Insistent that he’s right, Timothy refuses to consider that he might have been the one to bring himself and Echo out of the Field of Reeds. He can’t explain how she did it, only that she did. Rather than feeling any sort of relief at the idea of being able to control their departure from the devolving realm, it’s made her withdraw from the topic. At first I didn’t understand why. Now, as I consider her uniqueness even among the unique, it’s one more sign to her that she isn’t what she should be.
Mrs. Bridger startles me from my thoughts when she sets down several glasses of water. “Do you need anything else?” she asks me.
Echo and her son are actively discussing his drawing of the Ka, the Egyptian view of the life force and spiritual essence received at birth. His drawing looks more like two wobbly saguaro cacti than the usual two upraised arms, but he explains it as the breath of life as well as its difference from the Ba—the immortal soul judged in the Hall of Truth—accurately enough.
“No,” I tell Mrs. Bridger, “I think we’re all fine.”
She hesitates a moment before tipping her head toward Echo. “Is she all right?”
“She will be,” I say, though I don’t know how long it will take for that to be true.
I suspect Echo doesn’t either, but Mrs. Bridger doesn’t press me on the subject and moves away to continue folding laundry.
“Wait, so what happens to the Ka after a person dies? It just ceases to exist?” Echo asks Timothy.
The little boy frowns. “The Ka is the spirit, so it goes wherever spirits go, I guess. Mom says they go to heaven. Dad said they wander around because they still need food and stuff.” He turns to study Echo seriously. “Do they? Have you ever seen a ghost eat food?”
Echo shakes her head slowly. “No, but I guess I didn’t really understand the difference between spirits and souls before now. I’m not sure which ones I can see.”
When Timothy only shrugs, Echo sinks down in her chair. I set aside my laptop where I’ve been attempting to research Kurt Francis and how we can get rid of him before he exacts vengeance on Echo. Her question might be asking a bit much of a six-year-old. I’m far from an expert on ghosts and Egyptian mythology, but this is a universal question. Being involved in a wide variety of religious, paranormal, and supernatural phenomenon over the years has given me a few insights.
“No one knows for sure, of course,” I say, “but my best understanding of the difference between soul and spirit has to do with life and death. The spirit is part of the soul, but experiences life more actively than the soul. The soul is immortal, but becomes suppressed in a way while the body is alive. Some people relate them to the conscious and subconscious. When a person dies, the spirit is reunited with the soul and they become one again.”
Scrubbing a hand across her forehead, Echo doesn’t argue my explanation but is still confused and frustrated. “But, I’ve been to the Field of Reeds. Doesn’t that mean the Egyptians were right? Are there different afterlives for different people depending on your religion or geographic location or culture? How can that possibly be?”
“It’s more likely that they are all simply interpretations of the same reality.” When Echo stares at me, uncomprehending, I try to explain a little better. “Scientists debate the nature of reality, our perception of and influence on it. In a spiritual plane, reality is likely fluid, experienced based on the participant’s expectations and beliefs.”
Now Timothy is confused as well. “But, my dad said he saw Osiris. He didn’t just imagine him.” Offended at the idea that I might be calling his father a liar, he stares at me uncertainly.
“I’m sure he didn’t make it up,” I reassure him. “I only mean that depending on who you are, you’ll experience life after death differently. For your father it was the Hall of Truth and Field of Reeds. For a Christian is might be judgment from Saint Peter. For Hindus, judgment comes in the form of rebirth, so they may experience something completely different. There is a never-ending variety of beliefs that may all be true in some way.”
Timothy snorts. “Well, that’s dumb. There can’t be reincarnation and heaven and the Field of Reeds. Somebody has to be right.” He pauses. “Right?” He glances over at Echo but she shrugs and rubs her temples.
“How about we table that discussion and try to figure out how I took us out of the Field of Reeds, or whatever the hell it is.” She grumbles that last part under her breath, causing Timothy’s eyes to widen at the sound of her uttering a bad word. She doesn’t notice and I suppress a chuckle.
“And why Timothy was so worried about you dying there,” I add.
Timothy pipes in with, “And how come you can touch the ghosts, souls, whatever they are.”
Both Echo and I turn to stare at him. “What?” we ask nearly at the same time.
Cocking his head to one side, Timothy is surprised by our question. “Yeah, remember?” he says to Echo. “You did it the time you and Malachi came to the Dreamside together. You held onto the soul so the monster couldn’t eat it. I can’t do that. The monster would have eaten it up if you hadn’t held onto it for so long.”
Thrown by that announcement, Echo sinks back against her chair. “Hmm,” she muses. “I didn’t realize I did anything unusual.” She turns to look at me and asks, “What does that mean?”
I wish I knew. For the time being, it’s simply one more thing to add to Echo’s list of unique qualities that make her so difficult to classify. “Let’s focus on why Echo can’t die in the Field of Reeds, and wait on the rest.” It’s the most pressing question, and will determine whether or not Echo will go back.
“That’s not just Echo,” Timothy says in a manner which says we should already know that well enough. “It’s bad for anybody who dies in the Field of Reeds. Your soul is only supposed to go there after you’ve been judged. If you die there when you’re visiting, it’s kinda like cheating and Osiris gets mad. You don’t get to go to the Hall of Truth. The monsters get to eat your soul without you being judged…because you broke the rules.”
Tears shine in the little boy’s eyes and Echo pulls him in with her good arm for a hug. “How do you know that?” she asks softly.
“It’s one of the stories.” He wipes away a tear that falls and stares at the table. “The last one. If the ferryman finds a soul that cheated, he’s supposed to take them to Osiris so the monsters can eat it.”
Then, without warning, Timothy dissolves into tears. Echo grimaces when his head flops against her chest and he throws his arms around her, hitting her injured arm. The pain and surprise doesn’t stop her from hugging him fiercely. We meet gazes, but neither of us has any idea of what has caused this breakdown. My only insight is a tremendous amount of guilt weighing him down.
“Timothy, what’s wrong?” Echo asks softly.
He continues to sob for several more seconds. When he does manage to speak, his voice is muffled and shaky. “Malachi said…we have to…to find…my dad!” He sobs even harder, bringing his mother to stand behind him, unsure of whether she should step in to comfort him or leave him in Echo’s arms.
“Why is that making you so upset?” Echo asks. “He’ll be able to help us, won’t he?”
Timothy’s head drops to her lap and he sobs even harder. “He…died…there.”
Echo frowns, but I’m beginning to understand. To Echo, I say, “He thinks he’ll have to turn his dad’s soul over to the monsters if you find him.”
Slumping in her chair, Echo rubs Timothy’s back in comfort while keeping her gaze on me. “Is it true? If The Field of Reeds is just some kind of individual experience…what are the real rules?”
I want to have a better answer for her. “Individual representation or not,” I say quietly, “most myths are based on some bit of reality.”
“But, he was supposed to be there. It was his job,” Echo argues. “Surely that must mean something. He was killed, or…” She glances over at Mrs. Bridger and doesn’t finish her original thought. “He died to protect the souls. H
ow could they turn him over to the Devourers after that? It’s not fair.”
Despite agreeing with her, fair rarely factors into the paranormal. “Maybe it will be different for him.” It’s the best I can offer either one of them as far as reassurance goes.
Silence reigns for several long moments. Mrs. Bridger has taken a seat at the table next to Timothy’s prone form, but keeps her thoughts private. Echo redirected before mentioning that her husband essentially took his own life to prevent the Devourers from consuming his soul, and to escape with the Key and Feather. He revealed himself in order to give Timothy the Feather, but still has the Key with him, hidden somewhere even the Devourers haven’t been able to find. Not yet, anyway.
“We still have to find him,” I say. We have to find him before the Devourers or they’ll use the Key to free themselves into the living world before we can lock them back up in the Hall of Truth.
Slowly, Timothy sits up and faces me. “I know.” His little voice trembles despite his firm words. “It’s just not fair.”
“I know, buddy,” Echo says as she hugs him. “Well do whatever we can to help him, but we can’t let the monsters escape. They’re getting too strong already. That one tried to follow you back to the living world when it attacked you at the foster home. They’re almost powerful enough to use the Key.”
“I know,” he says again.
Watching him turn into Echo’s embrace would break even the sternest of hearts. He’s six years old, yet he knows there’s no way to save his father’s soul, and that he will likely be the one to cast him into oblivion. He knows all of that, yet he also knows it’s the way things have to be. Losing your father once should be enough. Asking a child to go through that a second time, to witness it and possibly even facilitate it…there’s no other word for that than cruel.
We’re powerless to do anything but stand back and watch.
20: Plan B
(Griffin)
“How much worse can this case get?” Echo asks in a strained voice as soon as I sit down in the car next to her. She looks over at me, tears pooling in her eyes. “How do you do this day in and day out? How do you tell kids they’re going to have to watch their dad die? Again.”
Putting the car into drive, I pull out onto the empty street before reaching over and squeezing her hand. “Most cases aren’t this hard. Most are pretty boring, actually.”
Echo sinks down and leans her head against my shoulder. She doesn’t say anything for a long time, not until I’m pulling into the apartment complex parking lot. “Will you help me with my French homework?” Her gaze drops to her hands. “I know we have more work to do on the case, but I need an hour of normal.”
She needs a nap. I know telling her that will only annoy her, so I don’t. She’ll be asleep five minutes into her homework anyway. “Sure. What’s the homework?”
“Ordering food and drinks.”
I laugh. “Perfect. We’ll practice while I make us a late lunch.”
Parking near her building, I get out of the car and wait for her to extricate herself more slowly. Exhaustion and injury are taking their toll. Not just physically. Despair is constantly hovering around her now. There’s only so much I can do to help her, but when she approaches I wrap an arm around her shoulder and focus on positivity. Her relieved sigh is encouraging, but too frail to count as a real victory.
As we walk up the stairs I quiz her on vocabulary, half of which she gets wrong. Her lack of language skills ends up amusing more than depressing her, however, and she takes my teasing through lunch with a smile. The worksheet she’s supposed to fill out with her responses to each question ends up abandoned despite a caffeine infusion in the form of some pretty strong coffee. I don’t feel bad about finishing it for her after I put her to bad.
I debate taking my laptop into her room to keep an eye on her, but she’s sleeping peacefully and I don’t want my typing to wake her. Setting up at her kitchen table, I begin pouring over the Kurt Francis file with a more focused mind. It hadn’t been included in the original packet of information Dad sent me before coming out here. I knew the basics from previous conversations, but this contains every scrap of evidence from Francis’s car hydroplaning and slamming through the guardrail to Coulter’s wife confessing to murdering her husband’s best friend on the say so of her dead husband.
It wasn’t difficult to mount a defense of mental instability. There’s a note about her being remanded to a psychiatric facility, but little else. Most of the file focuses on the investigation of the original crash and on Echo’s letter. The crash itself was proven to be simply an accident. Bad weather, slick roads, a blind curve. Francis survived, but severely injured his leg and walked with a limp afterward. Mrs. Coulter never fully recovered from her husband’s death, making her a prime target for his manipulation.
Reading her statements after the murder of Francis makes me wonder if she might have taken the same action eventually regardless of Echo’s letter. Her hatred and bitterness were there long before her bastard husband tortured a child into doing his vengeful bidding. Perhaps their similar personalities was what drew them together. Francis, on the other hand, was well loved by family and friends, touted as a gentle, kind man.
I shake my head as I contemplate what being trapped in the living world does to a soul. Archer loved Echo, yet his torment pushed him to attack and hurt her when the pain became too great and he resorted to begging for release. Souls aren’t meant to be caged any more than the living are.
Two hours later, when I hear Echo stirring in her room, I’ve scoured every document in the case file, but I haven’t come up with anything useful. Francis’s parents had already passed and he was an only child. His body was even cremated. I’ve never had the need to test the theory that burning the physical remains of a ghost actually does anything to remedy a haunting, but I’d have been willing to try. Aside from his murder, nothing else stands out as a reason he would be trapped here. Even that seems odd to me, given what his friends said about him. My hope that something besides Echo is keeping him from moving on, something we could fix or deal with, are looking pretty slim.
“Hey,” Echo says as she rubs her eyes, “find anything useful on Francis?”
I shake my head and slump in the chair. “Guy seemed like a genuinely nice person. Took his neighbor’s trash cans out to the curb when they forgot. Never held a grudge. Always pitched in when people needed help. Just about the least likely person I can think of who would want to hang around tormenting someone after death. Short of asking him ourselves, I don’t have any answers.”
Echo slides into the chair across from me and wraps her arms around her body. It’s not cold, but the fear suddenly welling in her causes her to pull in on herself. I’m not sure why until she speaks. “What if we tried? To speak to him, I mean? Safely.”
I hesitate before answering. “Is safely really an option? Talking to Archer when he was calm still almost killed you.”
“No,” she says, shivering at the memory. “Not like that. Like…” Her gaze drops to her crossed arms, embarrassment bringing color to her cheeks. “Something more controlled, like a…séance.” She drops her head back against the chair. “I know that must sound stupid, given what I can do, but…”
“No,” I say slowly, “it sounds…safer. In theory, anyway.”
“I’ve been researching it.” The confession calms some of her embarrassment and she meets my gaze hesitantly. “There are things you can do to call a spirit, rules they have to follow once called. I wrote it all down.” She strips her arm from where it’s still locked around her middle and drops a crumbled, folded paper on the table. “Honestly, I don’t know how much of this stuff is real. Séances have always seemed on the same level as Ouija boards, but who knows anymore, right? If it can get us some answers without getting me killed, it’s worth trying, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer right away because, honestly, I don’t know. I scan her list and wonder if it will be enough.
; Choose a peaceful, inviting location
Form a circle with the participants
Invoke protection: circle of salt, prayer/religious icon, request for protection, smudge area with sage to cleanse/lavender incense
Have a physical link to the spirit: picture?
Be respectful
Thank the spirit for coming before closing, request protection again
“If we summon him with a salt circle, he shouldn’t be able to get out to interact or hurt me. Maybe he’ll communicate like that. If not, I’ll release him and come up with plan B.” Echo shrugs. “I don’t know what else to do.”
My nod is slow and reluctant, but I’m forced to agree. Our options are slim. This still seems dangerous, but not knowing and letting him pop up without warning again isn’t any less of a threat. “When do you want to try?” I ask.
“Not until Kyran gets back.” She tightens her arms around her middle again. “He knows the most about this sort of thing.”
That is certainly true. We haven’t had a lot of time to talk about his background in the paranormal arts, but the topic of séances has come up and I know he’s been a part of them more than once. “Who else do you want there?”
“You and Malachi. Your dad to keep an eye on things, but not in the circle. Zara and Holden will be interested, but I think we should keep it as simple as possible.”
I agree. The fewer distractions or chances for interruptions the better. “I’ll get the supplies we need. Kyran will be back late tomorrow night, right?”
Echo shakes her head, clearly hoping the time passes quickly. “Early the next morning. He’ll be tired, but I think we should still try it that night if he can sleep earlier in the day. Until then, we’ll have to focus on finding Timothy’s dad and making some progress on that front. With any luck, we’ll get him squared away before we attempt this. Less distractions.”
The Ghost Host: Episode 2 (The Ghost Host Series) Page 18
