“Do I know you?” I asked. The woman on one side of me glanced my way then back to the tour guide when she realized I wasn’t talking to her. Quinton touched his hand to mine but didn’t make a bigger move—he knew I faced something he couldn’t see or hurt.
“No,” the whisper replied—I could hardly think of it as more—and the connection was made. It was a discarnate revenant. I’d met a manifest revenant before and not enjoyed the experience, but never a discarnate. Powerful in life and aware in death but entirely incorporeal, they were generally angry, frustrated, and malevolent. They’re the things that whisper madness and suicide into the ears of the receptive and depressed. A shred of some powerful thing that had died or been exorcised incompletely, this one must have been the remains of something the native medicine man had tried to remove but could only weaken enough to bind it to this place. Nasty bits of psychic personality, all revenants were aware of everything around them, even if they couldn’t affect it, and that made for a vicious and tricky ghost. Since this one knew who I was, it probably knew what I was looking for.
I edged away from my corporeal neighbors and muttered, “Tell you what, I’ll leave you alone if you tell me where to find the Sistu.”
I felt it laugh more than heard it. “Find death where there is no light, no comfort, between the tides, in a pool that is not a pool.” It laughed again and faded away, letting the energy of the Indians magic slide back into its warding shape.
Well, I thought, it had been worth a try. And at least the nasty thing was gone, I added with a shudder. Whatever it had been in life, it was one unpleasant customer in the afterlife. The unsettling feeling of the room eased when the invisible creature left.
Quinton shot me a questioning glance and wrapped my hand in his but I shook my head and mouthed, “Later.”
Our guide was asking for questions and almost ready to move on. I put my hand in the air.
“Yes. The lady in the back,” he acknowledged, pointing at me from his height over the heads of the tourists.
I put my hand down. “You mentioned the ghost of the bank teller. Are there other ghosts associated with this corner?”
“Well, not anymore,” he replied, “although there are reportedly other ghosts in the underground. A lot of tour guests used to report seeing or hearing the ghosts of Native Americans here.
It was so disturbing and frequent that a shaman was called in around… 1997, if I remember correctly, to clear the place and send the ghosts away. It must have worked, because it’s been pretty quiet since then.”
The old man we’d talked to Saturday night had been right about the ghosts, but wrong about the dates. I wondered what the Indian ghosts had been doing down here, since Fish had said that the living and the dead didn’t mix. What would have made them linger and why had they associated with the revenant? Did they have anything to do with the Sistu—if that was the monster we were chasing—or with putting it back in its box in the past?
As I’d been thinking, the group had begun to troop out and go on around the corner into the bank vault. Quinton and I trailed them but saw no other lingering shades as we rejoined the tour group and climbed some stairs to exit into the ragged end of Post Street.
We listened to more patter about the underground and followed our guide to cross First again and trailed up the street to enter a narrow building at 115 Yesler.
Except it wasn’t a building, really, but a door between buildings that held staircases going up and down. Down led again into the underground. This time we emerged inside a building—a former store showroom with a crazily sloping floor. The cement was warped, tipped, and pitched until it looked like a model mountain range.
The guide explained that the delicately stenciled plaster walls in the room led them to believe the shop had once been quite elegant. “At one time this building would have had a polished wood floor, but it’s now concealed by this concrete you see. All this concrete throughout the underground was poured in at the city’s insistence when plague broke out here in 1907.” The crowd made an uncomfortable rustling as he went on. “They thought that sealing the wooden floors and sidewalks would stop the rats and their friends from coming up through the foundations, but they didn’t think about the fact that all these buildings rest on oiled cedar pilings driven into the mud and landfill beneath, and that landfill is unstable.” Unstable enough, I thought, to bring down buildings—and trap monsters? “Most of these buildings are currently sinking at a rate of a quarter of an inch a year and have been for some time. That settling accounts for most of the uneven floors, tilted doorways, and strange noises you may encounter as we continue the tour.”
Well, that and the ghosts, I thought.
He talked a bit more about the room we were in, saying that it had been in a couple of films, including the original Night Strangler movie—a vampire story set in Seattle’s underground—that had come from the TV series The Night Stalker that I thought I might have seen as a kid, but couldn’t remember.
At last we’d exhausted the exhibits in the old shop and went out. We followed the guide past the shop’s original window-filled frontage and around the corner of Occidental to a dark area of red-bricked arcades and deep terra-cotta walls.
A few work lights in cages hung at random intervals to cast deep shadows into the mist-heavy corners. Once again the throngs of ghosts were thick—even thicker down in the underground than they’d been on the surface.
“Now we’re under Occidental Avenue, but when this was originally built, it was called Second—notice the sign up there. Once the sidewalks were completed, people still used the underground sidewalks as a sort of covered mall to avoid the rain, and the doors on the old street level remained open until the underground was officially closed in 1910 due to a second outbreak of plague.
But despite that, much of the underground never really closed at all; it just became the underworld. This stretch of Second, from where we are now to about where Qwest Field stands today, was the most crime-ridden, vice-filled, and profitable part of the whole city.
“Along this stretch there were several hundred women who listed their occupation as ‘seamstress’ and yet not a single one of them owned a sewing machine. For many years, Seattle’s Seamstress’ tax paid for the fire brigades, police, streets, and schools the more upright members of society demanded without ever having to legalize Seattle’s most lucrative trade—prostitution.”
I suppose I should have been appalled, but after having seen their ghosts—both the adult women on the street and the sad girls in the alley cribs—I wasn’t so much outraged as sad to hear my worst imaginings confirmed.
I missed something of the tour patter while I thought of those ghosts and only heard the guide say, “Once the sidewalks were installed, most of Seattle’s vice, drugs, and gambling sank to the underground levels in spite of the official closure of the underground and was still in full swing when Prohibition hit and gave the old place an infusion of new blood—highly alcoholic blood—and crime. Prostitution ceased to be our most profitable underground business in favor of bootlegging.
“Now, let’s move a little farther along here…”
As we walked down the vaulted corridor, the space was raucous to my ears—filled as it was layers of time and packs of ghosts. We paused in front of a building labeled “107 Saloon” as the guide described later efforts to preserve the underground with earthquake-proof structures and shoring up the walls that were already up to six feet thick in some places. I thought any monster that could go make a hole in the four-foot-thick walls of the Great Northern Tunnel wasn’t going to be much deterred by the stone and brick of the underground’s street buttresses, no matter how thick. I listened with only half an ear to the tales of the city’s halfhearted efforts to clean up the vice and crime in the underground—somewhat hampered by the involvement of police and politicians in the money-making end of the enterprises—while I looked around the section of sidewalk for possible phantom informants. The darkness inside the shell of the 107 Saloon wasn’t dark to me—the space was thronged with a party crowd of speakeasy patrons whooping it up among the thinner ghosts of the Klondike’s miners and lumberjacks. I glanced in at them and was struck by the sight of a familiar face.