I had already decided, as the month of October approached, that this was the last time I would try to raise the ghost of my mother.
It was a big decision for me. I’d desperately wanted to talk to her after her death more than fifteen years ago. There’d been no time to say the things that needed to be said before her car went off one of the bridges that connect the Outer Banks to the mainland of North Carolina. I just wanted that last opportunity to tell her that I loved her. And that I was sorry.
“Spirits of the air—hear my voice.” Shayla began the ritual while I tried to decide if we should even do it. “We seek Jean O’Donnell. Her daughter is here to speak with her. Hear me, spirits. We ask your blessing and to speak to Jean O’Donnell.”
I squeezed my eyes closed—wanting so much to see her and, at the same time, afraid that I would. I’d never seen a ghost. Shayla had told me it was a lot like seeing a living person. I had a feeling that wasn’t quite true. I wanted to believe that my mother could come back to me. I wanted to hear her voice one last time.
“Is anything happening?” I whispered. I could hear the wind battering the house outside. I knew Duck might be catching the tail end of a tropical storm that was headed up the coast after hitting Florida.
“Nothing is gonna happen if you keep talking, Dae.” Shayla’s voice seemed loud even though she was whispering.
The candle on the table between us flickered as though some errant breeze had filtered through the room. There was a scratching sound at the window beside us. I rationalized it as a tree branch, clawing at the glass.
Shayla invited the dead to join us again. Her plaintive cry was made poignant by the not-so-subtle overtones of her New Orleans accent. I wondered if anyone was listening to her.
It seemed to me as though my mother must not have anything to say to me. Maybe she was still angry. Maybe she blamed me for her death. I knew she was upset when she left me at college that day. We’d argued, as we frequently did. She’d left early for Duck because a storm was brewing in the Atlantic. I’d let her go without telling her that I loved her. She’d left me without looking back.
Was I to blame for her state of mind? Had she been crying when she lost control of her car and skidded off the bridge into the Croatan Sound? Her body had never been found.
If guilt were a necklace, mine would be ten feet long and weigh a hundred pounds. I didn’t know if she blamed me, but I blamed myself. I was a stupid, selfish, thoughtless kid who didn’t know any better. But that was no excuse. Which was why I was sitting here, hoping to talk to her and make amends.
But it appeared it was going to be just another night. A flickering candle and an eerie feeling didn’t mean my mother was with us.
Shayla sighed. “I’m sorry, Dae. But I don’t think you should give up.”
“It’s been a long time.” I opened my eyes and glanced around the room. A prickly tingling went up and down my spine, but that was all. About what you’d expect when you’re sitting in a dark room trying to call back the dead. “I don’t think she wants to talk to me.”
“Listen, it’s not always that cut-and-dry. The dead have regrets too. Sometimes it isn’t that easy to come back. Maybe your mama just can’t get here to you.”
I smiled at her, took my hands back and wiped the tears from my eyes. “Thanks for saying that. But I think this is it. I’m not trying again.”
As though my words were a signal to some unseen source, the wind outside began whipping up even harder. The candle on the table not only went out—it, and the candleholder, fell over. The tree branch that had been politely tapping on the window broke off and smashed into the glass. Rain and wind blew in on us from the cracks.
Shayla and I moved quickly away from the broken window that overlooked Duck Road. “Help me move the table,” I said.
“Never mind that,” Shayla argued. “I think we might have created a breach in the spirit plane. That kind of stuff doesn’t just happen with a normal séance.”
I dragged the Thomas Jefferson table away from the rain and pushed it into the center of the room. Shayla might not appreciate the importance of the piece, but I did. I’d done the research on it—which in this case consisted of touching it to learn its history.
Shayla might see ghosts and be familiar with the spirit plane. I have a gift too. Nothing so fancy—I can find lost things that people are looking for and learn about those things by touching them.
“It’s just the storm,” I assured her. I’d been born and raised on the Outer Banks, the strip of barrier islands that lies between the Atlantic and the various waters that separate it from the North Carolina coast.
“Look at those,” Shayla whispered, pointing. “Do those look like something the storm dragged in?”
I followed her finger and saw three balls of light floating across the dark room. The practical aspects of my Banker (Outer Banks) heritage made me go over and try to touch them. That same Banker heritage made me stop short of actually connecting—we were superstitious too.
“What are they?” I asked my specialist on the spiritual realm.
“Spirit balls,” she answered, clearly awed. “I’ve personally never seen them before, but I’ve heard stories from my ma and her gran about them. Spirits sometimes travel like this when they don’t take form.”
I swallowed hard. “Can you talk to them?”
“I don’t think so. They’re pure energy.”
“Do you think one of them is my mother?”
As if in answer, one of the balls flared out like a sparkler, then disappeared. The other two continued their leisurely pace across the room.
Shayla took out her cell phone and started taking pictures. The flashes seemed to disturb the balls—they fled into the wall and disappeared.
“Did you get them?” I figured photos were the only way anyone would ever believe us.
She checked the camera function on her phone. “They don’t look like much. No wonder pictures of phenomena like this are always fuzzy. Who’s prepared?”
“But we saw them.” My whole body felt like it had been immersed in a vat of static electricity. Shayla turned the lights on. They flickered a few times but eventually stayed on. We laughed at each other—our hair was standing straight up on our heads.
“We did,” she agreed. “I think this means you shouldn’t give up trying to talk to your mother, Dae. The spirits are trying to reach you. You have to give them more time.”
I couldn’t argue with her. The whole experience had left me trembling and ready to jump—which I did when my cell phone rang a moment later.
Heart pounding, I answered and tried to focus. It was problem number 347 for the Duck Mayor’s Conference. Who’d have thought so many problems could come up for a two-day event? “I’ll be right there,” I promised our town clerk, who sounded on the verge of collapse.
“You can’t go now,” Shayla said after I got off the phone. “We’re so close—I can feel it. You might still be able to talk to your mother tonight.”
“As exciting as that sounds, if I don’t get over to the Blue Whale and sort some things out, the town staff might all be dead from stress. Think how much guilt I’d have then, since the conference was my idea.”
“You shouldn’t play around with the dead,” Shayla quoted with dark intent.
“I’m not. Really—maybe you could tell them how serious I am. We could try again after I get things settled down.” I hugged her and smiled. “Thank you for being here with me.”
She rolled her expressive dark eyes. “Go on then. Go do your mayor thing. I’ll try to get this place cleaned up. You know, I think this storm might be worse than the TV weather people are expecting.”