Soul Catcher

by Bridger, Leigh

  Gigi clamped a hand over the welt. “Livia, like Ian said, banes create illusions. That’s how they manipulate people. They can make you think you’re being pulled out a window, or that they’ve grabbed you, or you’re poisoned, or wounded—anything bad you can imagine, they make you believe it, and that makes it real enough to hurt you. Now, here’s what you do. Shut your eyes. Concentrate. Say something to banish the illusion. Whatever means the most to you. It’s your spell, so make it personal.”

  I looked at Sarah. She nodded. “You’re rested and strong again. Give it a try.”

  I shut my eyes. Twenty-five years of fear and confusion and rage and pain and grief boiled up inside me. I was a long way from being a kick-ass convert to this bizarre reality, but the blood river of revenge already flowed through me. “Paint them,” I said. “Trap them. Burn them.”

  I opened my eyes. Gigi still had her hand clamped over my wrist. Her brown brows perked like cats’ ears. Her ankh tattoo quivered. “Wow,” she said.

  “Let’s see if it worked,” Sarah said impatiently.

  Gigi lifted her hand. The welt was gone.

  She and Sarah patted me on the back. “Your mind is opening up. You’re on your way to fully using your powers.”

  I admitted very quietly, “I was warned about the bane by a little girl with red hair. Do you have any idea who she is?”

  Judging by the ecstatic looks they gave me, I should have kept quiet.

  6

  The ghost-child’s name was Dolly McCrane, and she had drowned in the French Broad flood of nineteen sixteen, not long after her tenth birthday.

  Her parents had proudly run McCrane’s Fine Floor Coverings, a small weaving factory in the building that was now Sarah and Charles’ gallery. Their wool rugs, woven in geometric patterns based on Scots-Irish pioneer and Cherokee Indian basket designs, had been prized by Asheville’s Victorian-era families. Several McCrane rugs had even graced the floors at Biltmore, the Vanderbilts’ vast Asheville estate.

  When the French Broad’s waters receded, Dolly’s body had been found among the ruined looms in the factory’s ground floor.

  Where I now stood with Sarah and Gigi.

  “That’s where the flood crested,” Sarah said, pointing to a stain on the faded bricks high above our heads on the walls of Charles’ pottery studio. The morning sunlight made jigsaw patterns on the roughly mortared surface. “No one could have predicted that the French Broad and Swannanoa would rise that high,” Sarah went on. “Of course, back then, people here in the river bottoms didn’t get much warning. That’s why so many died. A lot of the river businesses were wiped out. Only the toughest old souls, like this one—”she knocked on the weaving factory’s foot-thick walls—“survived.”

  Gigi pressed her cheek to the wall. “Yes you did, didn’t you, booba boo?”

  I stared at her. She was talking baby talk to a wall.

  “Because you’re not a quitter are you, old girl?” She listened for a moment, then nodded at Sarah and me. “Sheba says this building’s happy to still be alive.”

  I clutched a coffee mug tighter. I was on my tenth cup, but my head still felt like a grainy photo album full of stills from a really nasty horror flick. I glanced out the lower windows for signs of Dante’s aged silver Jeep. Dante and Charles had taken Ian shopping in downtown Asheville. A reincarnated North Carolina frontiersman in a Midwestern lawyer’s stolen body, shopping for modern threads. The idea seemed absurdly reasonable compared to everything else.

  “Livia? You paying attention?” Sarah asked. “You’re got so much to remember, to re-learn. This is important information.”

  “I’m paying attention.” I recited, “The flood wiped out half the buildings in the river district and killed people up-and-downstream for miles. That’s why this valley is one of the most haunted places in Asheville. And . . . Dolly McCrane and her family have been dead and buried for just over ninety years.”

  Sarah wagged a finger at me. “Dead’s not right. I know ‘passed on’ sounds prim and old-fashioned to you, but it really is more accurate. They’re simply somewhere else.”

  “Except they haven’t ‘passed on,’” I retorted. “They’re still here. At least, Dolly is.”

  “She’s not here,” Gigi corrected, spreading her arms as if hugging the factory. “She’s there. Back then. She senses us just like we sense her. Through a glass darkly.”

  “Then how did she find me last night? By stepping through the looking glass?”

  “Ahem. Speaking of mirrors,” Sarah said.

  She and Gigi traded a calculating look that sent shivers up my spine. I set my mug on a work table caked with the dried slip of Charles’ pottery, layers upon layers of simple clay slurry, its minerals decomposed from millions of dead animals and humans and plants, the forgotten heritage of eons past, reduced to the essence of a material that became coffee mugs and platters for the living descendents of the dead materials.

  I put a hand on the sheathed knife I’d stuck in the waist of my jeans.

  They grabbed my free hand and dragged me upstairs.

  *

  Above the pottery studio on the old factory’s ground floor and the galleries on the second floor was a long, low-roofed third floor, little more than an attic. Thick rafters lined the ceiling, and only small patches of spring sunshine crept through a row of small, shuttered windows. The attic was packed with a century’s worth of stuff—big pots used for dying yarn, thick stanchions that had once been the supports for a loom, the umbrella-like frames of yarn swifts, and jumbled furniture, most of it dusty and in bad condition.

  “All right, I’ll bite.” I said. “You brought me up here to help you organize this shit for a yard sale.”

  “Very funny,” Gigi huffed. She and Sarah were busy pushing furniture aside on some mysterious quest I really didn’t want to understand.

  I frowned at them from a dim corner and noted a small iron skillet hanging from a nail. I wondered if I could club a bane with it. “How did Ian get inside my room through a locked door? How did he know I was in trouble?”

  “Dolly told him,” Sarah answered breezily.

  “And she showed him how to open the door from his side,” Gigi added. “She knows this building inside and out. She was born here.”

  I sat down on a small stool. I felt heavy and sad. “And she died here, along with her parents, during the flood.”

  “No, she passed over,” Gigi insisted. “She’s still around.”

  Sarah yipped. “Here it is.” They pushed the tall headboard of a bed frame to one side. Behind it, leaning against a wall, was a large, rectangular shape draped in a dusty canvas. The mystery shape scraped its slow way toward me. They leaned it against a wooden pillar that supported the ceiling. Sarah dusted her hands. “There. All ready.”

  Gigi came over and squatted in front of me, rocking on her pink crocs. “Now, Livia, listen carefully. This is so you can practice. You saw Dolly once; you can see her again. You’re in training now, like we agreed.”

  I stiffened. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

  “Advice. Clues. Help. Dolly’s a good soul. A regular, garden-variety ghost. They’re the easiest souls to see in the spirit world and the most likely to want you to see them. We’re their tribe. People, that is. Not like the banes and the boons and the rest of the souls, who have their own little soul-cliques going.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear. The soul world is full of gangs and sororities.”

  “Be serious.”

  “You can’t imagine how serious I am. If I ever feel like laughing again, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you. But peace of mind will come with self-confidence and acceptance. Now, let’s give this a try—”

  We heard chimes. The security system sounded whenever anyone opened a door. Sarah trotted to the stairwell. “It’s the menfolk.” She called down cheerfully, “We’re up here.”

  I stood. My hands sw
eated. Being around Ian produced a mix of ingrained terror and miserable regret. I wanted to believe in him. I wanted to forget he looked like Greg Lindholm. I wanted to, but that didn’t make it easy.

  I shivered as his, Charles and Dante’s heavy footsteps echoed up three flights of wooden stairs. Gigi studied my stark expression and yipped. “You’ll get used to him, Livia. He’ll remind you less of you know who every day. I could give you a charm or two to help erase the—”

  I shook my head. “I’m hardcore. I like my reality in real doses. What’s left of it.”

  I turned my back to the stairs. Sweat collected in my palms. The footsteps reached the attic and walked up behind me. I could feel Ian looking at me. “Ian, you make a handsome hunk of modern man,” Sarah said.

  His deep, lilting voice chorused through my brain. “Would that be a good thing? A hunk of what, are you saying?”

  “Being a hunk is a very good thing,” she promised, chortling. “Nice work on the shopping spree, boys.”

  “We didn’t have to lift a finger,” Charles noted drolly.

  Dante grunted. “Every female salesclerk in Asheville wanted to help him get dressed.” Dante held out a hand to Gigi. He helped her from her squat then looked at me kindly. “How’s our soul catcher this morning?”

  “Just dandy,” I lied.

  Ian said quietly, “Livia, would you do me the courtesy of giving an opinion on my new lugs? It’s not my vanity speaking. I’m wanting to make sure you see less of t’other owner of this hide, and more of me.”

  I pivoted as casually I could and looked up at him. His worried gray eyes watched me from a face where dark-brown beard stubble was quickly taking root. A soft gray pullover hugged the big muscles of his chest and arms. His new jeans needed a few hard washings to relax the denim around his long legs and lean hips, but they were already gilding those lilies pretty well. His feet looked rugged in tall, laced work boots.

  Amazing—how the inner soul changes the outer being. It wasn’t just superficial. The set of his face, his eyes, the way he stood. A different man. But still in Greg Lindholm’s body.

  “You look like an urban lumberjack,” I said.

  He frowned. “Whatever that is, I’m guessing ’tis not so bad, the way you say it.”

  “You’ll do,” I said dully.

  His expression fell. “At least you should be happy knowing I’ve now got my man bits bound up safe in . . . ” He looked at Charles and Dante “ . . . what’s that you called them?

  Charles coughed. “Tighty whities.”

  “Enough chitchat, y’all,” Gigi ordered. She and Sarah pulled the dusty canvas off the mystery rectangle. A large antique mirror emerged, reflecting dust motes floating in streamers of sunlight. The mirror was so old its silvering had begun to flake, and only a few specks of faded green paint clung to its simply carved frame. “This belonged to Dolly’s family,” Gigi explained. “Mirrors are strong portals between ours and the other worlds.”

  “Look deeply into your own eyes,” Sarah added, “and you might see everyone you’ve ever been.”

  I froze. “Why this mirror and not others?”

  “Mirrors remember what they’ve seen. This mirror has seen Dolly. And more.”

  Gigi shooed everyone with a pink-nailed hand. “Stand back. Livia’s about to practice some good old-fashioned scrying. Livia, pull that stool a little closer and have a seat while I explain what—”

  “I know what scrying is. No offense, but I’m not really up for peering into an antique mirror to see what peers back. I’d like to take a little vacation from terror this morning.”

  Sarah patted my shoulder. “Just try to talk to Dolly. You’ll be making a conscious decision to see only her, just her. You’re in control. That means no banes or demons can sneak through the mirror and attack you. And we’ll all be right here, backing you up.”

  I scanned the resolute faces around me. Sarah nodded gently. Charles and Dante didn’t appear worried. But when I met Ian’s eyes, I saw uncertainty.

  I pivoted, pulled the stool closer to the mirror, and sat down. I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans. I looked up at Sarah. “Will you be able to see what I see and hear what I hear?”

  “No. Just hints and shadowy forms. You’re a soul catcher, so you have an innate ability to see through the veil between worlds far more clearly than the rest of us.”

  “All right. So what do I do first?”

  Gigi sat down cross-legged beside the mirror. “It’s very easy. Close your eyes and concentrate on relaxing.”

  “Is there a second option?”

  “Eyes shut, Livia.”

  I gave up and shut them.

  “Now, take deep yoga breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That’s right. Good. And while you’re breathing, picture Dolly, or even just imagine her name, Dolly, in your mind. And tell her you’d like to visit with her.”

  The deep breathing ritual took all my effort. My lungs were used to hyperventilating. My oxygen preferred to hang out in the upper lobes, like a cat afraid to come down off a safe shelf. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Concentrate.

  Dolly. Sweet, dead Dolly.

  Thank you for warning me last night, Dolly. I’d like to know more about you. What the fuck am I saying I don’t want to meet any more ghosts or banes or demons . . . breathe . . . Sorry about that, Dolly.

  “Breathe in, breathe out,” Gigi chanted. “And when you feel that the time is right, open your eyes and look at the mirror.”

  Behind my eyelids, the darkness deepened. Dolly, I’m trying to stay calm. I’ve never called up a spirit on purpose before. You’re not one of those Beetlejuice ghosts who like to scare people for fun, are you?

  “Your eyelids are twitching,” Gigi whispered hotly. “You’re thinking too hard.”

  Sarah shushed her. “Livia’s breathing has slowed remarkably. Look at her. She’s a natural. That’s a soul catcher at work, right there.”

  Their voices seemed distant. The world inside my closed eyes began to expand. Dolly, I hope you’re not afraid of me. Am I as much a ghost to you as you are to me?

  “Miss Livia,” Dolly said happily. “Hello. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers in Amabeth’s mirror, but since we’ve already met, you’re not really a stranger anymore.”

  I opened my eyes.

  There, standing across from me in the mirror, was Dolly.

  “Hello,” I said. “Thank you for warning me last night.”

  “That was one mighty bad haint.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  Behind her, in her world, the attic was a cozy, sunny space with pleasant wooden furniture. A vase of flowers decorated a nightstand beside an iron bedstead, which was prettily made up in quilts. There was a potbellied stove, a wash basin on a dresser, and an oil lamp with an amber glass shade. On the floor was a beautiful McCrane rug in rich earth tones. A triangular pattern marched diagonally across its finely woven surface. I tilted my head, listening. There were background sounds.

  “What are those noises?”

  “Oh, those are just the looms downstairs. Aren’t they pure fun to listen to?”

  “Yes.” The sound was a soothing rumble, a gentle clackety clack, like large wooden animals on the march. I nodded. Her eyes followed the movement, which freaked me out a little. “Can you see where I am?” I asked her.

  “No, it’s dark behind you. I see you real well, though. I hope it’s not dark and cloudy where you are all the time.”

  “Is this your bedroom? Up here in the attic?”

  “Oh, no, I just come up here to play. Amabeth is teaching me how to draw. I can draw apples and pumpkins and oak trees, now. Last week she helped me draw Papa’s automobile. Isn’t that exciting? We finally have an automobile! One Sunday soon we’re going to visit Mama and Papa’s friends who work at the Vanderbilts’ dairy, and Amabeth has promised to teach me how to draw cows.”

  “Who is Amabeth?”

  A shadowy figure walked into Doll
y’s background. Dolly bit her lip and looked over her shoulder. “There she is. Oh, I hope she’s not upset with me. She can get right fussy about this mirror.”

  Unlike Dolly, who was crystal clear, all I could see of Amabeth was a glimpse of a hand clutching sheets of coarse paper, the hem of a long skirt, the flash of a foot buttoned inside an ankle-high shoe. The half-formed shadow went to a desk against one wall.

  Dolly leaned toward me and whispered, “Amabeth works for us, and Mama and Papa rent her the attic to live in. She’s all alone. People say she’s s crazy, but I don’t think so. She’s always drawing strange pictures and burning them. She won’t let me see them. But she weaves the most beautiful rugs. And she watches out for me. Like a big sister.” She grinned as if Amabeth’s sketch-burning habits were just interesting.

  I took a few seconds to breathe deeply and clear the light flecks from my vision. Paint them. Trap them. Burn them. Was Amabeth a soul catcher, too? The shadow turned around, suddenly noticing Dolly and the mirror. It spoke to Dolly, rushing toward her. Dolly swiveled its way and looked sheepish. I heard the muted, urgent sounds of the shadow’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words.

  Dolly shook her head. “Amabeth, it’s all right. Look and see. She’s very nice. Her name’s Livia. She has funny drawings on her arms. She must like to draw, just like you do.” The shadow dropped to its heels beside Dolly. I caught the quickest flicker of a pale, worried, thin face, with short brown hair crimped into snug waves. The Amabeth shadow spoke again, but I still couldn’t make out the words.

  Dolly’s expression fell. “Amabeth says I have to go downstairs now, Miss Livia. See you later.”

  “Bye, Dolly.”

  “Bye.”

  She walked out of the frame. I stared at the shadow. The shadow stared back. I took a deep breath. “I’m not a demon,” I told it. “I paint pictures of demons though, and I burn them. Am I right in guessing that you and I have a lot in common?”

  The shadow began to grow more detailed, like an old TV tuning in from gray static. It flickered, it faded, it returned, and, as details segued into place, it changed. At first it was the crimped-hair stranger in a floppy work dress and button shoes who gazed back at me. But then, slowly, that image segued into a different one. Me.