Page 20 of Christmas Spirits

Arianna’s personality was on the inside, with fast food containers, extra sweaters and jackets, and loose CDs littering the front and back seats.

As we drove toward Westwood, I picked one of the CDs up and examined the cover. It was mostly red and black, with the silhouette of a crow on the front. Gothic. Dark. And I couldn’t even pronounce the band’s name.

Kat… Kat…a…ton….

“It’s a Swedish metal band,” Arianna confessed, snatching the CD from my hand and tossing it in the back seat. Then, she reached over to the stereo and turned it to a Christmas music station. An instrumental version ofOh Holy Nightplayed softly from the speakers. “I’m sure it’s nothing like what you listen to.”

“And how do you know that?” I tried not to sound offended when really, her comment irked me. “I might like it. I’m always up for trying new things.”

She slid me a sideways glare. One that had “yeah right” all over it.

“What?” I asked.

“You remind me of my aunt,” she said, hands tight on the steering wheel. “The one who always has her ducks in a row. Always manages to have everything together, even when things are falling apart. Not like that’s a bad thing,” she quickly added.

Me? Was that really how I came off to people? Because I usually felt like everything would cave in and combust at any moment.

That organized, level-headed person? That sounded more like my grandmother than me. Growing up, she always seemed to know just what to do and what to say. I wanted to be like that—that strong. But with all the chaos in my life, my anxiety and growing fears…

“But your aunt also ran an underground black-market business, didn’t she? Even she was diverse,” I said.

Arianna chuckled, her body relaxing some. “I guess you’re right. She also was one tough cookie. Strict. Always pushing me to do better. Do more. I used to think I could never please her. It was hard to handle sometimes.”

Now she wasreallydescribing my grandmother.

“But it was better for me in the long run,” she went on, eyes fixed on the road. “Because of her, I became a level three witch and was able to travel the world, something I’d always wanted to do. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish half as much without her constant nagging.” A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

I hadn’t even thought about it before, but Arianna and I shared a life without our mothers. We were also both raised by another family member, then had ended up losing that person, too.

Although it seemed she was handling the loss well, I could see the pain she suppressed, laying underneath. Could hear it in her voice when she spoke about her aunt and the complicated love they had for one another. I understood it, had felt it myself, and my heart ached with empathy for her.

“Not saying that’s you,” she sputtered suddenly. “I didn’t mean to say you’re overbearing or annoying like that or anything.”

I laughed. “It’s okay. I know what you mean.”

She sighed in relief.

“What you’re saying actually reminds me of my grandmother. She was much the same way—strict, pushy, but wanted the best for me. She raised me, you know. After my mother was put in the home.” My gaze dropped to my lap, and I fiddled with my gloved hands. “I miss her. A lot.”

“But can’t you still see her? Channel her or something?”

I frowned. “I always thought that once she passed, she’d find a way to come back and visit me, give me comfort or guidance like she did while alive, but she never has. I haven’t seen her since.”

“That sucks,” she replied. She rubbed her lips together in thought. “How about channeling her? If she won’t come to you on her own, bring her out that way?”

“It’s not that easy…”

My mind drifted back to the day I had tried channeling for the first and last time. The terrible whooshing sound. The wind whipping through my grandmother’s dining room, knocking most of her china off the shelves and causing her antique lighting fixture to sway. Her frantic shouts as the candles’ flames erupted, almost singeing my hair, then extinguishing completely. The quaking ground beneath our feet that made everything on the table rattle…

And then the most horrifying thing I’d ever seen, the old pocket watch we’d found in the house’s attic rising in the air, and pale fingers materializing around it, connected to an equally pale arm. A body began to fade into view, piece by piece, until a man’s wrinkled face peered down at me. All that was left of his eyes were black holes.

I’d screamed.

Without a moment’s hesitation, my grandmother had rushed around the table, ripped the watch out of the soul’s hand, and threw it into the roaring fireplace, where it crackled and popped from the heat. Then, she snatched me by the arm and pulled me in close, wrapping her body around me like a shield. I had squeezed my eyes shut, afraid to see what would happen next, but when the wind and sounds died down, she finally stepped away and the man on the table was gone.

I had no idea what had happened, but it had been traumatizing enough for me never want to try it again. Even my grandmother seemed shaken from it, and nothing had ever scared her. We never talked about it or attempted it again.

“No…” My voice trembled as I pushed the memory away, back to where it belonged, and tried to shake off the terror remembering it again always stirred. “I-I can’t do it.”

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