Page 4 of Spit

Lexi could drain someone of their magic, but that didn’t help when her attacker was human.

“Beelzebub-Jah-Al-Satan,”Lexi shrieked, invoking the name in her head. The demon she wasn’t sure even existed. She hadn’t spoken to him since she was ten, and he was just a shadow in her attic. Making promises that children could never keep and secrets that they shouldn’t.

One moment, Lexi was pressed down by Dylan’s weight as he clawed at her like a deranged monkey, and the next, he was gone. Thrown clear across Abbotts Ridge, on the other side of the parking lot, away from his bike.

A man stood at Lexi’s feet, with his back to her. His legs and arms were too thin, though his suit was tailored perfectly, giving the effect of a spider in black pinstripes. Something tickled Lexi’s memory, but her childhood was fuzzy at best. She had believed that Mr. Bub was an imaginary friend—some creepy apparition she had invented just so she had someone to talk to when she was a kid.

The demon stared at Dylan for a moment as if he wanted to rip him to pieces and eat the meat from the boy’s ribs before he blinked and smoothed his gaunt face into an impassive mask.

“Alexis Boudaire.” The demon tipped his head. “Don’t you remember what I said when we made our bargain?”

Chapter One

My elderly neighbor Babette smacked her cane against the creaking floorboards as if she could smack the poltergeist right out of her rent-controlled apartment.

The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she winced and turned to me. “I don’t know how the spook got in, but I’ll be damned if I’m letting some restless soul stay in my guest bedroom for free.” She groused.

I nodded in agreement, eying the foggy cloud of ill-intent as it crept from corner to corner as if it was tasting the paisley wallpaper.

“Have you had any messages on the walls or mirrors?” I asked, affecting a bland tone as if we were talking about the weather.

“Ah, yes.” Babette’s eyes narrowed as she glared at a creaking floorboard. “Mostly‘get out’with the occasional ‘die’thrown in.”

I nodded sagely, ignoring the malevolent cloud in the room. “And you called the exterminators?”

“Pah!” Babette waved away my question. “I’m on a fixed income. My Harry, God rest his soul, had a good police pension, but it’s not enough to affordexterminatorswhenever a spook comes around for iced tea.”

“You do make good iced tea.” I tried not to smile.

“Of course I do, child.” She shook her head as if I was addled. “Can you help me or not?”

I glanced around the room. “Sure.”

“I’ve heard that poltergeists can get messy.” Babette knitted her fingers together, tightening them around her cane. It was the only sign that she was bothered, but I’d known her for years, and Babette was braver than most. “Do you need me to get the salt?”

“You’re good.” I waved away her question. “Just give me a moment.”

“God rest her soul; if Adelaide knew this building was attracting spooks, she’d roll in her grave.” Babette made the sign of the cross.

I chuffed a laugh. “She’d come back from the dead just to kick them out, I reckon.”

Babette agreed without words. “Don’t you need a psychopomp?”

“It’s in my bag.” I lied.

I took my time pacing the apartment, circling the room. My steel-toe-capped boots thumped against the carpet as I walked, my hands behind my back as I ignored the restless spirit in the corner.

The lamp was covered by a gauzy scarf, bathing the room in a purple tint. The blinds were open, showing the sun as it set over the horizon, lengthening the shadows in the apartment.

No one paid attention to shadows. Why would they? Shadows were seldom different. They mimicked a person, though taller or thinner. My shadow might have looked like my silhouette unless you really paid attention—people never did.

I continued walking, but my shadow stayed behind, watching the poltergeist like a dog staring down an intruder. I felt my shadow’s hunger as if it was my own.

I tried not to show the longing on my face as I began to chant under my breath—pretend words with some rudimentary Latin thrown in. Babette wouldn’t know that my exorcism style was odd, to say the least, but I couldn’t risk her telling someone else—someone that knew about witches and their rituals.

The poltergeist crept closer, the fog parting to reveal a dark, patchy face, almost like the spirit was inverted. What had once been skin was pockmarked as if it had been picked apart by thousands of tiny insects. The specter no longer had eyes, just two endless gaping holes where they had once been, though I felt he could see me just fine.

My fingers twitched as I waited for the spirit to get closer. I felt its hatred pressing on me as if the ceiling was collapsing, and I glanced at Babette, who shivered.

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