Southern Souls

by Stuart Jaffe

  Hurtling over a fallen log, Max jumped into the detritus of Leroy’s floor. He searched around the base of the chimney and even stuck his hand up the fireplace flue. Nothing. His eyes immediately rested on the bookshelf.

  “Stay down, McMurtry.” Drummond stood over the large bald man — both hovering three feet in the air. McMurtry appeared to have lost his will to fight.

  “Remember me?” A shrill voice called as one of the distant pale figures floated forward.

  The woman wore a dressing gown from the early-1900s. She carried a long-handled axe on her shoulder and an empty, soulless glaze in her eye.

  Tipping his hat as if passing a charming lady on a Sunday stroll, Drummond said, “Ms. Walker. I wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you again, but I had hoped our paths would never cross once more.”

  She opened her mouth to reveal jagged teeth. “And here I have been, trying so hard to cut my tether so that I could visit you and have a little vengeance, er, visit.”

  “I didn’t kill you, and I didn’t curse you. You’ve got a coven of witches to thank for that.”

  With a harsh scowl, she said, “But you told those witches where to find me. You set them loose, and you knew what they would do.” He tried to answer, but she let out a cackling scream, and launched after Drummond, axe held high.

  The wind had died, yet Max felt increasing cold pressing against his back. His breathing shallowed. He continued to watch Drummond and Ms. Walker but he did not process what he saw.

  His mind focused on whatever stood behind him. He listened closely — what could he expect to hear? Ghosts did not breathe and unless they were touching the corporeal world, they would make little to no sound. Unless they wanted to be heard. Unless they spoke.

  A wet, mucous-filled laugh — low and guttural — assaulted Max’s ears. With a shriek, he whipped around. He stumbled back but managed to stay standing. The ghost — a hunched elderly man, gaunt and toothless — floated partially in the chimney.

  Max rushed over to the old bookshelf. If any of Leroy Parker’s salt remained, it had to be there. Logic suggested it would be in one of the rusting coffee cans.

  Despite the shaking in his hands, Max swept aside the rotting wood of the bookshelf. It clattered to the ground, sending puffs of dust into the air. Coughing, he peered down. All three cans had salt. He snatched up one and quickly poured a circle around himself.

  The decrepit ghost in the chimney cackled away, but he did not approach. Feeling slightly more secure, Max turned his attention to Drummond.

  The ghost had disarmed Ms. Walker and held the axe above his head. She squawked and disappeared into the darkness of the woods. As she vanished, so did the axe.

  With less bravado and more anger, Drummond pointed at all the ghosts watching from a distance. “Anybody else?”

  As he swished a circle around the entire area, Max noticed McMurtry regaining his confidence. The big man rolled his muscular shoulders and rocked his head from side to side. By the time Drummond returned, McMurtry cracked his knuckles and growled. Drummond stopped. He shook his head. “Are we really going to do this again?”

  With a roar, McMurtry blazed forward. He got under Drummond’s punch and tackled him to the ground. Max wanted to help, but he had no play. One step out of that salt circle and old chimney man would be on him.

  Max’s pant pocket felt warm. For a second, he feared he may have lost his bladder control, but patting his leg, he discovered heat yet nothing wet. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Leroy Parker’s little book. It had a soft glow like a nightlight and the warmth brought all the comfort of a favorite blanket on a winter evening.

  Ignoring the shaking of his hands, Max opened the book with one finger. The first page had a gentle, blue sheen. The symbol on it had a curved top and scraggly bottom, and it hit Max that it resembled the shape of old chimney man. With that thought, the page slipped out of the book.

  Max held this small piece of paper between his thumb and finger — campfire warm yet still radiating blue. Max looked over at the old ghost. The pale figure stared back, but his laughter had stopped.

  Working entirely on instinct, Max stepped out of the salt circle. As he lifted the paper, the old ghost hissed. In a flash like a magician’s trick, the paper burned bright for a second until nothing remained but a puff of smoke. The same went for old chimney ghost. Just a puff of smoke.

  The glow of the book ceased as did its warmth. Max looked over at Drummond and saw his partner holding empty space in a headlock. He looked all around the woods — the ghosts were gone from Max’s sight.

  Drummond said, “I can’t hold this guy forever. If you’re going to make a run for the car, go now.”

  As the words hit with an electric jolt, Max jumped into action. He sprinted through the woods, leaping over rocks and logs while branches whipped by. He heard Drummond yell and McMurtry cry out.

  Somewhere behind him, Drummond said, “Keep going. Keep going.”

  Though Max could not see them anymore, he imagined all the ghosts surrounding him as if he stood in a cemetery. He kept his eyes focused ahead for fear of tripping should he dare look in any other direction. But there had been so many ghosts. They had to be following. Had to be watching. Had to be closing in.

  He burst through the tree line and tumbled onto the dirt pathway. Squinting against the bright afternoon sun, he scrambled to his feet and fumbled out his keys. Hustling to the car, he glanced back to see Drummond racing up behind. Max smiled.

  “Don’t stand there like an idiot. Get the car going,” Drummond said.

  Breaking from the tree line behind Drummond, McMurtry barreled forward.

  With all the grace of a cow on a sheet of ice, Max bumbled his way into the driver seat. He dropped his keys, flailed about for them, managed to get them in the lock, and turned over the car. Drummond passed through the door.

  A loud thump on the roof. Max looked up to see a dent appear above him.

  “Are you going to sit there and watch McMurtry rip your car to shreds or can we go?” Drummond asked.

  “Won’t they just hold on?”

  “Do you not remember anything about ghosts? The tether?”

  Max slammed on the gas and struggled to maintain control as they fishtailed their way off the grass and onto the asphalt. The thumping stopped as Max quickly put half a mile between them and the woods. Glancing behind, Drummond said, “Well, that didn’t go as I had planned. Hope it was worth it.”

  “Considering that your friend’s little book saved my life, I’m thinking it was good.”

  “What about me? Didn’t I save your life, too?”

  Max checked the dashboard clock. “You might have to save my life again. Sandra will want to kill me when I call to tell her she has to go pick up J. I’m never going to get back in time.”

  Drummond chuckled. “Don’t worry. When she sees Leroy’s book, I think all will be forgiven.”

  Max drove on at a more sensible speed. He hoped Drummond was right — not just about Sandra, but that Leroy’s book might help them get PB back safely.

  Chapter 27

  MAX PICKED UP A PIZZA on his way back, and when he made it home, Sandra and J pounced on the food. He had been prepared for disappointment or anger, but instead, Sandra smiled at him. “When it was just you and me, it was easy to get bent out of shape if things didn’t go one way or the other. But now — this life doesn’t work unless we’re willing to bend a little.”

  Later that evening, Max shared with Sandra the day’s experiences. As expected, she took great interest in Leroy Parker’s book. When Max went to bed that night, Sandra still poured over each page, trying to find correlating symbols in her various references.

  The next morning came fast, but once Max got out of bed, time slowed to a near halt. The world knew that he needed it to speed up, needed to reach the midnight witching hour, needed to save PB. It must have known. Because the world always found a way to taunt.

  Through this int
erminable slowness, Max prepared breakfast, cajoled J through his morning routine, and drove the boy to school. Although J continued to complain about not being part of PB’s rescue and while his fear for his brother was real, he accepted that he would only have limited participation.

  “It sucks being young,” J said.

  Max laughed. “It sucks being old, too.”

  When he got back home, Max waited for Sandra to take a shower, and the two of them settled in their tiny living room. Like conspirators in some smalltime heist, they sat on the sofa with their heads close to each other looking down at the little book.

  “I still haven’t figured out how this thing allowed you to see ghosts,” Sandra said.

  “Only for a short time. It was like the book knew I needed its help.”

  “And it provided one page for you that stopped this other ghost — the one in the chimney?”

  “Afterward, the page burned up.”

  Thumbing through the remaining pages, she said, “Each symbol is different. Maybe they do different things.”

  “The one that burned up was shaped a lot like the ghost it got rid of. Is it possible that each page is a symbol for a specific ghost?”

  “The resemblance of the symbol to your ghost in the chimney was probably in your head. It’s the way our brains work — always trying to find patterns. If each symbol corresponded to a specific ghost, then that would not make this book very useful — unless you were going to try and destroy all those specific ghosts. But you said that this was a gift to Drummond meant to help him. Right?”

  “That’s what Drummond said. And he gifted the book to me.”

  “Then we have to assume that it’s not as specific as you’re suggesting.”

  Max flipped through all the strange symbols. Some were simple curves with a sharp jagged line at the end, some were complex structures that rivaled any symbols he had seen Sandra use. “One thing’s for sure — there are only fourteen more pages in this. Whatever else it does, it won’t be doing a lot of it.”

  “Hopefully, you’ll never have to use it again.”

  Max raised an eyebrow at her.

  “What? I said hopefully.”

  Pocketing the book, he scratched his head and rested his back on the sofa. “What did you find out about the spell Isaac Brown is casting? You said you needed more time — well, today’s the day.”

  With a guilty wince, she said, “I swear I will give you an answer before we go out tonight.”

  “What more can you possibly be waiting for?”

  “The phone. One of my contacts is going into her private library to double-check something for me. She will call me, and if it’s confirmed or not, I promise I will tell you what I know.”

  Max grumbled, but he let Sandra have her moment. Perhaps her caution was warranted. Perhaps if he knew whatever she hid, it would send him off in a direction that might not help PB. She knew him so well that he had to trust her judgment on this. But that didn’t make it easier to swallow.

  Over the course of the day, every time the phone rang, Max watched Sandra expectantly. The call they wanted did not come. He spent time online checking out images of the construction site where they planned to go that night. He worked out strategies for ways to approach Isaac Brown and how to handle various reactions. But it was all busy work. They had already thought through it all numerous times over the last few days.

  When three o’clock rolled around, Max had never been so grateful to have to pick up J from school. Simply getting out of the house with a clear task that did not involve ghosts or magic or a kidnapped boy helped to clear his mind.

  Unfortunately, it would not last. Not only because of the impending task that evening, but because there was no way Max and Sandra would take J with them. That left one place for J to go. Max drove to his mother’s apartment.

  Thankfully, J understood. “I kind of figured it out already. If you’re making me go to school, you ain’t taking me with you tonight.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I said I get it. What good would it be if you guys go trying to save PB and I get myself snatched away? Then you’re right back where you started.” J watched traffic zip by as Max turned into his mother’s apartment complex. “I still stand by what I said this morning — being young sucks.”

  Mrs. Porter opened her door, took one look at Max’s face, and shook her head. “I have plans tonight.”

  “I need you to change them,” Max said, attempting a pleading and hopeful expression.

  “Oh, sure. I’ll just change my whole life because you want it.” She bent down and kissed J’s forehead. “Go on in. You know where the cookies are.”

  As J scooted into the apartment, Max noted that his mother did not step back to allow him to enter. “Really?” he said.

  “I’m not taking any chances. All I’ve heard this week is how sick PB’s been. You think I want the germs that rubbed off on you rubbing off on me? I’m an old lady. I don’t handle getting sick so easily anymore.”

  “What about J?”

  “For him, I’ll risk it.”

  Max swallowed back the slew of comments flooding into his mouth. “We probably won’t be back until morning.”

  “Take the night. Take the whole week. Nobody really cares about what I want.”

  “Stop it,” Max said. The force in his voice shook her. “Let me in. I have to tell you something.”

  He saw the shift on her face — his tone frightened her. She backed up, let him in, and closed the door. They stood in that small entryway as Max told her a lot of the truth. Not all, of course. She would not want to hear about witches, magic spells, or any of that. But she certainly understood that PB’s father had crawled out of the swamp of the past and absconded with the boy.

  “Why haven’t you called the police?” she asked.

  “It’s not that simple. He is PB’s father. There’s no restraining order against him. There’s nothing that says what he’s doing is wrong. He has every right to take his son. Heck, we’re not even officially guardians yet.”

  “Almost. The final paperwork should be coming through any day.”

  “But it’s not in our hands yet. Calling the police will probably backfire and cause us more harm than good. Worst case, it ruins our chances of being guardians.”

  Mrs. Porter’s face tightened as if she bit into a rotten apple. “This is nonsense. I know some good lawyers who will be happy to take on the case. Probably won’t even charge you. Do it pro bono.”

  Max stepped closer and took hold of his mother’s shoulders. “You’re not listening. We are not calling the police and we are not getting a lawyer. Tonight, Sandra and I are going to bring PB back home where he belongs. That’s why I need J to spend the night here. And I need you to protect him.” He paused — not to let his words sink in but to summon the courage to speak his final thoughts. “This man — PB’s father — he’s dangerous. And he’s not alone. He has people who work for him. If anybody comes to your door, if anybody’s out in the parking lot watching you, if anything at all makes you even slightly suspicious, do not wait. Don’t dismiss it. Don’t doubt yourself. Get J, get in your car, and leave.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m trying to. If the slightest thing happens that sets off your radar, then go. I don’t care where. Leave the state, go back to Michigan, drive west until you run out of gas, whatever — just go. I’ll call you in the morning, and we’ll figure out what to do then.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “You’re damn right. If all goes as it should tonight, none of that will happen. You’ll spend the night here, and we’ll pick up J in the morning. We’ll have PB with us, and everything will be fine. But if things go bad, can I count on you?”

  All of Mrs. Porter’s worry vanished. She puffed up her chest, lifted her chin, and stared straight into Max’s eyes. “I’m your mother. I’m always here for you.”

  He hugged her. “I love you.”

&nb
sp; “The boys are lucky to have you in their life. You’re an exceptional father.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  She patted his cheek and gazed upon him with pity. “You’ve done more than you will ever know.”

  Max left for the office. Sitting around his house any longer would have driven him mad, and Sandra had said she would meet him there to prepare for the night. As he walked in, she had her phone to her ear and pointed at it with a big smile.

  Relief washed over him. Until that moment, he had not realized how great the tension in his body had become over this single expectation. While she spoke — her end of the call consisted of the occasional yes, no, and little more — he fixed a pot of coffee and settled at his desk.

  Drummond slipped out of the bookcase. “It’s about time you got here. She’s been on the phone for almost a half-hour and hasn’t said a word worth overhearing.”

  “I’m sure she’s sorry she can’t entertain you.”

  Floating to the middle of the room, Drummond clicked his tongue. “You try being dead for almost a hundred years. Turns out you want every bit of entertainment you can get.”

  Sandra set the phone down. “Well, then you’re in luck. I’m going to entertain you with information about a certain spell we’ve been trying to figure out.”

  Max drummed his hands on his desk. “Thank goodness. I’m all ears.”

  She looked over her notes and pulled together her thoughts. As impatient as Max felt, he knew what it was like to be on the other side of explaining things. He reined in his impatience.

  “To start, the spell is real. Strip away all of the Soro Group’s nonsense, and at the core is a very real spell.” She paused to let that sink in. “It has no official name because it’s not a singular spell that a witch can call upon with ease. It’s classified as a pentaid — literally five spells woven together. That’s part of what took me so long. You can weave almost any spells, so the number of combinations possible is ridiculous. That’s why there’s no name for the spell. Though I suppose a witch that creates a pentaid could name it whatever she wants. The thing is that with so many possible spells involved, it was not easy to identify the ones being used by Brown. I had to go through a lot of old books as well as talk to a lot of old witches. Pentaids are extremely rare, and in this case, the five spells are very old and a few are mostly forgotten.”