Poltergeeks (15 page)

  "Stephen Richardson is long dead," I said coldly, as if to deflect Holly's insinuation. "It doesn't matter if my father was cremated or not, he can't help me and he can't help my mother."

  Marcus put his hand on my shoulder. "You know, it's probably best that we leave, Julie. I'm sure Ms Penske has other deals to make with people who have more to offer than the spirit of the Witchfinder General. If we can somehow capture it."

  Holly gave Marcus a sour look as she opened the book and flipped to the page with the engraving of my father's headstone. She slid it across the table toward me again and cocked a wary eyebrow at Marcus. "I admire your friend's protective nature, Julie, but he should know his place. Now, do have another look at that engraving."

  I reached for the book and leaned over to see a faint etching of something written in Latin.

  "
Servo parvulus,"
I said turning to Betty. "It means 'protect the child'. Is that a reference to
me
?"

  She gave me an uncomfortable nod. I glanced back at Holly. She sat quietly with a satisfied smile and a large part of me wanted to reach across the table and slap it right off her face.

  I glowered at her. "You, of course, know all about this secret information and you're more than happy to share if I have the ability to pay your fee, right?"

  "I give this information freely," she said firmly. "But think about it. You possess a powerful focus for your magic at a point in time when all apprentice witches are still learning the basic functions of magic spells. You stood toe-to-toe with the blackest of magic before your mother showed up. And isn't it interesting that whatever dark force attacked you easily overcame your mother and yet somehow y
ou
succeeded in breaking the same spell your mother could not?"

  Betty jumped to her feet. "That's enough!" she snarled, as she clenched her fists. "The girl is not yet prepared for what is to come. You will silence yourself
immediately!"

  The air crackled with magical energies as Holly glared at Betty. I could feel a steady hum of power growing in intensity and I noticed the room darken, as if the animosity between the two immortals was blotting out the unnatural light of Holly's office.

  Holly's eyes glowed amid the gathering shadows. "The die is cast, Tutelary. She has been marked from birth and this is the first test she must complete. Her mother knew this.
You
knew this."

  "She has not yet fully developed her powers," Betty said ominously. "She needs more time!"

  I'd heard enough. I reached and drew a few wispy threads from the charged atmosphere inside the office until I could feel thousands of tiny electrical sparks coursing through my body. I pushed out my left hand and made a tight fist, and whispered, "
Hexus
". A glowing pillar of magical force dropped onto the center of the table like a sledgehammer, smashing it to pieces.

  "I am in the room!" I shouted. "What's this rubbish about my not being prepared?"

  Holly got up and circled the wreckage that had once been a table. "I won't charge you for damaging my property. I can only imagine the kind of stress you've been experiencing since your mother fell victim to Endless Night – such a despicable spell. Nevertheless, you would be wise to listen closely. Your kind has long feared that a new period of darkness would arrive wherein witches would once again face the hammer of persecution," she said ominously. "Of course, should this occur it will have no impact on immortals like your tutelary and me; but for a young practitioner like you, the future is potentially one of great peril."

  I glanced at the amulet for a moment and then said, "You're suggesting there's some kind of organized movement whose sole purpose is to kill witches?"

  "Not necessarily," said Betty. "There are always practitioners skilled in the dark arts whose agenda has more to do with acquiring a witch's power with the goal of strengthening their own abil–"

  I cut her off. "Whoa! Wait a minute! If that person possesses a witch's soul, it would be like a supernatural battery that fuels their magic! If Hudibras is a vessel for Hopkins, then my mom's soul is just adding to his power!"

  Betty looked at her watch and grimaced. "Speaking of batteries, this one is about to run dry. We have to leave soon so that Mrs Margaret Somerton's body can finish its journey. I'll have to find another one, it would seem."

  Holly smiled and she motioned for us to follow her to the door. "I believe we have an arrangement, Julie. You'll bring me the spirit of Matthew Hopkins, won't you?"

  I snorted. "Oh sure, no problem! I'll just kick his ass and trap his essence in another teddy bear. Easy-peasy!"

  She opened the door and waved us through. "I knew you'd see it my way. I've provided you with a significant amount of information about your mother's predicament and a truthful – albeit disturbing – glimpse into your past. Finding and trapping the spirit of Matthew Hopkins is a small fee in the grand scheme of things."

  "Don't mention it," I said sourly.

  Holly reached into the breast pocket of her blazer and pulled out a small pad and pen. She jotted something down and then tore off the top sheet and handed it to me. "You'll need a bit of insight if you intend to find and trap Matthew Hopkins," she said.

  I read the note and gasped. "Prince of Peace Cemetery plot eight hundred and forty-three, archival record number seventy-one. Is this the location of–"

  Holly smiled politely and closed the door behind her.

  "Your father's grave," she said. "I suspect you'll want to talk with him."

 
 

 
 
 

What had started as a poltergeist in the home of a little old lady had morphed into something beyond my ability to control. I was completely out of my league and no matter how hard I tried to push it away, self-doubt was starting to tear my belief in myself to shreds. I wracked my brain for some kind of quick solution, but there were none to be had – someone else was pulling the strings. Someone with a grudge against witches meant to single me out, to separate me from the one person who truly understood the dangers that were out there.

  I stood in the foyer of Bankers Hall and stared hard at the note. Was my life up until now a lie? Why hadn't I been told about my fathers' final resting place? He died more than a decade ago and I knew so little about him that I sometimes wondered whether he ever existed at all. My father was a witch; that much I'd figured out during my meeting with Holly Penske. Mom told me she'd met my father at the farmer's market more than twenty years ago, and she said he was an honest but flawed man.

  I'd come to know better than to press her on why she felt that way and over the years my father slowly faded from our conversations. In fact, I eventually decided to stop asking questions at around age eight because whenever I did, Mom would tense up like she was expecting to get a tetanus shot from the doctor. Her entire mood would change from 'earth-child free spirit' to 'dark and brooding creepy mom'. I took those mood swings as a clear indication that some things were better left unsaid, and my father disappeared – at least the memory of him did.

  But now it was all coming back and it stabbed at my heart like an ice pick.

  I remember being a very young girl, and my mother telling me that my father had gone to heaven. It didn't really register that he was never coming home until we scattered his ashes to the four winds on a brisk autumn afternoon and the grim faces on the cluster of fellow witches told me that something dark and terrible had happened. But why hadn't she told me about his grave? My head was spinning and I fought back a torrent of emotions as I buried my confusion and hurt deep down inside because despite all the secrets and revelations, being angry at Mom felt like I was somehow betraying her.

  And she was all I had in this world. I needed her.

  Betty was tapping one of her patent leather pumps on the grass impatiently and I gave her a suspicious look.

  "What?" she said, her voice taking on a sharp edge.

  "You know way more than you've been letting on, Betty," I grumbled. "Is this the actual location of my father's remains?"

  "It is," she said, half-nodding.

  "And he's a ghost, is that it?"

  "Somewhat."

  I said nothing for a few seconds and then asked, "Did he really die in a car crash when I was four?"

  Her eyes narrowed and she smoothed her skirt. "Yes, but it was no accident," she said flatly. "You know where to find him, young lady, so it's up to you at this point to decide whether you're ready to learn about your magical pedigree."

  "
Pedigree?"
I gave her a frustrated glance. "This just keeps on getting better and better, doesn't it?"

  Betty frowned. "Revelations are rarely pleasant, Julie."

  Marcus grabbed my backpack and handed it to me. He'd said little since we left Holly's office and I could tell by the worried look in his eyes that he was afraid for my safety.

  "Let's go home, Julie," he said softly. "Maybe the docs at the hospital will figure out how to help your mom."

  "This is dark magic we're dealing with, Marcus," I said in a tired voice. "The clock is ticking and Holly said that my father could help us save Mom… we need him. I need him."

  He heaved a sigh in resignation and then reluctantly nodded. "So we're hopping on a bus to the cemetery then?"

  I tried to give him something resembling a hopeful smile because I knew Marcus felt a thousand percent useless and all he'd be able to offer would be moral support. I turned to Betty and pointed to her watch.

  "How much longer do you have in Mrs Somerton's body?" I asked.

  "Not long enough to accompany you to the cemetery. I need to find a new host as quickly as possible, so it's your decision as to what happens next."

  I chewed my lip for a moment and glanced at my watch. The timer was counting down, we had to meet with my father's ghost and still find time to head to the Beltline and check out whoever Hudibras was. Clearly it was going to be a long night.

  "Marcus and I will head to Prince of Peace Cemetery," I said, trying desperately to sound decisive. "You go do whatever is involved in finding another suitable host and meet us there."

  Betty gave a reluctant shrug. "Very well. Do be careful, young lady."

 

We jumped on the Cambrian Heights bus and headed north. The trip took a little more than forty minutes and the sun was hanging low in the sky. It was shortly past 9.15pm when we hopped off the bus and headed up Fourth Street, the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery in view. I clutched my amulet tightly in my right hand as we passed the cemetery office, its neat pastel stucco and tidy flowerbeds offered a surreal contrast to the acres and acres of cold marble and granite headstones that rolled out like a carpet as far as the eye could see. Giant poplar trees on either side of thin, asphalt paths stood in elongated rows like soldiers on a parade ground and cast thick black shadows across the pavement. The main road meandered beyond a series of crypts that dated back to the early twentieth century and I recognized some of the names as being prominent Calgarians whose lineage carried on to the present day. Marcus quickened his pace in the gathering twilight and it was pretty clear he was nervous about being surrounded by the dead.

  I couldn't blame him. Cemeteries are creepy places in broad daylight and they're the equivalent of a supernatural Costco when darkness sets in. The dead appear and disappear just as quickly as contestants on a reality TV show, and their presence hardly ever registers with most people in the mortal realm. If you're a witch, however, your senses are fine-tuned like a paranormal satellite dish and the dead surround you like hordes of last minute shoppers on Christmas Eve. So yeah, there were spectral figures poking their heads around gravestones and mausoleums but the only two living things in the cemetery were of little concern to them.

  I wasn't about to tell Marcus about them.

  I didn't know the layout of the cemetery so I wasn't exactly sure where my father's plot was located, despite the note from Holly. Not that it would have mattered much, because I could always ask someone for directions.

  You know, someone who's been
dead
for decades.

  I decided that since Marcus was probably feeling like he was of little help to me in my search, I'd throw him a bone.

  "I don't know where to start looking," I grunted, as I stared at the note and hoped Marcus wouldn't realize I was lying through my teeth. "Under normal circumstances I'd go in the cemetery office and ask for directions, but it's past nine. Any ideas?"

  He glanced at the now crumpled sheet of lined note paper and pointed to a three-foot tall wooden post at an intersection between two paths. "There's a sign up ahead. It says one-twenty to one-sixty. Your dad's plot is eight hundred and forty-three, so I think we need to stay on this main road. Oh, hey. If I'm a bit freaked out it's because ghosts shouldn't exist, so I'm just trying to get my head around all this."

  I playfully nudged him in the ribs. "Maybe he'll haunt you."

  He quirked an eyebrow and gave me an amused smile. "If he did, it'd be a chance to see if he emits any kind of radiation. He has to emit some kind of energy that you can measure."

  "Nice," I said as I leaned into his shoulder. "In all seriousness, I haven't seen my father since I was a little kid. It's hard enough to reconnect with someone you haven't seen for years when they're alive, but a ghost? I'm so out of my element here it's not funny."

  Marcus nodded as we continued up a hill littered with row upon row of military headstones. I spotted the spectre of a First World War soldier dressed in puttees, his tin helmet sitting at an angle over the near-translucent face of a young man. He couldn't have been much older than Marcus or me. He nodded politely and pointed to the highest spot on the hill.