Chapter Text
October 31, 2008
Eric knows he shouldn’t be out this late. Mama is going to kill him if she finds out he snuck out of the house, especially after last year’s incident with the football team and the utility closet. She’s going to kill him a second time if she finds out Eric’s been in her books again. She’s going to kill him a third time if she finds out he’s doing witchcraft unsupervised and dabbling in the grey areas of necromancy.
At this point, Eric is more afraid of the county sheriff because he’d drag Eric back home to his mother rather than because he’d label Eric a troublemaker and potentially out him as a witch.
The woods surrounding the cemetery are dark, and Eric scares off most of the squirrels who haven’t hunkered down for winter and at least two raccoons trudging through with his flashlight. As predicted, the cemetery gates are open. Eric can faintly make out a pair of high schoolers necking next to the fence towards empty section of grass at the back. Eric drags his flashlight over the bars of the gate a few times, adding some shrieking at the end just to be sure, then ducks behind a headstone as the high schoolers sprint out of the cemetery, the boy mostly dragging the girl.
Eric waits until they’re in the trees before he creeps out from behind the headstone and heads for the bare patch of grass.
The cemetery is the best place to find lonely and lost spirits, but Eric is not about to actually zombify some poor soul on accident. De-zombifying would definitely require help from his mother and the rest of the baking club.
Eric takes off his messenger bag, sets down the basket of pies, and leans his bag up against a nearby headstone as he digs out a ball of salt soaked twine and five little wooden stakes. He makes the star of the pentagram first, point facing north, and then makes a circle around it. Cutting the twine with his pocket knife, Eric pricks his finger. He bites back a swear, tying the circle closed. There’s a dark spot of blood on the twine and Eric hopes it won’t interfere with the spell.
He sets out four homemade tea-light candles: green facing north, yellow facing east, red facing south, and blue facing west. He puts a chip of amber to the left of the green candle, a small piece of hematite to the right, and a large chunk of clear quartz and a small chip of rose quartz behind. Eric digs two incense sticks, one lavender and the other sage, and a small glass jar out of his bag. He sets the jar just to the right of the yellow candle before plopping the incense into it. Rummaging through his bag, he finds his matches and lights the incense, shaking out the flame so it just smokes. His little clay bowl goes just left of the blue candle with a couple squirts of saltwater from his water bottle.
Eric surveys his pentagram for a long moment before he remembers he needs to set a ward. He finds the bell he stashed in his bag and cuts about six inches of twine. He jogs back to the cemetery gate and closes it, running the twine through the bars of the gate and the fence and tying the bell there with a muttered, “Signum tutela.”
The bell rings quietly.
Eric jogs back to his pentagram, mentally checking off each component. He really should have a bowl of salt between the quartz crystals, but he hadn’t been able to grab any salt after making the saltwater since his mother practically lived in their kitchen if she wasn’t at book club, baking club, or church.
The pentagram is as complete as it’s gonna get so Eric gets the little clay doll out of his bag. He rinses it with saltwater, shaking off the excessive. The twine wrapped around its arms, torso, and legs is a little damp, and there’s a stubborn drop of water clinging to one of the turquoise eyes, but Eric thinks it’s been purified enough. He sets it gently in the center of the pentagram and checks his watch.
It’s two minutes ‘til midnight.
Eric lights the candles and grabs his wand, little more than a rowan twig really. He aims it at the clay doll and starts the spell: “I call thee, the desolate and the lost, wanderer of an unwelcoming demiplane.”
The wind picks up, tugging at Eric’s coat and bringing snatches of words and whispers as it batters the tiny flames of the candles. The flames dim for a moment, but remain strong.
Eric continues, “Rest your weary spirit in this earthen body and share in my bounty so that your soul may be unburdened and shepherded to your rightful plane.”
His basket of pies rattle and the clay doll rocks. For a moment, Eric thinks the spell worked, but then the wind dies abruptly and the basket of pies and the clay doll go still.
He sighs, but he’s honestly not that surprised. This is fairly advanced magic and Eric’s only thirteen and (almost) a half.
He puts his wand away and turns to break the circle around the pentagram, only to come face to face to a tall, dark-haired man in the center of the pentagram, turquoise colored eyes wide and confused.
“Goodness gracious!” Eric exclaims scrabbling back until he hits a headstone. “I didn’t think it worked.”
“Where am I? Who are you?” the man asked, some accent coloring his voice as he turned to take in the pentagram and the cemetery.
Eric’s never actually talked to a ghost before, even if they (he?) are inhabiting a temporary body. “Well, you’re in Lawrenceville, Georgia. I’m—” Eric has half a thought to give the ghost his real name, but the ghost might be able to use that against him so he finishes with, “Dick,” instead. He’s been conditioned to respond to Dicky for years, so Dick shouldn’t be that hard in a pinch.
The ghost frowns, staring down at themselves. “How did I get here? I was—” They shake their head, probably trying to clear it. “I was in Montreal. It was…” The ghost trails off, anxiety darkening their face and shaking their hands before it clears, leaving a sardonic twist to their lips and a good deal of shame. “I took too much. The stress was just so overwhelming and Kenny wasn’t picking up and I’d been drinking and I took too much. Tarbarnac.”
Eric isn’t quite sure what to do at this point so he quickly blows out the candles and then breaks the circles, untying and unwinding the twine. The ghost seems more upset than angry so, after Eric tosses the twine and stakes back into his bag, he opens the basket of pies and takes out the apple pie and a fork.
“Pie?” Erik asks, holding out the tin and the fork.
The ghost stares at him, frowning as they reply uncertainly, “Can I even eat pie?”
“Well, I don’t see why not. You’ve got a body, at least for the moment. It’s supposed to last up to twelve hours.”
The ghost nods slowly, murmuring, “Right.” Louder, they ask, “Are you some kind of necromancer?”
“Witch,” Eric corrects.
“Right,” the ghost repeats before taking a bite of pie. Their eyes close as they make a satisfied hum. “I’m not sure if it’s because I’m dead or because I don’t eat a lot of pie, but I think this might be the best pie I’ve ever tasted.”
Eric blushes. “Why, thank you. My Moo Maw’s apple pie recipe has won my family several blue ribbons at the county fairs.”
“I can imagine. If I was alive, I might consider deviating from my nutrition plan for more of this pie.”
Eric grins and scootches over before patting the ground next to him. “Why don’t you come sit down and enjoy that pie.”
The ghost hesitates for a moment before walking over to join Eric against the headstone. Eric beams and asks, “Now what was that about a nutrition plan?”
The ghost freezes with a forkful of pie in the air. They slowly lower the fork, replying, “I’m, um, really into hockey.”
“I’ve never actually played,” Eric tells them, “but I’ve watched the co-ed team sometimes while I wait for my mama to pick me up from figure skating practice. Are you any good?”
The ghost shrugs. “I guess. I’m not as good as my dad. Or wasn’t anyway. Doesn’t really matter now.” After a pause, the ghost adds, “I’m Jack by the way.”
“Well, Jack, I haven’t seen either you or your dad play, so I can’t say anything one way or another. But if you were only playing to see who was better, why were you playing at all?”
Jack turns and stares at Eric. “What?”
“Why play hockey if all you’re doing is competing against your dad? You shouldn’t do something just because someone expects you to. You should do it because you enjoy it.” Eric digs a blueberry mini-pie and another fork out of the basket. He pokes at the pie as he continues, “I tried playing football for my dad—he coaches high school football. It—didn’t end well, and I know I disappointed him, which I’ll probably have to deal with for the rest of my life, but it’s not. It’s not the end of the world. I’m still his son even if I’m never going to be the high school quarterback. I’m sure your dad felt the same way.”
“Maybe,” Jack mumbles into his pie.
They eat in silence for several moments, just staring out into the dark before Eric asks, “So what kind of music do you like?”
Jack pauses, mouth full of pile. He finishes chewing, swallows, and says, “You can’t judge.”
Eric rolls his eyes and waves him on.
“I like country. The older stuff like Kenny Rogers and Marty Robbins.”
Eric takes a moment to digest that. “You mentioned Montreal—I’m assuming that’s the Quebec Montreal—how in Sam Hill did you get into Marty Robbins and Kenny Rogers?”
“What do you listen to then, eh?” Jack shoots back in a blatant attempt to change the subject away from his music tastes.
Eric allows it. “Beyoncé, Gwen Stefani, and most recently Lady Gaga.”
“I…have no idea who any of those are.”
Eric stares at Jack.
Jack looks away and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t listen to the radio or pop music, okay?”
“No, Jack, this is not okay,” Eric retorts as he opens his bag and rummages around for his mp3 player and earbuds. He finds them and quickly navigates to the menu, pulling up “Irreplaceable” and handing Jack the right earbud accompanied by a stern look.
Jack rolls his eyes, but gamely puts in the earbud as Eric hits play.
They listen to Eric’s entire music collection while demolishing the pies Eric brought and Jack crows in triumphant when he finds a cache of Dolly Parton, Tanya Tucker, and LeAnn Rimes tucked away in some forgotten corner of the mp3 player. Eric shoves a mini-pie into his mouth and doesn’t feel more than the tiniest twinge of guilt when Jack chokes while laughing.
Jack seems thoughtful as he stops choking and asks, “What day is it anyway?”
“Samhain,” Eric says after a moment. He’d forgotten Jack was a ghost for a while. At Jack’s blank look, Eric elaborates, “Or, well, technically November 1st since we passed midnight some time ago.”
Jack nods. “Five months then, give or take a few days.”
At a loss, Eric nods. He debates whether or not to ask for a few moments before, blurting out, “How old were you?”
“Seventeen. I would’ve been eighteen in August.”
“That’s…” Eric trails off, trying to think of a way to end that sentence that isn’t younger than I would’ve guessed or really frickin’ sad. “I’m sorry I didn’t know you when you were alive. You seem like a great guy.”
Jack laughs. “I’m sure there’s plenty of people who would disagree, but thanks, Dick.”
The very edges of the horizon are starting to brighten and Jack stands, staring off into the distance. He’s starting to turn translucent around the edges. He turns to give Eric one last smile before he says, “It was nice talking to someone who didn’t think they already knew all the answers,” before he vanishes, leaving the clay doll with turquoise chips for eyes behind.
Eric hugs his knees and whispers, “Bye, Jack.”
He feels even lonelier than before, but there’s also a sense of triumph that he helped Jack move on from lingering halfway between this plane and the next.
Eric cleans up his wayward ritual components, dispells the ward, and hurries home. He has twenty minutes before sunrise and hopefully he'll make it back before Mama gets up.