Tanya Haff - The Second Summoning

For all intents and purposes, the motel room was dark and quiet. The only light came intermittently through a crack in the curtains as the revolving sign by the road spun around so fast it caught up to its afterimages and appeared to read Motel 666. The only sound came from the rectangular bulk of the heating unit under the window that roared out warmth at a decibel level somewhere between a DC9 at takeoff and a Nirvana concert, although it was considerably more melodic than either.

The smell emanating from the pizza box, crushed to fit neatly into a too-small wastebasket, blended with the lingering smell of the previous inhabitants, some of whom hadnt been particularly attentive to personal hygiene.

The radio alarm clock between the beds read eleven forty squiggle where the squiggle would have been a five had the entire number been illuminated.

Both of the double beds were occupied.

The bed closest to the bathroom held the shape of two bodies, one large, one small, stretched out beneath the covers.

The bed closest to the window held one long, lean, black-and-white shape that seemed to be taking up more room than was physically possible.

The light flickered. The heater roared. The long, lean shape contracted and became a cat. It walked to the edge of the mattress and crouched, tail lashing.

This is pathetic, it announced, leaping upon the smaller of the two figures in the other bed. Even for you.

Claire Hansen stretched out her arm, turned on the bedside lamp, and found herself face-to-face with an indignant one-eyed cat. Austin, if you dont mind, were waiting for a manifestation.

He lay down on her chest, assuming a sphinx like position that suggested he wasnt planning on moving any time soon. Its been a week. Twisting her head around, Claire peered at the clock radio. The squiggle changed shape. Its been forty-six minutes.

Its been a week, Austin repeated, since we left the Elysian Fields Guest House. A week since you and young Mr. Mclssac here started keeping company. The other figure stirred, but the cat continued.

For the first time in that week, you two are actually in the same bed and what are you doing? Youre waiting for a manifestation! Claire blinked. Keeping company? she repeated.

For lack of a more descriptive phrase, which, I might add, is my point, theres a distinct lack of more descriptive phrases being applied here. You could cut the unresolved sexual tension between you two with a knife, and I, personally, he declared, whiskers bristling, am tired of it.

Just pretending for a moment that this is any of your business, Claire told him tightly, a week isnt that long . . .

You knew each other for almost two months before that.

... were in one bed now because the site requires a male and a female component . . .

Youre saying you had no control over the last seven days?

. . . and did it ever occur to you that things havent progressed because theres been an audience perpetually in attendance?

Oh, sure. Blame me.

Could I say something here? Rolling toward the center of the bed, Dean McIssac rose up on one elbow, blue eyes squinting a little behind wire-frame glasses as he came into the light from the bedside table. Im thinking this isnt the time or the place to talk about, you know, stuff.

Talk? Austin snorted. Youre missing my point. The young mans cheeks flushed slightly. Well, it sure as scrod isnt the time or the place to do anything.

Why not?

Because theres a dead . . . lady standing at the foot of the bed. Claire craned her neck to see around the cat.

Arms folded over a turquoise sweater, her weight on one spandex-covered hip, the ghost raised an artificially arched ectoplasmic eyebrow. Boo, she suggested.

Boo yourself, Claire sighed.

Cheryl Poropat, or rather the ghost of Cheryl Poropat, hovered above the X

marked on the carpet with ashes and dust, the scuffed heels of her ankle boots about two inches from the floor. So, youre here to send me on?

Thats right. Claire sat down in one of the rooms two chairs. Like most motel chairs they werent designed to be actually sat in, but she felt that remaining in bed with Dean, even if they were both fully clothed, undermined her authority.

You some kind of an exorcist?

No, Im a Keeper.

Cheryl folded her arms. Half a dozen cheap bracelets jangled against the curve of one wrist. And whats that when its home?

Keepers maintain the structural integrity of the barrier between the world as most people know it and the metaphysical energy all around it. The ghost blinked. Say what?

We mend the holes in the fabric of the universe so bad things dont get through.

Well, why the hell didnt you say so the first time? If I wasnt dead, she continued thoughtfully before Claire could answer, Id think you were full of it, but since Im not only dead, Im here, my view of stuff has been, you know, broadened. Penciled brows drew in ... Being dead makes you look at things differently. . . . and centered themselves again. So, how do you do it?

Do what? Claire asked, having been distracted by the movement of the dead womans eyebrows.

Fix the holes.

We reach beyond the barrier and manipulate the possibilities. We use magic, she simplified as Cheryl looked blank.

Understanding dawned with returning facial features. Youre a witch. Like on television.

No.

Whats the difference?

Shes got a better looking cat, Austin announced from the top of the dresser in a tone that suggested it should have been obvious.

Claire ignored him. Im a Keeper.

Well, jeepers keepers. Cheryl snickered and bounced her fingertips off a bit of bouffant hair, her hair spray having held into the afterlife. Bet you wish you had a nickel for every time someone said that.

Not really, no.

Theyve got a better sense of humor on television, too, the ghost muttered.

Thats only because Keepers have no sense of humor at all, Austin told her, studying his reflection in the mirror. If it wasnt for me, shed be so smugly sanctimonious no one could live with her.

And thank you for your input, Austin. Shooting him a look that clearly promised later, Claire stood. Shall we begin? Cheryl waved off the suggestion. Whats your hurry? Introduce me to the piece of beefcake the cat thinks you should do the big nasty with.

The what?

You know; the horizontal mambo, the beast with two backs. Her pelvic motions, barely masked by the red stretch pants, cleared up any lingering confusions.

He a Keeper, too?

Claire glanced over at Dean who was staring at the ghost with an expression of horrified fascination. Or fascinated horror, she wasnt entirely certain which. Hes a friend. And that was a private conversation.

Ask me if I care? Translucent hands patted ephemeral pockets. Id kill for a freaking smoke. Couldnt hurt me much now, could they? You oughta go for it, Keeper.

I dont smoke.

A ghostly, dismissive glance raked her up and down. Not surprised, youve got that tobacco-free, alcohol-free, cholesterol-free, is that your natural hair color?

Yes. Claire tucked a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.

Hair-color free sort of look. Take my advice, hon, try a henna.

I ought to go for a henna?

Yeah, in your hair. But that wasnt what I meant. You oughta go for him. She nodded toward Dean. Live a little. I mean, men take their pleasure where they find it, right? Why not women? Your husband screws around, you know, and everyone thinks hes such a freaking stallion and all you gets a sorry, sweetie that youre supposed to take cause hes out of work and feeling unsure of his manhood, like its your freaking fault he got LAID OFF. . . . Claire and Austin, whod been watching the energy build, dropped to the floor. Dean, whose generations of Newfoundland ancestors trapped between a barren rock and an angry sea had turned adaptability into a genetic survival trait, followed less than a heartbeat behind.