Darkness Echoes: A Spooky YA Short Story Collection

by L. A. Starkey

  I still feel cautious around her and I’m not certain exactly why that is – I hope it has nothing to do with the knowledge that she’s a witch and everything to do with her being my former psychiatrist who once probed into my deepest, darkest fears and tried to crack open my mind to get me to remember what happened to my father. I think I still resent her for that.

  And maybe there’s some additional resentment that she interrupted what was sure to have been a memorable first kiss. At least in my mind.

  But I have to be grateful that somehow she’s cleared things up with Principal Shore at the school and my mother, and I’m getting back my iPhone. There’s a technical name and some psychiatric mumbo jumbo she’s given to them that suggests I’m not coping well with the suppressed memories of my father’s death which my brain is fighting to keep hidden; something about the brain’s way of managing past traumatic events. It’s everything my mom hoped to hear. This will allow Dr. Martin-Crane to continue where we left off with my therapy eight years ago. But, in actuality, it means she can teach me what I need to know about being a Soul Guardian to save my dad and the other lost souls.

  She smiles as she passes me on the stairwell, the heels of her high heels clacking loudly against the timber treads.

  ‘I hope you enjoy doing homework, Evelyn.’

  My eyes widen in horror. She can’t be serious.

  But she is.

  Lying on the desk in my room, looking incredibly out of place amidst the posters of boy bands tacked to the walls, and the tubes of fruity lip gloss, and bottles of gel nail polish spilt across the vanity, and the pillow pets and the soft, fluffy cushions decorating my bed, is a dusty, thick tome. The dull brown leather binding is cracked and worn; the paper yellowed with age. It looks like an old bible or some arcane text found in an ancient library of a dark castle or a gypsy fortune teller’s caravan.

  I haven’t had a proper look at it yet. And thankfully I didn’t need to dig it up – Ben did all the hard labor. One of us had to – his mother’s coven generations earlier had ensured that only a Hunter or a Soul Guardian could dig up Ichabod’s prized possession. They’d placed some kind of binding spell or magick wards on it – witchcraft that’s completely beyond my comprehension. And I’d like to keep it that way. I suck at chemistry and I have a feeling I won’t fare much better at casting spells.

  But as I approach my desk, something about this book makes me feel queasy with an unexpected surge of familiarity.

  It isn’t the design or the shape of the object that appears abnormal and puts me on edge. It’s as if there is something unwholesome about it – a faint, disturbing miasma of energy stirring in the atmosphere. Stirring from within its leather-bound cover.

  Bracing myself, I place one hand on its surface to brush off the grave soil.

  The instant my palm comes into contact with the cracked leather, I feel an unpleasant sensation sweep through me. I quickly snatch my hand away as if it is burnt. Something’s not quite right with this book. But, then again, I already knew that the first moment I laid eyes on it. No wonder I didn’t want to look at it too closely.

  ‘Come on, Evee,’ I mutter to myself. ‘You’re meant to be this sick Soul Guardian. Don’t be such a wuss.’

  The moment I make up my mind, the light in the room flickers erratically and the last of the sunlight bleeds from the sky as the sun dips below the horizon. I reach out again toward the book and touch the binding of worn, faded leather.

  There’s still a spark but this time I’m ready for it.

  The book opens easily to the very center as if the spine has been cracked and the book repeatedly opened at these pages.

  Across the two middle pages, yellowed and spotted-with-age, I see an elaborate pentagram inscribed in black ink.

  A sense of déjà vu washes over me.

  I give a quick flick through the rest of the pages. But to my surprise and dawning horror, the rest of it – all of the many thick, buttery-colored leaves – are utterly and completely blank.

  Chapter Nine

  Today Dr. Martin-Crane steps in. Another young woman from Brom’s bloodline, this time in Seattle, has been viciously attacked whilst out jogging and left for dead in nearby parkland. She’s now in an induced coma, battling for her life. The malevolence behind it all has placed the coven under considerable strain and they’re all freaked. It’s been a week since this latest occurrence and decisions about hunting the creature are about to be made. Without me.

  Ben’s mother has been diligently trying to teach me my role as a Soul Guardian but I’m still uncertain what I’m supposed to do. I can’t read Ichabod’s warded, blank book and I try to avoid Dr. Martin-Crane’s eyes when she looks at me expectantly.

  Sitting in her buttercup yellow living room, I hear the regular rhythm of Ben swinging an axe outside in the garden. He’s chopping wood. It’s meant to be some sort of drill, like military training for Hunters, though I question the point of it. Ben’s right – you can’t exactly cut off the Horseman’s head.

  ‘Let’s try this again,’ Dr. Martin-Crane says, as I avert my eyes to look at the brightly-colored, thigh-skimming hem of my cheerleader’s uniform. It usually makes me feel better but it’s not working. ‘It may look unassuming but the book holds the answers to all of Ichabod’s secrets, all of his discoveries. You do understand what that means, Evelyn, don’t you? It contains all of Ichabod’s and the ancient order’s knowledge of evil and the many ways to defeat evil. Or, at least, contain it.’

  ‘Yes, Dr. Martin-Crane.’

  Silence. Somewhere behind me, a grandfather clock ticks away the long hourly session of my paranormal preparation. I feel perspiration pooling in the valley between my breasts and wonder if it’s obvious that I’m breaking into a nervous sweat. Ben’s mother – whose name I have discovered is Abigail from Mom’s conversations with her – stares at me without blinking. She holds the stare for a long time. It’s strangely unnerving and abnormal.

  She just looks at me or, more to the point, through me. And for a moment, I see a mix of impatience and sympathy in her eyes and I hate her for it.

  No lectures today though. She simply sighs. There’s a wealth of resignation and long-suffering in that sigh.

  ‘Can’t Ben do it? Can’t he unlock the book to read it?’ I blurt out, just because it pops into my head and I so desperately want Dr. Martin-Crane – Abigail – to stop staring at me with that look in her eye.

  It works. Dr. Martin-Crane shifts her weight in the seat across from me and braces her elbows on the arms of the plush velvet wingback armchair to look out the window.

  ‘No. He cannot.’

  Well, okay, her blunt response isn’t what I was hoping for.

  She hasn’t been very helpful. And neither has her coven. Their ancestors might have buried Ichabod’s book generations back but nobody remembered to write down any instructions about how to unlock the blasted thing. I guess they were hoping that by some miracle or supernatural intuition, I’d be able to do this. But I don’t. Obviously.

  But what’s equally obvious is that I’m supposed to work it out on my own.

  ‘This is your task, Evelyn.’ Her gaze is briefly diverted to inspecting her manicured fingernails and I wonder how she can be so immaculately groomed and fight evil at the same time like some badass witch in a power suit, but then her gaze snaps back to me with unnerving speed like that of a hawk and I flinch. ‘And if you cannot find a way to perform your task, then it’s all over.’

  So no pressure then.

  I stifle a sigh and look back down at the patterned rug. A little over a week ago, I was a normal teenager. My biggest worry was passing my chem prac and not blowing up the school in the process because I still can’t tell an acid from an alkaline and have no idea how to balance chemicals and reagents or whatever you’re supposed to do in chem lab.

  I had a life. I had no boyfriend but I had a life.

  Now I have no boyfriend but I don’t have much of a life either.

>   ‘Now then, I’m sending you home to do just that, Evelyn. You’re going to want to hurry up and unlock that book.’ Dr. Martin-Crane looks fierce all of a sudden; arms folded, frowning, though not one wrinkle or line mars her perfectly made-up face.

  ‘But isn’t there something–?’

  ‘There are traditions, Evelyn. Learn them and you will live. You’ll get your life back.’ I jump at her words; it’s as if she’s read my mind. ‘Yes, Evelyn. You will live to fight another day.’

  Dammit. I knew there was a catch.

  ‘Well now. Our time’s up for today,’ she says cheerily as she stands up and crosses to the double doors in one smooth, efficient movement. If I’m surprised at her swift change in mood, I don’t say anything. ‘Come back when you’ve unlocked the book or our time here is wasted.’

  She throws open the double doors and I find myself face-to-face with Ben. I’m not sure who’s more embarrassed, but I figure it’s me because I’m being kicked out of his house and been told not to return until I can get my act together.

  ‘Um … hi,’ I say self-consciously, tugging at the short hem of my cheerleader’s skirt.

  His gaze drifts downward. I immediately stop fidgeting with the hem.

  ‘Hello,’ he growls in the sexiest voice ever.

  We stand there awkwardly nodding at each other.

  I notice Ben looks hot and sweaty from all that wood chopping. His once-white singlet hugs his broad chest like cling wrap and his dirty, torn jeans ride low on his hips. Oh yeah, he certainly looks hot.

  ‘Until next time, Evelyn,’ Dr. Martin-Crane says interrupting my thoughts.

  I see a ghost of a smile appear on her face. And I wonder if she’s doing her pysch thing and assessing us. Assessing me and my reaction to her totally buff son.

  *

  As soon as I walk through the front door of my home, I get a text. It’s from an unknown number. When I open it, I get a little thrill in the pit of my stomach as the name of the sender leaps out at me.

  It’s from Ben.

  But it’s about as dry and exciting as my mother’s meatloaf.

  In fact, it’s the opposite of exciting. There’s been another attack; this time on an old man in Nova Scotia, a fisherman by trade. He didn’t survive the assault. Somehow I feel like it’s my fault and the guilt comes crashing down.

  Mom enters behind me, after picking me up from Dr. Martin-Crane’s place. She’s still chatting about some budget cut at work. I’m suddenly too tired to respond. Finally, at my continued silence, she takes one look at me and quietly suggests, ‘How about you invite Taylor over tonight and we order in pizza and watch The Fault in our Stars?’

  I guess she can see the hopelessness written on my face. It’s as if I have absolutely no energy to deal with it all.

  I’m sorely tempted but right now all I want to do is to crash in my bed. It’s exhausting being the Soul Guardian and I haven’t even done anything yet, let alone done anything right.

  But my mother has other ideas and two hours later I’m sandwiched between Taylor – who is willing to wear her glasses when there isn’t anyone around she feels the need to impress – and Mom on the comfy, cushiony sofa. I’m in a state of comfortable discomfort, having spouted a muffin top above the waistband of my jeans since consuming half a family-size pizza on my own.

  Chillaxing, I just want to stay on the sofa for the rest of my life.

  Chapter Ten

  We’re up to the part in the movie when Hazel gives her “infinity” pre-eulogy for Gus and all three of us are blubbering like babies when the doorbell rings. Silently, I curse their terrible timing.

  Wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I pause the Blu-ray player and get up from the sofa to answer the front door, hearing Mom complain behind me from within the family room, ‘Who can that be at this hour?’

  If I wasn’t crying so much, I’d roll my eyes. It’s barely gone nine.

  I open the front door to find Mr. Gorgeous Green Eyes himself standing on my porch. He’s not even looking at me but frowns as he sweeps the immediate vicinity of my neighborhood – as if he’s disappointed that I’m so careless in taking safeguards.

  ‘Evee. You shouldn’t be opening your door to absolute strangers this late at night,’ he says, automatically chastising me.

  Perhaps I should have been more cautious but it doesn’t even occur to me that I could have been in any danger. Besides, what self-respecting headless psycho announces themselves by ringing the doorbell?

  I manage to keep my voice level as I say, ‘Yeah, just imagine, you could’ve been a vampire – no wait, they have to be invited inside. Maybe the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man then. But I saw him being roasted at the local Boy Scouts’ gathering on Sunday.’ Shut up, Evee, I tell myself. Shut up. But I can’t seem to help myself as I continue, ‘Hello, Ben. Why are you out so late? Won’t you turn into a pumpkin?’

  An expression of annoyance flits across his face but he chooses not to respond to my childishness. He takes himself so seriously. It’s obvious to me that Bentley Martin-Crane does not like to be mocked.

  ‘Sorry it’s so late, but I’m just the errand boy.’ He sounds anything but sorry as he puts me firmly in my place. ‘You left this behind and Mom figured you might need it.’

  He freezes in the process of handing me Ichabod’s book which I’d forgotten all about, probably in my subconscious desire to escape from Dr. Martin-Crane’s stare.

  But, taking one look at my blotchy, tear-stained face, Ben asks, as if he really cares, ‘What’s wrong? Evee, are you okay?’

  I’m too bemused to respond. He reminds me of a Katy Perry song, all cold then hot.

  Uncaring of the value of the book, he dumps it on the hall table and reaches out, placing both hands on my shoulders to inspect me closely.

  I’m a complete mess but the way he’s looking at me makes me feel all shivery inside. Hot. Definitely hot.

  ‘You know,’ he says quietly, staring intently into my eyes, ‘whatever you choose to believe, Evee, you’re not responsible for all the souls in the world.’

  I blink back unexpected tears and gape up at him, surprised by his words. His flawless face softens.

  ‘I used to think that it was my job to save everyone. As a Hunter, I thought I needed to stop the bad guys from harming innocent people.’ Ben sighs, leaning closer to me as if what he’s saying is for me alone. ‘I do my best. I hunt evil. It’s the family business. But you can’t let the business consume you. You need to find that bit of yourself, that part of your humanity, which you can keep true.’

  A great rush of feeling comes over me. Something close to gratitude. Maybe something more, like I’m crushing on him.

  I’m awash with sensations. The vibrations of his mellow, gravelly voice. The smell of his spicy aftershave. The feel of his hands burning through the thin layers of my clothing. And his sensitive words.

  But before I can respond to his confession, my mother impatiently calls out from the other room, ‘What are you doing out there, Evee? Who’s at the door? Have they gone?’

  Ben drops his hands from my shoulders, as if he’s the one who’s burnt by our contact, and steps back, just as I call out to stop Mom from coming to the front door to see for herself. ‘It’s Ben. He’s just dropping off a book I accidentally left at his place.’

  ‘Well, don’t be rude, invite him in,’ my mom orders. ‘Seriously, were you raised in a barn?’

  I have no choice but to bring him in – my mother would be furious if I let him go home without having coffee or a fatted calf or something. Actually, come to think of it, we both have no choice in the matter. Ben’s mom would be equally annoyed if he was impolite and refused and it got back to her.

  ‘Maybe I should say a quick hello.’

  I almost laugh. There’s no “quick” around here, not with my mother playing the role of perfect hostess. But I pretend that he’s got a chance.

  ‘Maybe you can stay for a coffee.’

  Ben nods in ag
reement and follows me down the hallway to the family room; a cozy room adjoining the kitchen at the back of the house which opens onto the garden. Unfortunately, it’s now too dark to see anything more than moonlit outlines of shrubs and trees outside, but normally the view to the garden is quite lovely from this room.

  After consulting for a wealthy client who lives at Cape Cod, Mom decided to redesign the interior of our house in the Hamptons style with lots of vintage rattan, recycled timbers and white-washed furniture. The effect is surprisingly different and refreshing, especially since we live a fair distance from the coast. If my dad was still alive he’d hate it – correction, he is still alive and I know he’ll hate it, as I recall his preference for solid, heavy Victorian pieces like something out of 221B Baker Street. It made our house look old and ugly and depressing, so I’m with Mom on this one.

  It takes mere moments for the Hunter in Ben to assess the situation as we enter the family room – from the frozen screen displaying a chick flick to the teary faces of my mom and best friend.

  It takes only a moment more for Taylor, realizing there’s a droolworthy guy standing no more than five feet from her, to quickly lose the glasses. It would normally have taken her less time but her glasses were fogged up from crying so hard.

  Luckily, I am not jealous of my best friend.

  Well, not this time. That’s because she is usually a stunning, blonde bombshell who turns most guys’ heads with one glance, and with my unruly, curly coppery hair and smattering of freckles, I usually get overlooked whenever I’m next to her, which is almost always.

  But a mean little thought flashes across my mind as I look at Taylor now – because typical of being a true blonde, she looks like a drowned rat when she cries, with her puffy red eyes and Rudolph-the-Reindeer nose. And I feel almost attractive. Until I realize that I’m probably not looking much better.