Dust to Dust

by Melissa Walker

  “True.”

  She turns right out of our neighborhood, toward the historic district.

  My shoulders tense, and Carson sees it.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “What if the poltergeists try something again?”

  “Hello, that’s why I’m driving.”

  “I don’t mean just messing with my energy—I mean possession. I could be putting you in danger just by being near you.”

  Carson smiles. “Let’s just get to Dylan’s,” she says. “He has that covered.”

  I look at her sideways. “Okay, I need more information on this Dylan person.”

  Without hesitation, she launches in. “He moved from Seattle last year, his dad grew up in Charleston, his grandparents still live here. I found his family’s bookstore this summer while you were . . .”

  “In a coma,” I fill in. “You can say it.”

  “Right, in a coma.” She looks at me as we pull up to a red light and stop.

  “What?” I ask her.

  She sighs. “I don’t want you to get all weird.”

  “About what?”

  The light changes to green and she says, “He’s really into the other side, too.”

  “Ghost stuff?”

  “Yes,” she says. “He knows a ton more than I do even, and he’s been fascinated by you since you got back to school.”

  I frown, and she catches it. “Not in a weird way!” she says. “Callie, he seems cool. And the bookstore is amazing.”

  I look out the passenger-side window and watch the streetlights cast shadows across the car as we drive slowly down the empty late-night road. Sometimes Carson is too trusting for her own good. Then again, sometimes I’m not trusting enough.

  When we pull up to the main tourist strip of Rainbow Row, I start to get antsy. Why here, in one of the most supposedly haunted parts of Charleston? Is this guy just a crazy ghost hunter?

  Carson must see the doubt in my eyes because she says, “It’ll be fine.” And then she opens her door.

  We step out of the car and onto the cobblestone street. Our footsteps echo on the empty walk, and it’s extra eerie because this area is usually crowded with tourists.

  Carson stops in front of two row houses—pink and green. “There,” she whispers.

  I look to where she’s pointing, and I see that there is a tiny, narrow alleyway in between the two homes—one that I’ve never noticed before.

  “I thought they were all row houses,” I say. “With no space in between.”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to think,” she says, and I can hear the glee in her voice at knowing this secret path. “Come on.”

  We have to go sideways to fit in between the buildings, and my back presses against the pink one. Suddenly, Carson stops.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “The gate,” she says. I rise up on my tiptoes to see that there is a flash of iron in front of us—a locked sliver of a gate. And Carson has a key. It’s an ancient-looking skeleton key that fits smoothly into the old rusted lock.

  “What in the world . . . ?” I start, but she shushes me and waves at me to follow her as she opens the gate.

  When she does, I breathe easier. The alleyway widens so that there are a few inches on either side of us, and as we get farther away from the street, I see a glowing light behind the houses. There’s a small outbuilding here, with two windows and a door. It looks like a fairy-tale cottage that belongs to a fictional character, with flowers in the window boxes and a gingerbread lattice.

  “Is this Dylan’s house?” I ask her, and she puts her finger to her lips again, and then knocks four times in quick succession.

  When the door opens, I see Dylan standing there in thick black-rimmed glasses and a black hoodie. He has a little bit of stubble on his chin, but I can tell that there’s a baby face behind his specs. He ushers us in and closes the door softly behind us.

  “Callie, meet Dylan,” says Carson.

  “Hey,” I say to him.

  He pushes his glasses up his nose and waves hello before shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s about the same height as me, and wearing skinny jeans that show off his thin legs.

  “Callie McPhee,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “A pleasure.” Then he smiles at Carson, and I swear that even in this dim light I can see his cheeks flush a little bit.

  “So anyway, this is Dylan’s grandfather’s bookstore, and it’s kind of become my, um, haunt for all things supernatural,” says Carson.

  Dylan chuckles at her joke, and I notice again that he’s really staring hard at my best friend.

  “Well, nice to meet you, I guess,” I say to Dylan. “Where’s the ring?” Not exactly my most gracious moment, but this is a strange situation.

  “Callie!” Carson bristles at my forwardness.

  “What? He texted about the ring!” I look to Dylan. “Do you have it?”

  “No,” he says. “But I know who does. Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Can we talk first?” he asks.

  I cross my arms, feeling impatient.

  “Listen, I’m not saying we should chat about the weather. Don’t worry about niceties, even if we are in historic Charleston.” Dylan grins in the face of my frown. He’s more talky than Carson, if that’s possible. “Besides, there’s no need to play a game like those inane icebreakers they do at summer camp. Carson has already told me all about you—the coma, the Prism, your Guide, the possession you’re dealing with involving a poltergeist named Leo. I can help, and I’m ready to get to work.”

  My mouth drops open as he gestures to a table in the center of the room, piled high with thick volumes of dusty old books, some splayed open.

  I look at Carson, feeling betrayed.

  “I know,” she says. “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. But Dylan isn’t anyone—he’s been studying the other side for, like, his whole life and he knows everything there is to know, and he already has some ideas for how to help us, and oh, please don’t be mad at me, Cal.”

  “This isn’t a game, Carson,” I say to her, my anxiety rising.

  “‘Secrets are things we give to others to keep for us,’” says Dylan.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, annoyed.

  “Elbert Hubbard,” he says. “Late-nineteenth-century author, philosopher—”

  “Are we in English class?” I look at Carson.

  “Callie, he’s just trying to say that he can be trusted . . . that we can be trusted.” My best friend moves to stand next to Dylan.

  I look at him now and he gives me a what-are-you-gonna-do shrug.

  “You really trust him?” I ask Carson.

  She nods her head vigorously. “I do.”

  And what choice do I have? I’ve got to know where that ring is, and this guy already seems as stubborn as Carson. “Okay,” I say. “Tell me what you know, Dylan Dixon.”

  Immediately, he plows into the pile of books.

  “This one talks about a realm between Earth and Heaven, a sort of waiting area where souls linger,” he says.

  I give him a withering stare. “I don’t need to rehash what I already know,” I say. “I need to know more.”

  He smiles at me. “Carson said you were serious.”

  “Dead serious.”

  Carson laughs nervously then, and I can see how much she wants me and Dylan to get along, how much she hopes he’s the answer to all the things that are we’re dealing with. But he’s just a kid in a bookstore. Still, he does know about the ring.

  “Okay!” says Dylan, springing into action again and moving around the table like a jumping bean. “Possession, right? That’s the immediate issue we’re facing.”

  “Right,” I tell him. It still feels strange to be talking about this stuff openly, but it’s a relief, too. “Listen . . . there’s something I’m worried about. If the poltergeists are using my energy for possession, they may be able to attempt it at any time. I may be putting both of you in
danger by being near you right now. The ring is the only thing that can protect us.”

  “How?” he asks.

  I hesitate slightly. “Well . . . it’s a way to call to someone who can help, if we need it.”

  “A ghost?” Dylan’s eyes light up.

  “Yes. A ghost.” I shoot a glare at Carson and she gives me a nod of encouragement.

  “The talisman,” Dylan whispers.

  “What?” I turn my head sharply back to him. That’s the word Thatcher used.

  “‘Love is the talisman of human weal and woe—the open sesame to every human soul.’” He pauses. “Elizabeth Cady Stanton. I’ve read about this.” He takes three strides across the room and reaches up to a high shelf for a slim black book. He flips through the pages quickly and finds what he wants—this kid who loves obscure quotes is faster than Google. He starts to read aloud: “Every soul that remains in limbo has a talisman, an object of some value to their living selves which binds them to Earth and the living world. With this talisman, the ghosts can be summoned by living beings.”

  He pauses. “Unfortunately, most living beings aren’t aware of this fact. They hardly ever recognize the talisman as something of value.”

  It’s just what Thatcher told me. I sit down at the table next to where Carson is standing.

  “Okay,” I say to Dylan. “I think I’m starting to trust you.”

  He smiles, like he knew I’d come around.

  “And by the way,” he says, a confident lilt in his voice. “You don’t have to worry about poltergeists taking your energy right now. We’re safe here. This store is a no-fly zone for ghosts.”

  “A no-fly zone?”

  Carson jumps in. “It was founded by an old-school believer back in the seventeen hundreds.”

  “A great-great-something-uncle of mine who worked on a spell to protect this space,” says Dylan, puffing out his chest proudly.

  I look around the bookstore, dusty and dim with row upon row of well-worn volumes. It’s much larger than it appeared from the outside. “I had no idea it existed,” I say. “How big is the store anyway?”

  “Bigger than it looks,” he says. “It was built in a way that uses tricks of the light—and the darkness—to obscure its location and size.”

  “How does anyone ever find it?” I ask.

  “It finds you,” says Carson.

  I give her a skeptical look, but her earnest gaze tells me that this is for real—or at least she believes it is.

  “This place was founded by someone who understood that the knowledge in these books was worth protecting,” says Dylan. “Someone who could talk to the other side . . . like Carson can.”

  She waves off the compliment, but her lips turn up a little, like she’s pleased he’s noticed. “I haven’t mastered that yet,” she says. “But I’m trying.”

  “You have natural talent,” says Dylan. “You just need the right words.”

  Carson nods. “That’s where the books come in.” She turns to me. “None of this stuff is online. I know, because when you were in a coma, I—”

  She stops, looking sheepish.

  “What?” I ask.

  “She used an incantation from this book to try to bring you back,” says Dylan, holding up a dusty red volume.

  I flash back to a séance Carson attempted in her room with Nick. Reena and I were standing on the sidelines watching, and I thought it all looked so silly . . . until my voice locked up and a strong vibration hit my core. I woke up in the Prism later, not knowing what had happened.

  I remember the words Carson said that night. I close my eyes and recite them now: “By the light of the moon and the branch of the tree, I call the soul of Callie McPhee back to me. . . .”

  When I open my eyes, Carson and Dylan are staring at me, their mouths hanging in parallel Os.

  They turn and look at each other. “It was working!” squeals Carson.

  “It almost did,” I tell her. “I was there. You almost brought me back.”

  Carson and Dylan grab hands and do what I can only describe as a happy dance. I need to put a lid on this.

  “Y’all, I know this is exciting for you,” I say. “But there are lives at stake here. Real people’s lives.” I stare at Carson meaningfully. Like yours, I think.

  They tamp down their enthusiasm, but it takes some effort. Having me here to confirm what they’ve been reading about and believing in must be like a little kid meeting the real Santa Claus. Except he doesn’t exist. But the ghost world does.

  “Anyway,” says Dylan, gesturing around the bookstore. “This space is protected.”

  He looks up at the ceiling—all wooden beams and hanging lightbulbs, no glowing force field or double-reinforced orb of otherworldly safety—and I’m about to ask him more questions, but then Carson says, “Believe for once, Callie.”

  I think about all the years when I dismissed Carson’s ghost stories and her feeling of connection to the other side—to my own mother even. It wasn’t fair of me, especially as she stuck by me through my cynicism and scoffing. She never lost her confidence, never wavered, and now I know that she was right all along. So maybe I owe it to her to believe now.

  “Okay.” I lean in on my elbows and look up at Dylan like he’s a teacher. “Continue.”

  My best friend pulls a chair alongside mine.

  Dylan beams at her as he starts to talk.

  “Possession,” says Dylan, returning to the task at hand. “It’s all about energy.”

  “Right,” I say. “I had extra energy in the Prism. And it seems like I still have a lot of it, because I know that Leo used my energy today at school to possess Eli. I felt it happening.”

  “A blessing and a curse,” says Dylan, and suddenly he sounds like Thatcher in Guide mode. “They’re using your supply, but it’s also what enables you to expel them from a body—that takes huge amounts of energy.” He digs through a corner pile on the table and finds a book with a plain brown cover. “This one talks about controlling energy and moving physical objects—telekinesis.”

  I nod. “I did some of that in the Prism,” I tell him. “I was able to move things . . . sometimes.”

  “It takes a lot of concentration, especially if you don’t have a physical body,” says Dylan. Then he smiles at Carson. “Imagine trying to pick up a glass of orange juice with your mind!”

  “Or blow dandelion seeds into the wind with your thoughts,” says Carson.

  “Or take out the trash with brain waves!” says Dylan.

  “Okay, okay!” I jump in. “I think we all get the idea.”

  Dylan and Carson laugh together, and I’m almost charmed by how cute they look. But I’m also impatient—I need him to keep going, get to his point or what he thinks he knows, and tell me where the ring is.

  “Sorry, sorry,” says Dylan, and he straightens his mouth into a line with some effort. “Do you remember how you moved things?”

  I think back to Reena’s instruction. And it’s strange that I’m calling upon the teachings of my enemy in this moment. But at the time, I thought she was my friend.

  We took a walk on Folly Beach. She led me to a bonfire, where I met two other poltergeists, Norris and Delia. It was there that she taught me how to blow out a flame using my memories of birthday-cake wishes and scented candles. “You have to feel yourself blowing out the flame before you can actually do it—almost like you’re imagining it happening first,” she told me.

  I nod. “I remember.”

  “Today your energy worked for you on pure instinct,” says Dylan. “I’ve never seen anyone move as fast as you did, or as furiously.”

  “You were there. I saw you outside my classroom.”

  “I have chemistry on that hall last period. It was hard to miss the fight.”

  “I don’t know what I did in that hallway,” I tell Dylan honestly. “I didn’t think—I just acted.”

  “Well, it worked,” he says. “And we can review what happened if you like.”


  “What do you mean?”

  Dylan holds up his phone. “I caught most of it,” he says.

  I freeze. “You recorded it?”

  He comes over to me and sets the phone down. I stare at the white triangle Play icon for a moment before pressing it and watching myself move like a trained fighter. I review it twice—seeing how quickly I moved and what the final shove looked like, the one where I expelled Leo fully. I’m amazed at myself, at my own strength. Do I actually still have the ability to fight them, even without my extra energy from the Prism?

  Or Thatcher’s talisman?

  Dylan leans in and says, “You were great. But if you learn how to harness that power a little better, you’ll be more prepared for next time.”

  “Next time?”

  “You don’t think they’ll stop now, do you? Not when they’re so close.”

  Dylan’s words make me shiver despite the musty heat in here. Reena and Leo are obsessed with living again. They won’t stop until they’ve killed someone to get what they want—a body.

  And although Thatcher has told me he’s searching high and low for them, maybe it’s too late.

  Maybe they’re untouchable.

  Sixteen

  OVER THE NEXT HALF hour, something unexpected happens. Carson, Dylan, and I actually start to have fun. Dylan keeps turning back to his books to give me more instruction, more ways of honing my energy.

  “Let’s use this.” Dylan turns and pulls out a silver candelabra from the cabinet behind us.

  Carson giggles.

  “Are you for real?” I ask him.

  “What?” he asks, a smile in his voice. “Too stereotypical ghost?”

  At first I think I won’t be able to do anything. I tested my energy already in class, and nothing happened. But somehow, right now, I start to feel the power again. I remember what it’s like to not have a body, and the body that I have now isn’t getting in my way.

  While I face a wall covered with old pictures and dusty papers, I focus on a black-and-white postcard of a fountain that looks like it’s somewhere in Europe—Italy, I think. I imagine its scalloped edges on my fingers, its slight weight in my hand. I close my eyes, but inside my mind I can see the postcard clearly; I can smell its musty paper scent, feel the slight ridge on the corner where the stamp is still stuck.