Spirit Caller 01 - Spirits Rising

though.”
    The old woman scowled, sipping her beverage. “You young people travel too much. Until you came along, I hadn’t left the Peninsula in forty-seven years.”
    I smiled. “Let’s drive into St. John’s this weekend and see your great-great-grandson. He should be crawling by now.”
    She waved off my suggestion, like she always did. In a couple of days, though, she’d bring it up again and ask if I wanted to go for a drive. It was her way and I loved her for it. I had nothing else to do anyway, other than dodge my mother’s voicemails over why I didn’t have a job yet.
    I rifled through the mail again, just in case I missed something, while Mrs. Saunders talked about the latest gas prices (even though she didn’t drive), the cost of apples (even though she had no teeth), and the general gossip that circulates around a small town.
    I peered over at Mrs. Saunders and cocked an eyebrow. “All right. Where is the rest of it?”
    A moment passed before she said, “I burned it. I ran out of kindling and starting a fire is about the only good use for that foolishness. It poisons me to see that nonsense goin’ on.”
    I knew she’d taken it. “It’s a crime to steal mail, you know. I should have Jeremy arrest you,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. I wasn’t upset she burned the stupid religious tracts that kept showing up in my mailbox; rather, I was upset a woman approaching a century old had to even see that level of hate.
    I frowned, recalling that the mysterious “they” had taped an anti-Catholic tract on my front door before they started with their “pagans work for the devil” propaganda crap. Inaccurate, since I’m neither Catholic nor pagan. “They didn’t send the one about Catholics and the Pope burning in Hell did they?” I prayed they had not; Mrs. Saunders was a devoted Catholic. I figured a woman her age shouldn’t have to read anything hateful or upsetting about her religious beliefs; she’d earned the right.
    Mrs. Saunders looked genuinely disappointed. “I would have kept that one to put on the fridge. This one was the ‘burn the witches.’ It had Bible verses and everything. Shame on whoever is turning the holy word into that . . .” she lowered her voice, “shit.”
    I let out a frustrated sigh. “I wish they’d send something new. Or, stop sending them. It makes a woman feel unwelcome when she gets regular hate mail from her neighbours.”
    “Now, now, your neighbours aren’t the ones doing this. We’re good Christian folks around here. It’s no-one from Wisemen’s Cove, I’ll tell you that right now. It’s one of those fools from St. Anthony, coming up here to cause trouble.”
    Mrs. Saunders shivered and put her mug down. She made her way to the cast-iron stove at the opposite end of the kitchen. It was the old-fashioned style you usually find in pioneer school houses, as opposed to someone’s kitchen. Hers was fancier than most, coated in white ceramic on the sides with a large top hutch where bread was kept warm for supper. She cooked on the stove top and still used the old oven to bake her cookies and molasses buns.
    I didn’t offer to help her. I’ve been haunted by centuries-old ghosts that weren’t as strong and determined as her. The last time, she yelled at me and smacked me with the wood poker. Only, she forgot it had been inside the fire and singed my jeans.
    She didn’t look at me when she spoke. “I told Father Frank about all this, just so you know. I spoke to that new Pentecostal fellow, Pastor Roberts, too, said he won’t be gettin’ any souls saved letting his crowd harass harmless folk like you.”
    “Mrs. Saunders,” I said in a patient voice, “I have no interest in converting to Christianity. I’m suspicious of the lot of them.”
    She shook the fire poker at me. “I’m a Christian, young lady. Watch your mouth.”
    “You know what I mean. I’ve just had bad experiences with some.”
    “Can’t paint us all with the same brush.”
    She turned her back and I picked up her mug and sipped. My throat burned. Gin latte, indeed.
    “And you working with the policemen, persons, whatever you feminists call yours.” She gave an indignant grunt. “No respect these young people have today for the law.”
    I smiled, even though she couldn’t see me. My own mother didn’t meddle as much as this woman. “I’m not working for them anymore, remember? My contract expired. I’m unemployed now.” I left out as my mother