Spectral Tales: A Ghost Story Anthology

by Jamie Campbell

  Cyril looks back at me and frowns. “What makes you say that?”

  My voice cracks, hoarse from futile bellows and choked-back tears. “I’ve never had to call for Jakob before. He doesn’t require words to know when I need him.” I sink to sitting, unfurling my legs on the cold, sticky floor. “He’s gone.” My lip quivers, and for once I don’t even care to squelch it. “Jakob’s—“

  “Don’t say it.” Cyril cuts me short, doubling back to kneel beside me. He shivers when an aberrant spirit’s foot ambles through his body, and impatiently shoos the ghost away. “Jakob is going to be okay. We’re going to find him, and bring him back with us.” He takes both my hands in his, cornering my eyes into meeting his. “At least we don’t have to worry about him dying. He’s already got that part out of the way long ago.” A faint smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “Am I right?”

  I can’t help but muster a tiny answering smile. I nod, sniffing back the tears.

  Cyril turns his face to the rocky ceiling, his raspy voice echoing through the cavern, “Let it be known for all the ages that on this day, Henta Mourngard admitted that I am right.” He smiles softly, squeezing my hands tighter as he adds in a whisper, “Now get up, Lazy Bones. We have a shadowspirit to locate.”

  ***

  I’m tempted to worry that this popular claim—the one alleging we’ll magically revert to the Living Realm when the conveyance powder runs out—is pure bollocks. How long could one campfire take to burn down? Surely it’s been at least three days.

  I try to swallow, but it hangs up in the back of my throat, like my mouth is so dry it’s forgotten the concept. The result is a fit of hacking and sputtering that frightens even our adoring crowd of spirits away.

  Cyril catches up to me, thumping me on the back. “We need water.” His voice is barely a grate, but it hasn’t stopped him from doggedly calling Jakob’s name. “Is it just me, or is licking that wall beginning to sound like a viable plan?”

  I grimace, but admittedly give it a moment’s consideration. “Wait…” My ears perk, finally able to make out something beyond the murmurs and wails of wandering spirits. If I’d known a coughing fit would repel them thus, I’d have been employing that tactic ages ago. “Do you hear that?”

  Cyril strains an ear, but gives up with a shake of his head. “It’s just the muck dripping from the ceiling.”

  “No,” I insist, holding a shushing finger to my lips. “Listen harder. It’s more than that.”

  He tries again, and this time breaks into a giddy smile. “It’s flowing. And fast!” He seizes my hand and darts for the sound, the crowd of spirits moaning and wailing in our wake. We scurry around a cluster of rocky spires, our boots slipping and sliding on the moist ground, as it begins to slope downward, angling into a night-black cavern, the babble of a running stream echoing from the chasm.

  Cyril slows his pace, gripping my hand tightly, as he traces a careful path into the cave. My senses shift to rely on sound over sight, while my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I wonder how my ears could have missed it before. What had seemed like a trickle—a stream at best—now echoes with the roar of a river coursing through this cave. Sweat beads on my forehead, as the dank chill of the cavern is replaced by a muggy heat, sweltering warmth and moisture trapped in this hidden space.

  “Look!” Cyril’s eyes are quicker than mine to adapt, and he points excitedly at the source of the watery sound. Suddenly his body goes rigid at my side. “Oh stars, no!” Excitement gives way to horror, and he darts ahead in a frantic sprint. “Please, no!”

  Things snap into focus, and I race to keep up with Cyril. His feet plunge impulsively into the water, but before he can wade three steps into the coursing river, he cries out in pain. In a few quick strides, I’m echoing his sentiments. Boiling-hot water laps over my boots, soaking through my pant legs and searing my thighs. I snarl a string of curses and seize a fistful of Cyril’s tunic, as we scramble to drag one another back to the shore.

  Cyril braces his hands on his knees and winces. My feet dance on the rocky shore, trying to cool my stinging legs, or at least distract myself from the pain. “What in the name of Sariel were you doing?” I pant, fanning my legs. “I know you’re thirsty…but you don’t have to dive headlong into the river to drink.” As my dripping sleeves cool, I wring a few drops into my mouth.

  Cyril’s eyes are still frantic, his thirst forgotten. “No…Look.” He spins me by the shoulder and points to the middle of the river. “There. On the rocks.”

  I squint, following the line of his pointing arm through the darkness. My eyes settle on a cluster of sharp rocks in the midst of the boiling rapids. “Jakob!” I start to dart back to the bank. “Oh, Jakob, no!”

  Cyril catches me by the arm just in time to shock some sense into me. My feet skid to a halt at the edge of the steaming water. “He can’t boil, Henta. He can’t drown.” Cyril squeezes gently around my arm, his shaky breath betraying the calm in his voice. “We have time to figure out how to get to him.”

  With reluctance, I nod in understanding. The faint light in the cave seems all too vivid now, casting a sickly glow on the wilted body of my spirit guide. He’s sprawled lifelessly upon the rocks, his lower half buried beneath the churning current. The water’s force doesn’t stir him, coursing instead straight through his ghostly frame.

  “Jakob!” I bellow his name, eking all I can from my shattered voice. “We’re here, Jakob! We’re coming for you!”

  Cyril grips my shoulder, not quite trusting that I won’t try to brave the boiling current. “Yes,” he calls out, seconding my claim. “We’re coming for you, Jakob!” His voice drops to a mutter as he looks to me. “The question is…how?”

  ***

  “We can’t just keep standing around like a couple of dolts.” My boots press pacing footprints into the black sand. “He’s just lying there. Stranded. Helpless.” I stare harder at Jakob’s faintly shimmering form, hoping for just one twitch of movement. “There,” I crane my neck, standing on tiptoe to better see. “Was that his arm moving? Did you see him wiggle his fingers?”

  Cyril sighs, not wanting to dash my hopes. “Perhaps,” he offers. “It’s possible I just missed it?”

  I groan. “We have to get to him somehow. We need a boat.”

  “Ah, yes. I forgot to pack my boat when I leapt into charmed flames and was transported to the gates of the underworld.”

  I choose to ignore that. “A rope, then.”

  Cyril at least humors me by glancing around. “Fresh out.” He looks to the mouth of the cave, where a cluster of spirits meanders and moans, watching our plight with ghostly curiosity. “Hey, any of you boggers have a rope?” A few shake bewildered heads and moan incoherently. Most of them just stare blankly at us. “Or a boat? No?” Cyril gives me a puzzled look. “Pests wouldn’t spare us an inch of free space for hours on end, and now they’re hovering off there in the distance, like we’ve got the pox. Not that spirits give a rat’s arse about the pox…” He glances again over his shoulder. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Sixteen years we’ve been stalked by the dead, and now you’re going to complain that they’re leaving us alone?” I puff the sweat-matted hair from my forehead. “Stick to the task at hand, Cyril.” I try not to notice how the mob hangs back, hovering at the cave entrance, moaning confusedly over the roar of the river. I have to confess, the moaning is a mite creepy. I shook my fear of the walking dead ages ago…but that’s because they’re usually not that much different from the living. Demons and wraiths are the pure stuff of nightmares, but most spirits have thoughts and aspirations and opinions and quirks. It’s just when they walk through you and freeze your heart stone cold for a moment that makes them disturbing.

  These mindless phantoms, gawking and gathering—never saying an intelligible word—these aren’t the spirits I’m used to. Sure, they look the same—misty and half-transparent, all clad in wispy robes and tattered shreds, their coloring faded to a sickly blue—but non
e of them are saying anything. It’s as though their minds haven’t caught up to their spirit bodies.

  And that’s it...

  Over the years, I’ve asked Jakob a million questions about the afterlife. What does death feel like? Does your soul have to struggle to makes its way across the veil? Or does it just slip like fingers through a cobweb? At least now I can scratch off my list any questions about the Crossing, which is both exactly like I’d envisioned and even worse than I’d feared.

  Jakob tends to leave most of my questions unanswered—he seems to think it would ruin the surprise—but he did let one thing slip once. He said, “Passing through the veil is indescribable, Tadpole.” I assumed he meant that it’s such a bizarre or painful or euphoric feeling that nothing else could compare, but Jakob took care to clarify. “No one knows what it feels like to cross the veil,” he explained, “because spirits’ minds grow more clouded, the closer they pass to it. They may grow confused—lingering in the Crossing, like helpless sheep—or return to the Living Realm.” I’m well familiar with the ones who take a wrong turn back to the world of the living, following the beacons of Talis blood, or the call of magical objects, or—

  My hand jerks to Cyril’s forearm, my fingers digging into his skin. He doesn’t look startled—more so relieved—because he knows I’ve had a realization. “It’s the veil,” I breathe.

  “Come again?”

  “The river,” I stammer, the words tumbling urgently from my tongue. “The river is the veil—or at least the entrance to it—and it’s making the spirits all fuzzy-headed and frightened. They can’t decide whether they want to pass through it.” As if my suggestion was the extra nudge he needed, a lonely dreadspirit shuffles up to the water’s edge and cautiously steps out into the stream. The current only flows through him at first—just the way it passes through Jakob—but then the spirit’s expression changes, from fear to peace—acceptance even—and in the moment the will to surrender crosses his face, the current bears him away, whisking his body off into the black reaches of the cave.

  I look back to Jakob’s body, still lifelessly strewn upon the rock, half-buried in the coursing river. He shows no sign of acknowledging the push and pull of the water, or the trickle of spirits now breaking away from the flock and surrendering to the deep, or Cyril’s hoarse voice still calling his name. Jakob doesn’t acknowledge any of it…but he also doesn’t give in to it.

  “He’s fighting it!” I’m suddenly bursting with optimism. I ignore Cyril’s puzzled expression, as he wonders how Jakob’s limp droop could possibly be construed as fighting. I explain in a rush, “He hasn’t surrendered to the current. He’s refusing to let it carry him through the veil.”

  Understanding dawns on Cyril’s face. He concedes with a nod. “That’s brilliant, Henta…but we’re still in a predicament as to how to get him out of the river, before—“ He doesn’t want to finish that sentence.

  “Before he gives up,” I finish for him. “You don’t have to worry about that. Jakob would never give up. He knows we need him, as much as he needs us.”

  “Right, then.” Cyril nods, clenching and relaxing his fists a few times, like he always does before a fight. Steeling his courage. He stares into the river, contemplating the steaming rapids. “At least if I don’t make it across, I’ll be on a direct path for the afterlife, right?” He gives me a half-hearted smile, eyes still focused on the river, and draws a resolute breath. “Here goes, then,” he decides, stepping forward with determination.

  I seize hold of his sleeve. “Whoa there…What do you think you’re doing?”

  He studies my fingers clenched around his sweat-stained shirt. “I’m going after him.” He looks back up, not quite meeting my eyes. “Promise you won’t pretend not to know me, if this fails and I come back to follow you around, all blue and misty and croaky-voiced?” His voice cracks, and he laughs to himself. “At least I’ve got the croaky part mastered already.” He leans in to give me a farewell peck on the cheek. His nose brushes lightly against my cheekbone, hesitating for a moment. “One way or another, I’ll still be your shadow.” His hoarse whisper barely carries over the roar of rapids and my thundering heartbeat, as his forehead presses against mine. “Wish me luck.” When my own voice chokes up in my throat, he starts to turn back for the water.

  I come to my senses and grip tighter, holding him tethered by the sleeve. “I’m not letting you dive into a boiling river. Especially not one that leads straight to the underworld, you oaf.”

  He looks back, undecided whether to put up an argument. “You have another idea?”

  I nod, slowly relaxing my grip on his tunic. “We’re going to summon him.”

  “Summon him?” He shakes his head, already starting to turn back toward the river. “We tried that weeks ago, and repeatedly since. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember.” I make a face. “I’m no daft spirit. This river isn’t mucking with my memory yet.”

  “We’ve tried summoning Jakob a million times, Henta. We tried it a matter of hours ago, and nothing. What makes you think it would work now?”

  “Because now we’re close enough for him to hear us.”

  “You said yourself he doesn’t actually need to ‘hear’ us to heed our call.”

  “Don’t be so literal.” I frown, jerking him back from the bank. “Maybe the river is weakening his senses. Maybe he’s stuck halfway across the veil and needs a bigger push to break free. Maybe we didn’t keep the chants up long enough, or got too sloppy writing the runes. I don’t know.” I cross my arms. “But I do know that we’re going to summon Jakob’s spirit again. And this time, we’re getting it right.”

  ***

  Cyril starts upstream and I downstream, carefully tracing runes along the bank with the points of our daggers. Cyril lags behind, meticulously tracing the curves of each symbol—not his typical style at all. I think he fears what I’ll do to him if he mucks this up. We angle to a triangular point as we meet up in the middle, the apex lining up with Jakob’s body across the rapids. I start to return my dagger to my belt, but Cyril keeps his ready. He gives me a meaningful look, ceremoniously spreading his hand, and slices a shallow line across his palm. He’s trying not to flinch, and I’m impressed that he almost succeeds. Balling into a fist, he begins to drizzle a line of blood in the black sand, tracing the shape of a homing rune. He looks up with a sheepish smile. “We’re going all-in this time, right?”

  Before I can turn coward, I quickly rake the edge of my own blade across my palm, wincing when my skin warms with the ooze of blood. I go over the curves of his rune, making sure the lines converge in all the right places. I meet his eyes. “All in.”

  We shrink to the ground, kneeling at the point of the triangle, facing out across the river as a few more brave spirits are whisked downstream. I try not to think about them, clearing my mind and focusing my eyes on my target. It’s not the usual way of things that I can already see a spirit I’m summoning. Usually I have to visualize my objective in my mind’s eye…but this is different. Easier, in a way. The sight of Jakob’s lifeless limbs needs no embellishment from my imagination. Easier…yet so much harder.

  “Alright, Old Man…” A tear trickles down my cheek. “Let’s do this.”

  Cyril begins, slowly and distinctly, chanting the Evocation of Purity and leading straightaway into the Calling of the Ancients. I join in, our monotone voices blurring into the rush of the river, the hum of the water drowning my own words from my ears. I chant louder, and Cyril follows suit, rolling into the next incantation without missing a syllable or stopping for breath. My hair starts to rise, prickling cold along my scalp, my shoulders quivering and my spine going numb. My lids are beginning to droop, and stars stipple my vision, but I keep my eyes trained on Jakob.

  He doesn’t move.

  I growl in frustration.

  Cyril doesn’t stop chanting, wrapping his arm across my shoulder, his muscles shivering in time with mine. Our words pick up faster, forgoing the
careful enunciation and aiming for volume and speed instead, pushing to force more sound from our parched throats.

  Still Jakob doesn’t stir.

  We chant harder, faster—doubling back to the same incantations when we’ve run the list of every one we know—Cyril squeezing my shoulder tightly against his. I rest my head into the crook of his neck, squeezing my eyes shut tight, the image of Jakob’s stiff body burned vivid on my mind.

  And I chant.

  The thrum of Cyril’s throat vibrates against my forehead, his words blending with mine as one voice, our bodies trembling with cold despite the sweltering steam filling this cave.

  Cyril gives my trembling shoulder an urgent squeeze, never breaking his chant, and flicks a nod across the churning river. My head pops up to follow his eyes, and I almost miss it…a tiny little twitch of Jakob’s right arm. It twitches again, moving absently to rest across his chest. His head lolls to the side, his lips moving as though he’s trying to speak.

  I jolt upright, stretching tall on my knees, every few words of my chant now nothing more than a pitiful squeak. Even so, I squeak on. Something warm oozes through my pant leg, and I look down to see the bloodrune under my knees beginning to glow softly, slowly building until the deep scarlet is replaced by a shimmering bright green.

  Strange. I’ve never seen a bloodrune glowing.

  I turn to give Cyril a questioning look, but his face is blurry—indistinct—the bridge of his nose and blue of his eyes blending into the shadows of the cave walls. “Cyril?” I break my chant, reaching out for his arm, but my fingers can’t seem to find a grip. He looks down, and I follow his eyes back to the glowing bloodrune, now flickering and sparking a deep shade of emerald. No sooner have my eyes recognized the familiar hue, than I feel a great pull from within, as though my body and soul are being sucked into a whirlpool. A great green flash fills my eyes and my head, and a horrifying cracking sound threatens to cleave my skull from within.