Spirits

by Leslie Edens Copeland

  "We're going to find your past," I said. "It's the first thing you'll need, if you're going to have any future."

  Chapter Three

  The Past

  "I really don't remember any of this," Emmett said, looking upward at the rounded stone walls of his former tower. "How could I have lived here? There's no ladder up to the highest books and no stairs to the top level."

  "Yes, but you could float before," I said for the umpteenth time.

  I sensed a movement—or more like a vibration, really—near my feet. Through the stone wall emerged the vaporous form of a small, white ghost dog.

  "Specter!" I cried. I patted his head, but my hand sunk through. "He's such a good dog. He saved me when the demon dogs attacked me in the Dead Town labyrinth—remember?"

  "I remember nothing of the kind," said Emmett, rapping his knuckles on the stone walls.

  Specter hacked and something emerged from his mouth. He gagged, then dropped a chewed-up bone at my feet. He cocked his head at me, ears perked, and panted. It seemed dog language didn't change just because we were in the afterlife. The worlds over, it remained the same, and I instantly understood. Specter was saying, "Here, I brought it to you!"

  I picked up the revolting thing gingerly and turned it over. Loose parchment rolled out. It wasn't a chewed-up bone after all. It was a scroll!

  An attached note hung loose. I read it.

  I promised to provide you with this. —E

  It appeared to be a note from Emmett's past. The agreements of the dead follow them. That's what he'd told me, the first time we met. He'd also offered me a spectral notebook. This must be it. Funny I should just be getting it now.

  I wiped the doggie ectoplasm off it and started to unroll it. I unrolled and unrolled. Still no marks or script or writing. Completely blank and ready for me to write in, like my notebook I carried around in the mortal world. I rolled it up and tucked it away for later, into my sweater sleeve tight against my arm.

  Specter watched me do this. Then, his duty apparently discharged, he woofed heartily and cruised out through the wall. I pointed him out to Emmett.

  "Like that! You could float and go through walls," I said. How I missed levitating, spectricity, even summoning spirits! It felt great to be back in the spirit world again, where I could cut loose a little.

  Emmett was feeling around on the wall where the ghost dog had exited. Then, to my dismay, he tried to walk through the wall. His mortal body smashed into it and he fell back, stunned. Books flew from the shelves above. Some fluttered to the floor. Others hung in midair. One in particular caught my attention—a flimsy, light-as-air magazine with a spooky bulldog insignia in the corner. The word Conspiracies caught my eye. I plucked the magazine from the air and read the cover.

  An Exclusive Interview with Key Members of the Coterie—Their Mysteries Unraveled, Their Secrets Unfurled! announced the blurb on the cover. Underneath that, various mysterious topics were listed, including The Origin of the Four! Conspiracies in the Mortal World! The Underwood Uprising—A Piece of Ancient History and Bellum's Band—How the Turned Against Conspired to Bring Down the Mortal World's Finest Spiritualists.

  "What kind of publication is this?" I said. "It seems awfully informative."

  Emmett slid over, peering at it. "It's one of those deadzines. I can see a whole collection up there. But I can't get to them." He pointed near the top of the wall.

  "Yes." I scanned the cover. No author listed. "I think we got the one we need, though. Or it came to us. Look—all about the Four, the Coterie, Bellum . . ."

  Emmett scoffed. "Those deadzines are a sham. Whoever this Reynaldo Reyes is, he's pulling your leg." He flicked the dog logo. It twirled away and underneath, I saw a signature. Reynaldo Reyes, large as life, and just about as legible.

  "How did you do that?" I was shocked.

  "Do what?" Emmett spun his finger across the signature, tapping back and forth. Almost like he was entering a code. And the magazine—it thickened, became glossy and colorful. Above the blurbs, a title emerged. Deadzines No. 5699. The Illuminati Issue: Them That Knows.

  I grasped the magazine in my hands, gaping at the newly legible words.

  "You unlocked it!" I said. "Or decrypted it or something. Maybe your memory is returning!"

  Emmett shrugged. "I think I know how to read a book," he said, like opening the spirit publication was no big deal. "There were loads of these things down at The Haunted, too. They're funny. Chock full of conspiracy theories and wild rumors."

  I cracked it open, curious as crux to find out what it told about the Four. I'd just take one peek at The Origin of the Four. What I saw on page 8 disappointed me.

  "It's in cartoons," I said. "Really badly drawn cartoons."

  "Hmm. That's strange. Aren't you supposed to—" Emmett took my hand in his. I smiled up at him, then he pressed my finger against the page, on a finger-print-shaped whorl. His arm around me melted away, he melted away, and even I melted away. I couldn't feel my body, but I could see as if from high above, a small town surrounded by desert scrublands.

  A deep voice intoned, "The town of Portales Espirituales, New Mexico." In the sky, as if to back this up, the words "Portales Espirituales" floated in serious black font.

  I tried to gasp and move around, but I was stuck inside this mind movie the article was playing out. With no idea how to escape, I had to let it play.

  The camera dipped, swooping in a wild roller coaster pan down into to the town of Portales Espirituales. It came to a stop in the middle of the main street. Cars whizzed past and seemed to zip right through me, the way ghosts might. I wanted to scream, but this 'zine's point of view took even that from me, forcing me directly into the narrative. The voiceover began once more, a deep-voiced man with a strong Spanish accent. Reynaldo Reyes, I presumed. The words he spoke typed themselves across the sky, on the sides of buildings—anywhere that was convenient—while he read them aloud.

  "You are looking at the present-day town of Portales Espirituales, where until a few years ago, the Four held sway. Today, they are but a distant memory and yet the town's activity continues as if nothing unusual had happened . . ." Rey's voice cracked a little here, bitter with whatever he knew. "Mortals—and I apologize if you are one of them that knows—for the most part are oblivious to the recent coup that took place, obliterating the mortal arm of the Coterie. These disappearances have become more common in recent decades. The Turned Against and their supporters grow ever bolder with the absence of the All."

  Now the view shifted, moving up a darkened well that opened into a gloomy chamber. In a windowless room with walls of black slabs that recalled an underground sewer passage or basement, a rowdy group argued while the camera had me watching from above, like a fly on the wall.

  "We've got to get out!" shouted a toothless old man, flapping in his coat that hung loosely over his skinny frame. "There's no protection here for spiritualists anymore! But I know a way, if we stick to underground. There's a city near the coast that's rumored to be safe."

  "I agree with Bat," said a hefty woman wearing a colorful head wrap. "Time to leave this town, if not this mortal realm."

  "Oh, you'll leave the realm soon enough," said a man in a suit. His voice and features were plain and others in the crowd soon spoke over him, but large, white words appeared, with an arrow pointing to him: Ted Bells.

  I immediately recognized the name. Ted Bells had carried out the murder of Valente de los Santos and, together with my stepfather Bruce, hidden the body underneath the school bus in his junkyard. Then Ted Bells had disappeared into thin air when Sam and I discovered what he'd done. He had to be a minion of the Bellum. No wonder we couldn't find him.

  The other spiritualists were shouting over each other in fear.

  "The last of the Despairs—he fell from a curse of the Bellum!"

  "Arturo Benavidez, burned alive in his own home!"

  "There was something very strange about the disappearance of Valente de los Santo
s," said Ted Bells.

  The others all were quiet now, listening. Then the woman in the head wrap spoke. "You mean the way his body disappeared and never turned up? Or the way the city ignored his valor in saving those children?"

  "Well," said Ted, "What's extra strange is the way no spiritualist seems to be able to locate his body. Nor determine the identity of the killer."

  "Blocked," said Bat. "Obfuscated. Somebody put a script on it, so seers can't see. Them what knows how—and there's plenty around here who could do such a thing."

  "A powerful enough seer might be able to see," said Ted Bells. He peered at the crowd, his gaze lingering on each person in turn. "Perhaps for the right price."

  The others hemmed and hawed, but no one offered any information nor took up his offer to pay for it. They soon went back to murmuring among themselves. Ted turned away, a frustrated glower on his face.

  "Anybody hear about the death of Max Pollander?" A ragged woman in tattered robes whispered.

  "They say he got it in the spirit world," said Bat. "That's what I heard. Turned Against minions inflicted him with spiritual injuries." He stared around wildly, at all of them. "That's why I stay below the surface and out of sight. Less danger of a spirit's curse. Also—" He grinned at them, his bare gums for all to see, "Don't let anybody work on your teeth. They put mercury in 'em and tiny radios."

  The other spiritualists groaned and several nearby fanned away his foul breath.

  "I'm certainly going to the spirit world," said the woman in the colorful head wrap. "Where better to get the spirits' protection? If a spirit is pursuing us, we'd be safer to get nearer to the All."

  Several hummed their agreement with her, but Ted laughed. "Closer to the All?" he said. "The All is but a distant dream these days. When has he last been heard from? When has he answered any summons or granted a visitation? Even the spirit god Bellum knows not of his whereabouts. You are chasing a dream, Madame Fustery, to go looking for the All's protection."

  "What would you suggest, then?" Madame Fustery folded her arms over her sizeable bust and lowered her brow at Ted belligerently. "I happen to believe in the All's greatness, the All's goodness. What do you believe?"

  "I believe in science," said Ted. "I believe in ingenuity. Numbers. Statistics. Facts. Anything but a moldy old spirit god no one's seen since their grandmother was a little girl."

  "Then you don't believe in anything," said Madame Fustery. "To believe, you can't have proof. You have to believe against proof, now that's belief."

  Bat was shaking his head, along with many others.

  "That's just crazy," said the ragged woman, and a man said, "I'll believe what I see with my own eyes."

  "You have to believe with your heart," said Madame Fustery, her voice raising to an insistent pitch. "Trust your feelings. How else can we get to the bottom of the mystery? How else will the moons align on this crazy mortal path we call life?"

  Quite a few cheered, but others edged away. Ted actually turned his back on her and Bat still shook his head, muttering "Underground. Only place it's safe."

  My vision shifted as the camera panned up and through the roof, into blackness. Moments later, I was staring at a large, gray mausoleum, headstones scattered around its edges. Solemn black words appeared on the wall of the mausoleum as Rey spoke them.

  "Madame Fustery's death came swiftly and appeared to be a heart attack. This reporter has yet to speak to her spirit manifestation, which went deep beyond reach, into the Dead Sea. Ted Bells, who also disappeared at this time, is widely suspected of anti-spiritualist acts and Turned Against affiliation. In particular, there are dead witness accounts that he may have been involved in the death of Valente de los Santos. But to understand these nefarious goings-on, we of the deadzines team take you back to a time before all these events—to a time when the Four were just getting started . . ."

  The words throbbed red on the mausoleum wall: Continue to Part Two. And a large, red arrow that I apparently had to activate. Below the arrow, the word Exit shone in blood-red script. I stared at it since I had the power to do nothing else inside this 'zine.

  I stared hard. Then I felt—my arms. My chest, rising and falling. Breathing! My body was back! Emmett's arm, warm around my shoulders. When I looked up, his eyes, dark as wells, searched mine.

  "What was that?" His mouth hung open like he'd been stunned. "Did we just go somewhere else for a while or was that a dream?"

  "You tell me. You activated it." I pointed at the fingerprint whorl on the page that he'd pressed my finger on.

  "You're right. I did. Heather, this is going to sound kind of weird." He gripped my shoulders, his serious face hanging right before mine. Never had I wanted so badly to throw caution to the wind and press my lips to his, caress his mouth with mine, taste—

  "Heather! Are you listening?" Emmett shook my shoulders until I came out of dream-kissing him and noticed the wild look in his eyes, above his lips. I nodded.

  "When I handle these 'zines, my hands know exactly how to work them. I've never seen them before that day I found them in The Haunted and yet it's as if I've been working them all my life," he said.

  "That's not so weird," I whispered. Weird was a cute boy inches from my face who would not notice my seductive pouting and finally plant one on me. I turned my back, unable to handle staring at his lips any longer. "It's not weird at all if you have been reading the deadzines for most of your lives," I said over my shoulder.

  He was staring at the 'zine now, holding it at a distance like it was a snake that might bite.

  "Could it be true?" he muttered, so I could hardly hear. "Have I been here before? Have I lived other lives before this one?"

  I wanted to sigh. Could he be so dense? But I guess I had been pretty resistant too, when I was similarly faced with my own great destiny as a medium.

  I took the 'zine from him. "If you can activate it, let's finish the article," I said. "The Four have a lot to do with my past and they may have something to do with yours." I didn't want to tell him they'd probably died because of his failure to protect them. I wasn't quite ready to go there myself. He'd only been trying to avoid a struggle with the Bellum, a struggle that had gone on for millennia, and he was tired . . .

  Emmett reached for the 'zine and opened it to the page that read The Origin of the Four. He took my hand in his. I leaned into him a little and, nodding fiercely at the fingerprint whorl above Part Two, he pressed our fingers to it . . .

  Chapter Four

  Them That Knows

  "The Origin of the Four, Part Two." The deep voice of Reynaldo Reyes rumbled as the serious black font appeared against a cloudless blue New Mexico sky. Once again, I couldn't feel my body nor Em next to me, but I sensed he was there. Maybe it was just a tingle, a little whiff of that lightning scent, but I believed him to be with me watching this article play in the deadzines mind movie.

  Now the camera flipped and plunged downward in a breathtaking freefall and melted right through the roof of a house below. I could see, by this deadzine's spirit-eyed camera, the flickers and furls of a suspended otherworldly passage. A turning, spinning portal hung directly over an ordinary dining room table. In the center of this ordinary table sat a flower vase, right below the portal and almost conspicuously normal.

  "Welcome," creaked a familiar voice with a country twang. "Make yerself at home."

  A tall, thin ghost with white hair flickered into view. Gradually, he took on substance until he looked fully mortal, with a red checked shirt, cowboy boots, and a gray Stetson that he doffed to us. "Name's Max Pollander. This here is my portal and my haunt. I'm all that's left of the Four around these parts. I'll be here a long while. So, ask me any questions you want. I've got time."

  A young, blonde girl wearing a bright pink dress walked through the room. She looked about eight years old. She waved to Max and smiled, then skipped off down the hall. A bedroom door slammed.

  Max beamed after her. "My grand-daughter," he said. "Ain't she a
peach? As I said, I'm not going anywhere until that little girl's old enough to fend for herself."

  Reynaldo's voice intoned, "Please tell us of the origin of the Four—their history—and how they became the illuminati of the spirit world!"

  "Shhh." Max held his forefinger to his lips. "Sure, I'd be happy to share the tale. But you got to be quiet. My grand-daughter might scare. She doesn't know about ghosts."

  "But surely . . ." Rey's voice registered confusion. "She interacts with you. She must know what she's seeing!"

  "Nope. And never will, if I have my way. It would only traumatize her. So, if you want to hear the tale—" Max held out his long index finger. "Your forehead, Señor."

  "Ah! Yes, of course," said Rey's voice. The camera seemed to move forward, while at the same time, Max's hand came closer and closer, filling up the view. At last, his finger pressed and made contact. The room around Max broke into a thousand tiny pieces that fizzled away, though Max remained—still thin, still tall, but now with a full, blond head of hair under his black Stetson and a long black duster. He leaned against an old-fashioned bar, a beer bottle before him, squinting across the dim room. Next to Max, a smiling Hispanic man lifted his beer bottle to his lips. Him, I recognized. He had a lot more hair and looked less crazy around the eyes, but it was Arturo Benavidez, Lily's uncle!

  "That him?" Max's squint was steely, his mouth a line of resolve, as he indicated with his chin at the tables across the room.

  "Yeah, that's the guy," said Arturo. "You going to challenge him to a showdown, Max?" He laughed, white teeth and so young and handsome. This must have been years before I was born, almost twenty years ago.

  The camera showed us the table and oh, my All! There was Dad! So young and alive! I wanted to cry out, but of course couldn't. I felt Emmett's presence beside me, a squeeze or a hug. I wanted to squeeze back, I was so overwhelmed. But I couldn't do anything except stare at the young man Dad had been, his full head of spiky blond hair, so like Sam's, and his piercing green eyes. He was handsome too, with a strong chin and high cheekbones, and wore his trench coat with the collar turned up. Around his neck, a strange amulet glittered, and his fingers flashed with large-stoned, colorful rings.