The Death Series, Books 1-3 (Dark Dystopian Paranormal Romance): Death Whispers, Death Speaks, and Death Inception

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  I swayed, feeling as if I held a great baseball in my hand with the absolute knowledge that the perfect pitch was within reach. Jade's hand pressed against the small of my back. The gophers made satisfied mewling sounds as their teeth connected with flesh.

  I was in the zone.

  “Caleb, stop it!” Jade said, voice raised above the crunching and gnashing of teeth. “You'll kill him.”

  Instead of being filled with the expected horror of Mason’s death at the teeth of my gophers, I felt a distinct satisfaction.

  Brett appeared beside me. “Please,” he said, one hand on his chest where his dad had hit him, “he's bad, but he's still my dad.”

  Brett the poet, I thought in a languid stupor.

  I made the ginormous effort to rein in the power. For a moment, nothing happened. It was pulling on taffy that never came. I was suddenly scared my power was bigger than I could manage. Then something clicked into place, and I was in control again. The gophers looked at me, some of their teeth glistening wetly black with Mason’s blood.

  Rest, I thought and gave a mental shove of juice that felt like turning off a big humming battery.

  The gophers—my gophers—swung their heads to consider me one last time before swarming back to their mounds and melting back into the ground like water finding a cleft in a rock.

  Jade, Brett, and I walked over to where Mr. Mason lay groaning in the dirt. Blood pooled around his body. I stood without sympathy, the lingering emotion of wanting to end his existence remained.

  I knew that I could call them back.

  “Thanks,” Brett said in a hollow voice.

  “What do you think, Caleb?” Jade asked.

  “He'll live,” I said.

  I took Jade’s hand and led her away.

  I turned around once and saw Brett standing over his dad's body, staring at me as if he'd seen a ghost.

  CHAPTER 13

  I woke up Saturday morning in a great mood. I loved weekends.

  The events of the previous night came crashing down on me a minute later. I made a mental note to pulse the Js later and update them on the newest mess. I wondered if it would change our plans for Sunday.

  I heard Mom sounds coming from downstairs. I glanced at my suspended monitor. The glowing numbers read 10:40. I hadn’t slept too late for breakfast. I stood up too fast and swayed dizzily.

  Pancakes were the cure for the hole in my gut.

  I stumbled over to my door, kicking the clothes out of the way, then went down to the kitchen.

  Mom looked up from the griddle as I rounded the corner. “Hey, pal. So how did it go last night?”

  Dad plopped down opposite me, resting his head in both hands. We looked at each other and he gave a chuckle of mute understanding. Family telepathy, I guess.

  “Yes, how did things go?”

  I threw out what happened. “Brett's dad was beating on him and I got in the middle by raising an Army of Gophers.”

  Mom put a plate of pancakes in front of me without a word. I poured hot syrup over them.

  My parents stared at me, but they didn't look shocked. Maybe they had passed on to the numb stage.

  I told them everything. The obedience of the gophers intrigued Dad. Mom was a little shocked at my indifference about Brett's dad's life.

  “Why should I care?” I asked her.

  She sat down slowly at the kitchen table, resting her elbows on its beaten surface. “You've been raised to think of others, Caleb.”

  “Mom's right,” Dad said. “We cannot condone willful sabotage of life, Caleb.”

  Dad looked at Mom for a long moment.

  “I understand you intervened because your friend was in trouble.”

  “He isn't my friend,” I clarified.

  “Yes, true, but he was in danger. I commend your... bravery in the face of that danger.”

  Mom rolled her eyes at Dad's words.

  “It was a good thing, what you did, but you could have killed him.”

  I couldn't argue with that. I had felt what it was to control the dead. I knew what they wanted.

  “Is his dad going to be okay?” Mom asked.

  I shrugged. “He was the one beating on his kid and from what I heard Brett say, the mom too. If he goes to the cops, how will he explain it?”

  “Yes,” Dad said. “A conundrum, to be sure.”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  Dad explained, “A puzzler. You could have gotten that contextually.”

  “Yeah, but I wanted to know for sure. Just the words around it aren't always enough.”

  “I like that you ask, son.” He paused, steepling his fingers. “So it would stand to reason that we need some target practice, the sooner the better, especially in light of recent events.”

  “When? Today?” I asked.

  “No better time than the present. I don't have anything on my schedule.” He gestured at his pajamas.

  I nodded and took a bite of the still-steaming pancakes. I gulped a huge swallow of milk, and the whole great ball o' food slid down the pipe.

  Mom got up and flipped Dad's pancakes.

  I raised my eyebrows at him.

  “I'm going all out,” he said.

  Dad didn't usually have pancakes. He didn't want the dreaded shelf. I looked at his gut and thought it was okay, for an old guy. I told him so.

  “Thanks, Caleb. You know just what to say to make me feel better.”

  ***

  The ride to the cemetery didn't take long. I was nervous. I had never tried to make anything happen. I did remember using the gophers to hurt Brett's dad. But the first bit, making them rise—hadn't been on purpose.

  Mom turned around in the front seat. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  I clasped my hands together. “I don't know if I can, ya know... make anything happen.”

  Dad's eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. “Don't be nervous, Caleb.” His eyes traveled back to the road as he was driving, the trees rushing past us like a green highway in the sky.

  “I just don't want you guys to go to all this trouble, and I can't...” I struggled with the word.

  “Perform?” Dad asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah. That covers it.”

  “Don't worry about us, Caleb. We just want you to gain control of this... quickly.”

  Dad took a left into Scenic Hill Cemetery. The place wasn’t as eerie in the daytime. The whispering had grown louder when we were about a mile away. At the gate, the voices were a dull roar, like a washing machine I had to scream over to be heard.

  I must have talked too loud because Mom asked what was happening with me.

  “It's hard to describe, Mom. It's like that thing that you and Dad talk about... white noise. But you guys say that noise is like a good thing.”

  Dad turned off the car. “You're saying the quality is different?”

  “If you mean type, then yeah. It's way different. Like something is going to happen, or something needs to escape.”

  “This seems wrong on a lot of levels, Kyle,” Mom told Dad.

  Dad looked somber. “Yes, it probably is. But I can't have our son running around raising creatures for his personal killing militia. He needs to have some control. It’s better that he practices with our supervision, than for him to be truly threatened someday and not have the tools to effectively deter the problem.”

  We all climbed out of the car.

  “I thought we'd start with the familiar and see if you could raise someone we knew.”

  Mom's hand flew to her heart. “Oh God, Kyle. Really?” Mom put her hands on her hips.

  I hadn't really thought about using a relative.

  I put a hand on her shoulder. “It's me having to do it, Mom, not you. Better that it's somebody we knew, right?”

  She cupped the side of my face, a smile breaking through like sun sliding out from behind clouds. “You're being the brave one, and me being anxious isn't helpful.”

  “But your fear is not his fear,” Dad said.
“Right, Caleb?”

  “No, I'm not afraid of using it. It feels good. That's the part that is scary.” I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans.

  Glancing around I saw that we were all wearing the same thing—jeans and T-shirts. Uniforms for dead people raising. A cackle of laughter escaped me, and my parents gave me odd looks.

  I shook my head. “Sorry, the whole thing seems a little...”

  Mom finished, “Surreal?”

  I nodded. “Yeah... that.”

  Dad smiled and led the way to our family plot. I had visited before when I was little, but it'd been a while.

  I bent my head to look at the first granite marker.

  Mom sank to her knees and ran her right hand over the engraved lettering.

  Margaret “Maggie” Doyle, Beloved Wife-Mother-Grandmother, RIP; born 1935, died 2015.

  Huh, she died the year I was born.

  A tear rolled down Mom’s cheek. “Gran was a good woman.”

  Dad said, “Yes, she was.”

  The power swelled. I heard one whisper above all the rest.

  “She wants to be free of the ground.” I heard my voice as though from far away. Detached.

  “What?” Mom's head whipped around, hair falling in her eyes. “She's speaking to you?”

  “No... yes… not exactly.” I sighed. “I guess it's more of an impression of needs or wants—feelings. I don't know.”

  “Well, I guess the dead make choices too,” Dad said.

  “Yeah, it's not just me. They want to be free. They want to say things or have one more chance, something. I'm somebody that can help them help themselves.”

  “You're a facilitator. Fascinating,” Dad murmured, cupping his chin.

  “Kyle,” Mom hissed, “this is no time to ruminate about the schematics. This is Gran we're disturbing.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Listen, buster, this is not one of your science experiments. This is Caleb and Gran.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, all intense eyes and huffiness.

  Dad looked chastened. “I don't know another way to be, Alicia.”

  “Well, tone it down, would you?”

  He grinned. “I'll make a supreme effort.”

  The whisper from Gran was a steady thing with a vibration all its own. I was starting to get a signature from different people. Everyone was different, and I could sense those differences. Gran's whisper had a familiar quality about it. I didn't know exactly what or why, but I honed in and let a tendril of my power uncoil. It felt a little like the gophers but different, more complex. Their minds had been one mind to me, simple. Hers felt like a complicated series of thoughts and distractions. A dead brain... but somehow alive.

  I gave it a good shove and thought, Come here.

  I felt a great weight lift from my brain. My vision doubled and became fuzzy around the edges. Don't pass out, ya fool. I didn't want to leave the parents stuck with dead granny. Then my vision cleared, and the vertigo passed.

  Nothing happened.

  Dad took a photo of me... unhelpful-much. I blinked at the pulse-flash and felt something cold hit the back of my head. We looked up. Clouds that had only threatened were now roiling above our heads. Great smoky-colored plumes lashed back and forth like an angry sea.

  Dad looked at me.

  I shrugged, disappointed after all the build-up. “I don't know what—”

  A hand burst forth through the earth softened by recent rain. Some of the nails were gone, and the finger joints were visible. Oh boy, Mom was gonna see her Gran looking pretty disgusting. I gave Dad the it's too late look and watched the train wreck happen.

  Inch by slow inch, the ground revealed Gran climbing up to exit her grave. Her silver hair hung in rope-like strands from a scalp with bare patches shining like eggshells in the dimming light.

  She reached for me and rasped, “More.”

  I mouthed, More?

  Energy. Her voice was like a thread of silk worming its way through my brain.

  I shuddered. Her thoughts in my mind, disgusting as hell.

  I reached down inside myself, where that sleeping monster lay, scraped up what was left, and hurled it down that connection that tethered the two of us together.

  Gram suddenly flew backward, her back bent awkwardly. Her claw-like hands clung to the remnants of her flowered blouse.

  She straightened quickly and stood. Her face knitted together before my eyes, skin flowing over and filling holes. The joints in her hands were also covered, and a few nails solidified inside rotted nail beds.

  I exhaled in relief until I looked at Mom. She was as white as a sheet, clutching Dad's shirt, and somewhere between barfing and fainting. Dad was fussing with the tri-pulse, trying to get a picture of Gran-the-corpse.

  He got my attention and winked at me.

  Nothing rattled him. The gesture notched me down some. I felt a little calmer, not so frantic.

  Gran turned to me.

  “Caleb,” she croaked.

  Her voice sounded full of mush. Gravedirt.

  I swallowed hard. “Hi, Gran.”

  “Am I free of this?” She waved at her grave with skeletal fingers that caressed the air.

  “Right now, you are.”

  She frowned, then comprehension slowly dawned on her face.

  “I am dead. Really and truly dead.”

  I nodded a little. “Yes.”

  “And you are a… necromancer?”

  I had looked up that word after the first corpse called me that.

  I was certainly more than that, but I decided to keep it simple. “Yes, Gran.”

  “You have questions for me. I feel them.”

  That was new. I guess the communication was a two-way street.

  She stepped toward me and I fought the urge to step back. That was all in my head. This new thing I could do, this ability, didn't feel sickened or grossed out with Gran. Actually, I felt a sense of ownership over the dead, mine, it intoned, mine.

  “I want to know what this is.”

  She tilted her head to the side, like I had asked an important question that eluded her grasp.

  “Why... this is you, Caleb. You have caused this.”

  Her arms, with the sleeves in ribbons loosely swaying in the slight breeze, clung and whipped around her like a cape.

  “I mean…” Dad was taking pictures in the background, and his movements were distracting. I gave him a look, and he stopped.

  “What did you hear?” I asked her.

  “Your summons, dear boy, your summons.”

  Oh. “You heard me calling you?”

  “Yes, your voice telling me to come to you. You did call me to you. For your bidding.”

  Wow, this was definitely big-time-in-my-pants-creeper status. She stared at me raptly, waiting for some command.

  No wonder Parker was in trouble. If he had anything close to my power, he would be like a king amongst robots. Not a cool thought. I was starting to understand why Dad had been so fast to get me hooked up with the hide-what-you-can-do pill.

  “Ah, I just have some questions. Actually, I'm worried I can't control this, so my dad thought it would be good if we came here and practiced.”

  Saying it out loud made the whole thing sound super dumb. Don't worry Gran, just a little corpse-raising and then we'll tuck ya back in your grave-bed and be on our way. Practice makes perfect. Geez.

  She looked puzzled. “You're just practicing this gift? With me?”

  I gulped, my throat as dry as a desert. “Yeah, that's about it.” I would have killed puppies for a glass of water about now.

  She finally took the time to turn around and look at my parents. She stood there, with her hips facing me and her torso almost fully turned to them, reluctant to turn away from me and fully face them. I heard disgusting sounds when she turned and realized it was her spine, wetly cracking.

  Mom's face was flaming red. But my dad just stared. Whatever he was thinking, he wasn't swayed by emotion. He knew what Gran was; Mom di
dn't. That was the difference. Mom still thought of Gran as Gran. But she wasn't anymore. She was Gran, but she was other, too.

  “Gran,” I began, “Who are those people behind you?”

  She turned back to me. “My granddaughter and her husband,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  “Do you want to talk to them?”

  “Do you wish for me to?” Her eyeballs, which had not filled in all the way, rolled around in their sockets with a little too much room.

  “No. I wish for us to discuss things.”

  “I am here to serve you.”

  I gave Dad a panicked look.

  I needed to get a grip, figure out some stuff and put great-grandma back in the ground.

  “Is there anything you need?” I asked.

  “Yes, it would give me great peace if you would tell my son, if he lives, that I am sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “He will know. Will you?”

  Mom nodded encouragement.

  “Yeah, I will.”

  Gran inclined her head. “Thank you.”

  “What am I here to do?” I asked. “I mean, what good can I do? How can I help people?”

  “Only you know those answers, Caleb. Doing that one errand of mercy for me will be something of worth, to be sure. Some of us can tell you a portent of your future.”

  Mom gasped. I looked at Dad, and he just nodded again.

  I was thinking fast. Portent... a forewarning.

  “Do you wish to know what role you have in this life?” Gran asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yes, I do.”

  Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she raised her hands, reaching for the sky. Thunder clapped, and I jumped. Fat drops of rain splattered on us, while Gran, her gray skin looking like paper stretched tight like a drum over bones, swayed in place, hearing a rhythm that only she could.

  The rain started to come down in earnest. Gran's head snapped down, and she stared at me. A strange light illuminating her eyes.

  She pointed a finger at me.

  “You will need protection. Surround yourself with your own kind and others who have skills. Do not be deceived by people who would use you for evil. There is a young girl with a name of stone. She will be your greatest ally. You must protect her. She will be your salvation.”