by J L Bryan
“Ugh, fine,” Stacey said. “But Nealon sits in back. Away from the music controls.”
“I've been sitting in back the whole way. I really don't mind,” Nealon said.
“And if you even try to sing 'Istanbul (Not Constantinople)' you're out,” Stacey said.
“What's wrong with 'Istanbul (Not Constantinople)'?” Jacob asked. “It's fun, it's educational—”
“Yeah, I'll see you in Wisconsin,” Stacey said, then led the way to her car.
The interior of her car smelled like burnt sage. It was almost too strong to bear.
Stacey was right about one thing—the Escape was far more comfortable than the rickety old van. I actually sighed as I sank into the soft, heated seat.
“Yeah, I know, it has to be an improvement,” Stacey said. “Seatbelts, everyone. I'm not driving until everybody's safe.”
“Just hurry.” I clicked my belt into place while she started up the quiet hybrid SUV.
We headed for the highway, the last bit of our long journey that would end where it all began, with Clay.
I hoped we were ready.
Chapter Thirty-One
“So what is the plan exactly?” Stacey asked as she drove.
“Get to town, see if Jacob can track down Clay's location. Then we grab Melissa, exorcise Clay, and, I guess, hack Clay's spirit to pieces with that multi-blessed shark sword.”
“Yeah, what's the deal with that?” Stacey twisted around in her seat to look back at Nealon, who still held the shark-tooth sword across his lap. I guess it was more comfortable than concealing it inside his duster. “Can you really send an entity to the other side with that?”
“I've found nothing that works against all entities,” he said. “But this has worked against a powerful desert spirit in the past.”
“Uh-huh,” Stacey said. “And what's with having priests and whatever of totally different cultures and traditions bless it? Like, wouldn't a Pentecostal guy be annoyed that his prayer is sharing space with a witch's spell?”
“Possibly. I didn't mention it to the Pentecostal guy. Effective chaos magic means drawing on whatever forms of energy are available and useful. It's like anything else. If you want to move a combustion engine, you use gasoline. If it's a steam engine, you need coal and water instead. The wrong fuel, the wrong power source, isn't going to work. Just like you can't open a specific lock with just any key. You need the one exact key that will make things turn the way you want.”
“Or a good lock pick,” I said.
He smiled, or at least his overgrown beard moved in a way that led me to believe he was smiling under it.
“Think of it like this. You ever use music as a protective charm?” He gestured at the iPod.
“Sure,” I said. “Usually sacred music, like 'Amazing Grace.' But I've also had luck with other things, like 'Good Vibrations.'”
“Oh, that's a good one. I'll have to try that. If I'm ever on a beach haunted by dead surfers.”
“Does that happen?” Stacey asked.
“Hey, that would be another chance to use your shark sword,” I said.
“Exactly!” Nealon sat up in his seat and pointed at me, way too excited. “That's exactly it. Why would it be a particularly useful weapon in that scenario?”
“I don't know, I thought I was joking,” I said. “I guess because surfers would be afraid of sharks?”
He gestured at me with the sword like it was a teacher's pointer stick. “What else? What about surfer culture?”
“I'm not that well-versed in it,” I said.
“Frankie Avalon movies?” Stacey tossed out.
“Surfing originated in ancient Polynesian cultures,” Nealon said.
“And so did that shark sword you're using,” I said.
“Exactly. So it could hold extra cultural weight, extra symbolic and psychological significance for those who surf.”
“I guess,” Stacey said, sounding doubtful.
“Or, think about this,” Nealon said. “You're in Calcutta, a mostly Hindu city in a mostly Hindu country, and virtually everyone in the area has been Hindu for thousands of years. You come up against an old ghost there. What do you do?”
“I complain about the fact that I can't even vacation in India without dealing with ghosts,” I said.
“And then what? Might it not be a good idea to incorporate some sort of local Hindu symbols or music into your approach?”
“I guess so. If I had time to research what I was doing first,” I said.
“Then you see why I wanted to know what it is that Anton Clay finds sacred,” Nealon said. “We could build our approach around that.”
“And I told you, he doesn't find anything sacred. Just burning people. And stalking me. This confrontation has been coming my whole life.” I sighed. “I have this feeling like I'm not going to get out of it alive, either. But if I can save Melissa first...that's something.”
“If you can't find anything that's sacred to Clay, then you'll have to find something that's sacred to you instead,” Nealon said.
“But something's either sacred or it isn't,” Stacey said. “Right?”
“Imagine there is a vast ocean of energy behind the universe,” Nealon said, “And this energy can manifest in any number of ways. Some we would call sacred or good, others mundane or neutral, still others infernal or evil. What we want to do is access the energy as powerfully as we can. Worry less about labels, and more about what will create the outcome you want. Because underneath, there's just spiritual energy, or cosmic energy, or whatever you want to call it—there's energy, and there's the will and the ability to direct it. Think about nuclear energy. It can power a hospital or destroy a city. What you label good or evil is more or less a moral judgment on your part.”
“I don't know,” I said, “You make it sound like it's all relative. Surely there's some kind of...moral or spiritual absolute somewhere, right? Something that's genuinely good, or at least genuinely evil, and not just because it kinda seems that way to somebody?”
“You don't have to believe me,” he said. “What I've learned has come from hard practice and experience. This is why I've moved on from 'deliverance minister' to 'chaos magician.' Because the truth is more complex than just good and evil. Maybe you'll come around to seeing things my way in time.”
“All I know is that playing 'Little Birdhouse in Your Soul' on repeat is definitely evil,” Stacey said.
“Anything on repeat too long becomes evil,” I said. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Calvin, telling me to call him when I got close to Peshtigo. “Philosophical debates aside, I want to hear more about your plans for the exorcism.”
“Step one is to capture the possessed girl, obviously,” Nealon said.
“In a way that doesn't involve cutting her with the shark sword,” Stacey added.
“Bound and gagged would be ideal,” Nealon said. “If we can't swing that, I'll settle for bound. An exorcism isn't quick or easy. It's a process.”
“You can expect him to fight back the whole time,” I said. “With fire.”
“Removing this ring you're talking about is extremely critical,” Nealon said. “We can't have him summoning other spirits to aid him.”
“If we can tie him up, we can take the ring,” I said.
The drive was fairly easy. No rain or snow, no sign of any to come. Most of the road was just grass-lined highway broken up by barns and herds of cows. We did hit some traffic around the cities, like Madison and then Green Bay, but for the most part, it was open country. Though it was freezing and winter, and we were ridiculously far north, there wasn't any snow on the ground. Just acres of mostly dead yellow grass.
“It's hard to believe it was all forest through here,” I said. “They say the trees were hundreds of feet high, and they grew so close together you couldn't walk between them. A billion trees like that were destroyed by the Peshtigo fire.”
“A billion?” Stacey asked.
“Yep.”
“Think of all the poor birds,” she said. “And the squirrels.”
“And the farm animals,” I said. “And everybody used horses to get around back then—”
“Stop!” Stacey said.
“Plus at least two thousand people,” I said. “It was hard to count the bodies because there was so little left. All the records were burned up. Plus a lot of the dead were immigrants who'd only just arrived from Europe to work in the forests and sawmills. Most of the names are unknown.”
“Sad way to go,” Stacey said. “In a strange land, surrounded by strangers.”
“An event like that could spawn a number of disturbed, unhappy ghosts,” Nealon said. “I'm surprised I've never heard of the Peshtigo fire.”
“It happened the same day as the Great Chicago fire, so it kind of got drowned out in history, despite the much higher death count,” I said.
“Wow,” Nealon said. “Imagine such a terrible thing happens, and hardly anyone even noticed.”
“Maybe we should head to the Peshtigo Fire Museum first,” I said. “And kind of pay our respects to the dead.”
“Yeah, we could at least try to get on their good side,” Stacey said.
“Oops, the museum's closed for the season,” I said, after checking my phone. “But the fire cemetery's next to it. Hundreds of people were buried in a mass grave there.”
The winter day was short, and the sun was on its way down as we finally reached the little town of Peshtigo. It looked like a pleasant enough little town, not the kind of place that immediately seemed to have a dark history or hordes of ghosts lurking around. At least, that was the impression I got from French Street, the central drag through the town, toward the bridge over the Peshtigo River.
The fire had blazed on both banks of that river, and many of those who'd sought refuge in that icy cold water had died, either from burning debris raining down on them, or logs in the river, or drowning, or hypothermia. Freezing to death while surrounded by a metal-melting firestorm seemed like a particularly strange and miserable way to go.
“I wonder whether Jacob's sensing anything about this town yet,” I said.
“I'll text him!” Stacey reached for her phone.
“Don't text and drive,” I said.
“I mean, I'll call him.”
“Let me call Calvin first. Maybe he's learned something we can use.” I looked at my phone. There was already a text from Calvin, maybe in case I forgot to call.
“When you reach Peshtigo,” he'd written, “Go to Mailbox Marty's. There's a package waiting for you.”
“New destination,” I announced, and then I mapped it out on my phone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mailbox Marty's was right on the town's main drag, not far from “Kountry Rhode” RV and Auto Sales. It was pretty much what it sounded like, a little nook in a strip mall where you could get copies, send a fax, rent a mailbox, order a cheap banner, or send a package. I couldn't tell whether it was a totally independent business or part of some regional chain.
Stacey and I headed inside, leaving the guys out in the parking lot. We couldn't have our exorcist freaking everyone out with his shark sword again.
“Hi,” I said to the lady with the thick glasses and short gray bob sitting behind the counter, after we'd passed by a bank of small mailboxes for rent. “This might sound odd, but someone told me to pick up a package here.”
“Name?” the lady asked, looking at an index card next to the cash register.
“Ellie Jordan,” I said, while noticing that my name was the only thing on that index card.
“Do you have ID?” she asked.
I raised my eyebrows a little, amused by the idea that someone else would be up here faking my identity and trying to get my mail, but I had to respect the lady's commitment to avoiding fraud.
She inspected my out-of-state driver's license carefully, as though translating the Rosetta Stone, then nodded and handed it back. “Okay. I'll be back in a jiff.”
She stepped into a back room and returned with a hefty rectangular box. The labels on the outside indicated it had been sent by UPS overnight, which meant Calvin had plonked down some serious cash on it. “It's a funny thing, you know. Taking packages like this for out of town travelers who don't rent a postage box here. But I'm happy to do it. Oh, there's something else, don't you know...”
She ducked into the back and came back with a bouquet of yellow flowers wrapped in plastic. I recognized them as Mexican marigolds.
“They're nice flowers, too,” the lady said. “I can't believe they almost slipped my noodle. Mind if I get nosy and ask what's inside the box that was so urgent?”
“Uh...” I looked from the long sealed box to the flower. “It's a vase for my grandma. Thank you.”
“Okay, then.” She sounded like she didn't quite believe me. This was astute of her, because I was lying, and actually I didn't know what was in the package. I had a pretty good guess, though, based on the weight and size of it. And I was pretty sure Calvin hadn't sent me a vase. “Glad we could help. Can I do anything else for you? Copies? Novelty mugs?”
I thought about it. “Are you from Peshtigo?”
“No way. I grew up in Pensaukee. That's about twenty miles south.”
“I think we passed it on the way up,” I said. “Do you know much about the Peshtigo Fire?”
“A little bit. My grandmother talked about how awful it was—not that she'd seen it, either, but stories were handed down through her family. It sounded like the worst sort of thing you could experience. Like something out of a nightmare, not something you'd think would happen. Not in America, anyway.”
“Is there a particular place in town associated with the fire?” I asked. “Other than the museum and the cemetery next to it?”
She thought about it a moment. “It was all wiped out, and so I'd say the whole town is associated with the fire. Everything was gone, not just one spot. If it's not too much trouble there, maybe you could scoot on out, because I have to lock up for the night. It's already past closing.”
“Oh, sorry.” We hurried out, letting the door jingle shut behind us. “Well, so much for getting a lead on where to investigate tonight. I guess we start with the cemetery.”
“What's in the box?” Stacey asked.
“Something that will help, I think.” I carried it to the van, opened the shotgun-side door, and set the box on the seat. Then I stopped and stretched. It was already darker then when we'd gone inside, the streetlamps glowing in the night.
“What's in the box?” Nealon asked, leaning forward from the back seat.
Michael and Jacob approached us from the Escape, apparently also curious about the package, and probably about what we were going to do now and all of those minor details. I was pretty curious to find that out myself.
“Who sent the flowers?” Michael asked.
“Calvin,” I replied. “Now, I don't think the locals will appreciate us poking around a memorial cemetery with ghost-hunting gear, so we'd better do it late at night and keep flashlights to a minimum. We need a base of operations for our illegal trespassing, plus the local police might be friendlier if we're tourists spending money, so let's see if there's a cheap motel nearby...”
“The Edgewood Motel,” Stacey said. “I already checked. It's super-cheap and right on French Street, which is basically Main Street. Or if you don't mind freezing all night, we could rent a cabin or campsite at Badger Park. I do have some camping gear in here that I never unloaded, and you know I'm always up for s'mores and ghost stories.”
“I don't really want to freeze, thanks,” I said. “Or tell ghost stories. S'mores would be great, though.”
“The rooms at Edgewood come with microwaves, so we can make s'mores right there,” Jacob said, looking at his own phone.
“It's almost like you don't want to go camping,” Stacey said.
“And listen to this,” Jacob continued. “The Edgewood is only minutes from the Forgotten Fire winery and Seguin'
s House of Cheese. We can't miss those.”
“I'm not going for the campgrounds. Or the cabins,” I added as Stacey opened her mouth, and she closed it again.
“Shall I make the reservations?” Jacob asked, holding up his phone. He did seem eager to close the deal on the motel.
“Please!” I said. “Now.”
“Fine,” Stacey said, sounding put out. “But when this is over, we are going camping together. All of us.”
“Sounds good to me,” Nealon said, scratching somewhere deep inside his wild beard. “I love camping. Y'all ever spent the night at Blood Mountain?”
“Uh,” Stacey said. “Nope.”
“I'll put in that call,” Jacob said, dialing the motel.
“At Blood Mountain, if you stay quiet and keep your fire low, you can hear the spirits of ancient Indians walking in the woods,” Nealon said.
“Yep,” Stacey said. “So, Ellie, what did Calvin send?”
I used a key to slice open the packing tape at one end of the box.
Then I lifted out what I'd more or less expected, a long hard-plastic cylinder with layers of metal mesh and leaded glass on the inside—a ghost trap, the standard kind I use. Crumpled-up pages of the Savannah Morning News had been stuffed in around the trap to pad its journey.
An envelope was taped to the cylinder with more of the clear packing tape. It simply read Ellie in Calvin's scrawled handwriting.
I peeled it loose and opened it.
Ellie-
I know you were saving this for a special occasion, which seems to have arrived. Since you won't have time to go home, I thought I'd send it along.
I'd always wished I could be at your side for this, but my health is not what it used to be. You have a strong team with you, and you don't need me.
This is your great battle, your final test. I wish it had occurred under different circumstances, without the enemy having so many advantages...but maybe this is how it's meant to be, and maybe there's a higher power at work here.
Or maybe it's just plain bad luck.
So here is the help I can offer, along with my sincere hope and prayers for your safety.