Chapter Six
Botched
I spent most of Monday researching spells and rituals useful for dealing with angry ghosts or demons while Millicent helped.
You’d think since she’s a ghost and all, she could fly over there, find the guy, and have a nice chat. Though, if Hosea Povey lost his mind, murdered his daughter, then went on a rampage in which he killed a couple cops… I doubt there’d be anything ‘nice’ about the chat. So, yeah. It looks like we’re dealing with the ghost of a man who died in 1849. He’s definitely been a spirit long enough to have learned how to affect the living. There being four people found dead in the house over the years is highly suspicious, even without the corroborating evidence of strangulation in the older cases.
Seriously, what are the odds of every prior owner of a property dying under suspicious circumstances? Edith and Ralph Larsen weren’t old enough to spontaneously drop dead of heart attacks… and even if they both had serious health issues, it’s unlikely they would’ve died at the same time. Sure, anything is possible. Maybe they committed suicide by pills. Who knows?
At least Monday didn’t end up being a total waste of time. We figured out an effective means of attacking spirits using magic. Between my hunches, Millicent’s commentary, and a tiny prod from Gaia, I’ve worked out a new spell to fight ghosts. It’s similar to the fireball I’ve been using, but made entirely out of magic energy. No fire. I haven’t tested it yet other than throwing it at empty ground in the alley behind my apartment; however, if my estimations are correct, this spell shouldn’t be capable of hurting a living person. Wait. I take that back. It will hurt them. People still have souls after all, but I am ninety-nine percent sure this spell can’t kill a spirit when it’s still inside the body it belongs to. Meaning, if I hit a living person with my ‘ghost fireball,’ it’s probably going to be super painful but not dangerous.
Different story when using it on a specter.
Vincente doesn’t call, nor do I experience any random feelings of OMG. Still, I can’t help but think about Hosea, his daughter, the two dead cops, and how crazy it must have been back then for a man to reach such a breaking point over land rights, especially land not producing any gold. How sad is it Claiborne ended up taking the mine after they executed Hosea and he found gold right away? Like, if Hosea had spent his time digging instead of killing everyone, he might’ve been the one to have found the gold. To be so close before he gave up, and then have the man who’d been harassing him take the treasure he’d been busting his backside for? Wow. No wonder. Darn good reason for a spirit to be pissed off.
Sometimes, people get far angrier at themselves than anything another person did to them.
I know this whole situation is gnawing on my mind bad since I’ve referred to three different call-in guests on my Tuesday radio show as ‘Hosea’ by accident. Fortunately, I’m a psychic, so it’s easy to recover from the gaffes by saying a spirit is distracting me. In truth, it’s not really a lie. Despite the spirit of Hosea Povey not being right next to me, he’s definitely distracting me.
Detective Smithy wants to take me out for dinner Wednesday or Thursday. Yeah, we’re kinda dating. Also, yeah... the queen of ‘Hump or Dump’ has done a reading on herself and Smithy. How’d he do? Let’s just say I’m willing to go on the date. Romance hasn’t exactly been kind to me. Most of my hesitation and wanting to take things slow here is coming from fear. However, it’s not the usual sort of fear people have in regard to commitment. I’m afraid if we start to get too serious, he’s going to get killed on the job. The last time I decided to eject my brain out of my head and fall madly in love with a guy, he ended up dead mere days later.
As soon as I get home from the radio station on Tuesday, I kick my shoes off and head straight to my Spirit Chair. A little distant-seeing session shouldn’t take too long. No, I can’t explain why the idea to do it didn’t happen before work. Sometimes, I don’t think of doing stuff when I have ample time. Gotta chalk it up to the Universe sending messages. The strong urge to go snooping around for Hosea’s ghost hit me on the ride home.
I’m hopeful it means I’ll find something.
After making myself comfortable in the chair, I close my eyes and try to relax. It’s not too difficult. Little traffic at this hour, so my commute was pleasant. Most of my anxiety right now is related to Hosea and worry about Vincente’s life.
Hosea Povey… I say in my mind-voice, concentrating on a sense of his identity. We—meaning Millicent and I—couldn’t find any photographs of the man. All I’ve got is a name and my memory of feeling the spiritual charge at the property. Psychics with distant-seeing abilities, according to rumor, used to work for the Department of Defense, snooping around at Russian military sites. All they had to go on was a picture taken by a reconnaissance aircraft or satellite and they could find the place. A name, plus what I know of his history, should be plenty.
Hosea Povey… where are you? Who are you? What really happened?
I repeat the name a few times in my mind.
A sense of vertigo comes out of nowhere… as if I’ve fallen backward out of my body, down through my chair. The feeling is brief, but disconcerting. The darkness of my closed eyelids gives way to weak, flickering firelight illuminating a rough-hewn stone tunnel and a rough rock face straight in front of me. My vision’s hazy at the edges, faded to smoky grey. Two lanterns hang above me, one on either side. A man’s arms swing into view, hammering a pick axe at the rock.
Again and again, Hosea Povey attacks the wall, chipping away stone. Every so often, he stops, picks up a chunk to examine, then tosses it aside. Frustration, anger, disappointment, and exhaustion saturate his every breath. He’s been working here almost two years with nothing to show for it. His wife left him. He can’t spend all his time looking for gold because his daughter needs food. Anger, furious anger, wells up… directed at someone male.
Everything goes black.
Seconds later, another rush of vertigo makes me feel like I’m falling straight down. Something cinches tight around my throat, excruciatingly painful. Can’t breathe. In a panic, I try to grab at my neck, but my arms refuse to move. Horrified gasps come from all around me. Indistinct voices murmur from all directions, some shocked, some angry, some cheering.
My eyes snap open.
I’m in my Spirit Chair, but still can’t breathe. Tightness encircles my neck, the texture of a coarse, fat rope crushes my windpipe, pulling so hard it feels like I’m about to go up over the back of the chair. My arms won’t move off the armrests. The pressure on my throat is so severe I can’t even gasp. Can’t move. Can’t scream. I’m going to die here. The edges of my vision go black, shrinking into a tunnel. Right as total panic begins to set in, the pressure lets go.
I lurch forward, gasping for air, grabbing my neck, cough-choke-gagging. Bright spots dance in my vision. Severe nausea and light-headedness follow. I flop back in the chair, unable to do anything other than stare at the ceiling and think about how happy I am to simply have the ability to breathe.
As soon as the spots cease dancing in my eyes, I stagger to the bathroom and check myself in the mirror. No red marks. Whew. Okay, honestly, it’s not surprising. I didn’t feel a ghostly presence in the room with me. Nothing actually choked me out. As real as it felt, I’d essentially read an ancient memory.