Cricket Baker spends as much time as possible pondering the truth of things and creating haunted worlds with words. Believing that the best stories involve both spiritual insight and the stuff of Halloween, that is what she writes. Cricket lives in Florida where thundering storms darken her imagination.
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The Ghosting of Gods

By Cricket Baker

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Copyright © 2012 Cricket Baker
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78099-855-8

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

the stoning

My secret fear is the priests are right to doubt me.

Cemetery. October winds have piled up dead leaves to coverthe names of those sleeping here, like they don't matter. The irongate resists me. I coax it open and knock over an abandonedlantern. It jingles, and I see that tiny bells are tied to its handlewith wire. No doubt Poe placed the lantern there last night, amakeshift alarm to wake him if I showed up, but last night I wassleeping.

I ignore all the tombstones I pass so that I don't get distracted.

My gut tells me not to be here. But I have to act.

A storm front seeps across the northwest sky, bruising itpurple. A spiritual color. This is just the sort of weather that willentice Poe outside, to write a few lines of poetry, and then he'llalmost surely come after me.

Sinking to my knees, I take a steadying breath before facingmy task. Her name on the stone helps to strengthen my resolve.Dead leaves stir, one in particular scratching at the carved dateof Emmy's death. I set aside my hammer, place both palmsdown, and feel the grass on her grave. "It's me," I whisper. "It'sJesse. I'm still your big brother, and you have to listen to me. Youhave to come, Emmy. Now." Faint rumblings of thunder giveway to a hush that falls over the graveyard. A pellet of hardeneddirt strikes me on the cheek.

This is how it begins.

I make no move to shield myself as a bigger clod jiggles freefrom the earth to fling itself at my face. The sting of it sharpensmy vision, helps me to focus on my sin so that I attract more ofthe dirt. Small eruptions of yellowed grass and black soil splattermy body until I'm covered in the same earth that buries mysister. This is justice.

The tragedy, as everyone in town calls it, happened.

Because I didn't protect her.

There's dirt in my eyes. I wipe at it. My sister's grave is a mess;little grass remains rooted. The cemetery around me fades as myhands begin to tingle. There's a heavy calm, then the earth overmy sister's grave percolates gently. I can't wait any longer.Pawing clumsily at the ground, I seek what I need, sifting gravedirt like a demented archaeologist.

This is day nineteen. It started with me needing to see her, butthen I realized she was trapped, in need of salvation.

I have a new plan.

I have a hammer.

Looking around, I make sure there are no witnesses. Othervisits were late at night, to be careful, but Ava and Poe take shiftsduring the dark hours to make sure I'm not committing transgressionswhen I should be sleeping. If someone does happenalong, maybe they'll believe I have good reason to be here sinceI'm employed by the priests. Everyone knows what I am.

A glimmer against the dark earth catches my eye. I swallow.Lean down to see better. It's a sphere. An orb. A time capsulecontaining the past.

A crystal ball.

This is what inspires the priests with dread, I'm certain of it.

The purple storm has arrived to conceal my actions. Squintinginto the blur, I hesitate. A sheet of rain blowing off the caretaker'sshed resembles the flowing robe of a priest. I consider the risk I'mtaking here. The church will not forgive my attempt to unravelthe mystery of ghosts. I accept this risk.

But what will they do to my friends?

I can't bear Emmy's suffering. I must end it. Now. And thennever come back, no matter how much I want to.

Using a pine twig, I brush aside dirt so that the crystal isrevealed.

Shadows shift within the sphere, white and gray and black,hiding the contents of the crystal ball. Carefully, I scoop away thedirt from beneath it. Loosed from the grave, it floats upward,bobbing in the rain like a fishing cork. It's a perfect globe twoinches in diameter. As if tied to an invisible line, it refuses toblow away. It's anchored to Emmy's grave.

Unnatural light dances within the crystal. Shadows fadeagainst the glow and a warped image begins to form.

"Emmy?"

The crystal ball contains a tiny Emmy in a ghostly world, herface pinched with fear as she looks back over her shoulder. Irecognize the alley around her. See the trash bin. Inside thecrystal ball, Emmy stumbles.

I'm desperate to stop the bad thing from happening, make itnever happen—

The head of my hammer glances off the surface of the ball,only making it roll. I can't get a good hit on it. I suck in mybreath, reach out with one hand, and grab the ball to hold it still.The skin of my palm sizzles with cold ... but I can now swing thehammer effectively. I bring it down with all my heart.

Forgive me.

Falling from my singed hand, the crystal cracks. It breaks freeof whatever anchor holds it. Wind carries the globe, spinning it,but I can see the murder scene within continuing to play. I chaseafter Emmy, reaching for the crystal ball that contains her life.

Cemetery soil levitates.

What the hell?

The crystal ball slips from my reach and rises, as if the sky issucking it up through a straw.

It's not a straw. It's a vortex. A tunnel, black and writhing, haspositioned itself directly over the cemetery. Emmy's crystal balldisappears into the blackness above. For a moment I amperfectly still, disoriented, my hand reached out—

The vortex pulls down, swallowing me.

Clanging seemingly comes from every direction. Clothingflutters against my face. As I twirl, my hands grab and findnothing. The clanging of the iron gate fades, and I realize this isno twister spawned from a storm. This is a vortex of anotherkind, and it's lifting me into heaven.

I smell dirt.

Light waits for me at the end of the tunnel, just like it'ssupposed to. I look back to see my body one last time. It's notthere. The graveyard is empty, and a bad feeling comes over me.My ghost hasn't left behind my body. This vortex is malfunctioning,breaking Universal Law. Death is required to pass to anotherworld.

Yet this vortex consumes flesh and blood.

Ahead of me, Emmy's crystal home disappears beyond themultiplying curves of the monster twister.

I'm flying, and I'm not alone. There are other people in thevortex with me. They speak, though the noise of the twister obliteratestheir voices. Help me. No one pays attention to me or evento the grave debris blowing around them. I recognize thesepeople. Shame floods me. My secrets won't be contained here. I'mwatching a movie of my life, a replay of badly edited scenes, onespliced into the next.

No.

It's not my life. It's Emmy's.

I think ... I broke open the crystal ball containing Emmy's life,and now she's loose in the twister.

Despite the grit, I keep my eyes open and watch Emmy's lifepass me by.

A birthday cake with pink icing and two candles. Painting acookie plate for Santa Claus. Tears when the puppy is taken away.A splinter in her foot. Skipping through the water sprinkler."Look no more far than your own back yard!" she shouts happily,faintly.

I need to grasp her fingers, hold her tight, but she whirls outof reach.

Ahead, the end of the tunnel is revealed behind the last of thetwister's curves, and I see a pinprick of light. It appears toexplode as I speed toward it.

I'm tumbling down. The ground rushes up at me, and Irelease my fists. Close my eyes. Surrender.

The vortex is gone.

Sunlight glares off broken glass in the town street. Rottingwaste in an industrial garbage bin stinks up the alley, and Emmyis pinching her nose with her fingers.

Emmy.

"Ooey!" she says.

She points out the source of the smell with a chubby finger tothe four boys who are following her. They're tossing stones intothe air and winking at one another. "You won the lottery," one ofthem says. "Just like in the story Teacher read to us today."

Emmy doesn't notice me. She's talking to the boys. "That badstory scared me good," she says, and bends to tie her shoelace.Her shoes are on the wrong feet, and the boys laugh. Fumbling,she can't get the shoelace tied. "I need help," she announces.

My gaze settles on the small round stone that rises and fallsfrom the hand of the boy named Jamison. He hates Emmy forbeing how she is. I hate him for hating her. My priests want meto forgive him. I will never. Please, no, don't hurt her, please, please.

Why can't I move? Why can't they hear me? She'll die again ifI don't do something.

The scene lurches, speeds up on fast forward. They're gettingaway from me, down the alley, closer to the trash bin. Where aremy legs? The scene pulls like taffy. I'm getting farther awayinstead of closer to Emmy.

Slow motion.

Strands of Emmy's long hair catch in her mouth as sheadamantly shakes her head. "I can to spell my name! E-M-M-Y."

One of the monsters throws a stone. It barely misses Emmy.Uncertainty fills my baby sister's eyes. She turns, looking overher shoulder at the boys, fear pinching her face. Again. She'schained to this past as much as I am, reliving it over and over.

The scene goes black, then starts up again in spurts, like amovie with projector problems. I have to save her, so I pray. I beg.I rage.

I'm supposed to be special. Why can't I help her?

Emmy's eyes find mine. She sees me at last. Her expressionchanges from bewilderment to one of calm. I'm aware of thereturning vortex overhead, but I ignore it. She trusts me. I can seeshe's not afraid now that I'm here. "Jesse," she says, and whenshe does, I am overwhelmed with the presence of her.

Something wants to happen.

Strange. The boys continue their taunts, as if they don't seeme. Stop it! Leave her alone! The boys draw near to Emmy, takingaim, and my horror swells. My lips move, I feel the vibration inmy throat, but I can't hear myself speak.

No one notices the approaching vortex but me.

Emmy's eyes bore into mine. "Blessed are the poor in ghost,"she says.

Out of the corner of my eye, Jamison throws his stone. Thevortex sinks, obscuring my vision.

The alley is gone, the boys are gone, Emmy is gone. I'm backin the cemetery. Papery leaves scratch my face. Red, yellow,orange.

There is little evidence of the vortex that ripped into graves.Loose grass and dirt litter the cemetery, but every gravestoneremains firmly planted.

I collapse outside the cemetery gate. Poe is calling my name.

CHAPTER 2

we may hear themscreaming

I struggle to stand back up before Poe can see me. He's down thesidewalk and coming my way. Hunched over in the drizzle andwalking fast, he shakes his head like he can't believe what he'sseeing.

"Jesse. Where did you come from?" His expression ispuzzled. "You weren't here a second ago. I was about to leavewhen I heard you." His bony face registers concern. "You okay?Why are you covered in mud?" Stepping aside, he looks behindme, toward Emmy's grave.

Poe will not enter the cemetery to see what I might have done.It's bad enough he knows I passed the gate. Again. He simplywaits for me to explain the mud, but I'm unable to say anything,my mind wrecked.

I was there. In the alley. But I didn't save her. What's wrongwith me? My mouth opens, ready to tell Poe, but my gaze fallson the crucifix hanging around his neck.

Nothing. I can tell him nothing. For his own protection. Onlya week ago, the priests lynched the last known medium in town.I don't speak of how ghosts know me or what happens when Ipurge dwellings of ghosts. There is a fine distinction, dangerouslyunrecognized, between a medium and an exorcist.

My priests are watchful, suspicious. Of me. They gather insecret rooms and speak in whispers.

I want to know why.

At last Poe looks away from me, turning his back against agust of New Salem wind, and examines the sagging heavens.There's a lull in the rain. Lightning strikes not far away, flushingthunder into the earth. Poe rubs at his hair. He recently choppedit off short, but he still pulls at it when he's anxious, which is a lot.It's so blond as to be white, and thinned, showing the scalpbeneath. He locks onto me with his lime-green eyes.

"You promised to go with me to the chapel. Today," he emphasizes,and holds out a small bottle. "Look, I picked up the holywater."

I press the heels of my hands against my forehead. Breathe.

I'd forgotten about the chapel. Poe acquired it as a writingworkshop, a place to inspire his three passions: poetry and horrorand God. The chapel is reputed to be haunted. Since the priestlyorder to abandon all graveyards, Poe decided the next bestlocation for him to find inspiration was, in fact, a haunteddwelling. A haunted chapel, even better.

"You promised me, Jesse," he repeats. "And the priests insist Itake you, just in case."

"Yeah." Chills. My blood is cold, remembering Emmy's words.Blessed are the poor in ghost. Why would she quote this verse?What was she trying to tell me? That she's frightened, that shedoesn't want to be a ghost?

"Jesse? You said you'd go. I don't want anybody else doing theexorcism and going insane because of me and my new dwelling."

I wipe filth from my face and brush off my clothing. "I regretagreeing to the chapel." My voice is steady; I need him to believeI'm okay so that he'll leave me. "I'm not going after all. Besides,it's safe for you to go alone."

"But what if the priests—"

"What? Do you fear the priests?"

"Of course not. The priests are good." He closes his eyes.Opens them. "You look better. I think you can come with me."

I need him to leave. He can't see me go after Emmy. It's notsafe. "Wouldn't you rather go see Ava?"

He seems to consider. "She's scary lovely," he murmurs.

She's disfigured. Below her clear blue eyes and slim, perfectnose is a chin partially eaten away by an aggressive infection shehad as a child. She is both lovely and scary. This attracts Poe in away no other girl ever could.

There's nothing to do but go with my best friend. At least fornow. Pain pricks at me as we pass the end of the iron rails andleave the cemetery behind. It's because of Emmy, but that's not allof it. Graves hold a kind of power over me. An attraction. Peoplein town have noticed.

I glance at the notebook Poe carries. It's covered with Ava'sinitials. Poe calls her by both her first and last names: Ava Lily.Says she's his Annabel Lee. He adores the works of his namesake,Edgar Allan Poe, and the Annabel Lee poem is one of hisfavorites.

"Ava Lily is home," Poe says after a long silence. "What willshe say when she sees you filthy with dirt?"

"I need you to lie for me. Don't tell her where you found me.She'll only worry."

Slowing his steps, he keeps his eyes down.

We negotiate. He won't lie, but he won't go out of his way toinform on me, either. In return, I'll go to the chapel.

We pass newly carved pumpkins on our way. Poe stops toadmire some of them. My town is burdened with houses full ofamalgamated families on sustained charity, but no one hasskimped on Halloween decorations. Pumpkin lanterns lookbetter on these houses than Holy Night lights ever could, so theexpense is worth it. No one has power for lights, anyway.

My shaky hands are hidden in my pockets, my voice is ridiculouslyloud and confident, but I don't know if I can keep downmy queasy stomach.

I'm afraid for Emmy. But it's more than that. When will Godhear me, give me a sign?

Pitted roads give way to dirt paths. Choosing one, we pass afew prayer altars and leave behind any curious eyes. Outside thetown's jurisdiction, the chapel Poe seeks is abandoned. Only hewould be interested in it. His tastes run counter to those of thegeneral population. Hence his attraction to Ava. We have much incommon.

Poe and I have an unspoken agreement: We do not speak ofmy past relationship with the girl he loves. We certainly don'ttalk about how she still lives with me.

Raindrops fall from electrocuted clouds, and I think how it'scolder than it should be for October. Evergreen, mixed withrotting underbrush, scents the air. I inhale deeply. Intermittenttremors in my right leg cause me to stumble in the pine straw. Poepretends not to notice. I try to concentrate on his explanation ofthe themes in Shelley's Frankenstein, but my mind drifts back toEmmy and graves and bad tunnels ending in light ...

"Hi, Jesse," Leesel shouts. She's covered head to foot indonated rain gear and looking smug. Poe groans. I'm surprised ashe is to see we aren't alone.

She's Ava's seven-year-old adopted daughter. The real motheris dead, like so many following the last wave of plague inducedby spiritual warriors. Leesel follows me around and tells me howshe loves my funny weird way of exploring, especially in someone soold. I'm eighteen. Of course, her "mommy" is only nineteen.There are few older people left since the threshing holocaust, ofcourse, so Leesel doesn't really remember what old looks like.

You would think she'd be scared to leave the town boundaries,but then, Leesel is a little scary herself. She's a bona fide genius,and like many true geniuses, she's different in unsettling ways. Ilove her like she's my own blood.

Unbelievable she's tracked us so far without us knowing it.Makes me nervous who else might be out here with us. I shoother a stern look. "Leesel Lily. I thought you had testing todayafter school."

She rolls her eyes. "I'd rather know what you're doing. I toldyou yesterday I had no intention of submitting to their evaluationsof my brain. They're ruining my life."

"So you've said. Does your mommy know where you are?"

There's no immediate answer. She takes her time tying hershoelace. "Sure. With you," she says.

The shoelace ... Emmy ...

Poe optimistically fakes a smile. "Hi, Leesel. You look cute inyour pink rain coat. Neon! And I like those matching boots. Butare you warm enough?" He tugs at his hair. "I think maybe youshould go home."

She ignores him. Stares straight through him, as if she wereblind or something. Poe flinches.

I sigh.

He bugs his eyes at me, but I'm not going to send Leesel homeby herself. She knows this and beams at me. Zipping her rainjacket higher, she smoothes her crazy hair that's thick and kinky.Ava makes her tie it down in two waist-length braids for school,but once she's home, Leesel undoes the braids, letting her hair gowild so that you can hardly see her face beneath the bush. She'sa cute little girl—hair dusky blonde, skin coffee and cream, eyesblackest black.

Poe massages his temples. I'm not real happy with Leeselmyself. I can't have her shadowing me like this. What if she'dseen me go in the cemetery? As a witness, she would be guilty.Unless she turned me in.

She runs circles around us, singing something about aprincess in the woods.

"She shouldn't be here," Poe whispers to me. "She needs toplay with little girls her own age."

Using my forearm to block the limb Poe lets snap back at me,I keep my voice low. "You know the other kids don't like her.Give her a break. Keep being nice to her. Maybe she'll comearound. They're working with her, according to Ava, trying tohelp her with her social issues."
(Continues...)Excerpted from The Ghosting of Gods by Cricket Baker. Copyright © 2012 by Cricket Baker. Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
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