Spirit Caller 01 - Spirits Rising

troublemakers. He looked clean, even though his eyes were wide and his face flushed.
    Sensing what I was doing, Manny rolled his eyes. “Come on, I’m not on drugs. Can you just come in? Please?”
    I hid a smirk. Apparently, his father had tried that technique on him a few times. “I’m just waiting for Constable Garratt.”
    Manny’s jaw dropped. “You called the Mounties?”
    I heard the rumble of a vehicle and looked over my shoulder. A white RCMP vehicle with the standard Mountie-on-a-horse-holding-a-flag emblem painted on the door pulled into the driveway. I waved at Jeremy, who joined us quickly.
    He was still in the navy blue uniform, though his Kevlar vest and radio earbud were notably missing, no doubt discarded in his car as soon as his shift ended. He was a good-looking man, with easy features and a sly grin. He was around my age, late twenties, and taken. Very, very taken. Hence my solo vacation.
    I wasn’t sure if the mounting headache was from the other or from seeing Jeremy. I really needed to move away from this man. Too bad lesbianism wasn’t contagious; I’d be open to almost anything to get me over that idiot. Either way, the pressure behind my eyes built momentum.
    Manny was clearly less impressed with Jeremy than I was because he went wide-eyed and glared at me. “He’s totally going to tell Dad! I’m so dead.”
    “Murder is illegal and I doubt your father would do anything to break the law,” Jeremy said, giving me a wink. I did not collapse into a puddle on the ground because, you know, danger and spirits and all that fun stuff.
    “Besides,” Jeremy said, turning back to Manny, “I didn’t tell your father about the time I picked you up on the side of the road after you’d passed out and a moose was licking vomit off your chest.”
    I made a disgusted sound. “Eww. Thanks for that.”
    A loud crash came from inside. The three of us snapped our heads around to face the house. “What on earth was that?” I asked.
    “I have no idea.” Manny sighed, as though resigned to the gallows. He looked at me, pensively. “No one else would have believed me and I figured you’d know what to do. I don’t know anyone else who’s into witchcraft.”
    “I don’t practice witchcraft,” I mumbled. Muffled drumming drifted from the house and I shifted my gaze to Jeremy, who shrugged. “Okay, let’s go.”
    Manny let out a deep breath, as though he’d been holding it. “Okay. Um, thanks, by the way.”
    I frowned. “All I know is that there’ll be hell to pay if this is Billy Watkins dressed up to scare you.”
    Manuel frantically shook his head. “It’s not Billy.”
    The three of us walked towards the house. I’d never been inside David O’Toole’s house. He was the local deacon at the Pentecostal church and had never been overly nice to me. Oh, sure, he was always inviting me to church and smiling whenever he came across me at the grocery store in town, but I knew he called me “witch” behind my back.
    I’m not even Wiccan.
    Having Jeremy with me would make it legitimate. Besides, it’s never a good idea for an adult to go visit a teenager when their parents are away and when those parents think you are in league with the Devil, capital D. Jeremy was an RCMP officer. That made it all nice and tidy for the paperwork in case these were home invaders.
    As we approached, the drumming grew louder. Laughing and singing spilled up from inside the basement. I crept in behind Manny who pointed down the stairs to a finished basement, a rarity in these old homes.
    When I reached the bottom of the stairs, my jaw dropped. Manny’s parents, Irene and David O’Toole, belonged to the local welcoming committee. But I was certain that they’d never purposely invite a dozen drunken Vikings, in full fur-and-sword regalia, into their home to drink Black Horse Beer and Newfie Screech.
    “What the hell . . . ?” Jeremy said.
    The Viking horde more or less ignored us, opting to clang their bottles together or drunkenly pour the potent Screech into empty glasses, spilling half on the floor. I watched the burly men gasp and grimace as the rum went down. If a Viking struggles with it, you know it’s strong.
    Jeremy stood there, mouth hanging open. “Did the guys from L’Anse Aux Meadows forget to take their costumes off?”
    I held my breath; the headache caused spots across my vision. These weren’t costumed locals, dressed up for the tourists visiting the Viking site. These were