Possessed (Pagan Light Book 1)

by JoAnne Keltner

  “Jas?”

  He stopped.

  “The stair thing. If you ever want to talk about it, I’ll listen.”

  He looked at her and grimaced.

  “Or not,” she said

  He walked out.

  She felt like an idiot. It wasn’t a best friend he was looking for.

  She let the thought sink into her head—her and Jason as girlfriend and boyfriend? Her stomach quivered.

  Chapter 3

  Inside her bedroom, Trish unzipped her leather jacket and whipped it across the room. It hit the thin chains that hung from the ceiling lamp and plopped onto the bed. The chains clanked against the fixture as the lead singer of Death’s Child, from a poster above her bed, stared at her with heavily-mascaraed eyes. His puckered, blood-red lips told her that she had totally fucked up this evening.

  A pang rose in the center of her chest and caught there and burned like desire smacking against fiery rage. She clutched the lace of her tutu and, thinking of Jackie blocking her from Jason, pulled at it as if she were tearing at Jackie’s hair. If Jackie would quit getting in the way, she could make Jason fall in love with her. She slammed the toe of her boot into a heavy book bag and pouted.

  Like a switch clicking on in her head, she realized the place where she might find an answer. She trampled over a pile of clothes lying by the closet door. Inside, she ruffled through a toppled stack of games and pulled out a crushed Ouija board box. She flung the box top. It sailed through the air, crashed against the wall, and plummeted to the bed.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she rested her fingertips on the triangular pointer, the planchette, and concentrated on a single question: How can I get Jackie out of the way so I can get close to Jason?

  With short hot breaths puffing from her nose, Trish eyed the needle that dangled from the center of the planchette. She waited for the pointer to move, repeating the question inside her head until her brain burned. Her fingers tingled and the hair on her arms rose. The air popped and crackled as if filled with electric energy. Electricity arced from her fingertips. She jerked her fingers from the planchette and examined her hands. The pointer veered to the left and slid off the board.

  Around the room, bluish sparks arced from object to object. From garment to garment in the clothes pile. Handle to handle on the dresser drawers. Base to socket on the dresser lamp. Between the ornate scrolls on the headboard. From carpet to bed skirt.

  Energy pulsed through her fingers and sent chills across her shoulders.

  She set the planchette in the center of the Ouija board and rested her fingers on top. A continuous flow of energy ran between her fingers and the pointer. She focused on the dangling needle, breathlessly reading each letter the needle paused over: I-C-A-N-H-E-L-P-Y-O-U-M-A-Y-I-E-N-T-E-R.

  She grouped the letters into words and swallowed their meaning.

  “Yes,” she whispered, triumphantly.

  Chapter 4

  Jackie checked her cell phone the next morning. Nine missed calls from Jason. The last call was at one in the morning. Sweat broke across her forehead. Maybe he just wanted to talk about the stair thing. God, she hoped he realized their relationship was fine the way it was.

  Jason had obviously been up late. She decided to let him sleep until eleven and call him then. She slipped the phone into her pajama-pants pocket.

  Babu was watching TV in the front room. A glass of warm water and an empty egg holder on the end table told Jackie that she had already eaten breakfast.

  “Morning, Babu,” she said.

  Babu didn’t hear her. She was busily flipping channels. What did she get out of that TV? She didn’t understand English, maybe just a word or two. Maybe the TV just kept her company.

  Jackie started a pot of coffee and checked the front porch for the newspaper. Actually, she checked the bottom step because the paper never quite made it to the porch.

  Inside, she tossed the newspaper onto the kitchen table and waited at the counter for the coffee pot to make its final gurgle and hiss.

  Mom meandered into the kitchen, dazed. She opened the cabinet that held the aspirin and took two. She must have tied one on last night.

  “You look like death warmed over,” Mom said.

  Jackie remembered she didn’t wash her face last night before she went to bed. She probably looked like a raccoon. But Mom’s eyes were puffy and her face pale. “At least my death look is washable.”

  She poured a cup of coffee for Mom, who had beaten her to the paper.

  “Huh,” Mom said. “There was a stabbing last night at the Oktoberfest. You know anything about that?”

  “No. Must have happened after we left.” She poured herself a cup, added a little cream, and sat down.

  Mom spoon-fed her the news. “‘Michael Jenson, seventeen, of Colby, stabbed Sean Perry, eighteen, of Ravenwood, on October 7th at the Ravenwood Oktoberfest.’”

  “Sean Perry?”

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally. I mean, we’re not friends.”

  “‘Sources say that the confrontation was due to an altercation that had occurred last Friday night at a football game at Ravenwood High.’ Did you go to that game?”

  “Mom, do I ever?”

  She creased her brow. “Darla called this morning, frantic. Said George Hanson hung himself last night. He lives right next door to her. Thank goodness his daughter lives with him. Otherwise, he might have been hanging there for months. He went to school with me and Darla, you know. Was there a full moon?”

  “You believe in that?”

  “Well, yeah. Statistics show—”

  “Actually, they don’t. Scientists have proven that the moon’s gravitational pull has no effect on humans or animals. Besides, if full moons drove us nuts, wouldn’t everyone be affected? Wouldn’t there be total mayhem every time there was a full moon?”

  “Maybe most of us have better control of our brains.”

  Jackie’s cell phone rang, startling her. It had to be Jason. She fumbled through her pocket for the phone.

  “Hey Jas,” she said.

  “I’ve been trying to call you all night,” he said.

  “Sorry. Had my cell on vibrate.”

  “I’ve been freaking out.”

  She swallowed. “Don’t worry about it, Jas. It was an emotional evening.”

  “No, not that. When I came home last night, the police were there. Two squads. My dad went berserk. Slapped my Ma around and shit. I mean, he just lost it. He hadn’t done that in… years. Mom wouldn’t press charges. She just wanted the police to make him stop. I spent the whole night worrying Dad was going to freak again.”

  “Jas, I’m sorry. If it ever happens again, you’re welcome to come here and spend the night.” Why did she say that?

  “Thanks, Jackie.” Her offer seemed to have perked him up.

  “So how’s your dad this morning?” she asked, intentionally changing the subject from sleeping arrangements.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been keeping my distance. Ma too.”

  Worried about his mom, Jason passed on their normal weekend routine—caffeine buzz at the coffee shop, snacks and loitering at the pharmacy, and movies at her house. Maybe it was good they didn’t see each other. A day or two apart should cool things down between them and get them back to normal; although, she felt uneasy about him being home with his dad.

  Maybe Mom was right—a scary thought. Maybe it was a full moon that had caused so many traumatic events to happen in the same night. But then, Zeta had said something about the solar storm affecting homing pigeons. Had the solar storm affected Jason’s dad, Michael Jenson, and Mom’s former schoolmate?

  She made a mental note to do a little research at school Monday, maybe pay a visit to Miss Gut—Miss Guthrie. Knowing half the town was going berserk—especially Jason’s dad—was a onetime event would put her mind at ease.

  Chapter 5

  With her Ouija board tucked under her arm and the hood of her red velvet
cape pulled over her head, Trish knocked on Mr. Davis’s door.

  He answered bare footed, donning a plaid robe. A confused look washed across his face.

  “Hey, Mr. D.,” she said.

  “It’s Saturday morning,” he said, groggily.

  “I know, but it’s uber important.”

  “Tutoring hours are weekdays after school.”

  “It’s not about homework. It’s about your second-hour lit class. I have a proposition to make.”

  Chapter 6

  Monday morning, Jackie called Jason, but he didn’t answer. She couldn’t wait to see him in American Lit today. She needed to know that he was okay.

  At school, everyone was talking about Sean Perry’s stabbing. Nervous energy bombarded off metal lockers and cinderblock walls, and a cyclone of emotions whirled inside her. She headed to class with her books tucked to her chest and her head down, trying not to make eye contact or bump shoulders with anyone.

  Speculation buzzed in the halls—speculation that Michael Jenson was in a gang, speculation that his gang member friends were going to come for the rest of the Ravenwood-High football players, speculation that Sean would never be physically well enough to play again, speculation that there was a dark cloud over the school.

  Her logic told her two hotheaded guys collided that night, but her body was soaking up the gossip and the negative emotions, making her stomach queasy and her legs fatigued. Still, she found it hard to believe that so many traumatic events could happen on the same night in the same small town. There must be a scientific explanation. She reminded herself to stop by Miss Guthrie’s classroom after school.

  In her first-hour American History class, minds settled down, tuned out, shut down, or slept. Rebecca fantasized about Nick. Her aura glowed bright red like a toxic radish. Her emotions exuded passion and lust.

  And there was Pete. He had been slighted in every way possible to man. He wore braces and glasses, and he was a scrawny five foot one. He lacked strength, self-esteem, and sometimes, common sense. His days were spent being slammed into lockers, picking up scattered books and papers, and having his butt kicked. He shriveled, mentally and emotionally, in the back row. Although she sat as far away from him as she could, she felt his pain and shame. She wanted to give him a year’s membership to a gym, but he probably didn’t have the sense or gumption to use it.

  His feelings drained and depressed her.

  She finished a quiz and turned it over and then folded her arms on top of the blank side of the paper and rested her forehead on her arms.

  This was her last year of high school, but then what? Would she go into hiding? And what about college? She definitely wanted to be a photographer, but she’d be limited to studio work. She couldn’t possibly shoot weddings and events. Surrounded by emotionally high, energetic people, she’d pass out on the job. Maybe she should just study anthropology and photography and get a job where she could be alone in the Congo like Dian Fossey, socializing with gorillas and taking their pictures.

  She imagined portraits of gorilla families hanging on trees.

  In American Lit, she fidgeted in her chair as she waited for Jason to walk through the classroom door.

  Finally, he entered, his head down, his hair covering his face, and his books hooked loosely in his hand.

  “Jas,” she said, happy to see him.

  “Hey,” he said through a veil of hair. He slipped into his chair and slouched.

  She leaned forward. “Is everything okay?”

  Jason turned and looked at her, his expression sullen. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  He was lying. Something was wrong. Before she could ask him, Mr. Davis started class.

  Mr. Davis was overly rumpled. The back of his corduroy jacket heavily wrinkled. His eyes were cupped with purple half rings, and his crow’s-feet clawed deeply around his eyes. He started a discussion on “The Yellow Wallpaper” but kept losing focus. His aura was so dark, she couldn’t tell if it was a deep purple or just black.

  “But what if it was the wallpaper that drove her crazy?” Jason asked.

  She rolled her eyes, but Mr. Davis narrowed his. He didn’t shoot Jason down. Maybe because it was the first time Jason had ever participated in a class discussion. It took Jackie by surprise too.

  “So you’re saying that the wallpaper had some force, some power to control the mind of the narrator to drive her insane, and not the fact she was suffering from postpartum depression?” Mr. Davis asked.

  “Sure,” Jason said. “I mean, that’s why the author named the story ‘The Yellow Wallpaper.’ Because it’s about the wallpaper.”

  The class laughed, but Mr. Davis was serious.

  “Does anyone else think it’s possible for an object to hold some force, to exude an emotional effect on a person?” Mr. Davis asked the class.

  “You’re joking with us, right?” Sandra said.

  Mr. Davis was always so analytical, so scientific in his approach to examining the intent of a literary work. But now he wasn’t even quoting from the text to prove his point. He was just throwing out a hypothesis.

  “Jackie, what’s your take on this?” Mr. Davis asked.

  Sandra, who was sitting in the first row, craned her head around and sneered at her.

  Oh great. What am I supposed to be, the expert on paranormal activity? Ask Jackie. She’s the freak who saw the Virgin at twelve and predicted the fire at Holy Resurrection. She sighed. “The narrator was obviously suffering from postpartum depression. In the text—”

  “Fine,” Mr. Davis said. “But what I’m asking is, do you think an object can affect a person’s mood?”

  She felt that all eyes were on her, breaths held, while the class waited for Jackie’s response—the guru of strange and amazing things. If she said no, they’d think she was lying. If she said yes, they’d confirm their belief that she was some psychic freak.

  She closed her book. “This sounds more like a question for Miss Gut—Miss Guthrie. She’s the physics expert.”

  Mr. Davis grimaced. “Thanks. Looks like Jackie’s not going to help us out with this one.”

  Holy shit. Now he’s pissed at me. What was his problem? Staying up too late, watching reruns of The Twilight Zone?

  The bell rang, thank goodness. She gathered her books. Jason looked agitated.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “See you later.”

  “Wait. I want to ask you—”

  He dissolved into the group of students exiting the classroom. By the time she got out the door, Jason was nowhere in sight.

  On her way to study hall, she discovered that the bathroom in C-building was out of order. Besides reading the “Out of Order” sign that was written in black marker and taped to the cinderblock wall, she knew it because she felt that something was wrong—like emotionally broken. Curious, she went inside. The janitor was stooped beneath a sink trying to shut the valve off as water flowed over the side of the porcelain bowl.

  “You’re getting your shoes wet,” he said.

  The top of the water was level with the toe of her boot.

  She wanted to go over to the sink and touch it so she could read it. The room was overflowing with hopelessness, and she wanted to know why, but the janitor kept looking at her like she’d better get the hell out of here—now.

  “You’re going to slip and fall, and it’s going to be my fault,” he said. “Find a dry bathroom.”

  She nodded and backed out as she studied the emotions. Had Mr. Davis seen this? Is this why he was so fixated on the question, can objects have an emotional effect on people—drive them crazy? They did on her when they stored people’s emotions. But she’d be damned if she was going to tell him this. Let him be pissed.

  In study hall, Trish was sulking. With her notebook flipped open, she doodled in pen on the narrow-ruled paper. The page was filled with hexagrams, eyes, and Gothic crosses. Trish was no doubt pissed at Jackie for keeping her away from Jason.

 
; She sat next to her and then flipped open her trig book. “Studying art?” she asked, trying to make conversation.

  Trish flipped the pages of her notebook and pulled a sheet of paper out of the pocket.

  “Look at this. Mr. Davis gave me a frickin’ C.”

  Trish had Mr. Davis third hour. She, Jason, and Trish had tried to get into the same class when they had registered, but only she and Jason wound up together in second hour. Trish had been a spaz ever since, always putting Mr. Davis down in some way.

  “I really got into that story too,” Trish said, “and I put a lot of work into this essay.”

  “Yeah, the whole two paragraphs of it.” Jackie tugged the paper from her hands. “Let me see this.”

  In red pen it read, among other things, Needs further development.

  “There’s more red ink on this page than content,” Jackie said.

  Trish ripped the paper out of Jackie’s hand and wadded it up into a ball. She tossed it four feet to the garbage can by the window. Then, she picked up her pen and traced over and over one of the hexagrams in her notebook. “I hate that class. I hate Mr. Davis.”

  “See if you can doodle quietly. I got a trig exam I need to review for.”

  “I thought you were going to be a photographer. What do you need trig for?”

  “In case I fail to make a living at it and have to be an astrophysicist instead.”

  Trish looked at her like, get serious.

  “I don’t know,” Jackie said. “Somehow I wound up on the college track.”

  “You don’t have to be. Why don’t you work as a psychic for the Ravenwood Police Department or something?”

  The word psychic made her cringe, and Trish knew it. “First of all, the emotions I pick up make me sick, and second, Ravenwood doesn’t have any crime.”

  “It does now.”

  “And three, I don’t want to put Madam Sophie out of business. I caused her enough harm back in the day.”

  “It’s not like it was your fault the town wanted to burn her at the stake.”

  “No, but I created the whole frenzy.”