I screamed in pain as a chair nailed my leg. I tried to hobble for the stairway, using my arms to cover my face. A crystal glass hit my forearm and blood trickled down to my elbow.
"Knock it off! That hurts!"
A plate hit my shin. A sharp stab of pain traveled up my leg as one of the blades of a gardening shear embedded itself in my flesh.
"Goddamnit, Aunt Tillie. Knock it off or I swear by all the Gods, I'll call up Lisette right now and help her do whatever she wants."
Silence. The onslaught stopped.
I yanked the shears out of my thigh and hobbled up the stairs, but nothing more hit me. When I reached the top, I slammed the door shut, locked it and wedged a chair under the doorknob. In the silence, I heard the light bulbs on the other side of the door explode, one by one.
An hour later, I was still shaking over the attack in the cellar, as the doctor stitched up my leg. Fucking pushy, opinionated, tantrum-throwing, pain-in-the-ass ghosts, I thought to myself, trying not to watch the needle and thread. This was ridiculous. Aunt Tillie could have killed me. In fact, she probably would have.
"It's none of my business, but if someone did this to you, I can have the police here in a red hot minute. One thing we do well is protect our women and children. Zero tolerance."
"I don't know if you can protect me from my own stupidity, Doc. But I promise, it's the last time I try and nudge a box of unknown stuff off a high shelf."
"If you're sure," he said, doubtfully.
As he finished up, my thoughts returned to my problem. Gus had gone through a demon-trapping phase, before he realized the downfalls of it. So he had given me lots of good tips when I ran my ghost-busting plan past him on the phone the other day. He was sending me a care package from the Crooked Pantry and Mama Lua, but I needed something now.
So, as soon as I was all stitched up, I headed over to the Trading Post, to see if J.J. had anything I could use.
When I walked in, a head-banging rendition of Rock You Like A Hurricane was pulsating through the store and J.J. was deep in an air guitar solo. I thumped the counter. "Hey, J.J."
Nothing. I don't think he even heard me over the music.
"J.J.!" I leaned over and turned off the radio.
"Hey, harsh!"
"Sorry. I'm looking for a brass vessel. You have any?"
"A whooza whatsie?"
"Brass vessel. It's like a container, or a jar. Like the magic lamp they used to put genies in. And it's made of brass."
"Oh. Well why didn't ya say so?" He locked up the register and roamed the aisles with me, looking at the shelves. "Whaddya need it for?"
I thought about spinning a story, but before I could stop it, the word "Ghostbusting" popped out of my mouth.
"Off the hook! Can I watch? I can be like, Boy Wonder to your Batgirl. Or, you know, Harold Ramis to your Bill Murray."
"No."
"Buzzkill. So..." He poked his head back out of one of the aisles, "Why brass? Why not aluminum or steel or, I don't know, tinfoil?"
"Because that's the way its been done for hundreds of years. King Solomon used to trap demons and wayward spirits with brass vessels. And if it was good enough for him..."
"Who's King Solomon?"
I sighed. That would be a long story. "Never mind. He lived way before you were born."
"Wait. King Solomon... is he the dude in the Bible who threatened to cut the kid in half?"
I stopped to think about it. "Yeah. I think that's the same guy."
"So, back to brass tacks, or, in this case, brass vessel," he said, laughing at his own joke. "So it's just tradition?"
"It has something to do with the alchemical properties of brass. Please don't ask me to explain it, it makes my head hurt just thinking about it." That was frequently the problem with ceremonial magic. Way too intellectual.
He popped into one of the aisles, hooted in triumph, and came walking back to the register.
"You found one?"
"Voila." He handed me a long-neck bronze vase with the initials RY engraved on it.
"Does it have a lid?"
"Dude, it's a bud vase."
"I know. That's kinda my point." I sighed. Well, beggars can't be choosers. Sometimes you just have to make do. "Fine, I'll take it. But if you see something with a lid come in, can you snag it for me? Once you get spirits in, you kinda need to keep them from getting out."
He rang up the vase. "Can't you just use something else to plug it? Like a rubber ball? Or a small, round mirror? I got some of those in."
My spirits started to lift. "J.J., that is brilliant. A mirror is perfect. Do you have one that's small enough to fit?"
"Yeah, over in the arts and crafts aisle." He walked over there and snagged a bag of assorted small mirrors. "But dude, if you can really trap ghosts, we should hook up a webcam and charge a fee. Think of all the money you can make. I can be like, your agent."
"I'll keep it in mind." I said, paying him. "But I'm really hoping this is a one time thing."
I actually hated the thought of trapping Aunt Tillie against her will. But with a ghost as violent and unpredictable as that one that in the house, I had to be prepared to do just about anything.
Chapter Thirty-Four
By the time I got home, it was late. And the thought of tackling the cellar, at night, made me queasy. Actually, just the thought of staying in the cottage tonight made me cringe. I thought about calling Paul and trying to finagle a date. Preferably an overnight date. On his couch. But how crazy would that sound? Hello, Paul. I know we barely know each other, but can I crash on your couch, so my Aunt Tillie's ghost doesn't kill me while I'm sleeping? Yeah. I could just see that leading to a second date. Not.
I briefly debated sleeping in my SUV, but the night was supposed to plummet right past cold and into damn cold. So, I took a deep breath and walked into the cottage.
It was quiet.
Not quiet as in 'something was holding its breath' quiet. Quiet as in, peaceful. Nobody home but us mortals. Even Grundleshanks was looking at me like I was being unnecessarily paranoid. But I grabbed Grundleshanks's tank and moved him into the bedroom for the night, anyway, to keep me company.
With Gus's potent little cocktail finally starting to clear out of my system, I had vivid dreams, but nothing that would register on a hallucinatory scale. So by the time morning hit, I was actually feeling more myself than I had in a while. Even if the weather didn't mirror my mood.
The day started out overcast and turned stormy. Despite my new-found energy, I was still feeling a strong aversion to the cellar, so I decided to check out the attic. I've never had an attic anywhere I've lived, but I've always wanted one. I hoped it was an actual room and not some lame crawl space.
On the key ring with the iron cellar key, there was also a sturdy, silver skeleton key. I wasn't sure if it was the attic key, but I had a good feeling about it. I trotted back up the stairs to the attic, key in my pocket, big flashlight in one hand, bucket of cleaning supplies in the other. I wasn't a big fan of repeatedly climbing stairs, so if the key worked, I didn't want to have to come back down to get my cleaning stuff.
I was at the top step, when I suddenly felt a push and my body went flying backwards.
I dropped everything and grabbed for the handrail, but it fell apart in my hands.
I hit the stairs hard, on my back, my body twisting.
I tucked in my arms and head, resisting the impulse to catch myself with an outstretched hand. With my full weight behind it, my wrist would snap like a twig.
My head twisted backward. I could feel my neck at the breaking point, my head millimeters from being smashed open. I couldn't breathe. There was nothing I could do. It was all happening too fast.
Was this what it was like to die?
Suddenly, I could smell my mom's perfume, and I felt invisible hands wrap around my head and neck.
My body jerked to a stop and the hands slowly lowered my head, and then slipped away.
I scrambl
ed towards the wall, leaning against it. I looked at the broken handrail that spiked up into the air. I hadn't fallen because the rail broke. The rail broke when I fell on it. Correction, when a bad-tempered entity pushed me to what would have been my death.
The hands had stopped my forward momentum. They had cushioned my head and neck.
My mom had saved me.
She had saved me.
And then, in an instant, she was gone.
I slowly stood up. Other than bumps, bruises and a twisted ankle, I seemed to be okay. No thanks to my homicidal aunt. I limped into the living room. It was time to take care of Aunt Tillie. Permanently.
Whoever invented the saying pick your battles carefully was totally on the money when it came to the spirit world. Unfortunately, Aunt Tillie wasn't giving me any options.
I gathered everything I needed and carefully placed my tribal skull on the floor in front of Tillie's rocking chair. Then I mixed dried mugwort, dragon's blood resin and a few drops of yew essential oil into a bowl.
I lined the bottom of an abalone shell with kitty litter, topped it with three lit coins of charcoal and sprinkled the incense I had just made on it.
After I cleansed and charged the space with salt water and incense, I put the piece of bloody bark from the tree Tillie crashed into, onto her rocking chair.
I added a few symbols of power that Gus had described to me and drew a holding circle around the chair with a blackthorn staff. If Gus was right, (and he swore up and down his sigils would work, even if a sycamore used them), this would keep her contained.
I drew a protective circle around the room (and me) and hoped he was right. I'd never done this before, so there was no telling what would happen. Outside, the wind grabbed onto an empty trashcan and sent it clattering against a tree.
"Ready or not, Tillie, here I come." I muttered.
I pointed the business end of the blackthorn at the rocking chair and began the ritual.
"To the ancestors I now call, open the gates of Heaven and Hell. By the ringing of this bell, set and seal this spell." I chanted, ringing a small bell. "By blood and bone, by thorn and stone, Tillie McDougal, I command you, to return home."
I slammed the end of the blackthorn on the ground, three times.
When I looked up, I saw Tillie sitting on the rocking chair.
She glared at me. "I told you to leave."
"You tried to kill me. You stabbed me with garden shears."
She shrugged, unrepentant. "All that's here for you is madness and death. You want to save yourself? Leave."
"I want a cease fire." I said, putting the bud vase on the floor between us. "You call off this attack now, or you can spend eternity in a brass vessel."
She gasped. "You wouldn't dare." But then she looked down and saw that my brass vessel was a brass bud vase. "Oh, that's threatening. I'm trying to help you, you idiot child."
"You're trying to break my neck." I said.
"There are fates worse than death. And if I have to kill you to keep you out of harm's way, so be it."
"Or you can trust me to take care of myself. I'm not exactly powerless, you know."
She sniffed. "You're a vile, ungrateful, child. You will leave, either by your own will or by mine. I'll be damned if I let the Devil have you."
And with that, she lunged at me.
So much for protective circles and trapping her with sigils.
She coalesced into fog around my head and suddenly, I was struggling to breathe.
She was literally suffocating me.
I clawed at my face, but my hands went right through her.
I stumbled over to the rocking chair, gasping for air and picked up bloody piece of bark.
"By blood and bone, by mound and womb, Tillie McDougal, I bind you to this artificial tomb." I gasped out the words as I fought my way over to the vase, every step a battle.
Too late.
It was too late.
My vision was going black.
The darkness spread until the room was a small pinprick of light in a field of black.
I fell to my knees.
As my upper body collapsed, my fingers brushed something cold and hard.
The vase.
With the last bit of energy I had, I dropped the bloody piece of bark into the vase.
Then I felt with my fingers until I found the small, round mirror. As I lost consciousness, I dropped the mirror into the vase.
It must have stopped up the opening.
Because, suddenly I could breathe.
I opened my eyes and gasped, filling my lungs.
Over and over. Breathe in, breathe out.
The vase rocked back and forth, but it held fast.
In my mind, I could hear a scream of frustration.
Aunt Tillie.
But I couldn't hear it echoing in the house.
And I could breathe.
The vase was icy cold to the touch, but it was holding.
I had done it. I had successfully imprisoned the spirit of my Aunt Tillie.
So why did I feel so queasy?
I sighed, ground out the energy and rubbed out the sigils with my feet. I dropped the circles and thought about calling Gus, but I wasn't ready to re-live the afternoon yet. So I set the vase up on the mantle and returned to what I had originally set out to do. Come hell or irate ghosts, I was going to see what was up in the attic.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I opened the attic door, ready for anything, and was amazed to find a really cool-looking room. All weird angles and tiny hide-away nooks.
I sneezed and bumped into an antique telephone table. A mini-cloud of dust rose up. Good thing I had brought a box of dust masks up with the cleaning supplies. I fastened one on and looked around.
Although it was unfinished, the attic looked like it had once been someone's bedroom, before it got repurposed for storage. It was roomy, with unusual, octagon-shaped windows in all four directions, that sported stained glass edging. Depending on where you stood, you could see the lake, the woods, the main road, even the valley. You'd also be able to see both sunrise and sunset. This had to be an awesome room for a kid. Heck, it would be an awesome room for me. A little remodeling, I could turn it into a master suite with walk-in closet, full bathroom, even a small work room.
Or a temple room, for that matter. Gus would disown me if my home didn't have a temple room. And a room where you could see both sunrise and sunset... That had temple space written all over it.
I sighed and got to work, cleaning. Well, as best as I could with a sore ankle, aching head and various bumps and bruises. I lifted a mattress and a family of mice scattered. I screamed and limped to the other side of the room, trying not to think too hard about where the mice might be scattering to.
What I needed was cats. Lots of cats. No wonder witches had cats. Forget the whole 'being familiars' thing. It was to keep the rodents away.
By the time I stopped screaming, the mice were gone. I gingerly kick-pushed the mattress over to the discard pile, wondering if I could pay J.J. to come over and take the discards to the town dump. Then I went back to the bed and pushed off the box springs, steeling myself against another rodent explosion.
Which never happened.
Thank goodness.
Instead, I found a wrapped painting between the bed frame and the box springs. I slid it out and took off the wrapping.
It was me.
It was a portrait of me. Minus tattoos. Wearing a corseted, floor-length gown and a necklace with a five-petaled rose pendant.
I flashed back to the reading room at Lyra's mansion and the image in the mirror. The way it felt like time had been fractured. Like I had been transported to the sixteenth century and was looking at myself through the wrong end of a telescope. And Mr. Roake telling me how much I looked like Lisette.
Lisette.
This must be the infamous Lisette.
I searched the painting, looking for any clue as to when it was painted but I coul
dn't find anything.
I traced Lisette's cheek. The paint felt warm under my fingertips, as if it was flesh instead of canvas.
I looked at the path my finger had traced. A light pink hue brightened the pale skin, as if she was blushing. Or as if life was starting to return to her. Wait, had she been blushing a minute ago?
I took the portrait downstairs and hung it over the mantle. It felt so right, hanging there, the focal point of the room. I stepped back to admire it.
"Put that back where it came from, right now, young lady."
I jumped, but the voice was Aunt Tillie's. "Aren't you supposed to be in your vase?"
"There's no lid, you know." She shimmered beside me, a barely-visible ghost, but she didn't take solid form. Even her voice was quieter. More of a whisper in my head.
"Semantics," I snapped. "A mirror's better than a lid. Just ask vampires. You're still contained, right? You can't go off on your own or anything?"
"That's right. Congratulations. I am now powerless and bound to my vase. Where it goes, I go. And I can't do anything about it."
"How bound? How far out can you wander?"
She shrugged. "Thirteen foot radius."
"Is that how it works?" I thought about it. "I can live with that. And you don't have enough power to go nuts anymore? They way you did before?"
She snorted. "This is the thanks I get for trying to save your sorry hide."
"You tried to kill me. The whole brass vessel thing is your own damn fault."
"You're a fine one to talk."
Well, she had me there. I never intended or wanted to hurt anyone, but it happened anyway. That's why magic sucks sometimes.
"I can't apologize enough for that, Aunt Tillie. But it still doesn't give you the right to launch a full frontal assault." I turned back to the painting. "So that's Lisette?"
"Christ on a crutch, I told you not to mention her name. Although I don't know which is worse -- constantly calling her attention to you, or hanging her eyes on your wall."
"Don't you think you're overreacting?" I straightened the painting a smidge. "Look at her. We could be twins."
Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead (Toad Witch Series, Book One) Page 19
