Page 35 of The Mare Rider of Cornwall Cove
“He’s expressed a desire to be free, Phil. We can’t not allow him the chance to move over.”
Phil chewed on his inner cheek as I took the lid off the coffee cup.
“What happens when he gets out and sticks his fingers into my head again?”
“You’re awake. He won’t.” I peeked around Phil at the shadowy form. It stood as still as a Sequoia, face and hands shifting into smoke and then back to a more solid form. Partially resurrected. What a ghastly way to spend eternity, which was why people who didn’t know what they were doing shouldn’t monkey with the supernatural.
Said the guy raised by a Buddhist grandfather about to try to group chat a Haitian Vodou God for a call a friend moment in the middle of a sanitarium full of ghosts. No chance of a royal f-up in that scenario, huh?
Well, sure, when I put itthatway…
“Arch, I don’t like this. If something goes wrong…” Phil shot a harried look at the circle of salt and paint.
“If this fails, we go to plan B.”
“Which is what?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as I figure it out.”
“Great. Great. Just great.” He stomped over to our duffel bags, placed his camera on the floor, and dug about until he found the pint of turpentine we’d brought along. With a great deal of mumbling, he dumped some on his hankie, gave me a look, and then knelt beside the circle.
The rider watched with an aura of mild interest, but he also had an undercurrent of expectation that pulsed off him in muted waves of dark, dark green. He truly was like no other entity I had ever encountered. This would be a fascinating entry in the Kee ledger for all those future Kees. Just then, I saw a flash as quick as a single fast frame shot appearance of Tyler Durden early on inFight Club.Me, Phil, and a little kid with black hair and bright blue eyes, toddling around the bookstore in a light blue jersey with Kestrel on the back, flashed me a toothless grin as he brought me a book to read. Just as fast as it appeared, it was gone. Whoa. Just…whoa. Was that a trickle of the future sight that several of my ancestors possessed, or was that just exhaustion combined with low mana and life force making me imagine homey scenarios? Whatever it was, I shook it off like a staticky sock stuck to my pant leg.
“Awesome. I love you,” I called while trying to settle into a calm state. But not too calm. No dozing off while meditating. My tailbone still ached from the last go-round.
“Love you too,” he muttered as the stink of turpentine filled the air. “Mambo Kiwi says to invite him in, you’re to talk with respect.”
“Always. The request, please?”
“Mambo Kiwi says you’re to chant ‘Antiban Legba, please open the gate for me’ over and over while handling the offerings. She says this would work better at a crossroads but inviting Papa Legba with sincerity and respect will help. And to know that many times he only shows when he is truly needed and whenthe offerings are made with sincerity.” His voice was thick with unease.
“Got it. I sincerely wish to aid these trapped souls in their search for peace.” I could not be more sincere than I was right now.
Phil cleared his throat. The spirits in the room began to grow nervously excited. The rider was harder to read. Not quite full phantom, not quite resurrected human. His presence was felt. I prayed I was doing the right thing by freeing him.
I had to be sure of myself now—no wavering, no nerves. This was important, and I had to be self-confident. Assured. Sincere. Respectful.
“Antiban Legba, please open the gate for me.” I arranged the gifts for the mighty Loa in what I hoped was an appealing display. I’ve decorated the store windows, and some people complimented me on them. I began chanting the invitation over and over. The other ghosts fell into incanting as well, even little Timothy and Flapper Franny. I cast a glance at Phil as he scrubbed at the circle, his sight on the floor as he rubbed like a madman. Turpentine fumes wafted by, caught on the cold winds that blew through the sanitarium. A few balloons, flat now, skittered across the tiles, catching here and there. Thankfully, we had some fresh air, or we’d probably be in trouble. Sniffing turpentine was not on my to-do list. My brain had enough wonky stuff taking place inside it already.
“Wherever you are be cool,” I heard Phil say. I looked over to see my boyfriend leaping to his feet, soggy blue rag tossed aside in favor of his camcorder, to dance away from the rider now striding through the small break in salt and haint paint. “Do not touch my dreams, dude!”
The revenant—if that was what he should be called, I really had no clue—moved past Phil as if he weren’t there. The other spirits in the room formed a tight barrier between me and therider. A kind gesture. He stopped just shy of the protective line of phantoms then, in a voice so deep it made my fillings tremble, picked up the mantra to Papa Legba. Phil moved around us, the camera light bright, and I had to wonder what our viewers were thinking right now. To them, all there was to see was some skinny Asian dork waving a cold cup of dark roast and a pouch of tobacco in the air. Not exactly must-see TV, but as they say, any content is good content, or something like that.
A crackle of energy snapped into existence by one of the boarded-up windows. The small ball of red began to elongate, stretch, and then show its true form. A wrought iron gate, spikes on the top of the finials, creaked open inch by inch, revealing a winding road lined with monstrously tall bald cypress trees thick with Spanish moss that touched the dirt road. My mouth went dry, the invitation now a croaking gasp as a lanky, old Black man in a straw hat, dark red robes, and a corncob pipe resting between his lips stepped out of the gate, leaving it open behind him. Around his neck hung a gold key. His gait was slow, pained, and he walked with a limp.
“I think he’s here,” I whispered to the side.
“I don’t see him. Just a small slice of red energy, which is kind of cool and also making the hair on my arms stand up,” Phil softly replied. I was thrilled. At least the viewers would get some sort of cool and inexplicable supernatural sighting. No matter if it would be debunked in five minutes, it was something, so go us. “Mambo Kiwi asked if he has arrived?” Phil questioned, still hearing her in his ear, and I nodded as I held out the pipe to the Loa. His face was craggy with age, his cheeks weathered like leather, his eyes hidden in the shadows that the brim of his hat cast. “I can hear her. She’s crying. Not sure in joy or scared but…no, okay, joy. She says to place the offerings back on the altar, move back, and then make your request,” Phil added.
“Oh crap, sorry.” I rushed to drop the cigar back beside the key and coffee. I lowered my eyes to my trembling hands. The spirits, and the rider, were as silent as mice. “Papa Legba, I am humbled by your appearance. There are spirits here that have been trapped or summoned to this plane and wish to enter the land of the dead so their souls may find peace. May the phantoms gathered here be allowed to step through the gate?”
I peeked up, just a bit, my sight skimming the top of my filthy glasses, to see Papa Legba take all of our offerings with a swipe of his hand, leaving the card table barren of any gifts. Then, wordlessly, with a thin stream of smoke now climbing from his corncob pipe, he motioned to the gate that stood open nearby.
“Go on, go through the open gate,” I told the wary spirits. “Go find peace, all of you.” I glanced at the rider.
“You are saying this will lead me to my wife and sons on the other side?” the mare rider asked, and I bobbed my head. “It has been so long since I held them…”
The others filed through. Flapper Fanny took Timothy by his hand. The lad gave me a wave and then was gone, nothing left but tiny gold motes that floated about in the cold wind before winking out of existence on this plane. The rider moved through as well, its smoky form clarifying for just a moment as it floated through the opening. I glimpsed a ruddy man, dark hair, dark eyes, a wide brow and nose. Whatever had taken his life, I saw nothing notable. Common sort of fellow, with broad shoulders, who said “Dziekuje” before he was pulled into the land of the dead, leaving a clump of evergreen motes. Then they were gone.
