The Summoning

Thirty-four

I WASN'T SETTING FOOT —bare, stockinged, or shoed—in that crawl space until I'd talked to the first ghost and asked all the questions Derek had raised.

We went down to the laundry room. Derek took up a position at the side, leaning back against the dryer. I sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, closed my eyes, and focused.

It didn't take long, as if the ghost had been waiting for me. I still couldn't catch more than phrases and glimpses. I told Derek this, then said, "I stopped taking the meds after you gave me that jar. But they must still be in my system."

". . . not medic . . ." the ghost said. ". . . block . . ."

"What's blocked?"

"Spell . . . ghosts . . . blocking . . ."

"A spell to block ghosts?" I guessed.

That got Derek's attention and he shifted forward, arms uncrossing. "Did he say a spell's blocking him? What kind?"

I was about to translate, but the ghost could obviously hear and answered. "Magic . . . ritual . . . important."

"It's important?"

"Not . . . not important," he said emphatically.

I related this to Derek who grumbled about the imperfection of this mode of communication as he furiously scratched his forearm, then said, 'Tell him to say one word at a time. Repeat it until you get it and you say it back. It'll be slow, but at least we won't miss —"

He stopped, his gaze following mine to his forearm. His skin was . . . moving. Rippling.

"What the —?" he began, then growled in frustration and gave his arm a fierce shake. "Muscle spasms. I've been getting them a lot lately."

He peered down at the rippling skin again, made a fist, and pumped his arm, trying to work it out. I was about to suggest he see a doctor, then realized that might not be so easy for someone like Derek. I could see now that it was his muscles, expanding and contracting on their own. A side effect of his condition, I guess, muscles developing in overdrive. Like the rest of him, slamming through puberty.

"Just as long as you don't rip through your clothing and turn green," I said.

"What?" His face scrunched up, then he got it. "The Incredible Hulk. Ha-ha. Incredibly Stupid Movie, more like." His rubbed his forearm. "Ignore me and get back to your ghost."

The ghost had heard Derek's suggestion about taking it one word at a time, and that's what we did. It worked much better, though it felt a bit like charades, him saying a word over and over, and me excitedly repeating it when I finally understood.

I started with questions about the ghost himself, and learned he was a necromancer. He'd been at the hospital when I'd been admitted. Something about stopping ghosts from harassing the mental patients, which I didn't really understand, but it wasn't important.

Ghosts recognize necromancers, so he'd known that's what I was. Realizing that I didn't know what I was, he knew I needed help. But before he could make contact, they moved me. So he'd followed me to Lyle House. Only it was somehow blocked against ghosts. He thought it was a spell, though when Derek challenged that assumption, the ghost admitted that it could be anything from the construction materials to the geographic location. All he knew was that the only places he could make even partial contact with me were the basement and the attic.

As for the bodies in the crawl space, he knew two things. One, they'd been murdered. Two, they were super-naturals. Put those together and he was convinced their stories would be important. He couldn't get them himself because he couldn't contact the dead as easily as he could before he became one of them himself.

"But they were just skeletons and dried up flesh," Derek said. "Like mummies. Whatever happened to them wouldn't have anything to do with us, here, now."

"Maybe," was the ghost's only answer.

"Maybe?" Derek threw up his hands and started pacing, He muttered under his breath, but there was no anger in it, just frustration, trying to work through this problem and see a connection when he really should be in bed, nursing a fever.

"Samuel Lyle," the ghost communicated next. "Original owner. Know him?"

I said I didn't and asked Derek.

"How would I know the guy who built this place a hundred years ago?"

"Sixty," the ghost said, and I relayed it.

"Whatever." Derek resumed pacing. "Does he even know what year this is?"

I could have pointed out that if the ghost knew how long ago the house had been built, he obviously knew the current year, but Derek was just grouching, his fever making it hard to concentrate on this puzzle.

"Supernatural," the ghost said. "Lyle. Sorcerer."

That made Derek stop when I relayed it.

"The guy who built this place was a sorcerer?"

"Dark magic. Alchemist. Experimented. On supernaturals."

A chill ran up my arms and I crossed them. "You think that's how those people in the cellar died? This sorcerer, Lyle, experimented on them?"

"How does he know so much about this guy?" Derek said. "He followed you here, didn't he?"

"Everyone knew," the ghost replied. "In Buffalo. All supernaturals. Knew where he lived. And stayed away. Or didn't."

Derek shook his head. "1 still don't see how any of this is connected to us."

"Maybe," the ghost replied. "Maybe not. Need to ask."

Derek hissed a curse and smacked his hand into the wall hard enough to make me wince. I walked over to him.

"Go to bed. You're probably right. I'm sure it's nothing —"

"I'm not saying that. I'm just saying . . . A sorcerer built this place sixty years ago; there are supernaturals buried in the cellar; and now we're here, three supernatural kids. The group home is named after him. Is that significant? Or is it just named after the guy who built it? It seems too much to be a coincidence, but I'm just not getting the connection."

"I can do this. Go back —"

"No, he's right. We need to ask. I just . . ." He shoved his hand up the back of his shirt, scratching. "I feel like crap and it's making me cranky. But we need to do this."

The ghost followed us into the crawl space.

"How do I avoid what I did earlier?" I asked. "Returning them to their bodies?"

Silence. I counted to sixty, then said, "Hello? Are you still there?"

"Stay calm. Focus. But go easy. Soft. Your power. Too strong."

"My powers are too strong?"

I couldn't suppress a smile. I might not be certain I wanted these powers, but it was kind of cool to hear that I had more than the average necromancer. Like taking an IQ test and finding out you're smarter than you thought.

"Your age. Should never be able to . . ."

Silence. I waited patiently to catch the next word. And waited.

"Hello?"

He started again, word by word. 'Too soon. Too much. Too . . ."

A longer pause.

"Something's wrong," he said finally.

"Wrong?"

Derek crawled from the shadows, where he'd been silently watching. "What's he saying?"

"Something about my powers. That they're . . . wrong."

"Too strong," the ghost said. "Unnatural."

"Unnatural?" I whispered.

Derek's eyes blazed. "Don't listen to him, Chloe. So you're powerful. Big deal. You're fine. Just take it slow."

The ghost apologized. He gave a few more instructions, then said he'd watch from the "other side," in case his presence had boosted my powers earlier. If I needed him, he'd come back. One last warning against trying too hard, and he was gone.