The Guidance (22 page)

"I thought I'd read somewhere that the Episcopal Church has a ceremony for it."

Father Mass removes his robe slowly and hangs it in the closet also. Then he lets out a long sigh. "The
Book of Occasional Services
does indeed talk about exorcisms and provisions that can be made for them. However, there aren't any definitive rites or rituals to be followed."

"But you know how to do one, right?"

He squints. "I might. I'm not allowed to though."

"Why not?"

"Because there are rules within the church, Kendall. I can't perform an exorcism without the permission of the bishop. He has to bring in psychiatrists and physicians to examine the person in question and approve of a cleansing of the possessed."

I hold my index finger up. "Aha. What if it's not a possession but an oppression?"

"Semantics, Kendall."

I sit in one of the choir chairs. "Loreen says if a spirit is oppressing you, he or she is influencing your actions and behaviors without actually inhabiting your body or possessing you."

He harrumphs. "Loreen again, huh? She sure has a lot to say about everything."

"Loreen's given me tons of good advice. That's why I'm here talking to you. I e-mailed her about what's going on, and she said I needed to get guidance from you."

His mood lightens. "Very well, then. Why don't you tell me exactly what's happening?"

Father Mass sits next to me, and I tell him what's been going on with Courtney since the incident at the Halloween party escalated like it did.

"Oh, that girl. I tried contacting her family afterward. Only, no response."

"Yeah, her."

And like that, his disposition darkens again. "Look, Kendall. If that girl is possessed, we're looking at some nasty business that you and your friends should
not
get involved in."

"We haven't done anything yet, Father, I promise. But Courtney's messed up and needs help."

He places a finger beneath my chin. "Under no circumstances are you ghost huntresses to attempt an exorcism on your own. Don't fool with that!"

Defending my group, I say, "We don't think it's something demonic; we think it's this Union soldier we've encountered over and over again who just generally seems pissed of fat everything." Ooops. "Sorry about that, Father."

"That's okay. 'Piss' is in the Bible." He pauses a moment. "Kendall, you've got a good head on your shoulders, and you've been taking advice very well. If you need me to intervene and talk to Courtney, I'll do it. But she has to know what's going on first. It has to be her decision."

"I know. That's the tricky part."

"Well, you'll think of something," he says with a devilish smile.

"Loreen said she'd help too."

Father Mass chuckles as he stands up. "It doesn't hurt to have all of your bases covered."

"Thanks, Father. I'll keep you posted."

As I head out of the church, he calls to me. "Kendall. If Courtney truly let a spirit inside her or is allowing it to manipulate her, only
she
can dispel it."

A moan involuntarily escapes me. "That's what I was afraid of."

The next day at school, my BlackBerry
bbbbrrrrrringggs
, signaling a text message. From Celia.

>More Courtney oddities.

>Dish

Two seconds later—

>Chk e-mail

Sure enough, there's detailed information from Celia.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject:
Langdon Case

Overheard Mr. Preston, the band director, talking to the school nurse, known forward as Witness 1 and Witness 2. Seems C. Langdon was in the band room this morning sitting on a table, playing a brass instrument, thought to be a cornet perhaps. Witness 1 says C. Langdon doesn't actually play a trumpet or cornet that he's aware of. Witness 1 says C. Langdon was playing a "soulful rendition of 'Amazing Grace' and was crying as she was playing." Witness 2 reports that C. Langdon was brought to the office where she complained of having a stomachache. Tums were dispensed and C. Langdon returned to class.

Celia

She is
such
a dork. But I appreciate the information all the same.

I observe Courtney across the cafeteria. The girl has two trays in front of her and she is shoveling in food as if she hasn't seen a decent meal in months. (Which, considering her daily gastrointestinal pyrotechnics, is probably the case.) This is so not like her well-documented near-bulimic self. My God, there's so much food: Rice and beans. French fries. A cheeseburger with the works. Chocolate cake. Mac 'n' cheese. Carbs, carbs, carbs. There is no way in holy hell that I'm going anywhere near the girls' bathroom after lunch for what's sure to be a puke-fest for the ages.

Later on, in physiology, I'm busy working on our piglet while Courtney stares down at it as if she's hypnotized. And she very well may be.

"Courtney?" I prompt softly. "You okay?"

She hunches her shoulders and then begins scratching under her left armpit. Ewww!

"Damn lice," she mutters in a dark voice. "I've done everything I can to get rid of them"

My mouth gapes as I scrutinize her actions. Others around us turn to look.

I lower my voice. "Courtney, are you telling me you have lice?"

She starts pawing through her long blond hair. "With all of this, the bugs are liable to take root for years. Colonel told all of us to wash good with the lye."

Senses on overload, I'm picking up images of the Union soldier who entered her body at the Halloween party. He's in an encampment, sitting around a fire with other men. He's preoccupied and distracted. He's worried about getting dysentery. The image shifts and disappears as quickly as it came.

Courtney interrupts by saying, "So many of my friends have died from dysentery."

"Really? Like who?"

Picking at the pig with a scalpel, she says, "Mills, Doyle, Clark, and Dolan. Hell, Dolan was just a baby—only nineteen. Didn't deserve to die like that. Had a girl back home. He wrote to her all the time and carried her picture with him. No one ever wrote to me."

This isn't Courtney at all. Sure, physically it's her, but she's not alone in her body. The soldier from the party is with her now! He was the one making her act all weird at the football game. And here he is, right beside me.

Boldly, I take her hand and squeeze hard.

"Courtney. Are you in there?"

The soldier's ominous laugh echoes not only in my head but throughout the science lab. Pain like a steak knife slicing through a piece of meat spreads from one temple to the other. My right eye begins to twitch, and the hand I'm holding pulsates underneath my fingers like the blood is nearly at a boiling point.

"Who are you?" I ask.

No response.

I move closer, leaning to whisper in her ear. "Courtney, is there any way you can reach out to me? Anything. I'll help you. I swear I will, no matter what."

The soldier jerks her hand away, knocking it onto the corner of the lab table and breaking one of her perfect nails.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"I know your game," she growls through clenched teeth. "I know all about you."

While Courtney moves to "adjust" herself with one hand, she nabs a pencil with the other. She tries to write something, but it seems the soldier inside won't allow her to do this. Instead, she reaches for her cell phone, which I doubt the soldier would have the first freakin' clue about. She furiously moves her right hand over the buttons and then turns the phone to face me.

The soldier cackles again in my head, intensifying my pain and the eye twitch.

I slide the phone toward me and hold my breath.

>PLZ SAVE ME!

Courtney is in there. She heard me. And she wants my help.

"I'm on it."

Just as I'm about to fall asleep in my history class—discussion of the Restoration, Reformation, Renaissance, or some other historical
r
word—my phone vibrates in my pocket. My heart soars when I see it's a text message from Jason.

>it's me.

>hey me.

>what up?

>tryin 2 stay awake.

>me 2.

This is the first time we've talked since he stormed out the other night. I don't know whether he's still ticked off at me or what. I attempt to break the ice as Mrs. Hixon blathers on about Martin Luther and the Peace at Westphalia in 16-some-thing-or-other.

>so...?

>I'm sorry I wuz a dick.

>U wrn't a dick.

Yeah, he really was, but I get it.

>Yes I wuz.

>I understand. Em was out of line.

>So wuz I I'm sorry.

>u said that. ©

>mean it.

>love u, mean it.

>ur adorable.

>no, u r.

>;) c u soon.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the day, and I stash my BlackBerry in my purse. Jason and I have definitely begun
our
restoration. Could we
be
any cuter?

On Thursday, I sigh as I look at the folder that Celia has compiled on my archenemy ... and our new client: File GH-0023—Courtney Langdon.

"Great," I mutter.

"Was Courtney in school today?" Celia asks from her computer.

Taylor sets her Nikon D40 camera (a new toy she got off eBay) on the floor and pipes up. "She called in sick the last couple of days. Stephanie and Farah told me she was completely embarrassed about what-all she's been doing in public and has been hiding out in her room feigning some incapacitation."

Yeah, I've been on my own with the pig dissection, which is fine with me. A person can only take so many gnarly looks in a day.

"Whatever," Becca says. "She deserves what she gets. The bitch toyed with the spirits and bagged on what we're doing. She asked for this."

Sadly, Becca's right. However, it's our duty as ghost huntresses to help anyone who reaches out to us. Even Courtney Langdon.

"That's why we've gathered the team." I stand up in front of the girls and smooth out the wrinkles in my jeans. Jason and Clay—de facto members of the team—are absent right now, doing whatever it is that boys do after school on a Thursday, while we establish a game plan for dealing with the Union soldier who's playing marionette with one of the most popular girls in school. "Celia, you wanna tell us what you've been able to dig up?"

She swivels in the leather chair and plants her Reeboks firmly on the carpet in front of her. "So, I've done some research on the Crawford house."

"Why?" Taylor asks with a bit of a pout. "Shouldn't we be looking at Courtney's instead?"

"No," Celia explains, "this entity seems to be tied to the Crawford house. That's why he felt comfortable enough to bust in on our investigation in the carriage house with Stephanie's grandfather, and then later to attend a party and step into one of the guests."

"Who just so happened to have invited him in," Becca interjects.

Celia rolls her neck for a moment. "Annnyway. According to the registrar of deeds, the house has been in Miss Evelyn's family dating back to the early 1800s. In the Radisson library, I found some old lithographs of Union soldiers encamped in the area during Sherman's March to the Sea. Throughout Georgia, troops were left behind to police the locals and secure whatever properties they could. One of the places where Union soldiers camped out was right on Crow Lane." She pulls a large map off her desk and spreads it on the floor, pointing to the location of the property where Evelyn and Stephanie Crawford live.

"So because of the ginormous yard, the Yankees made it their home?" Taylor asks, poring over the map. "I hope no one got raped or pillaged."

"It wasn't the Middle Ages," Becca says with a smirk.

"Yeah, but that shit happened," Celia says.

"Those poor people," Taylor says and adds another good pout. Often I wonder who the real empath is here. That girl feels everyone's pain.

Taylor shifts on the floor and stretches out her legs. I hear the
click
and
ping
as she scrolls through her digital images. I know without looking that they're the pictures she took the night of Stephanie's party.

I crawl across the room on my hands and knees to perch next to Taylor and gaze over her shoulder. Typical party pics of people making silly faces and all smashed together in group hugs and stuff. There are a lot of goofy ones of all of us in our costumes. My heart instantly picks up speed when I see Jason in his tight Batman attire.

Taylor straightens. "Ooo ... is that a soldier?" She points at a pic of Celia, me, and Becca all sticking out our tongues at the camera. "See. Look."

Sure enough, in the background, there's a man in a navy blue uniform circa the Civil War era. My instincts tell me it's the same soldier I was dealing with that night, even though I can only see him from behind. I can literally smell the musty wool of his uniform and sense the dirt clogged under his fingernails from weeks—months, even—on the battlefield. The stench of iron-y blood and sweat and tears and lives lost in a war of brother versus brother.

"Is this dude following us around?" Becca asks, obviously referring to the Lockhart case.

"It's possible. Anything's possible." I pause for a moment and tune in to all of the vibrations creeping through my body. The pinch of the psychic headache. The tremble of my hands and legs. The immense sorrow filling my heart. The symptoms permeate my entire being. "We've got to get back to the Crawford house, set up our equipment, and really begin to dig around there. It's the only way we can help Courtney."

Celia reaches for her cell. "I'll call Stephanie right now."

"We need reinforcements on this one," I say.

"I'm on it."

A while later, three visitors arrive at Celia's house: Stephanie, Loreen, and Father Mass. Steph plops down onto the living room sectional and lets out a long sigh. The last two are confused as to why the other is there. I can read it in both of their eyes as they move into the Nicholses' house and take seats opposite each other.

Animosity swirls in the air between them. Eyes cut across the room, touching on each other. I wish they could just be friends, since I trust them both with my life.