Helga looked back at the uproar, wondering if this would be one of those days when she had to pull the bus over and tear new ones into the rude little shits who regularly tormented the odd little girl named Candace.
Before she could see what was happening, a robust horn sounded, snatching her attention. Outside her window a red 1982 Trans Am revved like an angry bull.
On it sat Ryan, handsome and chunky like Marlon Brando, bad boy enough to keep things interesting, yet never in any real trouble beyond mischief typical of a bored small-town boy.
Riding shotgun was his pal Angus, somehow both alarmingly scrawny and irresistibly cute with his frost-tipped hair and tasteful gold necklaces, courtesy of his father’s jewelry store on Main Street.
Ryan leaned way over Angus. “Hey, hey, Helga!”
“Ryan!” she called back. “You’re on the wrong side!”
“Long as I’m on your good side, baby!”
Helga slowed the bus, scared-exhilarated by her boyfriend’s reckless driving.
“We going to the lake for Devil’s Night?”
“If you’ll get over to your side of the road… yes!”
She verged on giddy panic as a sharp curve grew nearer. With a hearty “WHOOOOOOOOO!” Ryan hit the gas and passed the bus like it was parked, thrusting his left arm up to wave goodbye.
Helga remembered the uproar from the guts of the bus.
Candace’s tormentors, made bold by Helga’s distraction, were taking turns pelting her with erasers and wads of paper, like dastardly cattle rustlers gunning down the righteous marshal in a spaghetti western. They called mean names that coalesced into a chant. “Cra-zy Can-dace! Cra-zy Can-dace!”
It grew louder with each repetition, as Candace shrank into her seat, disappearing from Helga’s view.
As the chant died down, Anthony started another, until the chorus grew louder than before. “Freaky dildo girl! Freaky dildo girl!”
Helga’s cheeks warmed like hot plates. In her distraction, she had failed Candace, who of all her young passengers, was the one who needed her most. Helga was angry with herself—but it was a certain handful of obnoxious brats who would pay.
She hit the brakes hard and fast enough to make them crush atop one another. Then she pulled off onto a tractor road, yanked the E brake for the emphasis of its angry grind, and tromped back to them, fury burning in her blue eyes. “Knock it off, you little rats! I told you what would happen if you didn’t stop picking on Candace!”
She singled out Anthony with her stare, satisfied to see a shamed expression and a bead of sweat forming at his hairline. “Don’t you even try to step foot on my bus tomorrow morning, you hear me?”
The scorned mockers gave sheepish acknowledgements.
“I’ll see every one of you creepos in the principal’s office first thing in the morning. With your parents!”
Of all the shame in all the little faces, none was deeper or more abiding than Candace’s.
“Candace, honey, come sit up behind me.”
Candace was reluctant.
“Come on,” Helga insisted. “I want to talk to you.”
In solemn silence, Candace rose. Helga shot another beam of ice-blue condemnation at the transgressors, then led Candace to the seat behind and to the right of the hers.
The students remained corpse-still as the bus moved again. “Candace, sweetie, I want you to know something.” Helga’s inner voice was as angry as her outer voice was kind, screaming to never again drop her vigilance for the little girl. “All of this, it seems so important now,” she told Candace. “But it’s not. Okay?”
Sensitive as she was, Candace still bore a dignity and an inner strength that Helga recognized as that of a seasoned survivor.
“Three years ago, I was riding this same bus, on this same crappy route.” She turned to show Candace her grimace. “And you know what? The brothers and sisters of these same little buttheads picked on me every day. Because of my red hair.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Helga said. “You think anybody makes fun of me now?”
“No! Every boy at school says you’re the most beautiful girl in town! Maybe the whole state!”
“Well, you know what? I think that’s nice. But I remember when they made fun of me. The only difference is a couple of years. And I put it all in perspective. I think your costume is great. And I’ll bet there’s somebody out there who likes you. ’Cause you’re already way prettier than I was!”
Candace was paralyzed in disbelief. Helga only smiled. “Go to the school library and check me out in some yearbooks.”
Candace began to relax.
The bus remained church-somber until Helga pulled to a stop at Candace’s driveway. “Bye-bye, sweetie. Remember, okay”
Candace stood and headed up the aisle. “Thank you, Miss Helga.”
“Anytime.”
Chapter 4
As Candace exited the bus, her steps echoed on the metal stairs. She brushed at her hair out of habit, to dislodge spit wads. Glum faces of her chastened tormentors regarded her from the bus windows. Anthony Hoke raised a quick middle finger.
The school bus rumbled away. She stared down the long gravel driveway to a plain single-story rental house. The panel truck that had sat hidden under a tarp at the edge of the backyard for the past year was now parked at the back door, the sliding rear door open.
But it was the small cinderblock shed squatting in the shade of a towering oak tree, low orange light glowing from its barred windows, that held Candace’s attention the longest.
* * * *
Candace went inside, huffing at all the scattered moving boxes taped and stacked on plastic-covered furniture.
“Candace?” Her mother appeared in the hallway from the master bedroom.
Mamalee Geelens, a wild-eyed, pleasantly paunchy fifty-five-year old with a light Dutch accent, offered Candace the smile that always seemed forced. “Good afternoon, baby! How was school today?”
“Well, it was, uh…” Candace met her mother’s circus clown expression. “I want to talk about something.”
“Over dinner!” exclaimed Mamalee. “We have so much to do!”
As Mamalee returned to the room, Candace’s father, Aloysius Geelens, appeared from another. “Candace. Have you packed?”
“No, Father.”
“No?” His tone, never patient, had taken an even sterner edge over the last week. “Do you think you’re staying behind?”
“No, Father.”
“Go and feed your brother.” He spared her only the barest glance, as he tugged the rope to pull down the attic ladder.
Candace hugged her books against her chest as she had on the bus, regarding her father as he took a step up the ladder. “Father?”
Aloysius Geelens stepped back down, pointedly dropping his gaze to her. “What?
“I have been asked to…go somewhere.”
Before he could respond, Mamalee emerged again from the bedroom, her ever-present smile stretched to near-demented proportions. “You’ve made friends, Candace?”
“Yes.”
“An outing?” Mamalee put her hand on Aloysius’s shoulder. “With a boy?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“What kind of outing?” Her father’s tone did not offer promise.
“The Halloween Pumpkin Parade.”
“No. You’re needed here.”
He turned to climb the ladder but Mamalee stopped him. “Aloysius! Why do we need her here? If she can get packed in time, she should go!”
“No. We won’t have time for play.”
“Oh, Aloy.” Mamalee’s expression had taken a rare and heartbreaking tone of bleakness. “Don’t you want at least one normal child?”
Aloysius struck her across the cheek, drawing a yelp.
Candace heard herself gasp as her mother crumbled. Aloysius looked down at his wife with shock. He glanced at his hand, then at Mamalee.
As Mamalee struggled to stand, Aloysius was quick to help her. Mamalee said nervously, “Oh, it’s so exciting around here these days!”
Aloysius turned to Candace. “You will tell me more over dinner. And I’ll consider it. If you finish your packing first.”
Mamalee repeated her nervous chuckle.
“Now, go and feed your brother,” Aloysius ordered. “And take Bravo with you. Everett is very excited today.”
Mamalee waved at Candace like a toddler.
Chapter 5
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 diffi
culty.”
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.
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