Secondhand Spirits (6 page)

I glanced up at Oscar, who was back on top of the refrigerator, inspecting his scaly, clawlike toes. I couldn't say I felt much kinship. But as I brewed my concoction, I had to admit that I did sense a subtle shift in my power. It wasn't stronger, exactly, but it was smoother. Slippery, almost. As though finding the portals more easily.

I prepared the herbs carefully, mumbling incantations as I did so. I recited my spells precisely as I had learned them: in Spanglish, with a smattering of Latin and Na huatl, Graciela's native language. After dropping in all the herbs, one by one, I brought out the tissue and added the strands of Frances's hair while intoning her name ten times.

My left eye started to itch, an omen that sorrow would soon find its way into my life. This wasn't unusual for me, and didn't necessarily have anything to do with the spell at hand. Still, I made doubly sure to do everything I could to repel negative influences. I stirred the brew only deosil, or in a clockwise direction. I cast the few leftover herbs into the fire under the pot. I chanted an extra ten minutes, just in case.

It took a full hour of boiling for the brew to come to readiness. I spent the wait time cleaning my implements carefully and thoroughly. Inspired, I used the rest of the time to straighten my sitting room. I was vacuuming the faded Turkish rug when a distinctive, rank smell began to permeate the air, signaling the brew's readiness for the next step: blood sacrifice.

I hated this part. Not because of the pain, but because it highlighted how different I was, even from other witches. The next step was beyond the abilities of any witch I'd ever known.

Gripping the black-handled knife in my right hand, I cut a small X in the palm of my left. Holding the injured hand palm-down over the cauldron, I allowed four drops of my blood to drip into the brew, which was now swirling deosil on its own.

I braced myself. A great cloud of vapor burst from the vessel and streamed up to the ceiling, taking on the amorphous form of a face lingering above us, looking down. Graciela said one day I would learn who my helping spirit was, but I wasn't sure I even wanted to know. He or she . . .
it
. . . scared me, every time. Almost as fast as the face appeared, it melted back into the ether.

“
Wow!
Didja see that?” asked Oscar, who had fallen back onto his butt and was huddled against the cupboards in the far corner of the kitchen. I had that same reaction for the first year or so of learning how to brew. “Mistress is a truly great witch!”

I blew out a deep breath and wiped my sweaty brow.

Witchcraft isn't for the faint of heart.

 

I have a genuinely terrible singing voice, but I didn't let that stop me from crooning along to a Dido CD at the top of my lungs as I sped my cherry red convertible through San Francisco's quiet streets. Oscar had whined and pleaded and mewled until I caved in and let him come along. Now, ignoring my admonitions, he jumped back and forth over the seats like a talkative dog.

Sneezing be damned, a traditional black-cat familiar was sounding better all the time.

Bayview-Hunters Point, Maya had informed me, was one of the last affordable neighborhoods in San Francisco, in part because it was adjacent to 465 acres of prime waterfront property that had been declared a toxic waste zone after the military pulled out a few decades ago. While lots of San Francisco's lower-income and “marginal” folks—hourly workers, free spirits, and artists alike—had been driven by economic necessity across the water to the East Bay, many people in Hunters Point had stayed on, developing a strong, innovative neighborhood association and even establishing a flourishing artists' colony.

As I drove into Frances's neighborhood, I noticed small groups of young men lingering on corners and loitering in front of the liquor store, using the pay phone. Farther down the street, where Jessica lived, all seemed quiet.

I pulled up in front of the darkened Potts house a little before one in the morning. Taking a special charm from the glove box, I held it in my right hand, closed my eyes, and recited an incantation several times. A few minutes later a bleary, disoriented Frances opened the front door. I ordered Oscar to stay in the car, grabbed my big canvas carryall, jumped out of the car, hurried up the path, and took the stairs two at a time.

I shut the front door behind us. The house was dark, but my night vision is better than average, and diffuse light from the streetlamps outside sifted through the windowpanes, lighting our way. Frances moaned softly as I gently propelled her up the stairs and down the hallway. If she remembered any of this, she would think of it as a vague dream. She moaned again and I searched her lined face, hoping I hadn't given her a nightmare. People had unpredictable reactions to sleepwalking.

Strange . . . tonight the patterns of colored lights filtering through the stained-glass window seemed to have an ominous cast, and the ticking of the grandfather clock marked time too quickly, almost frenetically. The air held a stale mustiness that melded with the lingering aroma of pot roast and potatoes, the scent much stronger now than it had been earlier this afternoon. Ditto the general sensations of past souls, though this wasn't surprising. Old houses held all kinds of spirits. Like the vibrations I gleaned from clothing, these were primarily benevolent, but not entirely.

Still, all the sensations felt stronger. Had something shifted since this afternoon, or was it just the effects of being here, virtually alone, in the middle of the night?

Frances's bedroom was small and cozy. I imagined that she and Ronald never moved into the master bedroom after his parents died. The chamber was minimally furnished: a double bed with a simple maple headboard and matching side tables; a vanity covered in doilies, old perfume bottles, and a fine mist of baby powder; and a faded, rose-colored upholstered easy chair decorated with embroidered heart-shaped pillows like the ones I had seen in the kitchen. I noted with approval that both tall windows, looking toward the north side of the yard, were covered with heavy brocade curtains. That was good; it was best for me to be able to control the light.

I pulled the headboard out from the wall a few inches, then led Frances back to bed and tucked her under her worn sage green cotton duvet. She wrapped her arms around her middle and curled up on her side into a fetal position, let out another soft moan, and went back to sleep.

From my satchel I extracted a dozen hand-dipped white beeswax candles, candleholders, a widemouthed thermos, and my black-handled spirit knife. I lit a few candles for light and set them on the bedside table. Then I unscrewed the thermos and invoked the powers of the moon as I poured a thin stream of liquid in a magical circle around the bed. That done, I took my
athame
and used the sharp tip to trace a five-pointed star within the circle—a pentagram—in the air. With each point I acknowledged the five elements of life: Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and finally, Spirit.

I placed the ritual candles in sets of three on the watchtowers of the circle: north, south, east, and west. Finally, kneeling within the circle, I invoked my powers, focused my intentions, and began to cast my spell of protection against
La Llorona
, against evil demons of all sorts.

As soon as I began, I heard a scratching sound overhead, a rustling that indicated restless spirits. The bedside lamp flickered on, then back off.

“Evil be gone from my sight, gone from this place. I have wrought a circle of magical brew, a circle of light against the darkness.”

The candles on the bedside table blew out. The flames on the circle wavered, but I commanded them to stay lit. Something was fighting the spell, aroused by it.

“There will be no trespass upon this soul, upon this essence. Evil be gone from here, for the good of all souls. This I compel you!”

I flinched as a heavy book flew toward my head, but it smacked into the invisible wall of the magic circle and fell to the floor. An insistent thumping began and grew louder until it sounded as though a small army were racing up a never-ending staircase, their footsteps echoing throughout the house. I closed my eyes and let myself relax into my power, confident in the strength of my focused intentions. The power coursed through me, using me as its vessel.

Suddenly the noise ceased. But then whispers began. A distinct but unintelligible voice murmured and chanted, invoking against me.

I opened my eyes.

Someone was there. Someone invisible.

Not a ghost. Ghosts didn't have this kind of power. This was an invisible someone.

And I was looking straight at it.

Using all my strength, I invoked the spirits of my ancestors, my helpmates, to maintain concentration on the spell. I chanted louder and tried to block out the insistent whispering, knowing the charmed bag on the braid at my waist, the power of the brew, and the magic circle would all work together to keep me safe.

I chanted, nonstop, until the house was hushed and my voice was hoarse. According to a quietly ticking clock on the bedside table nearly an hour had passed.

As I gathered my things, I reviewed the spell in my head. That invisible whispering presence had chilled me to the core. Had it really happened, or could it have been my imagination run amok? Though I was in touch with other spirit planes, I had an unfortunate tendency to freak myself out at the worst possible moments. Despite my years of study—or perhaps because of them—I knew only too well that much of the spiritual realm was still a mystery.

Physically and mentally drained, I left the Potts house shortly after two in the morning and drove to the edge of the San Francisco Bay, near the deserted India Basin Shoreline Park.

Time for a sit-down with a certain child-hungry demon.

Hunkering down on a muddy slope, I gazed out over the calm waters of the bay, feeling the effects of the “hangover” hum I always felt after working a spell, all my nerve endings alive, ultrasensitive, but weary. A blanket of fog hovered low over the water, but gleaming lights sparkled in the city of Oakland across the bay. The hills beyond were a sooty black against the deep purple of the night. Overhead, I noticed a red-tinged ring around the moon.

Blood on the moon. Another bad omen.

An hour passed. It didn't seem as though my quarry would be showing up anytime soon. Perhaps Jessica really had been a victim of an all-too-human form of evil—a drug deal gone sour, an estranged relative, a pedophile. Maybe it hadn't been
La Llorona
's wail that Frances and I heard, after all, but just an everyday attic—or basement—ghost trapped in Frances's home. Clearly there was some kind of presence in that house, and I was the first to admit I wasn't great with standard ghosts. Though my energy stirred them up, I could never see them clearly or understand what they were saying. I could only feel their presence and note their effects.

Creatures like
La Llorona
, on the other hand, were much more malevolent—and straightforward—than your average ghost. I had no problem at all seeing and understanding her ilk.

A half hour later I decided to pack it in. I stood and turned to brush some damp debris off the seat of my jeans.

A wave of icy dread washed over me. This chill had nothing to do with the fog.

Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of white. Someone—some
thing
—skittered by. I twisted around, but it was gone before I could focus. Again, on the other side, a cold breeze, as though a butterfly had rushed past. Or a demon.

I froze, caressed my medicine bundle, and recited a brief protective incantation.

“Did you see that?” I asked the darkness.

“What?” Oscar appeared at my side.

I immediately felt better. Maybe this whole familiar thing wasn't such a bad idea.

“I thought I saw . . .” I tried to shake off the willies.

“Never mind. It was probably just my imagination.”

Another skitter in my peripheral vision, this time on the other side.

“
La Llorona!
” Oscar cried in an urgent whisper. He jumped into my arms, wrapped his scaly limbs around my neck and waist, and trembled.

So much for comforting me with his presence.

Then the weeping began: the terrible keening of a mother so tormented and distraught that she would hold her own children, one after another, underwater while she watched the life drain out of them. The sobbing became a palpable energy enveloping us, swallowing us.

“
¿Has visto a mis hijos?
” the specter wailed.
Have you seen my children?

The cry sounded far away, which meant that she was near. Demons were strange that way.

Now I could see her: a long-haired woman in a white gown, scuttling past.

Unpeeling Oscar from my body, I called out to
La Llorona
, then started chanting, trying to beckon her to return. It was no use. I was tired from working Frances's spell and didn't have the strength to compel her.

“What's happening?” Oscar whispered from behind a bush.

“She took off.”

“Why? She was attracted to your energy.”

“Hush, I'm going to try again.”

I tried for another ten minutes before giving up, swearing under my breath. It had been a stupid move to try to summon the apparition while fatigued from the earlier spell. Caressing my medicine bundle, I took big gulps of the salty, chill bay air as I carried Oscar back to my car in the otherwise deserted parking lot.

What now?
I wondered as I slipped behind the wheel. Go home and be glad that Frances was safe, try to forget little Jessica's smiling face . . . and try to convince people—children, especially—not to go near the water at night? All this without mentioning demons and ghostly phantoms? An impossible task in the City by the Bay.