Dust to Dust

by Melissa Walker

  Thatcher theorizes that Reena and Leo will go for the bodies they’ve “broken in”—meaning Eli and Carson—because there’s more chance for full success, a three-time possession, with them. Eli especially is in terrible danger, since he’s been taken twice.

  “Dylan warned me to stay away from vortexes,” I say.

  “Listen to Dylan.”

  I smile.

  “What?” asks Thatcher.

  “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever advised me to listen to someone other than you.”

  He softens. “Callie, if we can wait out the next few days, maybe the poltergeists will rapidly decline and we might finally be able to track them—to keep them from harming you.”

  “Why won’t you let me help you? I can do more than just play it safe. I’ve tested my powers and instincts; they’re still strong.”

  As soon as those words leave my lips, he and I are back on the pier again. I look out over the edge into the water, which was calm when this dream started, but now it’s choppy and rough.

  “I know that it must feel like it, but this isn’t your fight,” he says plainly.

  My eyebrows rise. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “When you entered the Prism and I was chosen as your Guide, it became my duty to look out for you. I’m the one who should be taking the hits here.”

  “So you feel obligated to me? Is that what you’re saying?” I don’t want to argue with him, but he can’t possibly think that I’m going to let him get away with making me feel helpless.

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” he reassures me. “You’re . . . you’re everything to me.”

  Suddenly I hear a beeping from behind me. I whip around to face Thatcher.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s your alarm.”

  “No!”

  There’s so much more that we have to say to each other. I still don’t know what really happened with Wendy; I can’t wake up now.

  “Please, Callie, be careful. I’ll stay near you if I can—until you get the ring back.”

  “Don’t go, not yet,” I say, reaching out for him, but in a split second he completely vanishes from sight.

  And then I feel a sharp shove to my shoulders and I fall off the pier.

  My eyes flutter open and I shoot up in bed. It takes a minute to calm my rapidly beating heart. I remember everything about the dream, and I’m still tired, as if I didn’t sleep at all. I turn off my phone alarm and look around my bedroom; everything is still neatly in place. I know what Thatcher wants me to do, but I have no choice but to listen to my intuition, which is telling me that waiting this out is a mistake.

  And that this is most certainly my fight.

  Nineteen

  THE IN-SCHOOL SUSPENSION ROOM is down a set of stairs that feel like they lead to a dungeon. The windows in the basement room are tiny and near the ceiling. Still, they let in little rays of sunlight, and I can see the dust particles dancing in them like tiny polka dots. Despite that weird school smell, I take a deep breath and close my eyes for just a moment. Even though I may be in high school, in the ISS room with tiny windows, I have a special energy that the poltergeists are willing to kill for.

  Because I’m a survivor of the Prism . . . and a death spot.

  I open my eyes with a sigh, and as I stand in the empty space trying to choose a seat, I hear a voice behind me.

  “‘A punishment to some, to some a gift, and to many a favor.’ Lucius Annaeus Seneca, Roman statesman and philosopher.”

  “Mr. Dixon,” I say, turning around with a smile.

  “Ms. McPhee.”

  It turns out there’s a reason I haven’t seen Dylan much at school—he’s nearly always in ISS. And as his latest quotation indicates, he likes it here. I didn’t know a person could maintain such a consistent schedule of being suspended without actually, you know, being expelled, but he seems to do it.

  “I got ISS the second day I was here for trying to do an incantation during chemistry,” he says, sliding into the back corner desk that is, apparently, his regular seat in this dank room. “I was so into it that I zoned out and I let some toxic mixture explode in my beaker. Sonia Bigby got a piece of glass in her arm.”

  “Yikes,” I say, but he waves off my concern.

  “She was fine,” he says. “Drama queen.”

  “Do your incantations work?”

  “Possibly,” he says, scratching his head thoughtfully. “I don’t have evidence that they do, but maybe their repercussions are happening in a dimension I can’t see.”

  I smile, impressed by his optimism, and he tells me that he only does positive incantations, because he believes that the good and evil of using energy is all about intention.

  “Like with haunting,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that setting an intention of peace for your loved ones is part of the process,” I explain. “It’s one way to achieve a truly soulful connection.”

  Dylan stares at me with big eyes. “I wish I could see what you’ve seen.”

  I look down, sad, blinking to keep my emotion in check. “No, you don’t. I lost people there, in the Prism.”

  When I glance up he has sympathetic eyes behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

  The door opens with a creak and Mr. Dunkle, a slightly balding but fairly young substitute teacher, who seems to weave in and out of classrooms yet always have a stint for the day, walks in. He looks at us and says, “Hi, early birds.”

  Then he nods at me and the way Dylan and I have our desks turned toward each other since we’ve been talking. “Recruiting friends, are we, Mr. Dixon?”

  “You know me, sir,” says Dylan.

  “By now I do.” Mr. Dunkle puts his feet up on his desk at the front of the room and opens up his newspaper. “As you were. Don’t let me interrupt.”

  “Dunkle’s really easy on me,” says Dylan, lowering his voice, but only slightly. He explains that he gets his assignments from his classes and basically does them in ISS so he can keep up.

  “So for you, this is more like a private learning environment,” I say.

  Dylan shrugs. “Yeah, I prefer to think of the acronym as standing for Independent Study Situation,” he says. “I don’t really like class. It bores me.” He reaches into his backpack and lugs out two gigantic and ancient books. Tomes, really, is the word for them. “These are today’s work.”

  “What are they?”

  He opens up the first one and blows a layer of dust off its pages. “They’re both about possession,” he says. Then he thumps the other one with his hand. “Dig in.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “I’m not really sure,” says Dylan, looking thoughtful. “Something about how to banish poltergeists from the Prism and ensure that they either merge or are kept away from Earth forever?”

  “Right. Easy.”

  “‘All good is hard,’” says Dylan, and I can tell he’s quoting someone again—his voice changes slightly when he does it. “‘All evil is easy. Dying, losing, cheating, and mediocrity is easy. Stay away from easy.’”

  “Who said that?” I ask.

  “Scott Alexander, film writer and director.”

  I smile. “He sounds smart.”

  “I only quote the smart ones.” Dylan winks at me. “Let’s get going.”

  I nod. He and I are on the same page.

  I start flipping through the smaller book, which still weighs like twenty pounds. There’s nothing that jumps out at me right away, but eventually I find a section on the rule of three.

  If a body has been taken three times, the original inhabitant’s soul vanishes, giving fully vested control to the possessing spirit, which can now stay in the body until such time as the body dies.

  A chill creeps up my spine. I should tell Dylan about the danger Carson’s in, in case she hasn’t. She may be downplaying all of it, like she does with a lot of serious things.

  “Dylan?” I whis
per tentatively.

  Just then, the classroom door opens.

  “Ah, Mr. Fisher,” says Mr. Dunkle, barely looking up from his paper. “I didn’t know you were coming in.”

  “It was spur-of-the-moment,” says Nick, handing Mr. Dunkle a note.

  Mr. Dunkle glances at it and nods. “Take a seat; entertain yourself quietly.”

  I meet Nick’s eyes and he looks sheepish as he walks over to us.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  “Hi,” he replies, standing at my desk.

  The feeling between us is heavy, but not as off as I expected. Something has shifted within him; at least that’s what I’m hoping.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “Hunter was talking crap this morning,” he says with a frown.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “He said you must be on steroids to have all that rage, that you must be addicted to painkillers and hallucinating after your coma.” Then Nick smiles. “So I laid him out.”

  “You hit him?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t let him doubt you,” he says, grinning. “Not when every word you say is true.”

  I know he’s telling me that he believes me, he believes all that I told him last night. I feel a swell of gratitude as he shows me his bruised knuckles. It isn’t like Nick to hit someone, but if it had to happen . . .

  Dylan leans over to see Nick’s bruises and lets out a low whistle.

  “The soccer boys are having a rough week,” says Dylan.

  Nick sits down at the desk in front of mine, facing us.

  “Who’s this?” he asks me.

  “Dylan Dixon,” I say.

  “Double D,” says Nick.

  “Ah, yes,” says Dylan, sighing as if the burdens of the world are on his shoulders. “If you must know, it’s Dylan Mason Dixon, so let the jokes continue. Great sense of humor my parents have.”

  I laugh, but Nick doesn’t. He’s eyeing Dylan.

  “So what are you guys up to?” Nick asks, gesturing at our open books, and Dylan instinctively closes his.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him.

  “What?” Dylan asks.

  “Nick knows,” I say. “He may be the only other living person in the world who does, but he knows everything.”

  “Wait,” says Nick. “This is the bookstore Dylan who knows about this stuff? I thought you were talking about an adult!”

  “He’s—” I start.

  But Dylan doesn’t need me to speak for him. “I happen to be the future owner of one of the premier paranormal bookstores in the entire world, one that you probably don’t even know about though it exists under your very nose, and one that is going to provide the information that will solve Callie’s dilemma.” His whisper is quiet, but authoritative.

  “Whoa,” says Nick. “Pardon me, Encyclopedia Brown.”

  Dylan huffs, but I can hear the softening in Nick’s voice.

  “Guys, I may have found something important,” I say, interrupting. I turn back to the page I was on and I read the part about the rule of three to them aloud.

  “Right,” says Dylan. “A triple possession means an elimination of the original soul. So we need to be really watchful around Eli.”

  Diiiiiing.

  The lunch bell rings, and Mr. Dunkle stands up. “Y’all aren’t allowed to head to lunch, so I hope you brought sandwiches. I, however, need to grab a bite. I’ll be back in twenty, and Mrs. Harris across the hall in woodshop will be keeping her eye on the door.”

  We all nod, and Mr. Dunkle chuckles. “What am I saying? Y’all have been reading all morning—you’re not going anywhere. ISS is practically a library project today!”

  He gives us a wink as if he secretly likes us; he shakes his head as he walks out the door. I exhale. I doubt he’s heard anything we’ve said so far, but what I want to say now is pretty intense.

  “Okay, listen up,” I say. “It’s about Carson.”

  “What about me?” My best friend pops her head into the doorway and then, seeing no teacher, slinks inside. Dylan beams at her as she sits down next to Nick with a smile.

  “What is it, Callie?” Nick’s voice is comforting, encouraging. Carson and Dylan both lean in. I look at their three faces—two I’ve known for years and one brand-new—and I feel a warmth among us, almost like we’re connected, like we’re supposed to come together in this moment. It sounds hokey but I sense us becoming a team, and it gives me the courage to go on.

  “Cars, they should know, too. . . .”

  She nods, instantly realizing what I’m about to say. “You’re right.”

  And so I tell Nick and Dylan about how Reena took over Carson’s body once this summer.

  “It was at Tim McCann’s party,” I say, and then I look at Nick knowingly, to see if he’ll remember.

  “That was the night of my car accident,” he says. “It was the night she . . .” He pauses.

  “Kissed you,” I say.

  “But I didn’t—” Carson starts.

  “It was Reena.” I say it loudly and clearly for everyone’s benefit.

  Dylan scowls. I know he’s jealous.

  “Whoa,” says Nick, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  A boulder’s weight of guilt settles on my shoulders. Nick’s been possessed, too, by Thatcher. He’s not at risk of being taken again—Thatcher would never do that—but I feel weird not telling him. Still I try to put those thoughts out of my mind for now and press on.

  “So a third possession is worse than death,” I say.

  “How can something be worse than dying?” asks Nick.

  “Because after the final possession, there’s no Prism, no Solus,” I tell him. “The soul just blows away like dust. That’s what Thatcher said.”

  Nick looks away at the sound of Thatcher’s name, and my stomach knots. He has to know that I haven’t told him everything about Thatcher—Nick is quick to pick up on things. But how can I really explain my relationship with him? How to do I tell Nick that Thatcher is everywhere I turn—in the pages of these books, in my thoughts at night, haunting my dreams? How do I admit that I’m in love with a ghost? As soon as that thought enters my mind, I can feel Thatcher’s impression in the room. The air feels thicker all of a sudden and its stale smell is replaced by this almost honeysuckle scent. I think I’m the only one noticing, but maybe that’s okay.

  There’s something beautiful in that. In me being the one person who can sense that he’s here, watching over us.

  I open my eyes and come back to the room, comforted by the thought that there are five of us here, not four. And although Thatcher is probably not pleased that I’m getting more involved in this battle than he thinks I should, the fact that he’s not interfering like he did with Wendy sort of signals that he respects my decision, doesn’t it?

  Well, that’s what I’m going to choose to believe in this moment. I have to if we’re going to get anywhere.

  “Only Eli is more vulnerable than Carson,” I continue. “If we’re ever together near a vortex, it could be disastrous.”

  “Okay,” says Dylan, standing up like he’s making a speech. “‘The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.’ FDR.”

  “What does that mean?” asks Nick.

  “I don’t know.” Dylan sinks back into his chair. “I couldn’t think of a quote to fit this moment.”

  “Here’s what I think we should do,” I say, firmly and decisively. “First, we go after Thatcher’s ring so that we’ll be able to call on the Guides for help if we end up in a dangerous spot without backup.”

  “Like a vortex where Reena takes my body again and makes out with Nick?” asks Carson.

  “For example,” says Nick, grinning.

  I swat them both. “How can you joke right now?”

  “It’s a coping mechanism!” she says.

  I clear my throat to get them back on task. “Okay, so step one is: get the ring.”

  “Makes sense,” says Dylan, his face lighting up with e
nthusiasm. “The ghost emergency call button needs to be secured.”

  “So we’ll go to Eli’s house tomorrow while he’s at school and find a way in—we’ve got to search his room,” I say. “I trust y’all can figure out your own alibis for missing school.”

  Everyone nods.

  “What if the ring’s not there though?” asks Carson.

  “We could always try going to where the poltergeist used to live,” says Dylan. “If his family still lives in town, maybe he took it there, for safekeeping or something.”

  “So you’re saying he stole it off Eli before I expelled his soul yesterday?” I ask. “Do you think Leo still has that kind of power, now that he’s been away from the Prism for so long?”

  “I don’t know, but I think it’s a possibility,” says Dylan.

  “Okay, so searching Leo’s place will be option two,” I say, smiling for a moment. But then I glance at Dylan’s books and sigh, frustrated. “I haven’t figured out what comes next though.”

  The honeysuckle smell gets even stronger, and it’s almost as though Thatcher is giving me a sign of support. It feels really good to have him trusting in me.

  “We’ll figure it out,” says Carson, encouraging me. “Let’s just do step one.”

  Nick runs his hands through his hair. “This is . . . a lot to take in. Last week the only mysterious thing in my life was where the heck my lost socks go.”

  “I know.” I touch his shoulder to convey that I understand how crazy it all sounds. Dylan and Carson are so quick to believe because they’ve always believed. But Nick . . . he didn’t seek out any of this. I look at him pleadingly—we really need his help, especially with Eli Winston.

  “We have to try and get the ring back,” I say, and when he gazes up at me, I see the commitment in his eyes. He puts his hand over mine, squeezing. It’s a pledge to move forward, in so many ways.

  “Okay,” he says. “I know where the Winstons keep a spare house key.”

  Twenty

  WHEN I WALK IN the door after school, I’m happy to have this quiet moment at home. Tomorrow, the plan begins. Tonight feels like the calm before the storm.

  “Callie May?” I hear my dad’s voice in the den.