CHAPTER 2
All’s Fair in Love and Zombies
I’ve lived in and around a lot of small, quiet towns in my life. None were as creepily quiet as the entire Northern peninsula of Newfoundland. Perhaps it was the nor’easter wind that blew through the tuckamores on a regular basis, twisting and bending the spruce and balsam into leaning towers of woodland. Or maybe the palatable salt that lingered in the ocean air. But the entire area was just damned quiet. Not sleepy. Quiet.
Kids get into trouble, especially kids like Manny with too little to do and too many restrictions from well-meaning parents. It was never real trouble, though. Mrs. Saunders never even locked her doors at night. God, folks left their keys in the ignition when they ran into Ricky’s Convenience Store to buy a pack of smokes.
I drove along the highway to St. Anthony and the O’Tooles’ home—all of twenty minutes away. The wind gusted against the car and I had to drive below the speed limit to stay on my side of the road. The makeshift scarecrows along the roadside gardens shook as the gales ripped at the bags and fabrics meant to scare away the crows.
I passed my vegetable patch. The wind had already ripped the scarecrow away. I’d not been back in a month, so I needed to dig out the potatoes soon. When I’d first moved to Wisemen’s Cove, I thought it strange that people didn’t garden on their property. That was before I realized how pervasive the wind was. Inland, behind the tree barrier, was the way to go.
As I approached St. Anthony—pronounced Sant’ney by the locals—the dense presence of something other hung in the air of the centuries-old fishing town and pressed against me. It wasn’t that way at Mrs. Saunders’s, but, as soon as I pulled away from view of her two-story, royal-blue house, the other grew thicker like the morning fog that often blanketed the area.
I tried justifying it away. It was my first day back, after all, and my senses probably hadn’t adjusted to the . . .
I sighed. My intuition said Manny’s house crashers were a part of the supernatural that unsettled the air. I was humble enough to listen to my intuition’s wisdom. It was never wrong, unlike me. It said something was up, so I’d listen. I pushed aside the mounting unease in my soul.
I refuse to let spirits dictate my emotions and sense of peace. A girl’s gotta have standards.
Being a bad example for driving and talking, it being illegal and all, I flipped open my cell. I took a deep breath, steadied my voice, and went for nonchalant. “Hey, Jeremy.”
“Hey, Rachel,” came the voice from the other end, muffled by chewing, “How long you been back?”
I sucked in a breath. Jeremy was the reason I went to Mexico for a month. Casual, Rachel. He’s taken. Go for casual. “I just got back. Listen, David O’Toole’s kid is in some kind of trouble. Can you meet me at his house?”
He snorted. “Bit uneasy going to David’s, huh?” He slurped his drink empty, though I could detect the faint snicker in his voice. “My shift just ended. I don’t mind.”
I nodded, even though I was on the phone, keeping things serious. “The kid’s in some sort of trouble and with David away—”
“It’s no problem, Rachel,” Jeremy said, cutting me off. “I’m at the Kozy Korner, so it’ll only take me a couple minutes to drive there. I’ll meet you.”
“Thanks.” I hung up. Okay, that went all right. I blew out the lungful of air I held. See, Mom? I can be a grown up.
A few minutes later, I pulled into Manny’s driveway, gravel crunching under my tires. Chills pricked my spine and whispers enveloped me. My heart pounded and the hairs on my arms stood on end. Movies and books always present the paranormal as spooky because, frankly, it is. Even to folks sensitive to it.
Especially to us sensitive types. Three calming breaths and a few words in Cree I’d learned from my grandmother surrounded me in an insulating blanket that buffered the spiritual unrest from Manny’s house. I stepped out of my car, slowly, cell phone in hand, adjusting my own soul to the voices in the evening air until they did not claw at my spiritual insides.
The September wind pulled at my jacket, cutting through my jeans, and it muffled the sounds around the O’Toole house. Manny’s home was just off the town’s main drag, an average, fifty- or sixty-year-old house, a two-story building painted bright pink. A Newfoundlander’s house wasn’t a proper house if it was painted plain ol’ beige. The street was quiet, not surprising considering the weather.
Echoing voices, too low to understand, floated in the wind and made my skin crawl. I heard the metallic clang of an aluminum door and Manny came running from the side of the house. He was a pudgy kid of fifteen, wearing Toronto Maple Leafs sweatpants and a Boston Bruins jersey.
Manny ran up to me, panting. “They’re inside, in the basement,” he whispered, though he was breathing so heavily it wouldn’t have mattered.
I eyed Manny for a moment, looking for evidence of drug use or intoxication of any form. A bad drug trip, or to some a good trip, could make you hallucinate almost anything. I knew a girl in high school to whom the Virgin Mary appeared and cooked her bacon and eggs every Sunday during church. Then, we found out she was also doing a double hit of acid before the sermon. Hell, I believe in the spiritual and supernatural and I’m convinced that most of the sightings out there are drug-induced.
With enough experience, a person could generally tell by a four-second look into someone’s eyes. I’d learned that growing up in the north where too many of my friends fell in with the troublemakers. He looked clean, even though his eyes were wide and his face flushed.
Sensing what I was doing, Manny rolled his eyes. “Come on, I’m not on drugs. Can you just come in? Please?”
I hid a smirk. Apparently, his father had tried that technique on him a few times. “I’m just waiting for Constable Garrett.”
Manny’s jaw dropped. “You called the Mounties?”
I heard the rumble of a vehicle and looked over my shoulder. A white RCMP vehicle with the standard Mountie-on-a-horse-holding-a-flag emblem painted on the door pulled into the driveway. I waved at Jeremy, who joined us quickly.
He was still in the navy blue uniform, though his Kevlar vest and radio earbud were notably missing, no doubt discarded in his car as soon as his shift ended. He was a good-looking man, with easy features and a sly grin. He was around my age, late twenties, and taken. Very, very taken. Hence my solo vacation.
I wasn’t sure if the mounting headache was from the other or from seeing Jeremy. I really needed to move away from this man. Too bad lesbianism wasn’t contagious; I’d be open to almost anything to get me over that idiot. Either way, the pressure behind my eyes built momentum.
Manny was clearly less impressed with Jeremy than I was because he went wide-eyed and glared at me. “He’s totally going to tell Dad! I’m so dead.”
“Murder is illegal and I doubt your father would do anything to break the law,” Jeremy said, giving me a wink. I did not collapse into a puddle on the ground because, you know, danger and spirits and all that fun stuff.
“Besides,” Jeremy said, turning back to Manny, “I didn’t tell your father about the time I picked you up on the side of the road after you’d passed out and a moose was licking vomit off your chest.”
I made a disgusted sound. “Eww. Thanks for that.”
A loud crash came from inside. The three of us snapped our heads around to face the house. “What on earth was that?” I asked.
“I have no idea.” Manny sighed, as though resigned to the gallows. He looked at me, pensively. “No one else would have believed me and I figured you’d know what to do. I don’t know anyone else who’s into witchcraft.”
“I don’t practice witchcraft,” I mumbled. Muffled drumming drifted from the house and I shifted my gaze to Jeremy, who shrugged. “Okay, let’s go.”
Manny let out a deep breath, as though he’d been holding it. “Okay. Um, thanks, by the way.”
I frowned. “All I know is that there’ll be hell to pay if this is Billy Watkins dressed up to sca
re you.”
Manuel frantically shook his head. “It’s not Billy.”
The three of us walked towards the house. I’d never been inside David O’Toole’s house. He was the local deacon at the Pentecostal church and had never been overly nice to me. Oh, sure, he was always inviting me to church and smiling whenever he came across me at the grocery store in town, but I knew he called me “witch” behind my back.
I’m not even Wiccan.
Having Jeremy with me would make it legitimate. Besides, it’s never a good idea for an adult to go visit a teenager when their parents are away and when those parents think you are in league with the Devil, capital D. Jeremy was an RCMP officer. That made it all nice and tidy for the paperwork in case these were home invaders.
As we approached, the drumming grew louder. Laughing and singing spilled up from inside the basement. I crept in behind Manny who pointed down the stairs to a finished basement, a rarity in these old homes.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, my jaw dropped. Manny’s parents, Irene and David O’Toole, belonged to the local welcoming committee. But I was certain that they’d never purposely invite a dozen drunken Vikings, in full fur-and-sword regalia, into their home to drink Black Horse Beer and Newfie Screech.
“What the hell,” Jeremy said.
The Viking horde more or less ignored us, opting to clang their bottles together or drunkenly pour the potent Screech into empty glasses, spilling half on the floor. I watched the burly men gasp and grimace as the rum went down. If a Viking struggles with it, you know it’s strong.
Jeremy stood there, mouth hanging open. “Did the guys from L’Anse Aux Meadows forget to take their costumes off?”
I held my breath; the headache caused spots across my vision. These weren’t costumed locals, dressed up for the tourists visiting the Viking site. These were real Vikings. A ball of dread formed in my guts.
Jeremy obviously didn’t realize this, as he cleared his throat and said, “All right, boys. Party’s over. Move on home, now.”
The party continued without acknowledging him.
“Jeremy, stop speaking.”
Jeremy gave me a puzzled look. “Why? Who are these guys?”
“I’m not sure that they are guys in the biblical sense of the word.”
Jeremy had talked to me about the paranormal on various occasions when we’d been working or went out for dinner together. He’d seen a ghost when he was a kid, but it wasn’t like he was a firm believer or anything. I’d have to tread lightly. Not to mention poor Manny, whose upbringing would have had him convinced that the very depths of Hell were opening to swallow him whole.
Manny gulped. “That’s why I called you. They’re spirits or ghosts or zombies.”
“Zombies aren’t real,” I said, annoyed. I eyed Manny, suspicion filling me. He didn’t seem overly shocked by all this. He was upset and terrified, sure, but considering that a horde of drunken Vikings were standing in his basement, he seemed rather calm about the entire thing.
“Um, Rachel,” Jeremy said, shifting his weight and I imagined he’d moved his hand to settle on his sidearm. “What do you mean, ‘not in the biblical sense’?”
Angry, whispering voices echoed inside my head. It was difficult to even hear Jeremy through all of the chatter. Cold spread through me. I shivered. “These are spirits.”
“Shouldn’t they be, you know, see-through?” Manny stammered out.
I shook my head, not taking my eyes off the Vikings. They were aware of us. They’d pointed at us a few times and leaned in to whisper to one another. But, other than indulging in what appeared to be Viking gossip about our weirdness, they didn’t seem bothered by our presence.
“Rachel, what’s going on?”
I ignored Jeremy’s question, though I touched his forearm lightly. “Manny, have they spoken to you?”
Manny shook his head. “Not really. They pushed me out of the way a few times and saluted me with their bottles. But, mostly, they just grabbed the rum off the table, raided the fridge, and carried on talking to each other. I don’t know what they are saying.”
“Um, Rachel, if they aren’t real people,” Jeremy said, his features ashen, “how exactly do we convince them to leave?”
“I can try a few things.”
“Exactly what are they?”
“Remember the green, misty people in Lord of the Rings?”
He nodded.
“Like them, only with flesh instead of green mist.”
“Oh.” He looked back at the Vikings. “Rum-drinking spirits. Great.”
A thought struck me and I turned to the young man at my side. “Manny, where did they get the liquor?”
Manuel turned red. “Um, ah, see, um—”
“Your mother will skin me alive if she finds out I knew you were drinking and didn’t tell her,” Jeremy said.
“Come on, man. I’m fifteen.”
“It’s illegal for you to purchase alcohol. I know for a fact that this isn’t your father’s. Who bought this for you? And, if you bought it yourself, I want to know who sold—”
“Shut up, you two,” I said, grabbing Jeremy’s arm. I pointed. “Look.”
The Vikings had stopped their drinking. A broad, bearded man held up a hand, and the bone, shell, and bead ornamentals dangling from his clothes clicked against each other. He did not speak, but the gesture was clear. The others responded instantly. All chatter ceased. A cold breeze blew my hair, even though no windows were opened. Chills went through me. I knew that feeling. Oh, Christ above, I knew that feeling. “I think we have a rather large problem.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “You think? We have a gang of Viking zombies in a Pentecostal deacon’s basement. We might as well break out the pentagrams and the goats.”
“They aren’t zombies. They’re solid ghosts.” My hands shook and my back muscles shuddered, as though I’d been in a freezer. “There are more coming. Lots more.”
I tentatively stepped towards the leader. I flicked my gaze at the basement window and then back at him, giving what I hoped was a quizzical look, hoping the facial gesture was universal across time.
The Viking leader leaned towards me. I didn’t understand most of what he said, but one word stuck. I swallowed hard. “Did you say skraeling?”
He shushed me before nodding his head, eyes widening. The men around him stiffened into attack postures. Axes, swords, and clubs slipped out from scabbards and belts.
“Manny,” I said as calmly as possible, keeping my voice low, “is there a room down here with a lock on it?”
“Yeah, the bathroom.”
In the same steady, low tone, I instructed, “Lock yourself in there and don’t come out until I call.”
“Why? What’s a skraeling?” Manny asked.
I looked at Jeremy’s confused face which seemed to be asking the same question. “Know what a Beothuk is?”
“Well, yeah. I’m not stunned or anyt’ing,” he said with teenaged exaggeration.
Everyone in St. Anthony would. The Beothuk were an extinct group of aboriginal peoples, who died out a couple centuries ago. Their forerunners were the reason that the Vikings didn’t stay a thousand years before.
I took a deep breath. “I think their ancestors are outside.”
The man pointed at the window, and pushed a protective arm in front of me. Spirit energy surged through me and I gasped in a breath, nearly collapsing under the pressure. My own soul and mind screamed in agony.
As he withdrew from me, I heard his whisper, “Skraelings.”
Spirits Rising Page 2
