by A. J. Aalto
“Holy rolling shitballs,” I whispered. “How many of you misty jaggoffs are there? Listen, don’t you know you’re supposed to go into the light? This is not the place for you.”
A three-headed blob formed in the haze in front of me, and at first I thought it was Asmodeus; it did not solidify and start mocking me, however. I began reciting the first spell to come to mind, since I was really flying by the seat of my pants. Tossing the burning sage down beside the board, I pricked my thumb with the toothpick and flicked blood onto the GOODBYE, then spritzed a little paint on the back of the planchette.
“Dread Aradia, I’m Your home / Write Your lessons in my tome / Make me crafty, make me keen / Take possession, Holy Queen.”
The blob parted to reveal a small spirit that moved with a limp, and the dolly shot forward like a striking rattlesnake.
With a fervent burst of power, I hurried my tongue and blurted, “Mighty Hecate, Morbid Flower / Fill this vessel with Your power / amplify inflamed remarks / burn them with these farewell sparks.”
I heard my last words come back at me with the backdraft and realized that “amplify” and “inflamed” were bad choices. I grabbed my backpack and bolted past the burning sage as the Wee-Gee Fun Board ignited. At the last second I noticed the “flammable” and “combustible” and “do not use without ventilation” warnings on the paint can, saw the flames react to my spell with a great lick into the air, thought fuckanut, and took a running leap toward the entrance. I didn’t get far before the can exploded with a healthy, mystically-magnified bang and a violent shove of air against my back. I belly-flopped, covering my head with my arms. The spell forced the blast up and out, expanding in all directions. The entire tunnel shuddered, and little stones began to rain down, dusting from above, and another minor avalanche sounded like it was collapsing through the overhead aperture.
There was a loud, splintering crack from the far end of the tunnel, and my warning bells started ringing louder as a support beam groaned. I launched to my feet, threw myself against the gate to slap it open, grabbed the iron bars, and sprang forth into the night; I flipped with almost ballerina-style grace in a perfect spin. If I hadn’t been on fire, it might have been fancy.
I went headfirst into a nearby snow pile, rolled twice, and ended up face-down and spread-eagled like the doll. I picked my face up out of the snow only to see Scarrow’s small, rough hands cupping snow directly into my eyes.
“Ah!” I sputtered. He began packing it in the back of my head, smacking, smacking, and plunging my face into the snow. I squawked angrily. “What the glorious fuck?” I cried, muffled by the snow that was getting crammed up my nose.
“The back of your ski mask was on fire.”
“Oh.” I patted the back of my head with my bare hand. “Is that why I smell burning hair?”
Scarrow didn’t wait for Harry to help me; he hauled me up by my elbow. “What the hell did you do in there?”
I was going to snap, “my job, ass-hat,” except talking shit to suspiciously animated dolls is really not my job, here or at home. I pointed behind me, jaw working, and ended up with, “Limping Boy started it.” I explained about the ghosts, and the spray paint, and the spell, and the Ouija board.
“He was trying to play with you,” Scarrow yelled. “That’s what he does. He drags the doll around in the mud.”
My lips formed a perfect O of understanding. “Well, the doll was looking at me funny.”
Scarrow gave an exasperated snarl and stormed back into the tunnel, presumably to see if his equipment was salvageable. I waited in my blackened snow suit, brushing off the ashes and dust, squirming under Harry’s disapproving gaze, not quite able to meet it. There was a squawk in the trees that sounded like laughter. “Hey, look, three ravens. Wonder — heh heh — if that’s a spirit from beyond the veil. Like Scarrow said. What do you think, eh? Those pesky ravens. I should, uh…” I kicked some snow. Beat up and partially charred, my boots were starting to look a little worse for wear. “Should we show Scarrow the three ravens?” My voice trailed off and I snuck a peek up at Harry’s face.
“You blew up a tunnel,” Harry said stiffly.
“Well, if arson isn’t the answer, I just don’t understand the question. Sorry.”
“You blew up a tunnel,” he repeated, “because a doll looked at you.”
I sucked my molars and shoved my suede glove back on. The fingertips were shredded and still smoked a little. I held my hand up, wiggled my fingers to show him. He did not look amused. “Relax,” I ordered. “I didn’t blow up the whole thing. Just the back end. Nobody needs the back end. And, technically, I didn't blow it up. I caused a small explosion, and it collapsed. That's totally different.”
Scarrow returned from retrieving his things and bellowed, “It’s ruined. Everything’s ruined.”
“Hey, your shit was broken before,” I said, pointing at the smoking remains of the EMF device. “That thing didn’t go voof-whoosh; it went bee-boop. I wasn’t trained for bee-boops!”
“The tunnel.” He shook the blackened rag doll. “You’ve all but destroyed it!”
“It’s hardly busted at all. And I’m not sorry!” I said. “That was a fetid trench of trapped souls wallowing in misery.”
“Was?” Scarrow choked.
“And you, you clownshit-crazy asshole, were keeping those spirits here to dance at your whim. Do you enjoy madly plundering graves and hearts and tunnels and underpants? Because I think you’re a Grade-A wankminstrel.”
“What do you mean, 'keeping them,' ducky?” Harry's attention was immediate and intense, a bird of prey spotting a young rabbit alone in a wide, grassy meadow.
“Well, that’s the best news,” I said. “I learned how to dismiss ghosts using a ten dollar knock-off Ouija board. It works, and it’s really super easy, too. Sometimes, even I’m amazed at my drive-by genius. Like, poof, they’re gone. In fact, I saw the three ghosts Britney mentioned — Tall Man with Flower, Train Engineer, and Limping Boy — and sent them all across the veil.” I frowned. “Didn’t see Mama-Captain, though. Or John. Oh, hey, did you grab my Wee-Gee Fun Board while you were in there?”
“You are a lunatic,” Scarrow said quietly, staring down at his dogs in shock, like he couldn’t quite make the gears turn in his brain anymore.
“So, it’s burned, then? That’s what I figured.”
“The sound of your voice is like a death knell to any sanity I have remaining,” the exorcist declared, and one of the dogs growled in response to his irate tone.
“Hey, now, you be nice,” I warned, mildly disturbed that I was finding him significantly hotter now that he was livid with me. “Or I’ll come to the rectory with a new Ouija board and say GOODBYE to all your soldiers. Should probably do that anyway. Won’t be able to sleep knowing they’re stuck here and you’re using them. Using formerly-human subjects for your experiments is pretty fuckin' evil, dude, and definitely on the Mad Scientist Checklist.”
Scarrow wrapped the leashes tightly around his right hand, again and again, while his knuckles turned color. Harry must have sensed the threat before I did, because the Blue Sense had gone quiet for me with all the commotion. Harry stepped easily between me and the priest, and gave him a calming cluck of his tongue. “The hour is late.”
Scarrow did not reply; maybe he didn’t trust himself to speak.
Harry said, “I believe you should say good night now, Little Father, and return to your ill-kept flock.”
Scarrow squeezed his eyes shut and briefly looked like he was trying to pass a kidney stone. There was a moment when I thought he might actually disregard the danger of the revenant standing there, though Harry’s eyes had slipped from cashmere grey to warning silver, and his fangs were fully extended. Then Scarrow pulled on his dogs and they all moved past us, collars jingling. Harry and I listened to the brisk-paced crunch of his boots on snow all the way back up the hill and into the distance.
I shoved my mostly-gloved hands in the pockets of the snow s
uit. “He took his dolly and went home.”
“A fairly amusing observation, my love.”
“I don’t think he’s going to invite me over to play with his doodads and dangle-rods anymore.”
Harry showed me a playful smile. “I’m sure I can find other toys for you to play with, my pet.”
I perked up. “Like grenades?”
My Cold Company chuckled and yanked at the bottom of my ski mask to pull it back down over my bruised chin, a warm thread of affection with something decidedly hotter and more intimate lurking beneath. “You have been known to give them stranger nicknames. Home and to bed, ducky.”
CHAPTER 24
I LOWERED THE ice pack from my forehead and said, “I do not want to see my parents, Harry.”
“Well, you’re going to.” There was no flexibility in his tone. It was an out-and-out command.
I felt Mr. Merritt go still beside me, and the sound of pouring tea slowed to a dribble. I glanced up at him and we exchanged an oh-reeeeeaaallly eyebrow lift that hurt my head, before he withdrew from the Winter Room, leaving the tea trolley behind. The man made no sound as he left, for which my head was grateful.
I indulged in some shortbread and studied Harry from across the room. “You made Combat Butler uncomfortable.”
“I do wish you’d stop referring to him by that ludicrous sobriquet.”
“It’s no more ludicrous than suggesting I waltz into the pit of vipers that is my parents' home.”
“Nonsense, a waltz would be inappropriate.” He poked a shortbread biscuit, pushing it around the plate. “A square bashing, perhaps.”
I leaned my cheek on my fist. “A what, now?”
“A military parade, my darling. If you don’t mind terribly, pick a march and do it soon.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Do you not trust my judgment, my pet?” Harry asked, toying with a biscuit he wouldn’t eat, brushing crumbs off the plate and onto the floor. After playing coy with his gaze, he met my eyes. “Your father is unwell. I am advising you to make peace with him on the off chance that his condition worsens and you lose the opportunity to do so.”
“How do you know he’s not well?” I asked, and then answered my own question. “Oh, right, they let you in.” I shouldn’t have been surprised by Harry’s audacity. He could be as subtle as the fall of night when the situation called for a delicate approach, but give Harry an obstacle to tackle, especially on my behalf, and he was a battalion all by himself.
“How ill are we talking?” I asked.
“He suffered a stroke, and not a small one.”
And nobody told me. Not even Carrie. I struggled to put into words my frustrations to the one person who already understood exactly how I felt. “You know, technically, I am still part of the family.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m still his daughter.”
“And he wishes to see you.”
“Whaaaaaaaat?” I was afraid to believe that in case it turned out not to be true, but saw no deception on Harry’s face, and felt only sincerity through the Bond. “You’re sure?”
Harry nodded.
“What about my mother?”
“Oh, ducky,” Harry said with a sympathetic sigh, “why must you ask me questions to which only dreadful answers are possible?”
I tried to remain stubborn and sulky, but couldn't. Harry picked up on my crumbling resolve through the Bond and reminded me, “You did promise me.” He left me a single unblinking moment for any final retort, and then rang for Mr. Merritt to bring the car around.
I dressed slowly, dragging my feet on my way to the hall, taking my time zipping my parka, pretending to fumble with my gloves. Harry ignored my stalling techniques, shrugging into his long coat, tossing his scarf around his throat, and going out to the car without giving my delay even the slightest chiding.
Mr. Merritt offered me the ski mask. “It’s only a little singed.”
“I like your positive spin on things,” I said.
“Perhaps your visit will go well, madam.”
I sighed at him in reply. “And maybe doves will fly out of my nostrils, spreading peace and love to the world! They’re nasal love doves!”
“If you’d care to swear, madam, I could overlook it this once.”
“A free swear?” I brightened. “Boy, I’m gonna have to think about that one. I don’t wanna waste it on a 'shit' or 'fuck.' Oh, sweet, fancy stumblefucks, did I just waste it on that lame-ass shit?”
Mr. Merritt chuckled. “If you did, madam, I certainly did not hear it.”
I wanted to hug him, but thought that might be pushing it too far with his decorous reserve. I slid the mask over my bruised face and shot him a salute before turning out of the front door.
The hedgerow and cedars offered a wind break in front of the driveway, but the storm had shoved drifts in wavy mazes across the flagstone. I dawdled on my way to the car, pretending I had to tromp through the drifts, the thick snow bogging down my forward motion. Eventually, I made it to the passenger seat, climbed in, buckled up, and brooded for the entire drive from Niagara-On-The-Lake to Virgil. As the terrain started looking more and more like home, my guts began to knot, and when Harry finally turned into the driveway, my hands and feet went cold and numb.
Harry made an unhappy noise and patted me on the arm, but made no move to evict me from the car. I was going to have to do this all on my own, like it or not. My money was on “not.”
I put off getting out of the hearse under the pretext of texting Carrie. Harry fussed with his scarf but said nothing. His fingers began a smoothing ritual along his pierced eyebrow.
“I’m not ready yet,” I said. “I have to inform my sister I’m going to Mum’s. She’d never forgive me if I didn’t give her the gossip first.”
Carrie’s text asked: Need me?
I replied: Nah. I’m tough like old cheese.
It took Carrie only a second to text back: You’re exactly like that.
“You’re stalling, love,” Harry said gently.
I didn’t look up from my phone, but my texting finger stopped poking. “Can you blame me?”
Harry’s hand landed on my leg and he gave me an encouraging pat. “The sooner we get this over with, the better you’ll feel.”
I chewed my lip. “When we get back to North House, will you make some brownies?”
“If you’re a good girl,” Harry teased, flashing me a hint of fang in his smile.
“Don’t you dare bite me in my mother’s driveway, mister.”
“How now, my sprite, have you become so ashamed of me? I spent five years feeding from my beloved pet in this very house.”
“Do me a favor,” I said, opening the car door. “Don’t remind my mother of that.”
My parents' home was an unassuming brick bungalow surrounded by soft fruit farms, with four long greenhouses in the back, and a second house for the migrant farm workers who come up in the spring. In November, that structure stood empty, and the farms on both sides were quiet. There were only two lights on in the main house; the one where the TV room was, and the front hall light, which illuminated the windows in the steel storm door. My heart got heavy; nobody had put up the Christmas lights along the road-facing side of the house. Were they not celebrating? Was no one willing to do the job Dad usually did when he was well? I had five sisters, four of whom still lived in the Niagara region. Not one of them could be bothered to string some multi-colored lights for the old man?
I abandoned my ski mask on the front seat and tucked my hair behind my ears, touching my cheek delicately to check the soreness there. It was no longer throbbing, but it was painful to touch. The visible proof that life was kicking the crap out of me would no doubt reaffirm my mother’s opinion that I was walking the wrong path, and had been for some time. The path from the car to the door was plenty wrong enough for me.
My mother was standing at the door when we got there, one hand still resting on the knob as thou
gh she wasn’t committed to keeping the door open. She hadn’t aged; she never did. Yoga, a farmer’s diet, and excellent genes kept my mother eternally forty; she was a wiry fifty-five. She’d swept her long, white hair back in a ponytail with a plaid scrunchie that was probably left over from my teens. From behind bifocals, she stared me down as I approached, taking in my black eye and fat lip without surprise. I took a deep breath and decided to launch a preemptive forward attack.
“Dad had a stroke. When?” I demanded without preamble. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t anyone call?”
My mother dropped her eyes. Her ballerina-style house slippers became the object of fascination.
Harry stood framed by the open doorway, the porch light illuminating a veritable blizzard behind him. My mother hesitated silently. Harry inclined his head to acknowledge that he accepted her distaste with regret. Then he swung his full attention past the coat rack in the direction of the TV room. “Good evening, Roger. Might I come in again?”
“No,” my mother spoke up, her tone stony. “He’s had enough of your company.”
Harry again nodded to acknowledge her. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Baranuik, but it is Roger’s permission I need, and his that I now seek.”
“You upset him enough the first time.”
“How quickly you forget that I am perfectly capable of gleaning his emotions. I assure you, madam, whether you like it or not, your husband is quite eager to see me again.”
I moved forward so I could see past her, and my mother wilted backward. Dad was in a portable bed that I’d never seen before. They’d changed the TV room into a convalescent space for him, and on either side of the bed were tables stacked with books and pens and magazines, remote controls, prescription bottles, and empty glasses. The television was tuned into the weather in Buffalo, and I wondered if they were expecting either Claire or Margot to return home from their various travels via the Buffalo airport.
My father wet his lips with a swipe of tongue, and his brow furrowed. “Lor—” He took a deep breath while I held mine, and then he tried again. “Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, you are welcome in my home.”
