Her Soul to Take (Souls Trilogy) Page 2

  I should have stayed at the house to unpack. Instead, after hurriedly hauling my boxes into the living room and making sure Cheesecake got his food and water, I got back into my car and made the short drive into town, to Main Street. Right in the corner shop of a three-story brick building, I met my best friend of nearly fifteen years, Inaya, in Golden Hour Books.

  Her Golden Hour Books. My best friend had made her dream a reality and was the proud owner of the cutest damn bookstore I’d ever seen.

  “Almost finished,” she said, her fingers flying over her laptop keys. Her hands were adorned with delicate gold rings that shone brightly against her deep brown skin, the rings bejeweled with little bees and flowers that matched the cute floral patches stitched on her pink jacket. She was the brightest ray of sunshine I’d seen since passing San Francisco, and I felt warmer just being in her presence.

  “No rush, girl, take your time.” We’d originally agreed to meet later that night, but I’d been too impatient to see her and too eager to shirk off the tedious task of unpacking my entire life from cardboard boxes to wait. I felt guilty now that I’d popped in on her when she was in the middle of cataloguing such a large new shipment of books.

  I picked up one of the stacks she’d finished inputting and balanced them carefully against my chest. “Should I take these to the back?”

  “That stack is as big as you!” She laughed. “You don’t have to do anything.”

  I couldn’t exactly see her around the book stack, and my glasses had slipped down my nose. But I insisted. “To the back?”

  “Yeah, there’s a yellow cart back there,” she said. “Thank you!”

  Unfortunately, gravity and I had always had a strained relationship — pretty toxic, actually. Between my untied boot laces, slipping glasses, and too-large book stack, I tripped over my own feet halfway to the back and sent the books flying.

  “Everything is fine!” I called as Inaya loudly burst out laughing. I scrambled on my hands and knees to collect the books — until my fingers brushed over the cracking leather-bound cover of a thin volume and I jerked back in shock. The book was cold.

  I turned it over curiously. The lettering and filigree design on the front looked as if it had been burned into the leather, and the words were foreign to me: Latin, if I had to guess. I pulled out my phone and typed in the search engine for a translation.

  It was Latin, and it read: Magical Work and Conjuring.

  “Find something good?” Inaya’s voice made me jump. There was a sound in my ears like the distant roar of waves through a long tunnel, and my stomach felt hollow, like the sensation of falling.

  “Yeah, check this out. This one looks really old.” I handed the book over to her, and there was a jolt as it left my fingers: a tiny rush of fear that made me want to snatch it back. Inaya opened it, frowning.

  “Wow.” Her eyes went wide as her fingers moved reverently over the page. “This isn’t a printed book. This is handwritten.”

  I got to my feet and leaned against her shoulder so I could see. She’d opened the book to the center. On one page was a sketch of a bizarre mutated zombie dog, ragged and skeletal. The other page was covered in rows of neat Latin text. It reminded me of an explorer’s journal, like something Charles Darwin would have carried around as he explored the Galápagos — if the Galápagos had been filled with monsters and magic.

  “I think it’s a grimoire,” I said softly. She glanced at me in confusion, so I explained. “A book of spells and rituals, like the Key of Solomon. An original like this is rare. Really, really rare.”

  Inaya shook her head as she shut the book carefully, a wry grin on her face. “Sounds like it’ll be right at home with you then. Do you want it?”

  “Inaya, that thing has to be priceless! I have to pay you something —”

  She ignored me as she carried the book toward the front counter. “Consider it part of your bridesmaid’s gift,” she said. Moving with the utmost care, she pulled out a roll of brown paper from beneath the counter and wrapped the book, finishing it with a bit of tape and a bow of twine. “All these books were donations from the Abelaum Historical Society, so don’t worry about money. These volumes had just been sitting in storage.” She held it out to me and I took it delicately into my hands, as if she’d gifted me a holy relic. “A creepy book for my favorite creepy girl. Now, I think we could both use a break. What do you say to some coffee?”

  “She just dumped you? The week before you move and she’s just like, peace out, good luck, bye?” Inaya shook her head, pink nails tapped irritably on her coffee mug. “You have a really bad habit of dating assholes, Rae.”

  I nodded with a heavy sigh. The sting of Rachel dumping me because I’d chosen to move out of state was still potent, needling into my side like a thorn. I hadn’t exactly thought we’d be together forever, but our shared interest in the paranormal and urban exploration had managed to gloss over our deeper issues for the six months we’d dated.

  Inaya added quickly, “I love the post-breakup haircut though! So mod. Very 60s. It suits you.”

  I brushed a hand over my hair, smiling widely at the compliment. It was a lot shorter and darker than the last time she’d seen me — I’d dyed my naturally reddish brown hair black and cut it into a blunt bob the same night Rachel broke it off. It felt good. Fresh. A clean slate.

  “I feel like I can call myself a Library Goth now,” I joked, pushing my black-rimmed glasses a little further up my nose. Inaya raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Nerd Goth, maybe?”

  “You’re still my Ghost Girl Goth, honey, no matter what you do with your hair,” she said with a giggle, and we sat in silence for a few moments as we sipped our coffees. The shop we sat in, La Petite Baie, was just next door to Golden Hour Books. The decor was a pleasantly eclectic mix of local artists’ work, odd bronze sculptures, and a variety of cushy chairs and upcycled tables. Inaya and I had taken two seats by the window, where we could look out and see the forest pressing close against the opposite side of the street.

  “How are you liking being back in the cabin?” Inaya said, taking a sip of her latte. “Have you seen your old ghost yet? What did we used to call him?” She thought for a moment. “Oh yeah, the Nighttime Cowboy!”

  I smiled at the nickname we’d given to my childhood ghost. I hadn’t thought of it in years. “I haven’t seen him yet, but we’ll see how the first night goes.” I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll set up a few thermal cameras, and see if I can finally get a full-body apparition recorded.”

  “How’s that going, by the way? The ghost vlog?”

  I giggled at Inaya’s apt description of my “ghost vlog,” even though the question made me wince internally. “Oh, you know. The channel is growing.”

  “You caught anything big lately? Apparitions, or…”

  “Caught some disembodied voices. Orbs.”

  “Oh. That’s cool.”

  That’s cool. Yeah, that underwhelmed response was exactly what was going to happen with my vlog audience soon too. The internet just wasn’t the place for genuine paranormal investigations; not when all the other “paranormal” channels were pretending to summon The Midnight Man and using special effects and mediocre acting to draw in an audience looking for instant gratification. In comparison, my lengthy recordings and vague electronic voice phenomena captures were boring.

  I needed something big. Something shocking.

  I needed something real.

  But spirits operated on their own time, not mine, and continually coming away from my investigations of “haunted” locales with nothing to show for it was frustrating. The time and effort I’d been dumping into my passion would soon have to go toward finding myself a “real” job. Ad revenue from the channel wasn’t going to bring in enough to keep me going on my own, not once my parents sold the cabin they’d given me a year to stay in while I finished school.

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to find some good places to record up here,” Inaya said, snapp
ing me from my mental pit of despair. “All the legends in this town...girl, it must be a treasure trove for you.”

  I nodded. Growing up in Abelaum was like getting raised surrounded by ghosts; not real ones, necessarily, but ghosts of the past. Once one of the most lucrative mining towns of the Pacific Northwest, boarded-up mining shafts could still be found throughout Abelaum’s surrounding forests. Dozens of its original buildings were still standing, carefully restored and maintained by a passionately dedicated local historical society.

  There was a lot of history to be found here, and with history, came tragedy.

  “Oh shit, have you seen Mrs. Kathy yet? She still lives just down the street from your place,” Inaya said. “Remember how angry your dad was when she told us about the whole tragedy of ‘99 thing?”

  “Girl, that story got me addicted to horror, of course I remember! Honestly though, who goes and tells a story like that to their first-grade class?” I put on my best imitation of our former teacher, making my voice high-pitched as I wagged my finger at an imaginary room full of kids. “Oh, children! Do you want to hear about the miners who were trapped in the flooded mine and ate each other to survive? If cannibalism doesn’t give you brats nightmares, what if I tell you about the monster who lives down there too?”

  “The old God.” Inaya air-quoted with her fingers, shaking her head. “She believed it though. Mrs. Kathy was batty.”

  “She did not…”

  “Uh, yeah, she did. Don’t you remember all those fishbones and silver spoons she hung around her house? She told my mom it kept away the evil eye or some shit.” Inaya shrugged, finishing off the last of her latte. “I love this town, but people can get really weird when they live out in the woods for too long. Mrs. Kathy wasn’t the only person who believed those old legends.”

  “Speaking of legends…” I tapped my fingers on my cup, trying to look innocent. “Is that old church still up there? Near the shaft that they pulled the last three miners out of?”

  “St. Thaddeus? I think so.” Inaya frowned. “I doubt Mr. Hadleigh would let them demolish it. He’s really protective of those historical sites.” Seeing my look of confusion, she said, “Kent Hadleigh is the head of the Historical Society. Super nice, super wealthy. I’m in some of the same classes as his daughter, Victoria. I’ll introduce you on Monday.”

  I mouthed an “oh” at her explanation, my brain still focused on the fantastic potential of a hundred-year-old abandoned church with a tragic backstory. She didn’t miss it and narrowed her eyes.

  “It’s condemned, by the way,” she deadpanned. “The church is condemned. Like, not safe to go inside.”

  “Oh, sure, sure.” I nodded quickly. “Old, probably haunted, abandoned church? Wouldn’t even think of going inside it.”

  Inaya sighed. “You’re crazy, girl. You’re gonna get yourself into real trouble one of these days.”

  I laid my hand over my heart in mock offense. “Me? Get into trouble? Never.”

  My earliest memories were in this old cabin. The single bedroom house had been big enough for two newlyweds when my parents first bought it. But then I came along, and my dad’s corner office became my childhood bedroom. Eventually, we just outgrew the place, and my dad had been eager to escape the small town he’d spent his entire life in. We’d moved down to Southern California when I was seven, and I’d been there ever since. The cabin had become our vacation home, and Dad rented it out to other vacationers the rest of the year.

  Nostalgia clung to the wooden walls as bright as their glossy finish. Childhood memories held an entirely different feeling than my memories as a teen — they felt softer, richer, like streaks of acrylic paint across a canvas.

  The forest had been my fairy kingdom, the stairway that led up to the master bedroom was the grand path I’d lead my army of imaginary friends along. On one of the baseboards, hidden under the kitchen cabinets, was a little sketch of a dog I’d drawn with red pen when I was five. Mom had never found it, and it still brought me a little thrill to see it was there, my inner child convinced she’d pulled off a master crime of vandalization.

  The corner office-turned-bedroom held wild memories of its own. That was where I’d seen my first ghost.

  “The Nighttime Cowboy,” as I’d called him. Mom said I’d been only four when I first mentioned him. He’d appear through the wall, walk past the foot of my bed, pause, and then disappear just beside my window. A hazy figure, as if he was made of smoke, in boots, denim overalls, and a large-brimmed hat — hence why I called him a cowboy as a kid. He wasn’t scary, just interesting.

  And he started my life’s obsession.

  Classes didn’t start until Monday, so I had the whole weekend to try to reassemble my life from the stacks of cardboard boxes. The gray sky had darkened after I’d parted from Inaya at the coffee shop, and rain tapped against the windows in a sporadic shower. I lit the fireplace and pulled back all the curtains, basking in the pale natural light that made its way through the clouds.

  I couldn’t stay here forever. Sooner rather than later, I’d have to begin the search for an apartment, but the idea felt daunting.

  I fit my books onto the empty shelves, placed my collection of potted succulents in the kitchen window, and left my laptop and recording equipment scattered across the desk in the downstairs bedroom. Organizing was exhausting. I connected my Bluetooth to the portable speaker on the coffee table and put my playlist on shuffle, dancing through the tedious work to Monsters by All Time Low.

  Night had fallen, and the cloud cover made it pitch black outside. There was a pause as the next song buffered, leaving only the tapping of the rain on the glass, the soft wind, and the crickets chirping. The window panes had become one-way mirrors: my reflection stared back at me, glasses slipping down my nose, over-sized sweater draped over my hands. Outside, in the dark, I wouldn’t know if something was staring back.

  Someone could have stood right outside the glass, and I wouldn’t be able to see them.

  The next song began to play right as a chill went up my spine. The cabin seemed inconsequential in the night, as if its bare wooden walls and large windows could do nothing to hold back the dark. Instead of me observing from the inside, I felt like something out there was looking in. Observing me.

  I jumped as my phone buzzed on the coffee table. I snatched it up, my music paused, and smiled when I saw the caller ID.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetheart! How’re you settling in? Was the drive okay?”

  I could hear something sizzling in the background and my smile widened. Mom would be cooking dinner, Dad would be in the living room with his glass of scotch and his latest mystery novel. My parents had been, as they put it, “free range parents,” mostly leaving me to my own devices unless I was about to do something catastrophically dangerous or destructive. Mom was the epitome of a Woodstock hippie all grown up, while Dad had more of the quiet, studious thing going on.

  “Long drive,” I said, and snickered as a pan clattered and my mom swore softly. Mom and I shared a love for talking each other’s ears off when we probably should have been concentrating on other tasks, like cooking — or unpacking. “But it was really gorgeous.”

  We chattered on as she caught me up on all the gossip she’d gathered in the mere two days I’d been gone. Dad was, as usual, meticulously planning every aspect of their international move, while Mom remained far less concerned about having a perfect itinerary — yet more proof that I was truly my mother’s daughter.

  “I forgot how nice this town is,” I said, having abandoned unpacking altogether in favor of munching chips on the couch. “The people are friendly, there are no chain businesses. There’s cute little mom-and-pop shops everywhere. Why did we ever move anyway?”

  My mother chuckled, but lowered her voice a bit as she responded. “Oh, you know your father. All his superstitions, his...anxieties...small town life wasn’t for him. He felt like people were too up in our business, whatever that means.
It got worse when you started grade school.” She paused, as if there was more she was about to say — but she seemed to think better of it. “California had more opportunities for his line of work.”

  “Ah, Dad’s good old superstitions.” I laughed. “The one trait I was lucky enough to inherit from him. Let me guess: he’s checked the history of every house you’ve looked at buying to make sure no one has died there?”

  I could practically hear my mother’s eye roll. “Naturally.”

  “Good call.” I nodded. “You don’t need your retirement interrupted by vengeful ghosts.”

  “Oh, don’t start.” I could hear the clink of plates, and knew she wouldn’t put down the phone to eat unless I forced her.

  “I’ll let you go, Mom. I love you. Miss you.”

  “Miss you too, sweetheart!” There was a murmur in the background, and she added, “Dad says to stay safe out there.”

  The house felt even emptier once I’d hung up the phone. I was grateful for Cheesecake, who sauntered over from the kitchen meowing loudly for his dinner. He was a bossy roommate, but he was so damn cute I had to forgive him.

  On my way back to the couch with some dip for my chips, the brown paper parcel poking out of my bag caught my eye. The book Inaya had gifted me, the grimoire. Excitement squeezed its fingers around my stomach, a feeling not unlike walking into a haunting investigation for the first time: a thrill, mingled with trepidation.

  I unwrapped the book on the coffee table. I probably should have worn gloves; the thing was so old it should have been in a museum. A signature was scrawled in the corner on the inside cover, but the calligraphy was too fancy for me to make out.