The Second Summoning

“Well, why the hell didn’t you say so the first time? If I wasn’t dead,” she continued thoughtfully before Claire could answer, ”I’d think you were full of it, but since I’m not only dead, I’m here, my view of stuff has been, you know, broadened.” Penciled brows drew in ... “Being dead makes you look at things differently.” . . . and centered themselves again. “So, how do you do it?”

“Do what?” Claire asked, having been distracted by the movement of the dead woman’s eyebrows.

“Fix the holes.”

“We reach beyond the barrier and manipulate the possibilities. We use magic,” she simplified as Cheryl looked blank.

Understanding dawned with returning facial features. “You’re a witch. Like on television.”

“No.”

“What’s the difference?”

“She’s got a better looking cat,” Austin announced from the top of the dresser in a tone that suggested it should have been obvious.

Claire ignored him. “I’m a Keeper.”

“Well, jeepers keepers.” Cheryl snickered and bounced her fingertips off a bit of bouffant hair, her hair spray having held into the afterlife. “Bet you wish you had a nickel for every time someone said that.”

“Not really, no.”

“They’ve got a better sense of humor on television, too,” the ghost muttered.

“That’s only because Keepers have no sense of humor at all,” Austin told her, studying his reflection in the mirror. “If it wasn’t for me, she’d be so smugly sanctimonious no one could live with her.”

“And thank you for your input, Austin.” Shooting him a look that clearly promised “later,” Claire stood. “Shall we begin?” Cheryl waved off the suggestion. “What’s your hurry? Introduce me to the piece of beefcake the cat thinks you should do the big nasty with.”

“The what?”

“You know; the horizontal mambo, the beast with two backs.” Her pelvic motions, barely masked by the red stretch pants, cleared up any lingering confusions.

“He a Keeper, too?”

Claire glanced over at Dean who was staring at the ghost with an expression of horrified fascination. Or fascinated horror, she wasn’t entirely certain which. “He’s a friend. And that was a private conversation.”

“Ask me if I care?” Translucent hands patted ephemeral pockets. “I’d kill for a freaking smoke. Couldn’t hurt me much now, could they? You oughta go for it, Keeper.”

“I don’t smoke.”

A ghostly, dismissive glance raked her up and down. “Not surprised, you’ve got that tobacco-free, alcohol-free, cholesterol-free, is that your natural hair color?”

“Yes.” Claire tucked a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.

“Hair-color free sort of look. Take my advice, hon, try a henna.”

“I ought to go for a henna?”

“Yeah, in your hair. But that wasn’t what I meant. You oughta go for him.” She nodded toward Dean. “Live a little. I mean, men take their pleasure where they find it, right? Why not women? Your husband screws around, you know, and everyone thinks he’s such a freaking stallion and all you get’s a ‘sorry, sweetie’ that you’re supposed to take ‘cause he’s out of work and feeling unsure of his manhood, like it’s your freaking fault he got LAID OFF. . . .” Claire and Austin, who’d been watching the energy build, dropped to the floor. Dean, whose generations of Newfoundland ancestors trapped between a barren rock and an angry sea had turned adaptability into a genetic survival trait, followed less than a heartbeat behind.

In the sudden flare of yellow-white light, the clock radio and the garbage pail flew through the air and slammed into opposite walls.

“. . . but if you do it, just once, then BAM . . .” The bureau drawers whipped open, then slammed shut.

“. . . brain aneurysm, and you’re stuck haunting this freaking DUMP!” Both beds rose six inches into the air, then crashed back to the floor.

Breathing heavily, which was just a little redundant since she wasn’t breathing at all, but some old habits died very hard indeed, the ghost stared around the room.

“What just happened?”

“Usually, when you manifest, your anger rips open one of those holes in the fabric of the universe,” Claire explained, one knee of her jeans separating from a sticky spot on the orange carpet with a sound like tearing Velcro. “I’m keeping you from doing that, so the energy had to go somewhere else, creating a poltergeist phenomenon.”

Cheryl actually looked intrigued. “Like in the movie?”

“I didn’t see the movie.”

“Again, not surprised.”

“Why? Don’t tell me I’ve got that movie-free look, too.”

“All right.”

“All right what?”

“All right, she won’t tell you,” Austin snickered.

Eyes narrowed, Claire glared down at him. “You are supposed to be on my side. And as for you . . .” She turned her attention back to the smirking ghost. “. . . get ready to move on.” She wasn’t supposed to make it sound like a threat, but she’d had just about as much of Cheryl Poropat as she could handle. I’ve got a life, lady. Which is more than I can say for you.

The ghost’s smirk disappeared. “Now?”

“Why not now?”