Trifles and Folly 3, page 17
“Ready to head back to the store?” Teag asked. We had spent the morning checking out the Ghost Bikes and roadside memorials where disturbances had been reported. I’m not a medium, so I don’t channel the ghosts, and I can’t summon them, which means I have to rely on the spirits to make themselves seen and heard. Failing that, I can use my psychometry to pick up the resonance of their emotions before—and after—death and then piece the clues together. It’s a tedious process.
“Sure,” I said. “We can pick up lunch and bring something back for Maggie.” Maggie is our fantastic part-time assistant. She doesn’t have any magic of her own, although she knows all about ours, but she’s got sass and an awesome sense of humor. Maggie retired from teaching, then retired from retirement to help out with the store. I’m pretty sure she can honestly say that it’s never been boring.
We picked up pizza and took turns eating and watching the front of the store. That’s when I noticed the large wrapped rectangle leaning against the wall in my office. “What’s that?” I asked Maggie.
“You or Teag had it shipped from that estate sale you went to last week,” she replied with a shrug. “We have the two other cartons of stuff from there you brought back yourselves.”
I remembered as soon as she mentioned the sale. Teag and I keep an eye on auctions and estate sales because they’re a way objects with harmful resonance can make their way from person to person. We not only buy items suitable for the store to re-sell, but we also cull out problem pieces before they have a chance to cause havoc.
The mirror hadn’t struck me as dangerous, merely unsettling. We knew very little about the old woman who had died, only that her home was full of beautiful, expensive, and odd items, a curiosity seeker’s paradise. The old house had been a solid brownstone in a nice part of town, and from the very sparse bio the auctioneer shared, Eliza Roberts had died at age ninety-five, never married, and was the last of her family line. What had intrigued me was that while I saw very few religious items in the house, a fair number of pieces had possible connections to spiritualism. I didn’t know whether or not Eliza had been a medium, but I’d lay money on the possibility that she dabbled in speaking with the dead.
“You’re thinking something.” Teag jarred me out of my reverie. “Spill it.” He’s my assistant manager for the store, but he’s also my best friend and on occasion, bodyguard.
“After we close up, I want to get a closer look at that mirror and some of the other things we brought from the Roberts house,” I said. “If the spirits are restless, maybe they’ll contact us.”
“Or you could just call Alicia,” he suggested. Alicia Peters, a powerful medium, was a friend and an ally who had helped us on a number of occasions.
“Alicia’s canvassing her side of the city for Ghost Bikes and roadside shrines, remember? So we’ll hear back from her when she’s done,” I replied.
“You don’t know how the objects will react to your magic.”
“Do we ever?”
Teag sighed. “No. All right. Go help Maggie up front, and I’ll get everything ready.”
Fortunately, the rest of the afternoon passed quietly, but as I wished Maggie a good evening and locked the door behind her, I felt my nervousness ratchet up, wondering what would come from Eliza’s mirror.
The rectangular-looking glass had a dark mahogany frame. The silver backing showed none of the signs of age that too often marred a big piece, so the reflection showed clear and true. Teag had moved a more comfortable chair out of my office so I could have better support as I touched the mirror and opened up my magic. He’s used to my psychometry by now, and more than once, he’s had to help me off the floor when a vision landed me right on my ass. I noticed he also made a pitcher of fresh sweet tea, which helps me recover from the huge energy drain that a difficult psychic connection can cause.
“I wove some new strips,” Teag said, nodding toward several hand-woven fabric runners, each several inches long and a few inches wide, like overgrown bookmarks, which lay on the table. “They’ll help ground and protect you, and this way, I can see what you see.”
Teag could weave his magic into the warp and woof of fabric, creating powerful protection spells, but he could also create a psychic bridge between us so that he didn’t have to rely on me to recount what I saw. That had saved my butt more than once when a vision turned suddenly dangerous.
“All right,” I said, settling into the chair facing the mirror. “Let’s see what’s through the looking glass.” In my left hand, I held one end of the woven ribbon, and Teag held the other. I put my right hand on the cold pane, and like Alice, felt myself fall through the looking glass.
Everything around me was made of silver and shadows, like a moonlit night. I knew I wasn’t alone but feared to call out, unsure of whose attention I might draw. This place beyond the mirror was far colder than our break room, and when I glanced behind me, I saw my own face staring back and the warm light of the real world setting it apart.
“Who are you?”
I startled and turned to face a woman whose somber black dress reminded me of the mourning clothes of a past era. I recognized the face. Eliza Roberts, the woman who had owned the mirror.
“My name’s Cassidy. Are you Eliza?”
The woman nodded.
“We’re not alone here, are we?” I could sense other presences all around us, just out of sight in the shadows. We stood in a pool of moonlight, distinct from the darkness all around. I did not want to leave the light or venture out of sight of the mirror and the way home.
“No. Mirrors harbor spirits. It’s a safer place than many, especially now,” Eliza replied.
“Do you know what’s frightened the ghosts?” I turned slowly, scanning the darkness. I glimpsed eyes and pale skin, but no clear faces or forms.
“Not exactly,” Eliza replied. “There’s an old, strong power at work, one I don’t recognize. I studied such things when I was alive. I’ve been able to see spirits in mirrors since I was a child, and since no one would teach me, I taught myself. But this new presence, it’s dangerous and hungry.”
“Hungry?”
“The entity is eating souls,” Eliza said.
“So the ghosts it eats, what happens to them?” I felt the cold that surrounded me seep into my bones at the idea that even greater dangers existed after death.
“They cease to exist,” Eliza answered. “At least, their consciousness is gone. They say energy never is destroyed. But they are no longer who they were, and they have not passed on to the next level, gone to the light. However you would phrase it.”
Vanished, with a finality even greater than death. Many ghosts retained sentience and chose to stay behind to watch over loved ones, protect something important, or see justice done. I’d seen those spirits eventually find peace once their task was completed, moving on to whatever came next. To think of them being hunted, trapped, consumed, shook me on a visceral level.
“I offered sanctuary to those who sought it, here with me,” Eliza said, gesturing to the shadows that surrounded us. “I couldn’t save them all, but those who came, I protect.”
No wonder the mirror gave off such a powerful resonance, disquieting but not evil. “I’ll help you protect the mirror,” I promised. “But please, tell me anything that might help us stop whatever is out there hurting the ghosts.”
“The creature selects its victims,” Eliza said, choosing her words carefully. “It preys on more recent spirits. The old haunts are rooted too deeply for it to disturb. It favors violent deaths. Few of those who took refuge here came from their sickbed. I believe creatures like this may have stalked battlefields, and now without that kind of carnage, it takes its pickings where it can.”
Violent deaths—like the car crashes and bike accidents. I felt my anger rise. Those ghosts often stayed behind because it took time for them to process what happened to them in a single, traumatic instant. Even crime victims often had a few minutes before death to understand what was happening, but those from wrecks were alive one minute, dead the next, and wandered lost and confused until they finally figured out what had happened to them. The idea that a predator stalked them at their most vulnerable made me furious—and determined to do something about it.
“We’ll find a way to stop this,” I promised. “When we do, can the spirits leave here?”
Eliza nodded. “We are all free to move on from this place, whenever we choose. I consider it a halfway house for wayward spirits,” she said with a faint smile. “Go back to your world,” she told me. “It’s cold here, and you have work to do.”
With that, Eliza Roberts turned and walked into the shadows until she vanished, leaving me alone in the moonlight.
“Cassidy!” Teag’s voice called. “Cassidy, can you hear me?”
I closed my eyes and let Teag lead me back to the warmth and light of the mirror, and through it, back to myself. I shuddered and drew a harsh breath.
“You’re cold as ice,” he said, letting go of the fabric ribbon to fetch me a sweater from my office and a glass of sweet tea. “Here you go,” he said, tucking the sweater around me and handing me the glass. I drank it down and snuggled into the soft wrap, waiting to warm up and feel the sugar rush. Teag sat quietly, patiently biding his time until I had recovered.
“What did you make of all that?” I asked, hoping that our connection through the spelled cloth had given him a front-row seat.
“It’s not the weirdest thing we’ve ever run into,” he said, sitting back once he was sure I wasn’t about to pass out. “We’ve seen dark witches drain energy from ghosts before, like cosmic batteries.”
“They weren’t particularly easy to stop, as I recall,” I replied and shivered. “But I don’t think that’s what we’re up against this time. At least, not from what Eliza knew. She made it sound more like a creature, almost a psychic parasite, something that gravitates to natural disasters and wars where there’s a lot of violent death.”
Teag fetched me a hot cup of coffee with plenty of sugar, and I gripped the mug, warming myself from its contents. “Alicia should be back soon,” I said, glancing at the time. “In the meantime, I’ve got a call to make.”
My cousin Simon picked up on the first ring. In certain circles, he’s better known as Dr. Sebastian Simon Kincaide, folklorist, author, former university professor, and now the owner of Grand Strand Ghost Tours.
“Hi Cassidy! Good to hear from you. Is this business or pleasure?”
“Business, unfortunately, although it’s always great to hear from you,” I replied, putting him on speaker so Teag could listen. “We’ve got a situation.”
“Tell me.”
I explained about the Ghost Bikes and the roadside shrines, the spirit refugees in the mirror, and the creature that tore apart George’s ghost. Simon listened to it all with rapt attention. He knows about my gift and what we really do here at the shop, and his background with mythology and the occult—not to mention his own abilities as a clairvoyant and medium—have come in handy.
“I think it’s a maita,” Simon said when I finished. “I’ve read about them, but I’ve never run into one before.”
“That’s a creature I haven’t heard about before,” I admitted. “And I thought we’d seen everything.”
Simon chuckled. “Probably not—although you do seem to see more than your share of cryptids and creepies. Maita come from African folklore, and there are varying tales depending on the tribal origin. Most agree that the maita begins as a cannibalistic witch and becomes a ravenous spirit after death—a soul eater.”
Teag and I exchanged a look. “How the hell do we kill it?” Teag asked.
“That’s the problem. There are ways to kill the living cannibal-witch to stop it from becoming a maita,” Simon replied, and I was in awe of his encyclopedic knowledge. “Once it’s become one, I’m not sure there’s a way to destroy it—at least, for someone on this side of the divide.”
“The divide?” I questioned
“The Veil,” Simon replied. “Between the living and the dead.”
That added a new wrinkle. “If someone were going to try to kill a maita, is there a type of weapon that might be better than others?”
“Cassidy, you can’t be serious. Please tell me you’re not thinking of going after one of these.”
“It’s kinda what we do, Simon,” I replied. “And we have a pretty amazing group of friends. So, weapon?”
Simon hesitated and then sighed. “Iron works on most spirit energies. Probably not salt, because it’s more of a creature than a ghost. I don’t think silver has any special protection either. The only thing the legends say about killing a maita is that its power is held in special stones in its stomach. Cut open the stomach, spill out the stones, and the maita is destroyed.”
“Do we have to do anything to the stones?” Teag asked.
“It wouldn’t hurt to scatter them, although I don’t think the maita can re-gather its energy,” Simon replied. “Just please, be careful. The lore is very spotty; don’t risk your life on it.”
We thanked him and hung up just as we heard a knock at the back door. Alicia Peters, a good friend, and a powerful spirit medium, stepped inside.
“What a day!” she and I both said in near unison and had to chuckle despite the dire circumstances. “You first,” I said, as Teag pulled out a chair for Alicia and I went to get her some sweet tea. I filled my coffee cup as well since I figured it was going to be a long night.
Where my magic reads the memories and energy resonance of objects, Alicia is a true psychic medium, able to talk to ghosts. I wondered how much our experiences checking out the same types of memorials differed.
“The ghosts are terrified, and some of them have gone missing—been destroyed,” Alicia said, sipping her tea. “They’re aware that something is preying on ghosts, and no one knows when it might come for them. It doesn’t feel like the power of a dark witch or a rogue necromancer. From what the ghosts could tell me—and it wasn’t a lot of detail—it sounds like we have a creature out there feeding on spirits.”
“Simon thinks it might be a maita,” I told her and was ready to explain when Alicia frowned.
“That’s really interesting. I’m surprised we haven’t run into something like that before,” she said.
“How’s that?” Teag asked.
Alicia took another long drink of the heavily sugared sweet tea, letting it replenish her. “Charleston was one of the top ports for receiving enslaved individuals back before the Civil War. Some of those people came from the areas where belief in the maita originated. Just like with Voudon and Hoodoo, people brought their beliefs with them, and sometimes, they mingled with other influences to become something new and different.”
“How do we fight it?” I asked. “Is this something Donnelly or Sorren could handle?” Archibald Donnelly is a mostly immortal necromancer, and Sorren, my boss, is a vampire. Their special abilities—and the fact that both are extremely difficult to destroy—have come in handy when we have to battle bad nasties.
Alicia shook her head. “I don’t think so. Simon told you that the maita has to be fought in the realm of the dead. It’s not a ghost, so Donnelly wouldn’t have any special power over it, and we don’t even know if he could cross over to that realm and get back, given what he is. Same with Sorren—he’s undead, not dead. I wouldn’t want to risk having him enter and not be able to come home. There are plenty of stories about living people being able to go across and get back if you’re careful.”
“We’ll need iron knives,” Teag said, “and I’ll bring my silver whip, just in case. Protection charms, definitely. And something to guide us back, in case the path isn’t clear.”
“Us?” I questioned. I had figured I would go—if we could figure out how to get to the frickin’ realm of the dead and that the others would stay behind to make sure I got home.
Teag and Alicia both glared at me. “Us,” Teag repeated forcefully, and Alicia nodded. “We all go, or none of us goes.”
“Okay,” I relented. “But if this creature exists in the realm of the dead, we can’t do anything until we know how to cross over—without doing it the usual way—so we can get back.”
“I think I know just the place,” Alicia said, giving me a grin I knew meant trouble.
“I know this road. There’s no bar here,” I said as Alicia drove us down Huguenin Road, the avenue of cemeteries where more than a dozen graveyards held centuries’ worth of Charleston dead.
“It depends on who’s looking,” Alicia replied as she parked along the side of the road. “I am a medium, after all.”
“Whoa,” Teag murmured as we got out of the car and stared at what my mind knew should have been an empty lot with the remains of an old foundation. Instead, a long one-story brick building stretched the length of the lot, running alongside the stone wall that marked the edge of Magnolia Cemetery, windows alight, and smoke rising from the chimney. A wooden sign proclaimed it to be “Hearseman’s.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, stretching out with my gift. I felt a strange resonance I’d never encountered before, something solid and yet not, real and other.
“For two hundred years, Hearseman’s bar stood where you see it, and while it served everyone, it was particularly known for taking care of the men who dug the graves at all the cemeteries on this road,” Alicia said. “The gravediggers, the groundskeepers, the landscapers, and the hearse drivers, as well as the priests and ministers who held the services—they all came to the pub when their work was over.”
