Dust to Dust

by Melissa Walker

  I know I’m moving the postcard before I open my eyes, because I hear both Carson and Dylan take breaths in, like they’re seeing a rainbow, or a snowflake, for the first time. It crosses my mind that it’s usually only in childhood that people make that sound—that breath intake that signals pure delight. I open my eyes and see the postcard floating across the room toward Carson, and I exhale in absolute wonder.

  I am moving an object with my mind.

  Carson plucks the card out of the air.

  “Ouch!” she says, dropping the card and looking at her fingers.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Just a shock.”

  “Sorry, Cars.”

  “Are you kidding? Don’t be sorry! That was amazing!” My best friend rushes up to me and puts an arm around me, squeezing my shoulders.

  “It was,” says Dylan, still beaming. “Your energy is really high. That’s a good thing.” He picks up the postcard and places it back in its spot on the wall.

  It is good, I think, amazed. I’m using the imagined touch that I called on in the Prism to interact with earthly objects. I’m not saying it’s as easy as snapping my fingers, but it’s doable.

  “Does it make you tired?” asks Carson.

  I shake my head no. “It takes a little concentration, but it’s not bad,” I say, wondering what Thatcher would think of me playing with powers. I’m sure he feels they are better left forgotten, even with the poltergeists still at large.

  “Well . . . I have good news and bad news,” says Dylan.

  “Bad then good,” says Carson. “Always.”

  Dylan looks at me and I nod in agreement.

  “The bad news is that there are only certain locations where you can use this power,” he says. “This bookstore, this spot specifically, happens to be an energy vortex. It channels energy from both this world and from the other side, and it’s one of only a handful of spots like that in Charleston.”

  No wonder I couldn’t use my energy in physics class. But that means . . .

  “So I can only protect myself in certain locations?” I ask. “What if the poltergeists strike somewhere else? Somewhere outside of a vortex?”

  “That’s the good news,” says Dylan, picking up a small yellow book and tapping it with his finger. “According to this text, they can only ‘strike,’ as you put it, in these particular locations, because that’s where your energy is present, and they have to draw on you to achieve possession.”

  I take in what he’s said.

  “Is there a list of these . . . what did you call them? Vortexes?” I ask.

  Dylan points to the wall, where there’s an old map with ragged edges—like something you’d imagine a pirate tucking into his pocket—in a glass frame.

  “The areas that are circled in dotted lines represent vortexes,” he says.

  “They’re not very big,” I say, staring at the map.

  “No, they’re just pockets. Maybe the size of a small backyard.”

  “And what are they exactly?” I try to listen hard, because this is the type of thing I can easily pretend to understand but not really grasp.

  “It’s like Earth and the Prism are divided by a thin layer of fabric.” Dylan gestures as he talks, just like Carson does when she goes on a monologue. Right now he’s stretching out an imaginary piece of material between his hands. “The fabric is mostly smooth, but in certain parts, it’s bunched up—almost like it’s sewn with a tighter weave in those spots. Those are vortexes. The connection is closer between worlds, so the energy is higher.”

  “What makes the connection closer in those specific spots?” I ask.

  Dylan looks to the map on the wall. “The way it’s laid out here seems to suggest that the vortexes exist in places where there were mass deaths.”

  “Mass deaths?” I lean forward.

  Pointing to the map, Dylan fingers one spot that looks like it’s the harbor. “This was a Civil War battle site,” he says. Then he moves his hand to another location. “And there was a horrible hotel fire here in 1902.”

  “So the places where a lot of people died at once . . . those are now vortexes.” I stand up and walk to the map to look with him.

  “Right,” Dylan says. “And there are a bunch in Charleston.”

  “Our city has always been a ghost town,” says Carson as she comes over to join us.

  My eyes travel over the map carefully. The landmarks on it are old and outdated . . . it’s hard to know where they are in today’s geography.

  I point to one spot that has familiar points of reference around it, and Dylan comes up beside me. “This is—” I start.

  “School,” Dylan finishes. “I know. The hallway where you and Leo fought must be a vortex. And there may be some that aren’t on the map . . . it’s from 1912, so any multiple deaths since then could have created more.”

  I scan the map again to see if I can locate the point where the poltergeists took control of my car. We must have passed through a vortex where they were waiting in that moment.

  I take a picture of the map with my phone. If Reena and Leo are ready for a fight, I’m going to give it to them.

  “Good idea,” says Dylan. “You can use the map to help you avoid these places.”

  I pocket my phone. “That wasn’t why I took the picture.”

  Carson sighs at me. “Callie, don’t even think about charging headfirst into these spots. We know how dangerous it is.”

  “So I’m supposed to run away from the poltergeists?”

  “Not run away . . . avoid.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah, well, they’re the ones threatening me.”

  Dylan looks at me with intense eyes. “We don’t know what exactly they can do. And it’s not just you they’re trying to hurt.” His voice quiets and then he says, “‘Often the test of courage is not to die, but to live.’ Vittorio Alfieri, Italian poet.”

  I turn away from him, bothered by his silly quoting habit, but also cut by the fact that this line, though he can’t know it, has another meaning for me. If I died, I could be with Thatcher. I could fight the poltergeists by his side, and make sure that my friends were safe. Alive, I feel vulnerable, like I have no control over when or how they use me. They’re invisible and powerful and lurking in secret.

  Maybe Dylan’s quote is right, though. Staying safe, staying alive, is the braver choice.

  I look at Carson. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her because I was feeling reckless or mad at Reena. I’ll wait, I think. At least until I get the ring back.

  “How will I even know if I’m in a vortex?” I ask. “You said yourself the map isn’t really reliable.”

  “You’ll feel it,” says Dylan. “When you’re in a spot, you may experience a pull or a shock or something—”

  The energy pulses, the waves of electricity . . . I know them all too well. “I’ve felt that,” I tell him.

  “When you do, you have to leave,” warns Dylan. “Those are the spots where you’ll be vulnerable and used. Very few people will recognize their potency, but they’re places where ghosts and the living mix.”

  If I had Thatcher’s ring, though, I wouldn’t have to retreat. I could call on him and we could counterstrike together, like we used to in the Prism. But without it, I think I’m going to have to follow Dylan’s advice, as much as it infuriates me.

  “Okay,” I say. “I understand.”

  “Do you think the upper Wando is a vortex?” asks Carson. She turns to Dylan. “We were there the other day, and I felt a weird energy thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I remember when we got to the river, and then just before we left . . . but I felt so exhausted by the time we went home, and I don’t even remember most of the middle part of the day.”

  Dylan tilts his head, interested, but I dismiss her.

  “Sunstroke,” I say, remembering how Nick and Carson and I lay on the shore together during the picnic. Nick was weak and forge
tful because Thatcher had taken his body, but Carson was just being dramatic.

  “I don’t know,” says Carson. “Maybe I can feel some of the ghost energy, too!”

  There’s a chance she’s right. Wouldn’t it make sense that she’s becoming more sensitive to the spirit world, given how much time she’s been spending around me?

  “I have one more test for you, Callie,” says Dylan. “And Carson, you can see if you can feel some of Callie’s ghost energy in this one.”

  She beams and stands up as the faded bluebird clock on the wall strikes one. It makes a crazy chirping noise and I vow not to stay until two. I don’t think I could bear to hear that again.

  “Guys, I really need to get home,” I say. “And you haven’t even told me where the ring is.”

  Dylan smiles. “I showed you.”

  He points to his phone, still on the table, and I press Play again.

  “Right there,” says Dylan, pausing it just as I’m about to slam into Eli-Leo for the third time. It’s blurry, but I can see Eli’s hand reaching out to take the chain.

  Looks like my suspicions are confirmed.

  “It was Leo who grabbed for it then,” I say.

  “Yes. But it’s an earthly object, and Eli may actually have it.”

  “I asked him about it in the office later but he just pushed right past me.”

  “He may not remember he has it,” says Dylan. “Like you said, it was Leo who took it.”

  “This is getting confusing,” says Carson.

  “I’ll say.” I pick up my keys. “I need to go talk to Eli.”

  Dylan points at the clock. “It’s after one in the morning,” he says.

  “I’ve got to get that ring back,” I tell him.

  “We will, I promise,” he says, making it clear that together we’re all a team. “But first, we should be sure you know what you’re doing . . . in case the poltergeists show up again.”

  I sigh in frustration.

  “Your spirit-world instincts kicked in today,” says Dylan. “That’s good. But it’s even better if you truly know what to do and how you did it. And we can’t be sure until we test you on the movement of living energy.”

  I look down, impatient.

  “Callie, it’s important,” says Dylan. “I was reading about this and it’s very rare—in fact, I can’t find proof in any of the books I’ve read that a person could ever truly move living energy.”

  I stare at Dylan, trying to read his eyes behind the lenses of his big glasses.

  “You don’t believe I can do it,” I say, sensing his doubt.

  “I don’t . . . ,” he starts. Then he pushes his glasses up his nose again. “There’s just no evidence that it’s possible.”

  I give him a patronizing grin. He’s like my father in a certain way. He believes in so much, but he needs proof, either in books or in life, to make him sure. Dad didn’t even renew his faith in prayer until his own daughter had come back from near-death.

  “You want evidence? No problem.”

  I turn to Carson and focus my energy on her petite frame. She nods, signaling that it’s okay to use her as a target. I move toward her slowly, not like I ran at Eli today, but still deliberately—I know what I’m doing.

  When I reach out my hands to strike, I focus not on the edges of her physical being—her shoulders, her chest—but instead on the interior layer of energy that lies underneath.

  Carson stumbles backward in response to my push.

  “Oops,” I say. “Sorry.”

  She smiles and spaces out her feet as she steps back onto her mark. “I’m ready this time.”

  I try again, with the same results.

  “You’re not trying to move her physical body,” says Dylan.

  I let out an annoyed breath. “I know,” I tell him, thinking that I’m a lot more aware of what’s going on than he is.

  “Okay; well, if you’re already reaching beyond that with your mind, then it’s just a speed issue,” he says.

  “A speed issue?”

  “Yeah.” He grabs his phone and presses Play. “Let’s watch the part again where you rush at Eli. You did this thing where you stopped your body completely from moving just at the point where your hands could reach him . . . there! See how they pushed out like a shot, almost too blurry to register on the recording. Your hands burst out at him at high speed. That must be the trick.”

  I tilt my head and watch it again. What Dylan’s saying makes sense to me. The next time I back up, I make a point to stop myself right in front of Carson and see if my arms automatically do what they’re supposed to.

  My hands flash through her, almost like she’s not there, and Carson’s eyes immediately go blank. They lose their light. My best friend slumps over and Dylan reaches forward to catch her. But before she falls, her muscles spring back, like she’s one of those wind-sock puppets that advertise used-car sales, and I see the light pop into her eyes again.

  Phew.

  I turn to Dylan with a smile. “It worked.”

  “Amazing!” he says. He hovers near Carson to make sure she’s okay, but she’s laughing already so I know she is.

  “That was incredible,” says Carson. “Dylan, you better write this down for posterity.”

  Dylan’s still shaking his head in wonder, whispering to himself. “It must be because you’ve been to both sides . . . you have energy pulled from Earth and the Prism together. Or maybe it has something to do with . . .”

  He raises his voice as I gather my things. “Callie?”

  “Yes?” I turn to him, ready to get home and be alone with time to think about everything that’s happened tonight. I need to figure out how to approach Eli tomorrow, and if there’s some way I can get Thatcher to come to me without the ring. He should know everything I learned here tonight, and if this place is a fortress that ghosts can’t penetrate, the only way he can find out is through me.

  “Have you ever been close to anyone who died?” Dylan asks.

  “Um . . . yeah, of course,” I say. “Carson didn’t tell you about my mother?”

  “She did; I’m sorry, by the way,” he says. “That’s not what I meant though. What I’m trying to say is, have you ever been physically close to someone who died?”

  I lock eyes with Carson, but then I realize that she doesn’t know the details about what really happened on my mother’s deathbed, so she can’t have told him. I just found out myself that Mama died in my arms.

  I don’t want to talk about this. Not with someone I just met. I can’t.

  “No,” I say to Dylan.

  Seventeen

  CARSON AND I SCOOT our way back down the narrow alley and onto the street, now glittering under a full moon that has emerged from the clouds. It rained while we were in the bookstore, and the cobblestones are slick and shiny.

  I’m still shaking a little, wondering why Dylan asked about that—whether someone had ever died near me. I probably should confess what my father told me today. . . . Dylan knows a lot and he’s helpful. But I just met him. How can I tell him about my mom’s last moment, now that I know exactly what it looked like? It’s too painful.

  “Callie!” Nick’s voice breaks the night’s silence, and Carson and I both turn, startled.

  He’s standing twenty feet away from us, car keys jangling in his hand and dressed in the jersey shorts I know he likes to sleep in. This is a long drive from where he lives.

  “Give me a minute,” I say to Carson. I walk over to him, leaving her by the VW.

  “I went to your house,” he says. “I saw you sneaking out with Carson and I followed you here. But then you disappeared. And I didn’t see where you went. What the hell are you guys doing out here in the middle of the night?”

  We were in the bookstore for over an hour. I look back to where the entrance is, hidden to the eye unless you know it’s there. Nick must have been so confused. “You’ve been waiting all this time?” I ask, not wanting to fully answer his question.


  “I had to see you,” he says. “You didn’t answer my texts, and I had to be sure you were okay after the thing today with Eli. Which I didn’t want to believe because it’s absolutely crazy, but Hol—” He pauses for a moment, realizing his misstep. “I heard that it was true.”

  I nod. I owe him an explanation. More than one, really.

  I turn back to Carson and wave to her. “Go ahead.”

  Nick gestures toward a bench, the one we used to sit on while we looked up at the pink house with the five perfect second-floor windows, the house I used to stare at after my mom died, where I imagined someone with a dream life lived. And I realize that the time is now. This is a good place to talk.

  “What is going on with you?” asks Nick. “I know for a fact that you’d never attack anyone. Especially Eli. I can barely take that guy.”

  “I’ll tell you, but it’s a long story and it’s going to sound really weird.”

  “I’ve got time,” says Nick. “And I’m already freaked out, so . . . go ahead.”

  I take a deep breath. We stay quiet for a moment in the still of the night. I’m worried about what to say to him. But out here, in the dark, the truth has to come to light. And not just the truth about Eli.

  “You were here without me,” I say finally, my voice barely a whisper.

  “What?”

  “Over the summer . . . you sat out here alone.”

  “Being here reminded me of being with you.”

  “That day on this bench, you were listening to Bon Iver.”

  He laughs. “I guess I’m predictable. Either that or you know me really well.”

  “You put out your hand,” I continue. “You whispered to me.”

  Nick’s body stiffens now and he turns to look at my face. I can feel his gaze, but I look straight ahead, at the pink house. It gives me comfort, still.

  “I took your hand,” I tell him. “Our fingers curled together.”

  I put my hand out now on the bench, reaching out to him like he did to me that day. But this time, we’re both here in body as well as soul.

  Nick places his hand over mine and our fingers intertwine—muscle and blood and bone.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” he asks.