Candace went to Everett’s dinner tray and thought of Mamalee’s daily ritual of dotingly preparing it, accenting it with loving little details that so delighted him, such as the cute smiling ghost faces she had Magic Marker-ed on the napkin covering the dish, humming to herself all the while. The tray was the lightweight plastic kind meant to be disposable—and harmless.
Candace took the tray and backed through the kitchen door into the backyard. “Bravo!” she called, whistling. “Here, boy!”
The huge black mastiff crawled from his corrugated doghouse and trotted to her, panting, wearing a slobbery smile reserved only for her.
“We gotta go see Everett.”
Bravo whimpered a little but stayed at her side as she walked to the orange-windowed shed.
She set the tray on the shelf built onto the side of the steel door and drew the key to the massive padlock. She goaded the reluctant Bravo in first and entered with the tray into a narrow foyer, a partition built between the padlocked door and the main room of the shed that was Everett’s room/home.
Muffled music—Terry Teene singing “Curse of the Hearse”—emanated from the crack under the inner door.
Candace breathed resolve, looking to Bravo. He met her gaze with ears held low.
“Everett? It’s Candace. I brought your dinner.”
Shadows shifted under the door. Bravo growled. Candace patted his head. “It’s okay, boy.” Then she addressed Everett with her bravest voice. “I have Bravo with me, so… be careful, okay?”
The door opened outward, forcing Candace to step back in the crowded space. She put her hand on Bravo, feeling his hackles rise.
Silhouetted by the dim orange light, Everett stood in his strange stance, his fright wig framing a pale face.
Candace held out the tray, gripping to still her shaking hands. “H-here…”
Everett ignored the tray and stared down at Bravo, chuckling at the dog’s warning growl.
“Okay,” Candace redirected. “Here it is, Everett.”
Everett remained focused on Bravo, kneeling to eye level with him. The dog backed away till he met the wall, then gave an uncertain bark and a half-hearted warning snap.
Everett seemed to measure the dog’s sincerity, scooting forward an inch or so.
“Everett. Please. It’s only a little bit longer now.”
Everett reached for Bravo, who snapped at his hand again, more aggressively, drawing a startled squeal from Candace.
But Everett did not withdraw, did not react at all, except to shuffle toward them another harrowing inch, forcing Bravo to scrunch himself behind Candace.
Everett chuckled, apparently satisfied. He stood, and Candace realized that he towered over her. An adolescent growth spurt had been good to him.
Everett’s hands moved, making Candace yelp. But it was only to take the tray.
Everett stared at her, his eyes piercing even in the darkness.
Candace backed away and put a hand on Bravo. “Okay, then. Go… back in… your spooky haunted house now, and… we’ll leave.”
Everett didn’t move. Unnerving titters escaped him.
“Please, Everett.”
Everett backed into his room, letting the door creak as it eased shut.
Candace breathed relief, and Bravo whimpered. “I know, boy.”
* * * *
Excerpted from Communing with the Dead by Onyx Darkwolf, with permission from the publisher:
Section 4: Attachments
The emotional body, and sometimes the analytical body as well, can choose to remain earthbound or even to return to some significant location from their corporeal existence, if there is a sense of urgency or unfinished business. But the location must have such resonance that it is or was a great part of the prepassing phase.
A spirit can seem to be inactive for years or even decades, perhaps longer—if they were accomplishing tasks in other lives or were driven to right some karmic wrong elsewhere before they could exit the cycle and pass on to The Greater Plains.
Some remain in The Inbetween simply because they are afraid of what is beyond. But there are cases in which a spirit being has been blocked from returning by a charged talisman or the specific ritualistic actions of a shaman, saint, or devotee.
In at least four cases, I have encountered spirits who either remained in or frequently visited homes where they had lived for many years, causing consternation for current residents. Some spirits choose to visit the grounds where their body is interred, and in some cases, the spirit’s grave serves as the entry point from The Inbetween.
Most such spirits will continue to seek entry into our world, but attempting to communicate with a particular entity who has been blocked is difficult, if not impossible. Even more difficult would be determining and removing the source of the blockage. However, should this be accomplished, the spirit could potentially return with such power that its effects on the material world, having accumulated, would be far beyond normal.
Stella reread the four paragraphs. Though she had experienced telltale signs of a haunting, the new-agey text made her skeptical. It didn’t help that her husband could leave his football game any minute, walk into the bedroom, and ask what she was reading.
The last paragraph certainly could apply. She had felt the presence growing stronger as she gave it her fear, and only after Ruth’s bold banishment prayer had the activity ended.
Scared as she had been, and often still was, of being alone in the sanctuary, she also felt like she had robbed herself of a meaningful experience. She thought of her summer with Aunt Miriam, of learning to dowse, and how her aunt matter-of-factly spoke of the dead as if they moved and thought and acted still.
With Halloween looming, the topic of ghosts and the spirit world was at the fore, even if mostly in whimsy (except in Ruth’s case). Stella was a bit sorry that she had lost a chance to satisfy a long-standing curiosity about the afterlife—and to face her childhood fears as a woman.
Still, Ruth’s little exorcism show hadn’t seemed like much. Could it really be that was all it took to send the spirit away or block it?
McGlazer was the closest thing to a “shaman” this side of the Cherokee reservation two counties away. Could it be that he had taken some action against the spirit?
* * * *
Homemade pumpkin pies sat at the center of three Ember Hollow family tables.
In the Lott household, where a dash more nutmeg than the recipe called for was the unanimous preference, an elegant candlelit setting with polished silver, crisp white tablecloth, and understated autumnal accents greeted Deputy Hudson, wife Leticia, son DeShaun, and two-year-old daughter Wanda.
Hudson, still in uniform, rubbed his weary eyes as DeShaun took a seat between him and little Wanda. “You wash your hands?” he asked DeShaun.
“Nope.” DeShaun rubbed his hands on Hudson’s cheek and got the reaction he wanted: his mother’s shrill cry of “Not at the table!”
Hudson bowed his head for grace but couldn’t resist keeping his eyes open to watch Wanda try to interlace her stubby fingers in emulation of her mother. “Dear Lord, thank you for this nourishment. And…please be with Belinda Pascal; see her through this time of difficulty.”
This finished, DeShaun set to spoon-feeding his sister the green mush in her little plastic jack-o’-lantern-shaped bowl. “Whaddup with Belinda Pascal, Dad?”
Hudson glared at DeShaun like he had just uttered the vilest of obscenities. “SSS!”
DeShaun was confused.
“What’sss!” Hudson emphasized. “What ISSS up! She’s at home, resting.”
“Belinda Pascal’s too hot to be all messed up like that.”
Leticia withered him with what he called “the ol’ miffed Mom eyes.” “Your butt’s gonna be too hot!”
“What did I say?” DeShaun asked.
“My baby boy’s too young to talk like that!” she answered.
Hudson returned to DeShaun’s query about Belinda Pascal. “I don’t exactly know. She’s always been clean as a whistle. Said she didn’t do anything different.” He went on to describe the disturbing incident at the traffic light.
“What do you mean, she saw monsters?” asked Leticia.
“She said devils and monsters had been chasing her the whole night. Jumping out of the shadows. Popping out and scaring the hell out of her. Toying with her. She thought I was one for a minute there.”
Leticia put her hand to her heart, alarmed, and Wanda imitated.
* * * *
Closer to town on Midway, in an older but equally well-kept home, well-used dinnerware surrounded the pie on the scuffed mahogany table of the Barcroft family. Their dining room was decorated with cheap and well-used Halloween party decorations. The pie was smothered in whipped cream from the can, just like Pedro liked it, for Dennis’s bandmates had come to dinner, per Ma’s standing invitation.
Jill’s hair was pulled back and she wore an unzipped black hoodie over her The Slits T-shirt. Pedro had taken the trouble of combing his devilock neatly to the side and donning a button-down shirt that threatened to tear at the seams of the shoulders. “Thanks for having us over, Mrs. B,” he said, as he squeezed his bulky frame in against Stuart.
“Well you’re always welcome, Pedro! Now who wants to say grace?”
“Ma! We’re punks!” Since turning thirteen, Stuart protested everything normal or familial.
Dennis cocked his chin at Stuart. “Dude, we say grace every night.”
Pedro swatted the back of Stuart’s head. “Yeah, buzzkill.” Pedro caught Ma’s nod and began the grace. “Bless this food and this family and our band, heavenly God, and if it’s cool, let us get signed this weekend.”
Dennis opened one eye to see Stuart sitting with his cheek on his fist, glancing around in boredom.
“And how about don’t let that crummy sucker-in-a-three piece, Kerwin, screw this up for us,” Pedro continued.
Dennis discreetly gave Stuart the finger, drawing an elbow to the ribs from Jill.
The second Pedro finished, Jill looked at Stuart. “Hey,” she said and kicked him under the table, a smile curling at the corners of her black lips. “Heard you got a lady friend.”
Pedro turned to him like a curious cartoon bulldog, while Stuart shot a reproachful stare at Dennis.
“Stuart!” squealed Ma. “That’s wonderful news!”
“Yeah.” Stuart realized it was pointless to resist. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Dennis asked. “I thought the parade invite sealed the deal.”
“First, looks like I gotta deal with somebody else,” Stuart explained.
“What?” Pedro washed down his mouthful with a slosh of milk. “An interloper?”
Jill leaned toward him, enthralled. “A rival for her affections?”
A half-smile formed on Dennis’s face. “There’s a song here.”
Stuart stabbed at his potatoes with his fork. “Just some square. I can deal with it. No biggie.”
Pedro nudged him with an elbow. “You need me to bop this lame-o for ya, little bro?”
“No bopping!” Ma commanded.
Dennis’s expression grew serious, almost morose. He narrowed his eyes at Stuart but spoke to his mother. “Don’t you worry, Ma. No bopping. He’ll take care of it like a smart guy. Like a guy with a future.”
Stuart tucked into his food, embarrassed by his big brother’s tough love. Jill smiled at him while Pedro stole his dinner roll right from under his face.
* * * *
Farther from town, Candace and family—minus Everett, of course—ate from paper plates on a cramped folding table surrounded by half-filled boxes, a roll of paper towels in place of napkins, the pie a bakery special from the grocer.
As Aloysius took his seat at the table, Mamalee beamed her permasmile to Candace. “And what do we say, young lady?”
Candace turned to address her father—but in rote manner. “Thank you for our food and home, Father.” She allowed a pointed pause before finishing. “Homes.”
Both parents gave her a reproachful scowl.
Taking a bite, Candace kept a wary eye on her parents as they engaged in the most forced of small talk.
“Is the attic coming along, dear?” Mamalee asked Aloysius.
“Don’t go up there,” Aloysius said. “The floor is flimsy.” He wiped his mouth and asked, “How was Everett?”
“A little scary, Father.”
Mamalee tittered. “What does the TV always say? ‘Duh!’”
“He’s not afraid of Bravo anymore,” Candace stated.
Her parents stopped chewing and cutting.
“I think Bravo is afraid of him now.” The mastiff whimpered at her side.
Aloysius’s frown was deeper than usual. “Perhaps this will be the last time. This time, it will be done. He’ll have it out of his system.”
“No, Father.” Candace’s tone was only matter-of-fact.
Her father bristled as if at a challenge. “What?”
“No,” Candace repeated. “It will never be out of him.”
“Candace!” Mamalee interjected. “You don’t know!”
Aloysius pounded the table, startling them. “You will not disrespect me!”
Candace had the courage of conviction though, having witnessed Everett’s behavior just an hour previous. “It’s true though, Father! He will always be this way! And he’s getting worse!”
Aloysius stood, the rage of denial painting his weathered features. “No!”
Mamalee rose to calm her husband with jittery pats on his arm. “Aloy, it’s all right! It’s all right. We’ll get through this one and then we’ll figure it out! Like we always do.”
Aloysius sat and returned to eating.
Candace summoned her courage. “I guess it’s pointless to ask about the parade.”
More silence. Mamalee placed her still-shaking hand on Aloysius’s. He cast a brief glance toward Candace, mumbling, “You may go.”
Candace was stunned.
“You won’t see your friends here again,” Aloysius said. “You might as well have a chance to say goodbye this time.”
Mamalee’s happy mask somehow seemed genuine.
Candace stood and hugged her father, and he even patted her arm. “I will go pack right now, Father!”
She dashed away, her young heart singing.