playing games, these stories are told by some of the most respected writers in the gaming industry. This month's installment was written by Greg Stolze and is set in the world of Lost Souls by Marque Press, Inc. Out beyond the horizon and past imagination are ... Strange Vistas. My grandfather died tomorrow, so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised to see him in my bathroom. He's been dead for years now, but it hasn't taught him any manners. "Simone, can't you hire a plumber to do that?" I jumped. I had my arm down the toilet tank, and the water was freezing cold. "Don't you ever knock?" He glared. "If you'd get married and settle down, your husband would..." "Grandfather, I am perfectly capable of fixing my own toilet without a plumber or a husband." To prove my point, I finished screwing the black slimy rubber thing onto the thin rusty iron thing. I pulled the chain (yes, my apartment is somewhat "quaint") and it flushed. "If you're expecting a party honoring your deathday, you're early." "My death ... oh, that time of year, is it?" He always forgot birthdays when he was alive. If you have the Sight, grandpa looks like he did when he died; a man with skinny arms and a bowling-ball belly, dressed in golf slacks and carrying a golf club. He had been demanding his money back for the club (it failed to add the promised yards to his drive), when the amount of sassy backchat that the counter girl gave him overcame his poor heart, killing him. "You're right, that's not why I'm here. The Chief and I have a little problem; a young boy may be threatened with possession, and we thought..." "...that with my healthy young mortal legs, I'd help you check it out." "Basically. You don't need to be so uppity about this you know; I had to die before I got these sorts of opportunities for karmic bonuses... lots of people would be glad to have a kindly spirit looking out for the good of their Souls..." He was off on his "you should be so glad that you're a medium and if the rest of the family doesn't believe in ghosts they're more likely to become them" spiel. I threw a burrito in the microwave, and it was finished just about the same time he was. "... and you might dress a little nicer too, no young man is going to fall for a girl who looks like a tie-dyed Bedouin raider..." "Haven't we gotten away from the reason for your visit? Some of us don't have eternity, after all." We had to pick up The Chief at Club Dead, which I hate. To us "warms" it's a goth-punk club called The Hole, but a large number of "remaindered spirits" like its vibes as well. I don't care for it because it can be hard to tell the living from the dead. The last time I was there I spent twenty minutes talking with a good looking guy, only to find out he was phantom when he tried to write his phone number in my address book. This embarrassment was compounded by the bartender, who was certain that I'd been talking to myself. Grandpa agreed to leave me outside only when he saw the line and heard that the cover charge was $15. As he walked towards the door, a passing youth in a leather jacket said "Yo, golf dude!" and burst into flame, cackling wildly. I shook my head; young ghosts are always the worst. A few minutes later, Granddad emerged with The Chief. Why a 200-year dead Indian warrior would befriend The Golf Dude is only one of the mysteries of the afterlife. "Some smart aleck just requested 'Let's Pretend That We're Dead.'" said The Chief. "Get on the interstate going east." "How much do you know about chess?" The Chief asked. "The little horsey thing goes one up and two over, right? Why do you ask?" "The victim is a chess player." The Chief has a deep voice - one might be tempted to call it "grave." It made "chess player" sound like "AIDS casualty." "He's a what? Grandpa, You said he was a little boy!" "Turn off here," The Chief said. "He is! From where I'm standing, sixteen or seventeen looks little!" "Grandpa!" "Right on Golden Oak," said The Chief. "What, it would be okay to let a thirty year old get his soul sucked out by some ravening spirit from beyond?" "I give. Is there anything else you want to tell me about this poor 'little' boy?" "No!" "This is his house," said The Chief Pretty suburban, but not suburban pretty. There weren't any pink flamingos or wooden Cutouts of women bending over, but that's all it would take to turn it from "nondescript gingerbread" to "puke cute." "Nice place, Granddad said. He would. "I wonder why it's called Meadowbrook when there isn't a meadow or a brook anywhere around," said The Chief "It's not just Meadowbrook," said Grandpa, "It's Meadowbrooke, with an extra e on the end. Probably adds a good 3-5% to their property taxes..." "Now what?" I asked. "You want I should break in? Stalk the family? Ring the door bell and say 'Hi, I'm the neighborhood exorcist, can your son spare some pea soup?" "If you open the car doors for us, we'll just hop out and look around, Miss Smarty Pants." "That's 'Ms. Smarty Pants' to you, Grandpa." I always feel like an idiot opening doors for ghosts that no one else can see, so I pretended I was looking for something while they climbed out over me. "I'll meet you at that Git 'N' Go a few blocks back, all right?" "Wait a minute and you'll see him," Grandpa said. I don't know where Grandpa gets his hunches, but they work. I was just starting my car as "the victim" pulled up. My first thought was "I was never allowed to stay out this late on a Friday." The second was that he was scrawny. After that I drove off - Grandpa's little missions have gotten me noticed by nosy neighbors before. I spent close to five dollars at the Git 'N' Go on loud video games and coffee. When I saw the spirits out the window, I got up and left. "Derek Walljasper is our boy, he's sixteen, family seems normal..." said Grandpa. "...no pentagrams in the basement..." "...but there were traces of ectoplasm in his bedroom. A ghost is in attendance upon that boy." "I saw his calendar - chess artwork, by the way - and he had a tournament marked on it. Tomorrow. Ghosts can't stand sunlight, so I had to go to the chess tournament by myself. Aw, shucks. Chess; nothing if not exciting, right? Two people playing a board game, and you get to watch! Whee! The motif seemed to be "no distractions." There was no background music. No announcements over the P.A. Conversations were whispered. Chess pulled out a diverse crowd; I saw bowtied men of forty hunched over boards opposite teenage girls in torn fishnets and leather jackets. I watched one match between a man in an Armani suit that would have paid my rent for half a year, matched up against a kid of maybe ten or eleven. When the kid beat him, the man angrily stood and, picking up a heartbreakingly beautiful calfskin briefcase, strode off towards the payphones. The kid pulled out a sucker. There was a board charting where the matches were, and I used it to track down Derek Walljasper. He was pale; his pimples stood out like cherries in whipped cream. He was dressed in a wool sweater and a shirt buttoned to his throat. He had that "teenage awkward" thing going full power, but by college he might age out quite nicely. The room where most of the matches were taking place had windows facing north, providing enough indirect sun to keep most spirits at bay. Derek couldn't pick his seats for his matches, but between rounds he tended to keep to the shadows, or to go to inner rooms where there was less sun. On the other hand, lots of other players were doing the exact same thing; once a game was finished, people wanted to stretch out and speak in a normal tone. Nothing sinister there. Nothing sinister in Derek's activities outside his games, either. In fact, they were almost predictable; he was talking with a girl. What a girl, too; she had a kind of Wynona-Ryder-Meets-ingrid-Bergman thin going the looks that make me feel dumpy, pudgy and mousy all at once. Even pancake makeup and a skyhigh mall do couldn't ruin her looks. Dammit. I watched one of her round. She won, I think; guessing that she wasn't "Yung Chow." I figured her to be named Erica Tash. Things got interesting towards afternoon. The shadows lengthened. The sunlight dimmed. Derek came out of the bathroom with a spirit clinging to him. I watched, but tried not to be obvious. It - he - would be invisible to most mortals, and if he had the power to influence non- mediums, I didn't want his attention. The ghost was a gaunt, skinny type with a big nose. He had a Rasputin look going which might have been attractive if I was into madeyed Russians. (I'm not.) His clothes were nondescript black, with an antique collar. I'm not good with history though, so I couldn't make a guess as to his age. The competition was getting intense; more chess people were watching than playing. A lot of them were watching Derek, including Erica. I watched too. It didn't take long to see that the Russian was guiding Derek. His ghostly fingers played across the board, and I could see him bending over to whisper in Derek's ear. I edged closer, squeezing past an obese woman in a Star Trek t-shirt. "His left flank is weak. He wants you to take the knight, but threaten his bishop instead. Mate in nine. "Mate in nine," echoed Derek, and a gasp went through the crowd. Nine moves later, he'd won. Four games later, he'd won the tournament. Russia dude helped him every time. The ghost was so close that Derek was wearing him like a coat. There was a brief awards ceremony - very brief, because a lot of the players had gone home after being eliminated. The ghost was onstage with Derek, sticking to him like wrinkles on a raisin, but the trophy didn't interest the ghost. He was looking at Erica Tash. Looking at her with longing and a creepy, desperate greed. Suddenly I wasn't so jealous of her good looks. Grandpa and The Chief showed up at sunset. The Russian vanished as soon as he caught sight of them, and I sat down and opened a notebook. YOU'RE RIGHT, HE'S HAUNTED, I wrote. (I insisted on communicating through writing after someone mentioned lithium to me.) THE GHOST SHOWED HIM MOVES TO HELP HIM WIN. "I told you. One of these days, you'll believe me right away; it'll probably reincarnate me from pure shock." THE GHOST IS RUSSIAN, DARK HAIR, BIG NOSE. LIKE RASPUTIN. Granddad shook his head. "Rasputin was reincarnated. I think he's worked his way up to canary..." "Let's go check it out," said The Chief. What happened next is one of the reasons I hate being a medium. Grandpa and the Chief strolled up to Derek and started nosing around him almost like they were frisking him or trying to pick his pocket. Derek was talking with Erica, and both of them looked a little disturbed. Most people can't see ghosts, but being fondled by two of them IS noticeable. It didn't take them long to find what they were looking for. The Russian shot out of Derek's pocket like a jack-in-the-box. "Leave the boy alone," the ghost said thickly. "Funny, that's my line," said Grandpa. "You're not doing your karma any good by fooling around with breathers..." The Chief, the Russian and I were spared one of Grandpa's tedious lectures because the Russian hit him. When ghosts fight, it looks like people fighting. When the Russian hit my grandfather, blood shot from his nose and splattered the warms around him, Who Of Course didn't notice. Grandpa fell next to a table, and the Russian cruelly kicked him into it. I just stared. There was nothing I could do. They were ghosts, and I knew I couldn't hurt the Russian or help my grandfather. But I couldn't keep the horror off my face. "Miss? Are you OK?" Someone was pulling at my sleeve. The Chief pulled out his tomahawk and buried it into the Russian's shoulder, right by the collarbone. The Russian struck back at him, but fell to his knees. Grandpa wasn't moving. "What? Uh ... yes, I'm..." The tomahawk was stuck in the Russian, and as he fell it was wrenched out of The Chief's hand. The Russian grabbed Grandpa' s golf club and savagely swung it into The Chief's knee. " ... fine, I guess." "You look awfully pale..." With a tomahawk embedded in his shoulder still, the Russian was cracking The Chief across the head and chest with Grandpa's golf club. The Chief was trying to wrestle the club away or grab his axe. All this time, Derek and Erica were slouching nearby, talking. Derek was chewing his fingernails. Erica was twirling her hair. Derek started to look more and more nervous. The Chief grabbed the tomahawk and wrenched it out of the Russian, sending invisible blood streaming across tables, chessboards and players all. The Russian screamed and dropped the club. I flinched. "Miss? Do you have some medicine or something?" "I have to go now, " I said, and stood. Derek must have said something similar, because he looked pale and was heading towards an exit. The Russian was moving apace, bleeding freely but keeping up. I reached the place where Grandpa lay, where The Chief was kneeling and panting. I bent down. "Miss?" I can't hurt ghosts but I can heal them. I don't know why... Grandpa especially. I put my hands on him... in him, really. And I started to remember. I remembered him telling me that there were goblins who lived under his neighbor's lawn. I remembered him showing me a model steam engine he'd made, putting a glistening drop of oil on it every time he started the piston. I remembered him at his sister's funeral, when he looked so sad but just would not cry. With every memory, Grandfather's shadowy self became more solid. "Thanks, Simone," he said. Then he almost smiled - more of a grimace. "You'd better tend to your suitor, though." I finally turned to look at the man who'd been asking about me. He now looked positively alarmed, and a small circle of people was gathering. Looking into his eyes was like being hit right between mine. His were a deep green you only see on actors and contact lens commercials. He had the chiseled good looks of a young Harrison Ford, with long brown hair to top it all off. And he probably thought I was having a psychotic episode. "Careful!" I said. "Don't move! You'll step on it!" "You're going to be all right, miss..." "I am as soon as I find my contact lens!" He stopped. Blinked. I mentally shook my own hand. "Contact lens?" "Yes, it was giving me all kinds of hell." I bent down and started to busily search the floor. "I was going to the bathroom to mess with it, but it popped out around here." "Is it any color?" "No, it's clear." "I used to have the clear ones too... you need any saline?" "I have some in my purse." What the hell is saline "Oh, here it is!" Picking up the imaginary contact, I stood - and banged my head on the edge of a table. "Ouch! Oh, dammit!" "Are you OK?" "No I'm not OK, I hit my goddamn head!" "Such language," said Grandpa. "Shut up!" I snapped. Green eyes jumped back as if he'd been slapped. "Sorry," he said. "No, I'm sorry, I... took, I'm going to go into the bathroom, put in my contact, and take a deep breath. When I come out, I'll apologize, all right?" "OK. Yeah. Sure." He looked really sorry. Really sorry looked good on him. I went to the bathroom, followed by The Chief and Grandpa. "Do you mind?" I hissed at them under my breath. "This is the ladies' room!" "I'm beyond such fleshy concerns," said The Chief. "I've seen more of them than you'll ever have," was Grandfather's oh-so-tasteful reply. Clearly he was feeling better. Good enough to be angry, in fact. "That red russkie devil tried to steal my golf club! After him, girl!" "Not a chance," I muttered. "Simone, that spirit is very powerful, and that boy could not see us fight," said The Chief. "That means that he can't see the ghost - may not even know about its influence. If the ghost can show him how to win at chess, its power over him must be strong already." "And we know that Russian is a cheater, a thief and an all around bastard," added Grandpa. "I'm going to go look around," said The Chief. "Be careful," I muttered. When I got out of the bathroom, Green Eyes was waiting. I wanted to ask him for his phone number. I mean, I really wanted that number. But Grandpa was right there with his arrogant, smug, paternal, Simone-has-realized-she's-only-half-a-human-without-a-husband look I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. "Sorry I was so snappish to you; my head hurt a lot, OK?" "Yeah, that's OK, uh... are you OK?" "I'm OK." "OK then." He smiled. All I'll say is wow. "I'm Dudley Pendricks." "Dudley?" I couldn't help it. It just slipped out. "My friends call me Dud." "I'm sorry." I could feel a first class blush creeping tip. "It's just that... you don't look Dudley. Like a dud. Like your name is Dudley I mean." "Well, it is." He smiled - nervously. Probably expecting me to pull a gun from my purse and do a postal worker impression. At that point, The Chief appeared by the doorway, waving me over. "Uh, I've got to go, nice meeting you Dudley..." "Dud, please..." "Yeah, uh, bye." "Uh..." But I was gone. "This had better be good," I muttered to The Chief as I went through the door. Erica Tash and Derek Walljasper were kissing in his car. The Russian was wrapped around them both, with an expression on its face that turned my stomach. I looked around - no one. Grabbing an empty beer can off the ground (thank god for litter!) I lobbed it onto the car's roof. They jumped and I ducked back towards my own car. I followed them long enough to make sure that nothing else happened. Or nothing much else; still paranoid about our state's stalker laws, I didn't get too close, but I'm pretty sure that not even two teenagers can pull up in front of a house, have sex, and get their clothes back in place in five minutes, which is about how long Derek and Erica sat in his car in front of her house (which was, by the way, nicer than his.) The Chief and Grandpa wanted to keep following him, but they don't have to sleep, and I wasn't about to let them go two falls out of three with the mysterious Russian again. I went home, took a long bath, and had tormenting dreams about Dudley Green Eyes all night long. I could bore you with the next day's research, but why? Frankly, I'm no investigator and I know it. I went to the library and looked at old magazines, trying to find clothes that looked like the Russian's. Not much luck. I guess Grandpa and The Chief spent the day asking around the corpse community, with a similar lack of results. The Chief, however, did have one idea, which I didn't like very much. It involved astral projection, which gives me the creeps. "All mysteries can be found in the Paths of the Forgotten," he intoned. "If no one remembers this chess player, his past must be there. "The Paths of the who?" I asked. The Chief took a deep breath, which he always does when he has to explain something. I think he's much more content making enigmatic statements.) "Nothing vanishes forever - not people or events or objects. They only fade away... and the Paths are where they fade to. By walking the Paths, one can find lost memories and events. There are some hazards, however." "Go on." "Some claim the memories have a strange hunger; a need to be recreated. All who walk the Paths are in danger of being sucked into an echo from the past. While these echoes are not intelligent, they can... reshape people." "What are you talking about, Chief? How can something that's not intelligent boss us around?" Despite being a ghost, Grandpa is still a skeptic at heart. "Imagine acting in a play - and not being able to get out of character. The echoes are a pattern, a memory, but they can force spirits to conform to their order." We were quiet for a bit. "What about trying some other way to find out about this ghost?" Grandpa shook his head. "I have a feeling," he said with finality "that these Paths are the only way." I told you about Grandpa's "feelings" before, right? On the strength of his intuition, I reluctantly started to trance out. I'm sorry; there's just something weird about astral projection. I like to do it in my own bed with the covers pulled over my head. "Ain't you out of your body yet?"' demanded Grandpa. "No," I said. "Some of us have to do a little more than bicker with a counter girl at Sears." Eventually, I slipped out. I tried to resist looking back, but I always do, and I always see my body looking still and, well, corpse like. "You get used to it," Grandpa tells me, but I never do. The three of us were standing in my bedroom, and only then did I notice that The Chief had his horse with him, and Grandpa had his golf cart. (He built it out of ectoplasm; it is his pride and joy.) "So how do we find these Paths, anyhow?" The Chief and Grandpa exchanged a look. "We can't really tell you that, Simone," The Chief said. "Huh?" "It's a secret, girl. Things that mortals were not meant to know, see?" I noticed that it was getting brighter in my room, but that somehow the details of the physical world were fuzzing out. "I'm not sure I follow..." "Just hop in the cart and don't ask too many questions." The brilliant radiance around us resolved itself into a glittering tunnel. "All right. " We went in, and time stopped. Or maybe it stretched out so long that it felt stopped. Or maybe we moved through time so quickly that I couldn't comprehend it. But when we stopped, or when it started again, we were in a hedge maze. "The Paths," said The Chief "Very nicely trimmed. Now how do we find the Russian's past?" The Chief shrugged. "We look." I got out of the golf cart and took a better look around. "Grandpa? Any notions?" "None." "I'm shocked," I muttered. "And what is that supposed to mean?" "Let's try this way," I said, picking a random corridor and striding off, and I'm driving In my car and I keep wiping tears out of my eyes. I can see my hand clearly as I raise it, see every bitten nail, see the impression where my wedding ring used to be, see the blobs of fat that hang on my knuckles like they do on my stomach and arms and thighs, the fat that came with the hair loss and the wife loss, and now the job loss on top of it all. I'm crying and I'm driving and I have no one. I'm forty five and I've been fired, my wife left me, no kids, parents dead. I have mortgage payments I can't meet, alimony I can't meet, and every day I see women I can't meet. I can feel my foot pressing down on the gas. Lead foot, that's me. A heavy body and a heavy heart too. It's raining and no one will care if I live or die. A big curve is coming up. No one will care. Maybe the boss, maybe the ex, maybe they'll feel bad. Or maybe they'll feel relieved. But I'll never have to feel bad again. I'm heading towards the curve and I'm not turning. I'm driving and crying I'm heavy, but maybe I can still "...fly," I muttered. "Simone! Snap out of it! Simone, dammit! " Grandpa slapped me. Thus I learned that an ectoplasmic being can slap an astrally projected woman. Ain't learning grand? "OW! Hey, cut it!" "Is that her?" asked The Chief. "Yes it's me! Who else would it be?" "Simone, you got caught in an echo." I looked around. We were still in the maze, and I was leaning against one of its anonymous bushes. " Wow, that was what that was? It was horrible!" "I think we should stick together, Grandpa said. "For once, I heartily agree." "That's Simone, all right," he grumbled. We continued on through the maze. In the middle of a path, we saw a digital clock. "Don't touch it!" Grandpa warned. "But gee Granddad, the last echo was so fun," I said sarcastically. As we got closer, I began to feel a sense of menace. The closer we got to the clock, the more palpable the fear became. It was fear with sorrow... and a sense of great betrayal. "I don't get it... how can all that be in the clock?" "Not our concern," said The Chief. "Come along." I took one last look back. The clock said 7:22. A bedroom was beginning to form around it... "Come on," Grandpa said, yanking my arm. Around the next corner was a chesspiece. "This may be it," Grandpa said excitedly. "How did you get in the last echo?" "I didn't 'go,' it just pulled me in. One minute I was Simone LaRue, and the next I was someone else," I said. "It was... I walked through the door and there was Dmitri. Poor Dmitri behind his chessboard, trying forever to best Josef and never doing It. An engaging man, but so serious. Dmitri of the shabby coat. Dmitri of the enormous nose! Dmitri of the chessboard. Poor Dmitri... "... Sikovski," I said. Returning to myself was easier this time. "Dmitri Sikovski is the ghost's name, and he's from St. Petersburg." "Remember that," said The Chief. "I'm going in after your grandfather." I looked as The Chief grasped Dmitri by the shoulders and shook him. This Dmitri looked different - notably having a larger nose and eyes. As The Chief shook him, he suddenly distorted and morphed into Grandpa. "I was Dmitri," he said, "And you, you..." "Who was I?" I asked. "Whoever you were, you looked a great deal like Erica Tash," The Chief said grimly. "You were Anna Tasarov! You were Anna Tasarov, and Dmitri loved her completely." "I don't seem to remember much about her," I said. "Perhaps because this is Dmitri's memory, not hers," The Chief said. We looked down at the chesspiece. It was a black pawn. A few yards away was a black bishop. "Who was Josef?" I asked. "I'm not sure." "Dmitri's remembered Anna thinks much of him, whoever he is. Do you suppose the next piece is another memory?" "Very likely." "Do you think you are likely to be sucked in?" asked The Chief. "I don't know... I'll try to hang on to myself." The next memory was a brief one, but painful. It was Dmitri and Anna again. He proposed. She said no. Grandpa looked shaken when we emerged from that scene. "Poor bastard," he muttered. A little ways away rested the black king. "Shall we?" "Do we know enough?" "To have the best chance, we need to learn all we can." Grandpa nodded and reached for the king... Dmitri sat on one side of a table. On the other side was an enormous man with powerful hands and handsome, chiseled features. Upon his left hand a massive gold band winked. The men were playing chess. Dmitri was black, Josef was white. Josef my husband, the grandmaster. They were playing to see who went to the national competition... Both men played brilliantly. Dmitri was cunning, treacherous and devious, but Josef's bold and decisive moves foiled his every attempt. I had a feeling that I was missing something. Dmitri's ploys were spreading across the board like spilled coffee, picking off a white piece here or there, but sliding back before Josef could strike him, could make an opening. Josef was being crowded In on himself. What could I be forgetting? There were a few more exchanges pyrrhic victories If at all, but Dmitri's territory growing as Josef was forced to become more and more defensive. What was I forgetting? I was married to the right man, certainly. No matter If Dmitri won this chess match Josef would still be more handsomer wittier, far wealthier, a better lover... Suddenly, on the board, Josef made a mistake and Dmitri took his queen. But Josef reached for a knight. A knight? Something about a horse... a horser and two men and a woman? What was this nagging memory? Josef's crowded forces unfolded like a blossoming rose, and his plan become apparent. Dmitri's pieces dried up like water in the bright sun and the black king was in check. Dmitri ran, but Josef would surely triumph... "Simone LaRue," I said. "I'm Simone! Grandpa, wake up! Stop being Dmitri! Stop it now!" I'd bitten down all my nails when Derek came out of the antiques store I'd followed him there after he left school. I'd considered going in, but I didn't want to alarm him any sooner than necessary. "Derek Walljasper?" I caught up with him by his own car. "Yes?" He looked suspicious. "Can I speak with you for a minute? My name's Simone LaRue." "What do you want?" "To talk about chess." He relaxed - a little. "So talk." "Quite a winning streak you're on. Good chance of qualifying for nationals, do you think?" He shrugged. "Pretty sudden, wasn't it? I mean, just a month ago your standings weren't that high." "Yeah, well, that's how it goes, right?" He looked away. Uncomfortable? You bet. "I'm just wondering how you improved so fast." Another shrug. "I hear some chess players are really superstitious... they do all kinds of little rituals..." "What are you talking about?" "Oh, you know...'if the ends of my tie match perfectly, I'll win.' That kind of thing." "That's stupid." "Or maybe a lucky charm..." He almost jumped, turned it into another shrug. "Do you believe in spirits, Derek?" "What?" "Spirits. Ghosts. Unseen influences. Dead Russian chess players named Dmitri Sikovksi..." "You're nuts." He started to open his car door. "Erica's in danger from him, Derek." "You're nuts!" He was in the car. I grabbed the door and wedged it open with my hip. "Dmitri is using you to get to her. I think she may be a descendant of Anna Tasarov, a woman that Sikovski loved in life, or maybe even her reincarnation..." He was looking really scared and was trying to shove me out of the door. "By letting Dmitri help you you're letting him into your soul! The more you give him the more he'll be able to take!" "Get away from me! You're crazy!" He was trying to jam his keys into the ignition, and then I heard the engine turn over. "You don't need him to win her love, Derek!" "Get out of here!" "You'll be sharing her with a dead man!" The car started and he floored it. The door was wrenched out of my grip and he flew off down the road. "Dammit." Four days later I was in the women's bathroom at the Hilton Convention Center. I adjusted my hair over and over until I was the only one there - or at least the only one living. "Simone, meet Paul Morphy," said my grandfather. "A pleasure." Morphy merely nodded. "Ready to do this thing?" said The Chief. "Hey, I'm the breather. I have nothing to lose but my life, right? You guys are the ones who might end up as garden slugs... are you sure that you remember Josef's moves?" "For that game, I was Josef," The Chief said quietly. "What happens if I don't get to play against Derek?" "You will win until you do," Morphy said confidently. I suppose that as a one-time living legend of chess (now a more conventional legend) he had reason to be confident. "My worry is that someone else will beat him," Grandpa said. "If Sikovski isn't beaten the right way he may just keep trying. Do you think You can channel long enough?" "I'll try," I said. In some ways, channeling is even worse than astral projection. On one hand, I've still got a body, but I'm not in control. It's like one of those dreams where you know you're not supposed to go somewhere or do something, but you do anyhow. It's also disconcerting to have someone else's thoughts in your head - especially Paul Morphy's. I read he was mentally unstable later in his life. Maybe it was one of those brain chemistry things that cleared up when he lost his physical brain. His mind was clear as glass while he was playing. In fact, that was what was so creepy; everyone else I've channelled had an interior monologue - a running commentar of what was happening. Morphy's mind was silent; it was all vision, showing lines of movement projecting from each piece. These lines were multiplied in three dimensions, showing a progression through time, revealing which pieces would become crucial in two moves, or five, or ten... Between games, Morphy would fade out, and I'd be in the middle of a small, staring group - usually with an astonished and defeated opponent across the table from me. "How come I've never played you before?" "Oh, uh, I was just, uh, before, well... you know?" "Uh... yeah. Sikovski's ghost was glaring at me, and at Grandpa, Morphy and The Chief, but he wasn't going to try anything; his shoulder was still covered in dried blood. Then I looked up from one game and saw those devastating green eyes. I'd just kicked Dudley Pendricks' ass. "Oh ... Dudley. Hi." "Hi ... Simone? I never did get your name ... uh, last time. Great game!" "Well, I tried." "The backrow mobilization was incredible! And that castling... I've never seen it used so aggressively!" "Uh, just something my grandpa showed me. "Who's your grandpa, Paul Morphy I laughed a little too long at that one The day passed in a long, icky blur of possession. As the daylight dimmed, the power of the ghosts grew stronger. Sikovski looked as solid as any of the breathers who, unknowingly, walked through him. Morphy's influence over me was so complete that I couldn't even remember the chess games, subsumed beneath the weight of his concentration. Before I knew it, I was across the table from Derek WalIjasper. He was not pleased to see me. "Simone LaRue?" he said, with something of a sneer. "I thought the name was familiar. Trying to psych me out the other day, huh? Pathetic." "Do you mind moving back?" I irritably demanded of the people surrounding us. They obliged; apparently pique is a popular trait among chess masters. I then leaned in to talk to Walljasper. "Derek, I meant every word I said. If you just believe me, I can get rid of Sikovski." "Save your breath." I shrugged and the Chief entered. What followed was disorienting; I was channeling a man who was allowing himself to be warped by a disembodied memory, playing against a boy who was being unknowingly dominated. While the observers saw two people playing, the actual number was closer to five. Perhaps that's incorrect; I certainly wasn't playing, though I could see the board and feet the pieces in my hands. I was really just another tense observer, because I'd started thinking; how long has Sikovski had to think about this, the most important game he ever lost? How much time has he had to analyze his strategy and revise it? Could he have found a flaw in Josef's tactics? Given his time and obsession, how could he not? The game progressed as it had in the memory, with Josef's straightforward tactics gradually being eroded by Dmitri's subtlety. "You play like an old man," Derek said. "An old man named Josef," I replied. Dmitri's ghost stared in hatred as I spoke. "Derek, can't you feel him? Can't you feel Dmitri? He's the real power moving the pieces." Even as we spoke our hands mechanically continued to move the chessmen, mimicking a game between two souls long dead. Derek looked down and his eyes widened a bit. He opened his mouth to speak. Dmitri's face twisted with anger, and suddenly he wasn't wrapped around Derek like a coat; he was within Derek, and over him like a mask. When he spoke, it was in Russian. "Not all victories belong to you." With a start I realized I could understand him. Through The Chief, through the dead Josef, I could understand the words that Dmitri had said before, many years ago. I understood the next Russian phrase as well, and it came from my own lips. "Your possessiveness will damn you forever. My hand and Josef's memory moved out queen forward - the treacherous queen who would die to open Dmitri's defenses. Dmitri hesitated - or perhaps Derek saw, perhaps Derek recognized the trap. But Dmitri was in control now, and he took the queen. I reached for my knight. "Check. Mate in three." "Damn you Josef!" "Mate in two." "No!" "Our final game, my friend. Checkmate." It was Dmitri who knocked the black king to the floor, but it was Derek Walljasper who stood up and ran from the room. Sikovski's ghost had vanished. I took another look in the mirror and realized I had lipstick on my teeth. With a quick curse I scrubbed it off. The chess trophy is almost as tall as I am, and it won me a trip to compete in Washington D.C., where I was immediately eliminated because I didn't know pawns can move two on their first move. It was embarrassing as hell, but I did get to see Lincoln's Tomb. Better than the trip and the trophy, I freed Derek. Grandpa and The Chief watched him to make sure Dmitri's ghost was completely settled. So, not only did I have the pleasure of a good week, I also got Grandpa out of my hair for a couple weeks. It was in this time that I invited Dudley Pendricks to dinner. I wore my most slimming dress, cleaned the apartment, and even asked my friend Denise to bake a loaf of her guaranteed-to-impress-a-guy's-stomach sourdough bread. I still jumped a foot when Dudley buzzed. I told him to take the stairs, the elevator is impossible, and then tried to decide how to open the door. I was tempted to slouch seductively to one side of it like Rita Hayworth, but in the end I just opened it. He was wearing jeans and had some kind of metal and plastic case with him. "Good evening Dudley... what's in the case?" "Oh, I brought my board with me." "You did?" "I'm sure you have your own, but this one's got a computer that can record out moves so I can play them back later..." "Dudley..." "Yes?" "You'd better sit down. I have a long explanation for you." Back to Shadis #23 Table of Contents Back to Shadis List of Issues Back to MagWeb Master List of Magazines © Copyright 1996 by Alderac Entertainment Group This article appears in MagWeb.com (Magazine Web) on the Internet World Wide Web. Other military history articles and gaming articles are available at http://www.magweb.com