Spirit Caller 01 - Spirits Rising

eyes and how tired he looked. Manny was into the drug-and-party scene in Halifax. They’d moved to the St. Anthony area hoping a small, quiet town could help their son; instead, all the O’Tooles had gotten for their efforts was a son practicing witchcraft. I could understand their worry.
    “I’ve seen demons cast out of people before,” David said, his tone flat. “It took a lot of prayer.”
    I stared at David. “You’ve seen demons?”
    “When I was a teenager. I saw that thing twist and churn while the pastors forced it to leave. We were there all night. Satan’s followers are real, Miss Mills.”
    I chewed on that tidbit of information. In front of me was a powerful ally that was an enemy simply due to terminology. I let that sink in for a moment. Mrs. Saunders was right; not all Christians were bad. I mean, David O’Toole was still a moron, but all my neighbours were some flavour of Christian. I reminded myself that, beyond the crazy-tract person or persons, my neighbours were always friendly to me. I swallowed my pride. I would work with this.
    “Then, we’re on the same side. We both want these . . . whatever you want to call them, put back where they belong.”
    He remained quiet for a moment before nodding his head. “I don’t want to see any of your voodoo near my house again.”
    I lifted my hands in surrender. “I will do my best.”
    “And stay away from my son,” he said, snarling.
    “David, please—”I began, but he cut me off.
    “And no devil worship. You’ve done enough damage.”
    I glared at the idiot, but the pleading look from Jeremy was enough to keep my mouth clamped shut. Here was a man who believed in spirits, but wouldn’t let me do anything about them!
    Manny returned and handed me three pages of printer paper. I folded them without looking; it would only make me angrier. I ran through some basic things for Manny and David to say in their statement. Jeremy frowned at me—I was breaking the law, after all—but he knew that putting “demon” or “flesh spirit” in a report would go poorly for everyone.
    We went with the standard: gangs.
    And with that, I headed home. With luck and several cups of coffee, I’d figure out how to put everything back together.

    CHAPTER 6: Why Can’t Lesbianism Be Contagious?

    Research failed.
    I sat in front of my easel and stared out through my balcony window, and back at the easel. I had all the lights off, except for the kitchen light on the other side of the house. Its soft glow did not compete with the full moon outside. I couldn’t see, but could hear, the surf slamming against the rocks below and I could taste the salt in the air.
    The quiet helped regenerate my worn defences. Or, as Mrs. Saunders would say, “calmed me nerves.” I smiled, letting positive memories engulf me and heal my damaged spirit. I’d survived seeing Jeremy. I discovered who was putting the pamphlets in my door and could now put aside some of my suspicions. I could relax a little more.
    I so needed to move to somewhere with a population of zero.
    Twinges of stress stabbed at me. Moving would kill Mrs. Saunders. And, I would not recover my own bruised mental defences if I did not settle things here first. So, to help calm the heart-pounding panic of failure in my chest, I reviewed my evening’s actions.
    First, I’d called Mom, who’d been living in Ontario since Dad retired. She gave me a few suggestions, but admitted she didn’t know how I could put these spirits back into their resting places. Mom was even surprised that I’d managed to banish them at all; she said old native spirits were generally too strong for someone like me.
    Thanks Mom. Always can count on you.
    Mom’s passive aggressiveness aside, her advice along with David’s rant had given me an idea. I spent a good portion of the evening searching the Bible for details about demon possession. Though possession was not the same as manifested spirits, the causes and treatment, if you will, overlapped more often than not. I didn’t find anything appropriate to the situation. Crunching gravel caught my attention. It was nearly midnight. I put my notepad down and looked out the window. Jeremy was there, getting out of his car.
    I walked to the kitchen and opened the door. He gave me a sheepish smile and a brown Tim Horton’s cup. I accepted the caffeinated liquid of the gods.
    “I couldn’t sleep and I saw you posting on Facebook earlier, so . . .” He shrugged.
    “I was