5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

S aturday morning dawned bright blue with not a cloud in the sky.

I was still floating on a high from the invite to watch football and have food with Phil. My arm was sore where I'd been pinching it the past hour as Grandpa and I made a fast run to the Walgreens over in Killikee to find some hearing aid batteries and a tube of nasal gel for his dried-out nose. Everything either dried out, slowed down, or seized up when you got old, Grandpa always said.

While he'd been having a long discussion with a store clerk about the cost of batteries, I'd snuck off to stare at the rack of condoms. I could feel the warmth in my cheeks as I wondered which kind or size Phil would like. He was a big guy, so it stood to reason that his dick would be big. Probably magnums. Ribbed? Not ribbed? Latex? Non-latex? Glow in the dark? Flavored? Lambskin? Holy shit. There were so many choices. Why was there not a box for dumb virgins who had no clue about—

"That girl over there said that the store brand was cheaper but wouldn't last as long as the bunny ones." Grandpa's loud voice—his batteries were dead after all—shattered my condom confusion spiral. I spun to face him, eyes wide, to see he was smiling wickedly. I'd told him over breakfast I was going on a date with Phil tonight. I'd just had to say it aloud to verify that I was, in fact, awake and not dreaming. "Better to be prepared, I always say. Make sure you get some lube. Dry anal sex is for the pits." After dropping that bomb, he tottered off. Did I want to know my grandfather knew about anal sex? No, no, I did not. I raced after him but didn't have to run far. He was pretty slow. I caught up to him at the end of the aisle. He glanced at me and rested his hands on his cane. "That was fast. Did you get the big boy size? You should get two boxes. I remember how it was being young and randy. Let's get a basket for your rubbers!"

"Okay, no, please stop. We're in the middle of Walgreens," I whispered, my face burning with embarrassment. "I didn't buy any."

"You should. Safe sex is important!" he yelled, and I prayed the floor would open up and swallow me. "Did you know that there are sexual diseases that can make your penis—"

"Batteries!" I shouted, took him by the elbow, and led him to the battery section under the dark scowls of two old women dawdling over compression socks. Was it possible to expire due to mortification?

Thankfully, once we found the batteries and got him a bottle of Mountain Dew Red for the road, he forgot about safe sex, and we had a lovely journey until we left the village of Killikee. We crept up on the lake, sitting there a few hundred feet from a railroad bridge that had fallen into disrepair. A pulse, or a twinge, exploded in my right temple. I eased off the gas, pulled up to the rickety bridge, and parked our car. The Subaru sputtered as if it was reluctant to stop here. The lake was surrounded by dense woodlands and a few hunting camps way out in the woods. Once the engine stilled, I sat there staring at the smooth surface of the water, the dull thump in my head gaining strength. It was becoming something steady now. A slow thump-thump-thump.

"What are you feeling?" Grandpa softly asked. I'd be forever grateful to the clerk at Walgreens for replacing his batteries for him. She was an older lady, retired, named Tessie, and Grandpa asked her to go to the Halloween Movie & Pumpkin Carving at the Liverswell Senior Center on Halloween night. And she had accepted. Grandpa had more game than I would ever have. He also knew me well. He had raised me after all.

"I don't know…" I opened the car door, unsnapped my belt, and exited the toasty Subaru. My breath didn't fog, but it was a close thing. The heartbeat was powerful now. And yes, that was what I was hearing. Hell, I was feeling it in my marrow. A beat that pounded out of the ether to fill my head with nothing but an overpowering cardiac rhythm. "Aradia?" I called out. The name bounced off the water, echoing through the woods. I took a step. Then another. I'd never experienced something this consuming before. The driving impulse of that beat was making my eyes water. The pain was incredible. Blackness wavered in front of me, and I went down to my knees with such force that the impact was enough to keep me from passing out completely. A coldness then moved over me, icy chills ran down my spine, and a hazy form appeared in the corner of my spotty vision. The pull to the specter was strong but the violent surges of preternatural mental invasion were so painful that not only could I not see the wavering form clearly, but I also couldn't hear what it was trying to say over what I had to assume was the beating of its heart. The flash of white mist disappeared as quickly as it had become visible, the sun scattering the visage when a ray fell across it. I fell forward, head pounding, and had to fight to keep my breakfast down.

"Archimedes!" Grandpa yelled from far away. Eyes blurry from unshed tears, I sat back on my heels. My knees were mere inches from the muddy edge of Lake Killikee. What the hell?!

Fear sent me scrambling back like a crab, the headache settling behind my eyes now. I was absolutely terrified of water. Had been since I was a toddler. It was always a shower for me, never a bath. Hell, filling up a bucket to mop the floor gave me palpitations. Thank all the gods for the invention of the Swiffer. Our floors would never get washed without them.

The car was a good two hundred yards from the lake. I had no memory of walking over the bridge to the lake. My mouth was dry, my guts tangled, and my brow tight with a nasty headache. The last time I'd been here I'd left with a megrim as Reggie coined it, but this time…this time the pulse in my skull, that overbearing heartbeat, had led me over a bridge thick with vines, thistles, and wild roses. Quaking, I looked down at my hands. They were scratched, bleeding, and red from the prickles of the thistles. The sting was fierce. How could I have come through such a thicket in a stupor and not felt the pain of those thorns?

My grandfather shouted my name, his voice closer. I got to my feet, head pounding, and lurched back to the abandoned railroad bridge.

"I'm coming back. Do not try to cross," I bellowed as I wiggled through the thickets, following the path I'd wallowed down when I had entered. The rose bushes caught on my clothing, pulling at the skin underneath. When I emerged a mere moment later—it had felt like hours—Grandpa was standing on the gravel road, his eyes wide with worry, leaning heavily on his cane.

"You're bleeding," he said as I made my way to him, the chilly autumn air feeling even colder on my overheated cheeks. "Why did you walk off like that?"

"I…" He reached up with a liver-spotted hand to touch my cheek. His finger had blood on it. "Oh, I didn't feel that one."

He stared up at me with worry. "You look pale. Come, let's go home. You need some baking soda and water paste for the thistle stings and cleaning out the thorn scratches."

"My head is killing me," I confessed, taking him by the arm and leading him back to the car. The walk was not even or clear. The fact that he hadn't fallen was a true blessing. Once I had him in the car, we had a short spat over who was driving. I won, but only because I lied about how shaky I was.

Once I was behind the wheel, I stole a few sips of Grandpa's soda, my vision darting to the lake that looked much like it had when I'd parked. Serene, reflecting the bright blue sky. A vision of natural beauty. There was more in that lake than just some sunfish. I'd seen the ecto mist and had felt the thundering heartbeat of something dark and unsettled.

"Archie, did you talk to the witch?"

I shook my head. It hurt to do even that. "No, but I think I saw her form. She's not talking to me, but I'm certain she let me know she was here." I tore my sight from the placid body of water to stare at my grandfather. "There's a strong presence."

"Is it evil?"

"I don't know." I swiped at the trickle of blood tickling my cheek. "It's got powers that I'm not familiar with. I'll need to read up or talk to Reg about Aradia. After I get some aspirin."

"You should stay home and rest tonight."

"No, I'm fine." I held out my right hand. It looked like I'd been trying to give a cat a pill. I hurried to crank over the engine. I was not about to let an unsettling para-psychic moment keep me from eating stromboli with Phil. "Some tea, a nap, and a shower, and I'll be good. You'll see."

Grandpa seemed unconvinced. I was as well if I was being honest, but the lure of blue eyes and a tender smile overruled any concerns—or common sense—I might have.

***

You could hear the roar of the Liverswell Lions' fans from a block away. The subtle reminder of a near migraine lingered behind my eyes. Perhaps Grandpa was right. Perhaps I should have stayed home to fully recover from whatever experience I had at the lake. I was feeling a little better after a five-hour nap and it restored my energy while giving the headache tablets time to work, so I decided to go. Not that not going had ever been an option. I would have crawled to the stadium if need be. To hell with the dull ache in my head. I'd wash down a few more aspirin as soon as I found something to drink. All would be fine. If I kept repeating that, maybe it would charm the cosmos into making it come true.

Over-the-counter meds were meager for these times but trying to explain to the doctor that you experienced metaphysical head pains when confronting a powerful phantasmal crone wouldn't go over well. A short stay in the Cornwall Cove Lunatic Hospital would be prescribed. Not that the old asylum built in the early 1800s in the next county was still taking patients—it had been closed down in the early 1940s after some gruesome details about patient abuse had come to light—but my lingering headache was making me dramatic. My nap had gone on for so long that I'd nearly been late to leave. I raced past Reg, Eliose, and Caleb the milkman in the shop, apologizing about the lack of a milk box as I charged out the door and down the street.

I stopped at a crosswalk to allow a line of cars and rowdy fans to creep to the stadium. Football was big here in Liverswell. There wasn't much else in the way of entertainment unless one drove to Salem an hour away. Even with a college campus smack dab in the middle of town, things were pretty blasé here. One bar, one movie theater with two screens, a clinic, a grocery store, and a gas station. Oh, and the massive Liverswell Cemetery where eighty-four British soldiers who had bivouacked nearby were buried after a freak weather phenomenon had dropped a twister down in the middle of the encampment, killing all those camped there. Other than Reggie, who was in town slipping the innkeeper's son-in-law a big British banger and then got shot in the heart.

"God, did I just think the term big British banger?" I mumbled to myself as I fell into a large group of students entering the stadium. I flashed my student ID at some grumpy-looking guy at the gate and followed my group of strangers to the bleachers. The stadium was rather large, holding two thousand at full capacity, and since there was little else to do on a Saturday night in Liverswell, the Lions packed the place on the regular.

Stumped as to where to go to sit, I pulled out my phone to check the last text from Phil just an hour ago.

Family and friends sit behind the Lions bench. I'll look for you! ~ P

A marching band was on the field, the drums making me wince as I made my way down to the hometown bench. I knew it to be so as the name LIONS was painted in blue and gold on the long wooden seat. With only ten minutes until the game started, I was hard-pressed to find somewhere to sit. A group of young women, the same cluster of beauties that I'd seen in the student lounge the day Phil had approached me, were giving me the "Fuck no, freak" glower when I stopped at the end of their row of seats.

"Uhm," I opened with because I was just that articulate in the face of feminine dislike. "Phil said this was where friends of the players sit?"

"Girlfriends," a leggy blond with skin as white as baking powder snapped back. "And you are not Phil's girlfriend, are you?"

I glanced down at my flat chest hidden under two hoodies and a sweater. Nope. I was not a girl, but I was his friend. "Then why don't you go sit in the upper section with the rest of the creeps and bats."

They all giggled save one. A slim Black girl who rose and waved me in. "Catty cows," she said, and they all fell into a snotty silence. "Let the man pass. Come sit down over here away from Carla. She's been in perpetual bitch mode since Troy forgot her birthday."

Carla huffed, then waved a hand in the air as if she were totally done with me and I was given leave to pass, which I did. I stepped gingerly over toned legs in bright blue and gold leggings, making my apologies as I went, until I dropped down into a cold blue plastic seat.

"Thank you," I said as I sat.

"No problem. My name is Roxie and I'm dating Tray Williams, the quarterback. Phil told you to sit here?" I nodded, and she smiled. She was truly lovely. Her hair fell over her shoulders in long, tight braids she had woven blue and gold ribbons into. Over a thick jacket, she wore a Lions jersey, her boyfriend's, I assumed. "Phil is the absolute best. Are you two just friends or dating?"

"Oh, uhm, friends," I fumbled out, unsure of if I should mention the stromboli date later since it might be the last. Yes, my middle name was defeatist.

"That's cool," she replied, then was pulled into a conversation with the girl on her right.

I pulled out my phone, the noise in the stadium fading away as I began doing some light research about anything that resembled the encounter earlier today. Everyone knew the closer it got to Halloween, the more powerful and numerous the specters became. The Celts rightfully believed that Halloween, also known as Samhain in Wiccan and Druidic circles, was the night when the veil between the human world and that of the spirit realm was at its thinnest. That barrier breach allowed the otherworldly forces to slip in with ease, their powers ramping up, and to cause even more havoc on this side of the port pass. This explained why Aradia, if what I'd been in contact with was the wrongfully executed healer, had been able to weave her web so well around me when our previous encounter had just resulted in a mild headache.

Something internal in my genetics had served as a warning bell, the pain in my cranium somehow dampening the interaction just enough. The claxon in my head was probably the only reason I hadn't stepped into the lake. What would happen to me once I was in the water was another story. Something made me feel clammy just thinking about it. Many various entities used water as a means to collect human energy: sirens, kelpies, undines, rusalkas, and the shuǐ guǐ, the Chinese water ghosts that my family knew of rather intimately. Every country had its version.

This was a new occurrence for me. I'd been speaking with dead people forever, it seemed. None had affected me with such raw energy before. This spirit grew stronger with each day closer to All Hallow's Eve. We had ten days left before the thirty-first. Exhaling softly, I glanced up from my phone when the crowd began to cheer loudly. The Lions burst onto the green from a tunnel. I stood up to see if I could spy Phil among the huge men sprinting across the 50-yard line among high-stepping marching band members and bouncy cheerleaders.

Then I spied him. Number 99 raging across the field like a bull spotting a red flag. Honestly, the air was so thick with testosterone that I felt my whiskers—meager as they were—grow a full inch. He was raw masculinity. It did things to me that made me sweat even though it was only forty degrees.

Still, it was exciting. The Lions gathered around their coach a mere forty feet or so from where we sat. I could not peel my eyes off Phil's ass in those tight white polyester pants. And his calves. Holy hell. Showcased in gold stockings. Meaty, muscular, melt-in-the-mouth. My words were mired in the M section. I watched, fascinated, as the coach—a big man with a beer belly—shouted at his men. And I mean shouted. In their faces. Spittle flying. Whatever the coach was screaming, the team seemed to crank their handles because they roared in agreement.

I glanced to the left to see Roxie smirking at me. "You don't do sports much, do you?"

"How could you tell?" I asked, then caught the players thumping each other on their shoulders hard enough to drive the other man into the ground like a railroad spike.

"The look of horror on your face," she answered, nudging me with her slim shoulder. "I feel you. I'm not a huge sports person either, but I love Tray, so here I am. The aggressiveness is just to fire up the guys. Like ancient gladiators beating on their shields."

"Seems like they'd be better served to pound on the other team instead of each other," I commented just as Phil turned to scan the crowd. He found me instantly, his sapphire eyes latching onto me as he smiled widely. His blue mouthpiece took away from his killer smile, but the sparkle in his eye was hard to deny.

"Oh my, seems like someone has captured Kes's attention," Roxie gently teased. The other girls took note, and from that point on, they were less icy. To be honest, they fell into gushing a little over how adorable the gay couple was. I tried to correct them. Phil wasn't gay, we weren't a couple, and I truly wasn't sure how adorable I was, but they were not to be stopped. So, I let them roll. As for the Lions pounding the other team? Yeah, that took place as soon as the two teams met on the field.

I knew little to nothing about football other than whoever invented the pants should be praised highly, but even a gridiron goof like me could see that the Lions were the better team. The Stallions never scored. Not once. Through four quarters. Not one touchdown. They did kick the ball through the uprights for three points, but since the Lions had fifty-six points…

Yeah, it was a blowout. And it was kind of wicked cool. I did get swept up in the cheering for the home team mindset. I wanted them to win so that Phil would be happy.

"I've never seen Phil play so well," one of the girlfriends said as they led me out of the stadium, arm-in-arm, to the parking lot. "It was like he was showing off for someone."

The small pack of femme fatales in player jerseys winked at me. My face flamed. Something that was also incredibly adorbs and had to be captured with about eight hundred selfies, which, I assumed, were posted all over social media. My Instagram account, which was as dead as Reggie, would suddenly be resurrected with all the tags. Somehow, amid all the duck lips and giggles, I managed to wiggle free. Roxie, who seemed to be the cooler one, less prone to tee-heeing and hair flips, cocked a slim eyebrow when I made a sneaky dash for the street.

I paused, slunk back, and explained that Phil and I were doing a solo thing. The squeals made me wince, but it did get me out of being pulled along to a bar to celebrate.

"Phil is a great guy," Roxie said over the hoots of Lions' fans moving around us, blue and gold banners and foam fingers in the air. "He's got a tender heart, though. The last person he dated treated him like shit so be kind to him."

"I will," I said and realized I sincerely meant it. I was far more worried about Phil breaking my delicate heart than me shattering his. "We're just…I mean we're not…"

"Uh-huh." She gave me a playful wink. "Go meet the man wherever you're planning to meet. We'll talk later?"

"I'd like that." That, also, was sincerely meant. Off I jogged, cutting across the crunchy grass of the quads, and breaking onto Pine Avenue. A small strip mall sat across the street, filled with shops that young adults would frequent. Pizza, cell phones, vape supplies, comic book/TTRPG shop, and a second-hand clothes boutique. All but Papa Paul's and Vogue Vape were closed. After the light changed and a dozen cars passed, I crossed the street, cheeks chilled, and strolled into Papa Paul's. The air was rich with the smell of garlic and baking pizzas. The shop was busy, it was a date night after all, but I managed to grab a small table in a corner under a mural of Venice. A leggy fern tickled the back of my neck as I got comfortable. Now that I was here, looking at an empty seat that Phil Kestrel would soon be filling, I grew nervous. Tension would make my headache return, and since I did not want that to happen, I ordered a soda from a tired-looking server and began to do a bit more research.

I had a basic understanding of water ghosts, though much of that was tainted by what had happened to my parents, according to my grandfather. Putting his beliefs aside for a moment, it appeared that most spirits who dwelled in the depths liked to lure people to their deaths. Many seemed fond of children, some of calling to women, and some enchanting men. Some used songs, while others played instruments that had been enchanted and shifted into other creatures. Horses were popular but some water ghosts resembled walruses or snakes. Most were evil entities who feasted on human flesh or the human soul. Since there had been no bodies found in Lake Killikee, I had to conclude the presence that lingered there not only ate flesh but bone.

I glanced up from my phone to rub my eyes as a small twinge was starting behind my left eye. People at nearby tables were talking, laughing, and enjoying some mouthwatering-looking pizzas. The eatery was cheery, with bright red and white tablecloths, and soft Italian music being piped in. All of which helped keep my nervousness at bay. Phil would be a bit yet, so I could sip some orange soda while I read up. None of what I was reading about water ghosts meshed with what I had been told about Aradia Flores. Other than what the twins filled Reggie's ear with, but those two were spiteful little poltergeists. I dug into some local history after the server arrived with some breadsticks for me to nibble on while I waited for my date. Date.

I swallowed nervously. Phil was my date. I was his date . The warm breadstick wanted to jam up in my throat, so I took a drink and dove back into reading to keep my jitters under control. The Liverswell Historical Society had a robust webpage filled with grinning pumpkins and skeletons in honor of the upcoming holiday.

We were close enough to Salem to have picked up a lot of witchery fables as well as having served as a campsite for a small regiment of British soldiers. Marquis Reginald Can't-Keep-His-Breeches-Tied was one of those Brits. I skimmed over the various embellishments about local witches until I found a small dollop about Aradia Flores. Mentioned only in passing as a healer who had been dunked until dead, thus proving that she was no witch. A verdict that did poor Aradia no good at all. To be fair, none of the other witchy tales were much cheerier. I stared at an old sketch of a witch, the typical crone with a wart on her nose and a black cat hissing at her feet. Aradia had been twenty-four on the day of her death. Not a crone at all, but a vibrant young woman who probably served as a midwife as well as an herbalist. Yes, she had owned a cat, Sir Thomas, but he was a tuxedo cat. He pinged no vibes with me other than being a dead cat. Familiar? Meh, I doubted it. Just a cat who had been killed when the mob returned from the lake and ransacked the house.

No, Aradia did not sound like an invoker of dark magic.

But then again, she had been killed, unjustly. Murdered was the most fitting term. I could only imagine how angry a soul became when it was snuffed out due to religious zealotry and blind ignorance. So had I been interacting with an irate woman seeking revenge on men or was there something darker living in the waters of Lake Killikee?

A hand fell on my shoulder. I yelped, jumped, and nearly tumbled out of my chair. My phone flew out of my hand to land in the breadbasket. If not for Phil grasping my biceps, I would have gone backward to the floor in a flailing heap.

"Oh shit," I gasped, my heart thundering in my chest. "You scared the hell out of me!"

"Sorry. I called your name." He looked so chagrined that I couldn't be mad at the fright. I gave him a wobbly smile and got one back. He was freshly showered, his hair still damp, his cheeks covered with scruffy blond whiskers. His camcorder rested in his hand, a small green light telling me it was on but aimed at the floor.

"I was reading about sirens," I confessed, wetting my lips as he peeled off his varsity jacket and sat across from me. Damn, he filled out that long-sleeved Henley well.

"Oh cool! They have a really loud one at the Liverswell Fire Company. They say when it goes off, you can hear it all the way to Salem. Oh breadsticks! I am starved . Did you order?"

"No, I…I didn't know what you liked in your stromboli."

He threw me a shy little smile. "If I'm sharing it with you, then I like whatever you like." He placed his banged-up Canon on the table.

Was this man for real? I stepped on my toe under the table. It hurt. So yes, he was very much real. Knowing that my life was filled with oddities and paranormal occurrences—a simple trip to Walgreens that turned into a mind grapple with an unknown discarnate as a prime example—my sitting here with this gorgeous, popular, athlete on a real date was still causing mental glitches. This kind of thing didn't happen to Archimedes Kee.

"I like oysters and seaweed in my stromboli," I teased just to gauge his reaction. His blue eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners as his lips pulled upward.

"Then I do too!" He waved at the server. I reached over to try to yank his arm down. My fingers closed around his thick wrist.

"I was kidding. Seaweed is kind of gross, to be honest," I confessed. He gave me a wink, then ever-so-slowly moved his hand downward until his fingers were between mine. I stared at our meshed fingers like a dope. "I mean, it's okay if you use the right seasonings. Grandpa complains that…well it's like spinach, right? Sort of like that. Green and slimy. I…your hand is warm."

"Yours is small. I like the way it feels in mine. Are you cool with holding my hand?"

I nodded. He blushed.

That was when I realized that I was wholly smitten with Phil Kestrel.