Soul Catcher

by Bridger, Leigh

  Not my reflection. Me. Only different.

  “Who er you?” the other me whispered in a heavy mountain accent. “If you ain’t a demon, what then er you? You tryin’ to fool me by takin’ on my image?”

  “No. I . . . see you. I mean, I see myself. But in your attic room.”

  “Liar.”

  “Don’t get testy. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “I’m one spit away from drawin’ your picture and burnin’ it.”

  “I’m not a demon. Don’t threaten me. I’ll get a pencil and draw you.”

  Stalemate. Talk about arguing with yourself. I was a stubborn pain in the ass. Me, too.

  She took a deep breath and clutched her hands in front of her. I looked down at my hands. No, I was sitting still. Only my reflection had another life. “What I do look like to you?” I asked.

  “You tell me first, and be right quick about it.”

  “You have long black hair, you’re wearing jeans . . . I mean, pants made of blue denim cloth . . . and a T-shirt . . . that’s a short-sleeved white shirt . . . and tennis shoes. Tennis shoes are shoes made of cloth and rubber. And you have tatt . . . ink drawings on the skin of your arms.”

  She grunted. “That’s a pack o’ lies. Pictures on my skin? You take me for a fool?”

  “Only if you won’t listen to me. Tell me what you see.”

  She chewed her lip. “You have short brown hair, you’re wearing a work jumper and a apron, and you got no drawings on you, because you look just like me and I ain’t got nothing etched on my arms.”

  “Trust me, I’m looking at you and you look just like me. I live in the twenty-first century. About ninety years from your time.”

  “Jesus loving god,” she whispered hoarsely. “Are you really me?”

  She crept forward. I got down on the floor, trembling, and crawled closer to the mirror too. My knees gave way and I curled my legs under me. I reached a hand up and touched the glass. Amabeth’s green eyes—my eyes—followed my movement. She lifted a hand. Her fingertips met mine, separated only by a thin membrane of molten sand and the infinity of parallel lives. Tears rose in her eyes. And in mine.

  I was looking at myself, my soul image, a good ninety years ago, in a different life. One that was already doomed. “Yes, I think I am you,” I whispered.

  She moaned. “Godawmighty.” She jerked her hand down and glanced around her attic frantically. “If we’re able to talk like this it means something’s changed. The evil one must be up to something. My guides were trying to warn me. They musta sent you.”

  I heard a soft moan behind me. Gigi or Sarah, listening. My heart thudded faster. “Tell me about your guides, please.”

  “Lilah and Dew Parsons. Kimmy Oldwater. Frank Turtle. The Parsons wuz school teachers and gospel singers; Kimmy sold tonic waters and elixirs from a little donkey wagon she drove around town, and Frank was a gunsmith. Half-Cherokee.” Her voice cracked, and she scrubbed a tattooed forearm across her damp eyes. “Lilah and Dew was found on a back road with their throats slit, and Kimmy wuz strangled by a customer, and Frank got lynched. They said he forced hisself on a white girl, but that’s a damn lie.”

  I knew instinctively these were Sarah and Charles. Gigi. And Dante. My spirit guides. And hers.

  My versions were still alive. I clenched my fists. I intended to keep them that way.

  “Er they there?” Amabeth asked hoarsely, looking past me. “Your guides? I cain’t make ’em out.”

  “Yes, they’re here.” I cleared the tightness in my throat. “Safe and sound. I promise you.”

  “They ain’t never gonna be safe and sound around you. Me. Us.”

  “Then help me protect them. Can you answer some questions for me?”

  “I was sure nuff hoping you could answer some for me. ’Cause I ain’t got a whole lot of answers so far. Ssssh.” She looked around again. “I feel trouble nearby. They’s always sneakin’ around now, watchin’. Damned banes. I got to go.” Her mouth flattened. “I got some drawin’ and some burnin’ to do.”

  She leapt up, ran to the desk, and came back with a piece of paper and the whittled stub of pencil. She knelt in front of the mirror again, laid the paper on her knees, and began writing. “I’ll send you this here private message. The boons’ll keep it safe and Sheba’ll tell you where to look for it.”

  Amabeth and everything around her began to fade. “Don’t go,” I said hoarsely.

  “Got to. If they see us talkin’, they’ll come after you, too. Hoppin’ across ninety years is easy for these devils.” Her voice faded. “You and me, us, we always end up alone. That’s just the way it’s meant to be. I’m leavin’ this place soon cause I’m feared that I’ll get little Dolly and the rest of the McCranes kilt. You stay strong, you hear? And keep to yourself. You’re a danger to every soul who cares about you.” She faded even more. “I know Lilah and Dew and Kimmy and Frank ain’t gonna let you go it alone, but I swear to you, they gonna die again.”

  I pounded the mirror. “Amabeth, listen to me. There’s a flood coming. When the waters rise, you and Dolly stay up here in the attic. This building is solid; it won’t collapse. You’ll be safe, I promise . . . ”

  The mirror faded to black before I finished. Slowly its reflection reverted to normal. I stared at myself, this me, not Amabeth. Behind me was the stored junk of the modern attic. Slowly I sat back on my heels. Gigi cried softly from her cross-legged position on the floor, but gave me a thumbs up. “I had lovely brunette curls when I was Kimmy,” she moaned. “And I was skinnier.”

  Sarah and Charles smiled at me somberly, acknowledging their Parsons past. When I looked at Dante, he gave a little bow with his head. I asked quietly, “Do you always choose to be different from the majority? Racially, I mean.”

  “My soul makes the choice, sweetheart. I assume I need to be a little bit of an outsider to do the work my soul is destined to do. On the soul level, differences in race and gender mean nothing.”

  I avoided glancing at Ian. But I could feel his gaze, always on me.

  “Livia, you’ve proved you have the power to reach through worlds,” Sarah said softly. “You found one of your old selves. That is a great step forward.”

  Ian finally spoke. “Good on you, Liv. I knew you could do it.”

  I looked away. How could they be so calm? I’d just discovered that the old me was about to die in a flood along with an innocent little girl. I’d been doomed then and was probably doomed now, and so were all of them. Every brave soul who befriended me. Including Ian.

  I got to my feet. “All right, so where’s my message from Amabeth?” I scanned the air, the ceiling, the walls. “Sheba, whatever or whoever you are, could you help me the fuck out here?”

  Everyone scowled at me. Charles shook his head. “Always speak respectfully to your boons.”

  “Ay,” Ian added. “Do not be pissing off a home pog. They can turn sour.”

  “Okay, what, exactly, is a pog?”

  “It’s Irish slang for a type of boon.” Dante explained. “A term of endearment.”

  “Ay, a pog is a tribe of boons.” Ian went on. “A race or a tribe or a clan—whatever you like to say. Each tribe of boons, like tree pogs or cave pogs, have their special ways, and you’ll be needing to get clear on what those are. Home pogs are a wee bit possessive and temperamental.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I just want that note I left myself before I drowned.”

  “Try speaking to Sheba again,” Sarah counseled. “Nicely.”

  I took a deep breath. “Sheba? I apologize for talking to you that way. May I please have the note Amabeth wrote to me?” Silence stretched out. A full minute went by. My forehead felt like a tight zipper. Why did I have to deal with a pouting home pog?

  A fist-sized chunk of plaster fell off one wall. It left a small hole edged in frayed layers of paint.

  “Say thank you,” Gigi whispered, as I rushed forward.

  “Thanks, Sheba. I owe you.” I shoved aside dust
y, cane-backed chairs and a yellowing dress mannequin. I put a trembling hand to the open space and slid my fingers inside it. They clothes-pinned a square of folded paper. I slowly drew it out. Dust poofed from the coarse yellow surface. I unfolded it gently.

  Amabeth’s handwriting, full of pretty, old-fashioned swirls, leapt out at me. She was far better educated than our conversation had revealed. Maybe she used the poverty of style as a disguise.

  The pig-faced demon will kill every living body who tries to help you. I can’t figure how to get rid of him for good so it may be that all I can ever do is knock him back a step or two. If he comes after you remember this: You’re the only one who’s got the power to send him away from this world forever, and so you have to fight him alone.

  The handwriting grew jagged and emotional. My skin prickled with goosebumps.

  Don’t ever let Ian find you. He can’t save you, and you can’t save him. He’s a good man but he’ll only break your heart again. I haven’t seen him in this life but I know he’s out there looking for me. If he does find you, tell him you’ve loved him in every life you’ve ever lived and you’ll love him forever. Because trust me, you have and you will.

  Then get away from him as fast as you can.

  Love,

  From you to me to us.

  Amabeth

  I folded the note and put in my jeans’ pocket.

  Gigi crossed her arms. “Not sharing?”

  “She didn’t tell me anything I don’t already know.”

  Ian said quietly, “She told you to go it alone. But you were wrong then and you’ll be wrong this time too, if you listen to such faithless advice.”

  I stared at him resolutely then shifted my gaze to include the whole group. “Just answer one question for me,” I asked quietly. “In the past, have all of you always died because of me?”

  The looks on their faces were priceless. Like it was no big deal.

  “Passed on,” Gigi corrected.

  7

  Not long after midnight I crept downstairs in the dark, with a backpack over one shoulder. The cold scent of old bricks seeped into my skin. I stood in front of a thick metal door at one end of Charles’ pottery studio.

  I knew there was very little chance I’d get far without being killed by Pig Face or one of his minions, but I had to try. How many innocent people had to die just so I had a shot at fighting demons I couldn’t kill?

  Maybe I could go out in a blaze of glory this time. That way I’d free Ian and the others from their duties as my spiritual posse—in this life, at least. Maybe they could hook up with another soul catcher. One with a better track record.

  “Sheba,” I whispered, trying hard to sound calm and friendly. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like for you to unlock this door without setting off the alarm system. You and I both know that the only way to save the others is for me to disappear. For their sakes, please, help me get out of this building without them knowing it.”

  Nothing. Silence. I heard only the hiss of a gas furnace and the creaks and pops of any massive building of advancing years. No rustles or flutters or slithers that might indicate a home pog was hustling to my aid. A home pog. “Fuck,” I said under my breath. “This is crazy.”

  “Just when I thought your manners had improved,” a low voice said. It gurgled the words.

  I clamped a sweaty fist around the backpack’s strap. The voice from the darkness of my childhood bedroom. Please let this be Sheba. “I apologize. I thought you weren’t listening. Are you Sheba?”

  “Yes. And I’m always listening.” Her words became slow, watery, smug. The voice surrounded me like a claustrophobic tide. Sheba.

  “Ian calls you a home pog. Is that all right? I don’t want to piss . . . offend you.”

  “You don’t offend me. I know you mean no harm. You can’t help feeling angry and defensive. You’ve been that way for more lives than I can count. Perhaps some day you’ll improve your attitude.”

  “I doubt it. Look, I need to get out of here. Will you help me?”

  “Of course. I always have, sometimes despite my better judgment.” Her watery voice made the air around me feel moldy. My spine shivered. Maybe she had a second career as a cave pog.

  Something moved on the brick wall above my head. Something clasped a foot or a paw or a webbed talon to a wooden rafter. The rafter creaked. Then came a series of soft mmm-wok sounds, like suction cups moving across the bricks.

  Heading down the wall. Heading toward me.

  “Are you trying to scare the shit out me?” I asked softly. “Because it’s working. That’s not funny.”

  “You imagine me to be some horrible creature. But you adored me, as a child.”

  “Well, frankly, I’m getting a mental image of a large, wet lizard. I hope I’m wrong.”

  “You can see me, you know. The others can’t; they don’t have the talent. But you do.”

  “Will I see you the way you are, or some illusion?”

  “You’ll see me the way you want to see me, based on what you know to be true about me, on a soul level. If you think you have the courage, give it a try. Shut your eyes, tell yourself you want to see me, then open your eyes, and there I’ll be.” She uttered a sound like a fountain trickling over rocks. Her idea of a laugh, I think. “I won’t bite you,” she said.

  “I’m more afraid you’ll slime me.”

  I heard the trickling sound again. “Have a look. I’m not so bad.”

  I shut my eyes. My heart raced. I had a feeling she wouldn’t help me unless I played this hide-and-seek game. Fuck. All right. Another step down the Surreal Highway. I want to see Sheba, I told myself, hoping I didn’t catch on that I was lying.

  A soft golden glow hit my eyelids. I opened them.

  Sheba clung to the wall just above the door. Her long, slender, golden neck was craned outward so she could tilt her golden, horse-like head at an awkward angle and look straight down at me with golden eyes. Her golden tail, which ended in a fluke like a dolphin’s, curled lazily around a rafter a good twenty feet above her head. Her scales shimmered. Her webbed feet ended in gleaming white nails with a glittery disco sheen to them. Her half-folded wings cast rainbow shadows on the walls.

  I let out a long, astonished breath. When I was about six years old Daddy gave me a stuffed toy dragon for my birthday. It was covered in gold lame’ fabric and had iridescent wings. I thought it was the most beautiful imaginary creature in the world. For years, as the dark nightmares and their ugly creatures took over my life, I slept with the shimmering gold dragon in my arms. I fantasized about it coming to life.

  And now it had.

  “Now do you like looking at me?” Sheba asked. Her pink, forked tongue flicked between her even, white teeth. After all, she was a child’s toy. No fangs.

  “Were you there when I was little? Really? That was you? The invisible hand, or . . . paw . . . that stroked my head, the voice that spoke to me?”

  “Yes. I kept you safe as best I could, or the demon inside your mother would have done far, far worse to you. I was driven away by powerful banes after the fire.”

  Silence stretched out. A thousand shocked memories whirled inside me. “Did you help me, that night?”

  “Yes. Sorry for throwing you out the window so roughly. Banes were attacking me. I was . . . distracted.”

  “Thank you for saving my life.”

  She gave a golden shrug. “I knew you’d need me here, eventually. I protected you here before, when you were Amabeth. She saw me as a dragon, too. From a painting she found in a Catholic text. Something from the Renaissance. Flemish. St. Margaret of Antioch. St. Margaret had a way with dragons, you know.”

  I looked up at Sheba in heady wonder. Amabeth had some classy references for a backwoods mountain girl. Mine were cheesier, more on a Puff the Magic Dragon level.

  Suddenly I had a deep, childlike urge to hug Sheba and fall asleep with my face hidden under one of her wings. It would be so easy to just curl up on
the dusty studio floor with my big pet dragon snuggling me. To sleep. To dream of golden pet dragons, not demons.

  “You’re trying to hypnotize me,” I said abruptly. I shook my head.

  Sheba sighed. The air sparkled with her alluring breath. “Oh, well. It worked when you were younger. I helped you sleep as best I could. Worth a try.”

  “Please, just open the door for me.”

  She sighed again, producing a golden plume of exhaled air. “All right. Stubborn girl.”

  The door clicked softly. It even swung outward an inch. She looked down at me, her golden eyes blinking slowly under opalescent brows. “Speak to the boon outside. He’ll make sure nothing bothers you, at least for a little ways. He’ll drive you to town. You’ll recognize him.”

  “Thank you.” I eased toward the door, then halted. “What was the deal with your creepy water effects and sticky feet?”

  “Remember the time you put me in the washing machine? And the time you glued my feet to your headboard so I looked as if I were flying over your pillow at night? Don’t fault me for wanting a little payback.”

  My guardian spirits had a warped sense of humor. I reached a hand up. I had to know. She lowered her head. I stroked her flared nose. “You feel so real,” I whispered.

  “What you see is what you get, Livia.”

  “You were always my favorite stuffed animal. You still are, even if you do like to mess with my head.”

  She exhaled another golden plume. It cast a soft glow on my face. “I’ll pray for you to come back here safely. If you don’t, I’ll see you again in another life. Perhaps I’ll be a stuffed toy monkey next time. I’m fond of things that climb. Stay safe, soul catcher.”

  She vanished into the wall.

  I could have done without that last comment about other lives. Trembling, I slipped outside uneasily under the sparse light of a half moon. The spring air was chilly. Beyond the parking lot stood a sagging chain-link fence with a gate Charles and Sarah rarely locked, and beyond that was a narrow, pock-marked road. On the other side of the road lay a weedy open area, and then a deep fringe of trees that marked the river banks. A freight train grumbled in the distance.