Noncorporeal II: Noncorporeal, #2

NONCORPOREAL II

A BALSAMO

Copyright © 2024 by Inkd Publishing LLC

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Ghost in the Graveyard © 2024 by B. K. Wellman

Tomorrow's Ghost © 2024 by Beverle Graves Myers

Disciplinary Measures © 2024 by Simon J. Plant

Mapmaker of the Underworld © 2024 by Akis Linardos

Thumpdrag © 2024 by John A Bukowski

Haunting Henry © 2024 by Aimee Kluck

Third Wheel © 2024 by Kevin Hopson

The Halcyon © 2024 by Andrea L Staum

The Dark © 2024 by L.N. Hunter

Secrets of the Last Mine © 2024 by C.A. Verstraete

X Marks the Spot © 2024 by Michele Cacano

GH-0057 © 2024 by Siena Buchanan

The Wedding Band © 2024 by S. K. Arnette

The Intercom © 2024 by Cate Moyle

A Lonely Death © 2024 by N. M. Cedeño

Backdraft of Secrets © 2024 by Mark Beard

Silvertone © 2024 by Madelyn Lopez

The Tomb of Ramses VIII © 2024 by A.R.R. Ash

Bottom Drawer © 2024 by Kevin A Davis

CONTENTS

Introduction

The Tomb of Ramses VIII

A.R.R. Ash

Ghost In the Graveyard

B.K. Wellman

Tomorrow’s Ghost

Beverle Graves Myers

Bottom Drawer

Kevin A Davis

The Intercom

Cate Moyle

The Dark

L.N. Hunter

A Lonely Death

N.M. Cedeño

Haunting Henry

Aimee Kluck

The Halcyon

Andrea L. Staum

Third Wheel

Kevin Hopson

The Wedding Band

S.K. Arnette

Mapmaker of the Underworld

Akis Linardos

X Marks the Spot

Michele Cacano

Thumpdrag

John A Bukowski

Silvertone

Madelyn Lopez

GH-0057

Siena Buchanan

Backdraft of Secrets

Mark Beard

Disciplinary Measures

Simon J. Plant

Secrets of the Last Mine

C.A. Verstraete

Tuckerized

Acknowledgments

Also by Inkd Publishing

INTRODUCTION

Dear Reader,

If you love spooky stories and noncorporeal mysteries, then you are in the right place.  We have put together an eclectic collection of stories for you in Noncorporeal II that span many genres.  Some of the entities are prone to mischief and mayhem, while some may just need a nudge to the next realm of existence. Whether you like your noncorporeal entities sweet, salty, or outright terrifying you will find something in this anthology that resonates with you. 

The authors in this anthology come from different countries and backgrounds.  Some you may recognize, and some are new on the scene.  If you particularly like an individual story I encourage you to look up the author and see what else they have done.  Consider giving them a like and share on social media as well.  I have really enjoyed all of the stories that I chose to showcase in this anthology and hope that you will as well.

A. Balsamo

Graduating with a major in Communications and a minor in English in 1984 A. Balsamo started her editing journey in the public affairs department of a major market radio station in Miami.  She has been editing the spoken word in the legal arena since 1985.  She does freelance editing and proofreading for a number of authors, and enjoys the opportunity to read and edit the diverse stories submitted to the Inkd Pub anthologies.

THE TOMB OF RAMSES VIII

A.R.R. ASH

IMPERIAL GRAND HOTEL, MACAU

The acrid smoke from three cigars hovered above the baccarat table. One man savored no tobacco but held a glass of absinth with a single sphere of ice. His drink never seemed to empty and, if any of the other four players were asked, they likely could not recall his sipping once of the green spirit.

Player wins, the croupier announced in Chinese. She wore a crisp white shirt with a black tie.

Among the players—two women and three men—one of each muttered in loss, while the others collected their winnings.

Next bet. The croupier made a sweeping gesture to the table.

Dressed in a tapering, slim-fitting suit of Italian design in dark blue, the absinth-clutching man slid chips valuing forty thousand yuan to the Player betting area of the table.

The woman to his right shifted in her seat to glance at the man. She drew on her Mayan Sicar, savoring the unique flavor profile of the cigar that was as much delicacy as cultural antiquity, and blew the smoke into the man’s face.

The gray fume swirled about his wan, angular, clean-shaven countenance, and left a smile upon his pale lips in its passing. Without so much as a symbolic cough, the man said in fluent Chinese, Such childishness, Miss…?

The woman, wearing a diamond-studded choker above a princess necklace set with cabochon rubies, returned his condescending smile with apricot lips and answered in French, You always bet on ‘Player.’ Beneath the smoke, she smelled of lavender and rose.

The man matched her language in his response. I always bet on myself. He extended his thin-fingered hand. I am Lord Ruthven.

The woman turned away and slid a matching pile of chips to Dealer.

The croupier drew an ace and a three of clubs—

If everyone will kindly remain seated and leave your hands visible on the table. The man, wearing a functional gray suit, spoke English with a Scottish accent.

Accompanying the man were two stiff-backed officers, whose badges depicted five stars above the Tiananmen Gate, within a circle of grain ears, all upon a shield above pine branches.

The man’s gaze moved over the five players and came to rest on Lord Ruthven.

Ruthven met his look with a gray-eyed stare. In an almost bored tone, he said, Investigator Barclay.

Lord Ruthven. The Scot ran a hand through his close-cropped red hair. I would like to ask you some questions.

Ruthven tilted his head in a show of amusement and answered in flawless English, Interpol has no jurisdiction here.

That is why I have the officers of the Public Security Police with me. The investigator’s tone was crisp, formal. What are you afraid of, Lord Ruthven?

Ruthven smiled and spread his hands, palms up, indicating that he had nothing to hide. I am flattered you would come all this way, Investigator. He delivered the comment with no hint of mocking.

I wouldn’t be if I were you. Before Ruthven could offer a rejoinder, Investigator Barclay continued, Tell me, where were you between the hours of midnight and two a.m.?

Oh, what has happened? Ruthven asked, his expression opening to match the curiosity in his tone.

"I suspect you know very well what happened. The Admonitions of the Instructress to the Great Ladies by the great Chinese painter Gu Kaishi, which was on temporary display at the casino, went missing. Now, where were you between twelve and two?"

Ruthven nodded solemnly. Yes, I knew the painting was on display, and I even had occasion to view it—a singular work, indeed—but I was here nearly all evening, as everyone here can attest. He picked up his full glass of absinth.

Nearly— Investigator Barclay began.

Ruthven continued, I do recall returning to my room, briefly, as I’m sure the security cameras will confirm, but I did not go anywhere else, and I certainly was nowhere near that masterful piece during that time.

The investigator stared at Ruthven for some time as if engaged in some silent contest. Finally, he exhaled, and his shoulders sagged, I did check those cameras. But regardless of what they show—or didn’t show—we are onto you, and it is only a matter of time. I trust you will not mind if we search your room, Lord Ruthven?

Ruthven set down his unsipped glass. Of course. However, Investigator, I will expect an official apology when your search comes up empty.

RUTHVEN CASTLE (FORMERLY HUNTINGTOWER CASTLE), PERTH, SCOTLAND

The lone castle sat amid a swarded field at the end of a quiet road. Its square tower and high walls stood as silent sentries over the moonlit countryside. The interior of the castle, however, was vibrant and alive with soft lighting and lively conversation of the fifty guests.

Those guests gathered in groups around various pieces of art, each individually displayed within a lighted alcove, and speculated as to the authenticity of each or how the host had acquired them.

It appears to be genuine, said a German man, dressed in a navy blue, shawl lapel tuxedo. He leaned forward toward Rembrandt’s The Storm on the Sea of Galilee.

I assure you, it is quite authentic, Ruthven said, gliding toward the clique.

How ever did you acquire it, Lord Ruthven? a woman asked, her champagne-colored cocktail dress sparkled with woven diamonds. It was believed stolen decades ago.

Ruthven’s answering smile was innocent and as genuine as the painting. Frau Becker, you understand, I cannot divulge such trade secrets. Ruthven’s German was without accent.

Breathlessly, the woman said, "Every piece here—Raphael’s Portrait of a Young Man, Vase with Lychnis by Van Gogh, the Commemorative Fabergé egg of Alexander III, and all the others—was believed lost…or stolen."

Did I not promise a viewing unlike any other? Ruthven returned, the brightness of his smile rivaling that of the lighting.

Did you invite us here merely to brag? the man asked, a slight edge to his voice. I shall give you one hundred million euros for it.

My dear Herr Becker, what need have I for another hundred million? I am a lover of the art itself, which is why I invited you all to this…castle-warming, because I believe you all capable of similar appreciation. None of my pieces are for sale at any price.

With a gesture, Ruthven beckoned over a tuxedo-clad servant bearing a tray of fluted glasses. Please, enjoy my hospitality, Herr and Frau Becker, and savor the art.

A woman in a red dress like the color of a fire alarm caught Ruthven’s attention, and he moved with the gracefulness of a cat toward the woman.

Mademoiselle, welcome to my home, he greeted with a flourish, switching seamlessly to French. The scent of lavender and rose filled his awareness.

The woman, holding a fluted glass of Armand De Brignac Brut, did not turn her attention from the piece—The Admonitions of the Instructress to the Great Ladies. "It was you. How ever did you pull that off?"

I mean no offense, Mademoiselle, but I had never seen you until that night in Macau. And now, I have seen you twice in as many months. If did not know better, I might think you were stalking me. His tone sharpened. How did you secure an invitation?

The woman turned to him, her aspect stern. Then, the subtle lines around her eyes wrinkled, and dimples formed at the corners of her mouth. My apologies, Lord Ruthven, my name is Amélie Boucher, and I am the guest of Prince Kadir bin Faheem.

Ah, I see. His Highness and I are long acquaintances.

The woman appeared to take that as an invitation to expound and opened her mouth to speak, but Ruthven continued, Are you a connoisseur of art, Mademoiselle Boucher, as well as of cigars?

Indeed, Lord Ruthven. You have an enviable collection. That chess set is early Sassanid era, circa 600 B.C.E., is it not?

Indeed, Mademoiselle. You have a good eye. That set was owned by Emperor Khosrow II himself. I do take great pride and pleasure in my collection.

Amélie sipped from her glass, and a slight rosiness touched her cheeks. At the risk of sounding sycophantic, I must say, you have a lovely home as well.

Ruthven’s smile engulfed his face. Much thanks, Mademoiselle Boucher. I repurchased my ancestral estate and only recently completed the upgrades to give my art a permanent home. Thus, this little gathering. For what good is art unshared?

Quite true, Lord Ruthven. Her mouth and eyes widened as if in sudden discovery. Perhaps you’d care to visit my villa on the Seine? Though, I admit, my own collection does not contain the rarities of your own, I daresay you’d find quite a few pieces to pique your interest.

After a moment of faux consideration, Ruthven gave a thin-lipped smile and answered, Mademoiselle, there is little I would like more.

VILLA BOUCHER DE ROUEN, ROUEN, FRANCE

The water of the Seine flowed quiet and dark beneath the gray-clouded night sky. Lord Ruthven and Amélie Boucher sat upon a balcony of Villa Boucher de Rouen overlooking the languid flow. The chittering and buzzing of insects were peculiarly muted and distant, causing the steady lapping of the water along the banks to seem louder. The scent of lavender and rose from the garden below the balcony wafted upward.

A maid set two wine glasses on a round table of colored-glass mosaic and poured a 1971 Chateau d’Yquem. Do you require anything else, Madam? she asked in French.

No, Chloé, you may go.

Thank you, Madam.

Once the maid had disappeared through the interior doorway, Ruthven said, I admit, Mademoiselle Boucher, your collection is impressive. Perhaps you would be open to an exchange…or even a sale?

Amélie raised the glass, swirled the liquid, inhaling the piquant scents of beeswax and citrus, then put it to her lips. Lord Ruthven, I offer something even better: a partnership.

Over his gray eyes, Ruthven’s eyebrows rose toward his thick black hair. I assure you, Mademoiselle, I am quite content in my current state. I have found partnerships to be such…fleeting things.

Amélie glanced at the untasted glass in Ruthven’s hand. Which is why what a propose is but a temporary alliance. Certain information had come into my possession, and I require someone of your…talents to make use of it.

Ruthven leaned forward, resting his arms on the glass table. What information?

Amélie hesitated, as if considering her response. New ground penetrating survey technology has revealed a previously undiscovered tomb within Egypt’s Valley of the Kings. It appears to have been buried by an earthquake and covered by centuries of sand. Excavations have only just begun to clear away the debris. I want to remove anything of value before others access the tomb, which is why I require your…expertise.

How did you come by this information? The tinge in his tone was not so much suspicion as it was affront, as if he found offense at the notion that she would be aware of information that had eluded him.

Amélie delivered her response in a casual manner, as if it wasn’t worth the effort of explaining, I make it point to stay apprised of the latest advancements in technology and, in particular, how those advancements can benefit me. I have taken pains to cultivate sources.

What makes you believe I can infiltrate a buried tomb? His light tone and accompanying smirk evinced amusement, though a tension seized his body.

You succeeded in Macau…even with Interpol having received an anonymous tip that the painting was the target of theft. Her lips twisted in a guilty smile.

You! How could you have known? The normally urbane and imperturbable countenance flashed in stony anger. Instantly, Ruthven’s placid aspect returned, and he sat back in the wrought black iron chair, yet his tone remained hard and brittle as flint. It is a dangerous game you play, Madam.

Amélie raised her hands, palms out, in sign of surrender. I had to know. If you were as good as I believed—as I require—the presence of Interpol would have been no obstacle. If not… She shrugged. You would do no less.

The two sat in silence for some time. Amélie sipped from her glass; Ruthven’s sat untouched.

Finally, an upward bending crescent split Ruthven’s mouth. I accept. However, I receive first claim upon any single piece.

Amélie raised her glass. Acceptable! With a quaff, she finished its contents.

Ruthven pulled a card from the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He set it on the table; the card was black with a number in typed white lettering. Contact that number with the relevant information. He glanced out, to the skyline of the River Seine, where dawn threatened. I must away, Mademoiselle, but I await your word.

VALLEY OF THE KINGS, LUXOR (FORMERLY THEBES), EGYPT

Beneath a glittering night sky untroubled by the lights of civilization, the small autocade, comprising four Mercedes-Benz G-Wagons, traveled along a paved road through the barren desertscape. A full moon, the second since Ruthven’s rendezvous at the villa of Amélie Boucher, loomed bright white in the cloudless sky.

The sand of the summer night retained the day’s heat, which it now dispersed as a constant radiation. In the backseat of the second vehicle, Ruthven, in his black, impeccably tailored, three-piece suit gave the impression of attending an evening at the theater or a charitable gala. Beside him, Amélie was attired in a loose, long-sleeved shirt and slacks of white linen. Their guide and a dozen hired porters completed the party.

Ruthven glanced at his companion, studying her face—the set of her jaw, the stray strands of hair beneath a wide-brimmed hat, the intensity of her focus—yet her attention never wavered from the scene outside.

Eventually, the sandy ground to each side gave way, here and there, to stony or gravelly patches. The sand became scarcer and scarcer and disappeared altogether when the autocade passed between the slopes of the valley. They continued until they came to the dry, rocky bed of a ravine cut through the cliff wall. There, they exited the vehicles and followed the ravine, which, Amélie explained, had only recently been cleared of stony debris. Their footsteps stirred dirt and sand, sending particulate into the air; a breeze caught the sandy scent and carried it down the ravine. The party—the guide in front, followed by Lord Ruthven, then Mademoiselle Boucher, then the porters bearing supplies—followed that ravine to where it merged with a cleft in the sheer cliffs, which, too, had been partially rid of boulders and blown sand. A staging area with thick tents, generators, and an excavator had been established on an area of flattened ground, though no signs of current habitation were evident.

The night was long when their guide announced in Arabic, We are here.

The porters moved to deposit the supplies in the tents.

Ruthven turned toward Amélie. Did you arrange for the site to be empty?

Mock surprise animated her expression. I hear the Ministry of Antiquities had sudden concerns about the effect of the excavation and suspended the permits until further investigation could be conducted.

Ruthven made a wordless vocalization that sounded suspiciously like respect.

We can begin first thing in the morning," Amélie said with a glance to the sky, though the walls of the cleft blocked the view of the horizon.

I see no gain in delay, Ruthven returned with a similar glance. The tomb is beyond the rubble?

Amélie nodded. Yes. She squinted at Ruthven, as if trying to determine what he had in mind.

Keep others away, he said. It could be…dangerous for them.

But—

This is why you brought me, is it not?

As you wish, Lord Ruthven. Amélie’s voice was tight. She drew a flashlight from a pocket and handed it to him before turning and retiring into a tent.

Ruthven kept his gaze on the tents until no movement could be discerned within. Then, there in the deeper darkness of the cliff’s shadow and away from the light emanating from the tent entrances, Lord Ruthven’s body began to fade, like the afterimage from a lightning flash. What was solid became indistinct, wispy, like smoke dissipating in the wind. His clothing, the flashlight, and every article on his person dissolved. However, instead of dispersing, the formless, gaseous cloud moved against the current and spread over the rocky detritus like a morning fog over a lake. It moved, undulated, over the rocks, searching the seams and holes until it found a path and disappeared among the tumbled stones.

The mist continued of its own volition through cracks and crevasses, finding the smallest opening in the darkness beneath tons of limestone. It passed through an aperture between two jagged boulders and found itself within a partially collapsed antechamber.

The mist shifted, arranging itself into the outline of a man. It assumed an opaquer appearance as it began to solidify, and, within moments, Ruthven stood where the mist had been.

The antechamber smelled of long-settled dust and had the silence of the dead. Without the flashlight, the chamber would have been in utter darkness, in which even Ruthven’s superlative vision would not have served him. Hieroglyphics covered the walls, though, of the many languages Ruthven had mastered over his long life, Ancient Egyptian was not among them.

A single passage led from the chamber. Sending the light down the corridor, he saw it continued straight for some distance before descending. Without hesitating, he started down the passage. Hieroglyphics continued along either wall, and the smell of dust still dominated. The only sound was the clack of Ruthven’s footsteps upon the stone of the floor. No spiderwebs blocked the passage, no lizards or scorpions scurried. Indeed, no sign of animal, insect, or arachnid was to be seen.

Ruthven heard the grinding of stone against stone as the floor beneath his foot sunk into the ground. A succession of whooshes sounded, accompanied by puffs of dust, and bronze-tipped javelins sped from circular apertures in the wall and struck Ruthven in the neck, arms, and torso. However, none of the points penetrated his skin or left so much as a mark, though his suit jacket and shirt were left torn in places. Ruthven gave a disappointed grunt at the condition of his suit, yet he did not so much as alter his pace.

Ruthven continued on the downward slope, which began at an easy declination, then steepened to a fifteen percent grade. It ended at a square chamber, twenty feet to a side. Another open doorway sat in the left wall, adjacent to where Ruthven had entered the chamber.

He moved toward the doorway, and the floor beneath his feet collapsed.

Ruthven fell.

Moments later, a mist floated upward and toward the doorway. The entire floor of the chamber had disappeared, except for a narrow path around the perimeter, extending from the right of the entrance. The distant sound of crashing stone echoed upward.

Again solid, Ruthven began down the new passage, seemingly identical to the other: progressing straight away before descending steeply, with hieroglyphics once more covering the walls.

However, in this passage, his footfalls triggered a different defense. With a resounding crash like thunder and a billowing cloud of dust, blocks of stone fell from the ceiling. Those heavy blocks would have left nothing but a red smear and the obliterated bones of any other interloper. Lord Ruthven, however, was knocked roughly to the side and pinned beneath a slab of limestone. Even he strained against such weight before pushing the block to the side. His suit was torn and covered in white dust, but Ruthven stood, completely unharmed and unmarred. He retrieved the flashlight, which had fortunately been thrown to the side and remained undamaged, and continued his journey.

The passage ended in