Spirit Caller 01 - Spirits Rising

stairs, shaking his head. “I can’t call in and say a group of Vikings are rampaging through town. That’s a trip to the evaluation board.” He frowned then said, “Gangs.”
    “Huh?” Shadows blocked out the dying twilight from the window. Say what you want, those Vikings were silent as the grave, no pun intended.
    “Gangs are the ‘in’ thing right now.” His voice grew stronger. “Yup, gangs it is. Come on.” He motioned with his head for me to follow him.
    With Manny locked in his bathroom, Jeremy and I cautiously crept outside. I scanned the several-metres-wide space between the side of Manny’s house and the neighbour’s neatly stacked woodpile: no sign of either the Vikings or anyone else; however, the chills stabbing down my spine announced the presence of something my eyes could not yet see. Nausea threatened the contents of my stomach.
    “Why would these ghosts, or whatever, show up at Manny’s house?” Jeremy asked, his tone low, hand on his holstered gun. “Let me call this in and—”
    Just then, a red, four-door Camry turned into the driveway.
    My heart sank. “Christ almighty,” I sighed.
    Jeremy snorted. “Ask and ye shall receive.”
    We quick-timed it to the driveway, where a well-dressed man stepped out of the car. His hair was cut short and he wore a crisp dress shirt, tie, and slacks. The cold, evening air that swirled around me was from the stare he gave me and not from the other side. David O’Toole stood next to his car, its door still open, and stared at us. For a bigot, he was rather handsome. Silver streaked his brown hair. He slammed the door and looked at both of us cautiously.
    Jeremy was the first to acknowledge him with a nod. “David, we were just about to call you.”
    “Constable Garratt, Miss Mills,” David said with a heavy emphasis on the Miss. Jackass. “Can I help you?”
    I gulped down my anger. This jerk might be the one helping to make me feel oh-so-welcomed. Bigger issues right now, Rachel. I pushed aside the desire to scream at him; instead, I exercised great maturity and said in a tight voice, “Manny called me.”
    David sighed. “What have you got my son into now?”
    “ Excuse me ?” I said, taken aback.
    David narrowed his eyes at me. “People like you encourage bad behaviour in our young people. There’s enough going on with the all the drugs and gangs.”
    Anger rose inside me, and several regional town hall shouting matches, err . . . meetings, came back to me. I jabbed a finger at him. “Look, my dad is a Mountie and there is no way I’m going to let teenagers die on the highway because they’re too scared to call their parents.”
    Jeremy cleared his throat before David could answer. “Your son called Rachel because . . . um, gang members broke into your house and he was too afraid to call the RCMP.” Jeremy coughed. “She called me.”
    David’s eyes went wide. “Gang? Manny is in a gang?”
    “No!” Both Jeremy and I said. We traded a glance.
    That was when the other hit me.
    Echoes of words in an unknown tongue, screams and rage and terror filled my mind. I clamped my hands against my temples, trying to brace against the blistering pain. My vision darkened and I collapsed to the ground, my own shrieks sounding distant and muffled.
    “Rachel? Rachel, what’s wrong?” I could barely hear Jeremy over the screams of agony in my head.
    I gasped several times before successfully choking in a lungful of air. The blackness that spread over my vision faded and I could see again. Whatever had come over from the other side hadn’t left; I had merely adjusted. Whatever it was, it was powerful and there was a lot of it.
    The Beothuks.
    “Rachel? Are you all right?” Jeremy asked, crouching next to me, offering me his hand.
    I nodded and whispered, “Trouble’s coming.” I took his offered hand and let him help me to my feet.
    The flash of fur and swords caught my attention. Two of the Vikings I’d seen in Manny’s basement, crouching low, ducked behind the woodpile before sprinting across the road towards the dock where the whale-watching tours launched off with their overeager city tourists who’d never been on a boat before.
    David’s eyes widened. “Wha—stop!”
    I waved him silent. “They don’t speak English.”
    That surprised him. Everyone spoke English in St. Anthony; it was a small town. “Who are they?”
    “We found them in your basement. They said something about Skraeling s and took off.