Spirit Caller 01 - Spirits Rising

my neighbour bundle up good and wear her winter coat. I’d never forgive myself if the old lady caught pneumonia.
    “This made the National last night,” Jeremy said as we exited the car, referring to the countrywide news show.
    “Mrs. Saunders, wait here,” I said. I opened the trunk. “We’re on the National?”
    Jeremy nodded. “I called in this morning and LeBlanc told me that it’s all across the country. There’s a rumour Peter Mansbridge might even come and interview people about ‘the gangs.’ ”
    “Slow news week in Canada, I see,” I said with a frown. “Normally, Newfoundland doesn’t make the news unless we kick a prime minister out of the province.”
    Jeremy gave me a small smile. “In any case, it’s best we don’t make a scene. LeBlanc’s already uneasy about Manny’s involvement, not to mention the rumours about devil worship. If word gets out that we’re dealing with actual spirits...” He ran a finger across his throat. “I’ll be on the unemployment line right beside ya.”
    “No pressure,” I mumbled as I started pulling my gear from my vehicle’s trunk. “Arsehole.”
    Jeremy beamed at me. He watched me put the small toolkit on the ground and picked up a worn, leather bag from trunk. “What’s this?”
    “Don’t touch that,” I snapped.
    He cocked an eyebrow, but passed it to me. I snatched it from him.
    “Sorry,” he said, confusion in his voice.
    I gave him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. It’s fragile and I don’t want anything to happen to it.”
    “It looks like some kind of native medicine bag.”
    I looked down at the worn bag and ran my thumb across its supple grain. “Whoever abandoned me put this around my neck.” I held up the palm-sized bag by its strings. “Stupid thing to do, really. I could have choked on it.”
    “Was there anything inside?”
    I shook my head. “Not even a note. It’s just a cheap store-bought bag, but I kept it all these years. I went through this abandonment phase as a teenager and I spent a lot of time adding and removing beads, stuffing it with things. I went through a glitzy-bead phase when I was fifteen and covered it in pink sparkles.” I shuddered. “It took mom a week to pick the glue off the leather. Now, I just keep little things in it that are important to me. It’s not so much about whoever gave it to me, but rather that it reminds me of the blessed life I’ve had.”
    Understanding dawned on his face. He nodded and said, “Is there anything I can carry?”
    “Get Mrs. Saunders’s walker out of the backseat. We can both help her up the hill.”
    The scenery from the United Church cemetery was, dare I say it, spooky. On a clear day, the cemetery overlooked the bay. You could see the boats coming in and out, the whale-watching tour boats, and iceberg seekers, and regular locals with their boats.
    Tonight, thick fog covered the water and rolled over much of the hill we stood on. The drizzle dampened my hair and my cheeks and nose turned cold. I should have worn a hat. All in all, it was a movie-perfect scene for calling forth spirits and putting them back into their eternal rest.
    With Jeremy’s help, we slowly made our way up the path to the graveyard. We were about halfway up, when I heard a vehicle approach and saw the headlights through the haze. The four-way flashers went on and we heard the distinctive thump of car doors. We stopped.
    “Miss Mills?” a voice called out.
    My hopes brightened a little. “Manny!” I’d called his mother earlier who said, in no uncertain terms, that her son would not be allowed to practice witchcraft. So, when Manny approached with his father—ah, that explained why he’d called me Miss Mills—I was surprised.
    “Miss Mills,” David said when he and Manny reached me, his voice strained from rushing in the cold uphill, “Manuel has something to say to you.”
    Manny was puffing, and I suspected only part of his reddened face was from the cold. I let him catch his breath and waited. Jeremy kept the umbrella over Mrs. Saunders.
    “Um, Rach-Miss Mills, I’m really sorry I got you in trouble with Dad. I shouldn’t’ve been messin’ ’round with witchcraft and spells. And I’m real sorry that you had to lie to the Mounties for me. Folks here know what’s goin’ on, for real, but no one wants to tell the Mounties ’cause they’re Mainlanders and they aren’t going to believe stuff about spirits.” He gave me an apologetic look. “Well, I