by Eli Easton
Matthew looked at the label. “Holy water? This is real?” He’d seen it on the shelves at the shop but dismissed it, convinced it was… well, if not a joke, then at least something only gullible people believed in. He’d only ever seen people using holy water in horror movies to kill vampires.
Or… exorcisms. There was that.
“Of course it’s real,” Alejandro said impatiently. “It’s water that’s been blessed by a priest.”
“It won’t hurt him, will it?”
Alejandro hesitated. “Well… it’s just water, so it’s not like you have to worry about it getting in his eyes like Florida Water or something.” Florida Water was highly alcoholic. They’d put some in a bowl and lit it on fire once. “But the spirit’s not gonna like it.”
Matthew nodded. He’d seen The Exorcist. He knew what that could mean. But that made him think of something else. “Do I have to say something? Like ‘the power of Christ compels you,’ or something like that?”
Alejandro clearly tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t stop himself from snorting.
“Fuck you,” Matthew said. He stalked off, holy water in hand, though he couldn’t go far, since the living room was only about twenty feet across.
He approached Spartacus’s crate and looked down at his beloved dog. The pit bull looked up at him expectantly, not growling but panting heavily. Maybe the stupid meat “spell” had worked, at least a little, because every time Alejandro had walked near him over the past hour, the dog had growled at him. But he hadn’t been doing that with Matthew. He just watched his master, panting and… waiting.
“Dipshit over there tells me this won’t hurt,” Matthew told him in a quiet, soothing voice. “I don’t want to hurt you. You know that, don’t you, Spartacus? I just want you to come back to me.”
With that, he opened the bottle and shook it back and forth over the crate, so that its contents rained down upon the dog. Whatever he’d hoped would happen, what he got was definitely not it. Spartacus threw himself against the door of the crate, barking and snarling in rage.
Matthew jumped back in terror, only to discover Alejandro standing there, blocking his retreat.
“It’s not working!” Matthew said, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes. “Nothing’s working.”
To his surprise, Alejandro wrapped his arms around his waist from behind, as if to comfort him. He pressed his cheek against Matthews neck and murmured, “It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ll think of something else.”
WHAT ELSE they could try, Alejandro had no idea. He’d brought some more things from the store, such as a small bottle of Cast Away Evil powder, a can of Go Away Evil spray, and a perfume called Alcalado Kitamal for chasing away evil. But he no longer had much confidence that they’d do any good. Perhaps sprinkling some Florida Water on Spartacus wouldn’t be a bad idea after all….
“When you left the shop last night,” he asked, “did Abuela spritz you with Florida Water?”
“Yes, of course. She always does.”
In his dream, Alejandro had seen the spirit shy away from Matthew. Perhaps it had been the Florida Water. They could try it on Spartacus. But what if that just angered the spirit and made the situation worse? He simply didn’t know what he was doing.
His thoughts were interrupted by his cell phone going off somewhere in the apartment. Since he was in his underwear, the phone wasn’t on him, and he was busy anyway, so he was tempted to ignore it. But that ring tone was for his grandmother, and he didn’t like to ignore her calls. “Is my phone still in my pants?”
“Yes.”
Reluctantly, Alejandro withdrew his arms from around Matthew’s waist and went into the bathroom. There he found his pants piled on top of the rest of his clothing in the bathtub. Matthew had been right—the right side of his jeans had a lot of blood dribbled down it. He couldn’t get his phone out of the pocket without getting it on his hands, but he ignored it. “Sí.”
“Alejandro! I’ve been robbed!”
“What?” he asked, alarmed. “What happened?” He was picturing some thug with a gun going into the botanica.
“I noticed that there were fewer bottles of Florida Water since last night,” Abuela went on nervously. “One’s missing! So I looked around the shop. A lot of things are missing! Some pinche cabrón broke in and robbed a poor old woman who can barely scrape by!”
Alejandro was simultaneously relieved and terrified to realize that the pinche cabrón was him. He’d intended to present her with a list of items he’d taken after this whole mess was over, along with a promise to pay for all of it. Now he was going to have to come clean when she was already worked up. Not exactly ideal.
“It’s okay, Abuelita! Nobody stole anything. I took those things, and I’m going to pay for them.”
There was shocked silence on the end of the line. Then she gasped, “You? Idiota! Baboso! You steal from your own grandmother! Scare me half to death! Didn’t I raise you to have more respect?” The tirade went on for a considerable time before Alejandro was able to get a word in.
“Abuelita! I told you I’d pay for them!”
“What, in the name of all that is holy, could you possibly need that stuff for? Alcalado Kitamal? Eleggua spray?”
There was no way around it. He wasn’t clever enough to come up with a lie that would make sense. So he told her the whole story, from finding the book all the way up to his and Matthew’s failed attempt to cleanse the apartment and douse Spartacus with holy water.
“Estupido!” she spat out. “Just where did you expect the spirit to go, if you managed to chase it out? Downstairs to one of those sweet little girls?”
She normally had a somewhat harsher view of the “sweet” teenaged Rojas daughters, but Alejandro got her point. The spirit could easily have attempted to possess the next unprotected animal or person it came into contact with. “We were trying to chase it out the window,” he said, realizing how lame that sounded.
“Tu eres un idiota!” Abuela told him. “Don’t do anything more! You’ll just make it worse. I’m coming over.”
Chapter Eight
MATTHEW FOUND a pair of shorts for Alejandro so he wouldn’t have to face the Wrath of Abuela in his boxers, and the two of them spent the next few minutes straightening up the rest of the living room. It didn’t take Abuela long to get there, considering she normally walked pretty slow and the botanica was a few blocks away. When she knocked, the boys exchanged worried glances before Alejandro opened the door.
She stood on the landing, a tiny old Latina in a cerulean-blue blouse and pink slacks, clutching a worn, woven handbag, and scowling enough to wither the houseplants. She ignored her grandson, marching past him and directly into the living room, where she peered down at Spartacus.
The pit bull had quieted again, but he was still panting heavily and salivating. He looked ill.
“Poor boy,” she told him, her voice surprisingly soft. “We’ll make you well again, sí?”
Then she turned to Matthew, the stern mask falling back into place. “Close the window and draw the shades. It must be dark.”
While he hurried to obey, the old woman ordered Alejandro to bring her a wooden chair from the kitchen so she wouldn’t have to strain her bad knee kneeling on the floor. Then she handed him several black candles in small jars and some old-fashioned wooden matches. “Light these and place them on the floor in a circle.”
Alejandro did so, forming the circle between his grandmother and the dog crate. Spartacus growled low in his throat whenever Alejandro got too close, but otherwise he remained quiet, as if fascinated by what Abuela might be up to.
Maybe he is, thought Matthew. Or at least, maybe the spirit is. The thought of something sinister watching them from behind Spartacus’s eyes made him shiver.
Under Abuela’s direction, Alejandro drew a pattern on the floor inside the circle of light created by the candles. He used white cornmeal to create the lines, and the pattern was one Matthew didn’t recognize, though i
t looked similar to veves he was familiar with. When it was done, Abuela pulled a small glass bottle from her bag. It had a wide mouth and was filled with brand-new shiny nails, dried leaves of some thorny plant, and some gray-green spidery substance that might have been Spanish moss. The bottom had some kind of powder in it.
“What is that?” Alejandro asked quietly, but his grandmother shushed him with a curt gesture.
“Put this in the middle,” she said, handing him the bottle. Then she took a small bottle of Jack Daniels and a cigar out of her handbag and set the bag on the floor. “Now help me up.”
When she was standing, Abuela lit the cigar and began to sing, stopping now and then to puff on the cigar and lean down to blow the smoke at the bottle on the floor. Matthew could only hear bits of the song, since she was singing softly, half under her breath. It was in Spanish, of course, and what little bits he could catch seemed to be cajoling, calling the spirit to come drink and smoke with her. Once in a while, she would take a sip of the Jack Daniels—which shocked him, since Abuela never drank, as far as he knew—and then she would sprinkle some of the whiskey down onto the bottle.
Matthew crouched off to the side of the ritual circle, opposite Alejandro, and kept silent. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew interrupting would probably be extremely bad. In the flickering candlelight, Alejandro seemed to be watching his grandmother with rapt attention, and when Matthew dared to look at Spartacus, he was surprised to find the dog lying with his massive head on his paws, looking at the candles through half-closed lids, as if he were falling asleep.
Suddenly the room seemed to darken, and Matthew felt as if he was having trouble breathing. He looked at Alejandro in alarm and saw fear flicker across his face. Was something going wrong? The candle flames sputtered and appeared to be about to blow out. The smoke in the room was so thick, Matthew thought he was going to suffocate or vomit or both.
But Abuela remained calm. She continued to sing, slowly bending down to get close to the circle. Then with a single, swift motion, she reached out and shoved a broad cork into the opening of the bottle. She smiled slyly and said with a chuckle, “Got you!”
The air immediately felt lighter. It was still full of cigar smoke, but Matthew no longer felt as if he was suffocating. Nevertheless, he was relieved when Abuela told Alejandro, “Open the windows and let some light in. It is done.”
A whimper came from Spartacus’s crate, and Matthew turned to see his dog pawing at the floor and whining, the way he always did when he wanted to be let out. Matthew leaned closer, not yet daring to hope the ordeal was over. Spartacus looked up at him, tired and bedraggled, but his eyes finally clear. He barked once—not a ferocious sound, but the sound of a dog greeting his master—and wagged his tail.
“Spartacus!”
“I think he wants to come out,” Abuela said behind him, her voice full of warm humor.
Matthew fumbled with the bolt on the crate, and Spartacus came charging out at him. But there was nothing savage in his “attack” as he bowled Matthew over onto the floor and began licking his face. “Ugh! You’re drenched in spit! It’s disgusting!”
But Matthew couldn’t stop laughing, even though his eyes were brimming with tears.
TO ALEJANDRO, the sight of Matthew rolling on the floor with Spartacus, laughing after a night and morning of pure hell, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He wanted to join in their roughhousing, but his grandmother had other ideas.
“Where is the book?” she asked him, tapping the cigar out on the side of the whiskey bottle. She was scowling again.
Alejandro wasn’t sure, but Matthew had said it was in the closet by the front door. He didn’t feel like disturbing the happy reunion going on at the moment, so he walked over to the closet and peered inside. Up on the top shelf, he could see a spot in the corner where some packaging was half buried underneath hats and mittens, so he reached up to pull it out. Before he touched it, he asked his grandmother, “Is it safe now?”
“Sí.”
He could tell that the moment he touched it. The sense of foreboding was gone, and when he removed the box from the shredded packaging and opened it to touch the book, the pages no longer felt greasy. They felt like dry, brittle paper.
He brought the book to his grandmother and held it out to her, but she made no move to take it. “Burn it,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. When Alejandro hesitated, some part of him still reluctant to destroy something so old, so rare, she added, “You can read parts of it, if you absolutely have to. It won’t do you any harm now. But I won’t have it in my house, and I doubt Matthew wants anything more to do with it.”
“No!” Matthew affirmed from his spot on the floor. He was scratching Spartacus behind the ears, the pit bull lying against his leg, half asleep from exhaustion but moaning contentedly at his master’s touch. “I don’t ever want to see that fucking thing again.”
“Okay,” Alejandro said.
He took it outside to the barbeque grill in the tiny backyard of the apartment building, intending to set it on top of the grill. But he changed his mind. Abuela was probably right about it being harmless—she would know, if anyone would—but the thought of putting it on a grill used for cooking hamburgers and hotdogs bothered him. He pictured the building being plagued by an outbreak of cursed cheeseburgers. So he laid it on the dirt in a corner of the yard instead, digging a small pit for it.
He flipped through the pages one last time, seeing invocations to the devil, curses for enemies, spells for forcing someone to love you or forcing them to leave their lovers, and then he closed it and doused it with charcoal starter. He lit a match, tossed it onto the book, and watched it go up in a ball of fire. He sat there for a long time watching it burn, dousing it with more charcoal lighter whenever the flames seemed about to go out. He made sure not a single scrap of paper was left unburned.
Then he buried it.
Chapter Nine
IT WASN’T easy to get into a cemetery in Manchester undetected at midnight. There were lights everywhere and cop cars patrolling the streets that bordered the low walls, on the lookout for vandals. But Matthew and Alejandro were teenagers living in one of the low-rent neighborhoods of the city. They were used to being regarded with suspicion, especially at night. And they were experts at dodging patrol cars.
Abuela had sent them on this mission. “Someone, a long time ago, bound this spirit to the book. Maybe to guard it—to keep fools like you two from messing with it. The spirit was a dead man with a troubled conscience. A criminal. Maybe a murderer. I lured it into the bottle, but now you must finish the job. Take it to the cemetery and bury it. And give the spirit some peace.”
Matthew didn’t really care much for giving the spirit some “peace.” As far as he was concerned, the spirit could damn well suffer for what it did to Spartacus. But if this would get the goddamned thing out of his life forever, he’d go along with it.
They’d gone to the Elliot at River’s Edge, the new urgent care center, to get Alejandro’s arm seen to that afternoon. He wasn’t going to die, but he’d definitely have some scars. The doctor had forced him to take a rabies shot, since Alejandro couldn’t exactly tell her he knew the dog that’d bitten him wasn’t infected. Matthew knew he wouldn’t go back for the remaining four she wanted to give him.
He was still in pain, so Matthew had to do most of the work that night, digging the hole with a garden trowel. It wasn’t actually in somebody’s grave, but at the base of a tree, and Abuela had insisted it be three feet deep. The bottle was still corked, of course, and she’d threatened to kill both boys with her bare hands if they let the cork slip out. Matthew placed the bottle in the hole and buried it while Alejandro kept lookout.
When it was done, Alejandro recited some prayers his grandmother had taught him and placed a coin on the makeshift grave for the watcher of the cemetery, payment to keep the spirit there.
On their way out, a patrol car drove by, forcing them to duck dow
n behind the stone wall at the boundary of the cemetery. While they were crouched, their heads close together, Alejandro whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“You already said that. About ten times.”
“I’ll never be able to say it enough.”
“Oh, stop it,” Matthew said, reaching one hand up to cup behind Alejandro’s neck. The affectionate gesture wasn’t something Matthew would normally have done, but the past twenty-four hours seemed to have changed the boundaries a bit. “I shouldn’t have left the package on the bed for Spartacus to tear apart. If it had just been a rare book, I’d be the one apologizing.”
He moved to take his hand away, but Alejandro reached up to hold his wrist. Their faces were incredibly close together, and in the moonlight, Matthew could see the pain in his friend’s eyes. Alejandro wasn’t able to accept forgiveness this way—not through mere words. So Matthew leaned forward and forgave him with a kiss.
He would never have done it if he’d allowed a moment’s thought before acting. There were a million reasons why kissing Alejandro could be the worst idea ever. A surge of panic rose up in him, and he tried to pull back, but it was too late. Alejandro enveloped him in his arms and practically devoured his mouth. The feeling of panic gave way to shock, and then slowly, tentatively, to joy. The feel of Alejandro’s lips was softer than Matthew had imagined they would be, and so wonderfully warm. With their faces pressed together, the familiar scent of Alejandro’s skin—musky, and smelling faintly of Ivory soap and the inescapable spice of Florida Water—overwhelmed him and filled him with a sense of coming home.
There was an odd light, somehow growing brighter, until Matthew realized someone was shining a flashlight down at them. A man’s voice said gruffly, “All right, you two. Get up here where I can see you. I hope, for your sake, you’ve got pants on.”
