Spirit Caller 01 - Spirits Rising

can’t figure this out. Mom believes an expression of faith might bridge the gap between this side and the other. She suggested using old stories and songs to communicate with the Beothuks, at least. The Vikings might respond, too.”
    “That’s not much to go on.”
    “Nope.”
    We were quiet for a moment. “How are you doing with all this?”
    “I believe in ghosts and all that weird shit. I saw one when I was a kid.” He shrugged. “There’s just a difference between that and seeing what happened out there.”
    I nodded. I understood what he meant. My own powers started developing when I was six. Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that’s my earliest memory of my abilities. I didn’t tell anyone until I was fifteen, and that was after a three-month stint at a mental hospital in Ottawa. Teenage hubris, thinking I could handle it on my own.
    “Mom says most of us experience one supernatural event in our lives, but very few will accept it.”
    “Did you inherit your, er”—he waved a hand—“powers from your mother? Oh, wait, never mind. You’re adopted. Could your real mom have had powers?”
    I frowned. My real mother dumped my two-day-old self on an RCMP officer’s front step at four in the morning in the middle of February. Thankfully, that was who became my dad. “I doubt my egg donor had any abilities, including the ability to stay sober.”
    “Don’t like her much, huh?”
    “Can’t hate someone you’ve never met,” I said with little conviction. I stood up from the table and opened my fridge. Eating helps me think—that’s why I’ve been packing on the weight lately. Unfortunately, all that stared back was mayonnaise, mustard, butter, and a block of mouldy cheese. In all the excitement, I forgot to pick up groceries.
    I grabbed another soft cookie from the plate before opening the cupboards. I found the box of Kraft Dinner, the ol’ standby for middle-of-the-night munching. “Want some KD?”
    He eyed the fridge. “With what?”
    I picked up the Scotch bottle. “Any noncorrosive liquid can be used to make really good Kraft Dinner. It’s a scientific fact.”
    “Scotch is pretty corrosive.” Then he said, “And that isn’t real KD.”
    I looked at the generic box of macaroni and cheese. “So? It’s all the same.”
    “Heathen. You haven’t really made it with Scotch, right?” He cocked an eyebrow, all Spock-like. I resisted the urge to jump him and rip his clothes off.
    Words cannot express how badly I needed to punt this man out of my life.
    “I lived with a couple of friends in university. The first month, I bought two cases of the cheapest no-name brand I could find and spent the rest of my grocery money on liquor.” I grinned. “Trust me when I say anything can make good KD.”
    A high-pitched shriek split the silence of the night air. Jeremy jumped from the table and flipped on the porch light. Mrs. Saunders was rushing across my backyard, still wearing her multicoloured wool slippers, one hand over her heart, the other holding her cane. She was screeching like a banshee.
    “Help! Demons! Dear God, help!”
    I flung open the door. “Mrs Saun—” my voice died. A total melee of red-painted men clashing with the fur-and-leather men broke out behind her. My banishing had not worked.
    And, worse, they’d followed me home.

    CHAPTER 7: Dead And Not Going To Take It Anymore

    I grabbed the hockey stick from my back porch closet while Jeremy flung the door open and ran to grab the old lady. I chastised myself for getting distracted by my personal life. I hadn’t listened to the other around me, and put Mrs. Saunders and all my neighbours in danger.
    A woman in a square hide dress, her dark hair spiralling in the wind, sat next to my woodpile and hurled my ceramic planting pots at a burly, bearded Viking male. One pot came dangerously close to Mrs. Saunders’s head. I ran down my stairs, hockey stick gripped firmly in hand, and swung it at the back of the spirit woman’s neck.
    She collapsed to the ground. Seconds later, her figure faded.
    Jeremy had his arm around Mrs. Saunders by now and ran with her, his arm raised to shelter their heads from the volleys of arrows, rocks, and chopped wood from my winter fuel supply.
    “Dammit,” I muttered. I’d worked hard to pack the wood pile to be ready to cure for the winter.
    I grabbed the old lady’s hand and helped her up the stairs. I was surprised she’d managed to rush across the yard with only a