The Gift of Death

I'm trying to find my creative center again. I'm also trying to regain my sanity, but that's going to take a while so I'm focusing on writing right now. I've got almost a month until I start teaching Summer School and I have plenty of time on my hands. I don't have the brain capacity to write something new, so I'm rewriting a book that I wrote while in a class at BYU about eight years ago. Back then, I thought the story was pretty good, but now, after almost a decade, I realize the writing itself is pretty crappy. It was the first full length thing I'd ever written, and I think it can be much improved.

I thought it would be fun to post the progression and progress of the book on the blog. All the other entries are so depressing as of late. Things could use a little cheering up, and maybe it'll get me out of the doldrums, too. So, here you go. I very, very, very rough first draft, riddled with typos and mistakes, of a rewritten book. I heart this story because it includes most of my family as main characters. My sister, mom, niece, and granddaddy are in it. It's about ghosts. I believe in ghosts as much as a fat kid believes in cake. I've seen ghosts, I've heard them, and I've felt them. You might think that makes me weird, but I also believe in Big Foot, aliens, and true love. This book is also about the apocalypse, reapers, and a little magic--all things I love. The main character, Cass, is a necromancer who just wants to be normal, but whose gift will ultimately save the land of the living.

Hope you like. I enjoyed rewriting it.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

I sense my life, slipping away, a tinny taste of blood in my mouth. I close my eyes and listen to the waves as they crash against the building that hides the room that will be my final resting place. I can hear my heartbeat, echoing in my chest, slowing down to almost stillness. Metal digs into my wrists as I yank at the cuffs shackling me to the wall, but there is no miracle to save me, no mercy, and no comfort for me in the end.

            My vision blurs as I try to take in my surroundings, but I can’t focus. Soon I’ll bleed out, and my body will be nothing but bones and skin, void of a soul. Life doesn’t replay itself or flash before my eyes. Death is my gift.

The wall to my left splits open, revealing an entryway to the Afterworld. The rotting stench of torment and the wretched moans of pain pour out. If my hands were free, I would protect my ears from the piercing sound. The wailing stops and I hear the echo of boots clomping toward me. There is only one being that can walk between the worlds of the living and the dead.

The Reaper has come for me.

As he nears me, the chill in the room evaporates, a welcoming warmth like moving into sunlight. I turn my head, wanting to face him, but the bright void behind him obscureness his features. He is nothing more than a tall, black silhouette, when he reaches out for me I feel the rough callouses on his fingertips. He is solid and real, everything I’ve wanted.

The chains holding me against the wall fall away, and I take his hand. The world halts. My heart slows, and then my pulse quiets to nothing, stopping for all time.   

My fingers tighten around the Reaper’s hand, and I step into the bleakness with him, never looking back.

 

            I come out of the dream, gasping for air, like I’m rising from the grave. Trying to bring myself back to life, I press my fingertips into my eyelids until all I can see is floating dark spots when I open my eyes. I’ve had vivid dreams before, but nothing like this. I didn’t just see the dead girl. It’s like I was her. She will soon appear to me soon because I’m a necromancer.

I have dealt with the dead my whole life, but before now, they have never gotten into my subconscious.  I can summon and control spirits. Yes, I do use a little magic to raise the dead, but that’s where I draw the line. I am not a witch.

Not wanting to dwell on the disaster that is my life, I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes. I’m almost asleep again, when I hear a gruff, accented masculine voice say, “Cassandra.” No one but the dead call me by my full name.

I must have been hallucinating because the dead aren’t allowed in the house. There is a buried salt line around the entire property, keeping out any evil thing, dead or otherwise. I hear movement next to my window, a rustling of curtains, and he speaks again.

“Cassandra, I have waited lifetimes for you. You will be mine soon.”

Being a necromancer, I’m not scared of much, especially disembodied voices, but the idea of a ghost getting into my room and implying he want me as his undead girlfriend freaks me out.

“No thanks,” I say. “I have a boyfriend.”

He chuckles, the sound reminds me of hot gravel shifting beneath my feet.

I take a deep breath, kick off the covers, and toss the pillow to the floor. Once I’m on my feet, I grab my ghost-killing iron knife from the nightstand, ready to kill whatever has gotten into my room, but I swipe at nothing.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. All I have on is a t-shirt and underwear, my wavy blond hair is frizzed out, and my green eyes are wild. I look every bit as crazy as the population of Ravines, Florida thinks I am.

I groan at the insanity that is my reality, smooth my hair into a ponytail, pull on a pair of jean shorts, and strap my knife around my waist, positioning the leather case against the small of my back. I never know when I’ll be attached by something dead. One of the many perks of necromancy.  

I walk down the plum colored carpet in the upstairs hallway and roll my eyes at my mother. Somehow my sister and I convinced Mom to not deck the entire house in her favorite color, but everything seems to have a little purple in it.

The whole kitchen is covered in eggplant wallpaper, curtains, pot holders, and even little eggplant salt shakers. I don’t think Mom has ever eaten an eggplant, but that didn’t stop her from using it as theme.

Mom’s auburn hair is curled into a short bob, and her makeup, as always, is flawless. She is dressed in a violet nightgown and matching slippers. We’re both a little shorter than average, and athletic but still curvy. We look a lot alike, except for our hair color. Dad might not have left me with much, but he at least graced me with his dark blond hair. 

“Happy Birthday!” Mom shouts when she spots me.

Did I mention today is my eighteenth birthday? And I’m not even having a party because no one would come. After a decade of living in Miami, we moved back to Ravines. The only person I know in this town is Blake Harrington because Mom used make me visit my grandparents every summer and he lived next door.  I let out a deep sigh and sit down at the table. I refuse to think about Blake.

I say good morning to my two year old niece, Anna, as she giggles and grinds chocolate into her shiny black hair. Then I turn to deal with my mom. “We’re not talking about my birthday,” I say.

“Oh, don’t be such a party pooper.” She sets a plateful of donuts in front of me.

“It’s my birthday, so I can poop on whatever I want. What’s this?” I ask. The table is filled with smashed brownies, stale cookies, and box of random pastries.

            “Breakfast.” Mom passes her hand over the table, like a middle-aged game show model. “I went to the grocery store to pick up salad, but then I walked by the discount bakery rack. . .”

            “All of this is too fattening.”

I push the donuts away, but not before inhaling their scent. My mouth waters because I want to eat everything on the table. Thanks to good genes and running, I have a fast metabolism, but three or four desserts a week are all I can get away with. Moving, starting a new school, and having no one to talk to has been stressful. To combat depression, I consumed half a dozen cookies yesterday. I can’t eat the donuts, too. I have to draw a line somewhere, don’t I?

“It’s your birthday, so calories don’t count,” Mom says. The rationalization of a

dessert addict. “Besides, donuts are breakfast, not dessert.”

She sits across from me, gives Anna a Sippy cup of milk, and takes a donut for herself. Biting into it, she sighs like a smoker taking the first puff of nicotine into her lungs. Mom is a smoker, but she thinks it’s a secret. She hides a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in the pocket of a purple raincoat in the closet.

            The thought of her hidden cigarette, reminds me of my dream and the scent of fire, the comfort the Reaper brought, and the dead girl accepting death. I should tell Mom about it and the feeling that someone was in the room with me, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I might be horrible at being normal, but I’m excellent at avoidance.

After I continue to ignore the donuts, Mom pours me a mug of bayberry tea, and I try not to gag. We never run out of bayberry tea. It’s like drinking watered down potpourri, but the herbs ward against ghosts and the harm they can inflict. It also makes us stronger and heal much faster than ordinary humans.

Mom cleans up Anna and removes her from her highchair. With Anna on her hip, Mom spins in circles while my niece giggles. I roll my eyes at her as I leaf through our The Grimoire of the Dead that sits on our kitchen table.

The leather blinding of the book is cracked and the yellowed pages hold every Freeing Mom and every necromancer before her has performed. There are also sketches of the tales of the Afterworld that have been passed down. Most kids got fairytales at bedtime, but I got stories of devils and demons.

I stop turning the pages when I reach the section about the Marked necromancer and her fight to save the world. “Do we really have to do this stupid ritual tonight?” I ask.

On the night of our eighteenth birthday, when our powers come into their full strength, we perform a ceremony to see if we’re Marked to fight Abaddon. The Marked girl is the only person in existence who is strong enough to defeat him. Hundreds of girls have been tested, and none of them were Marked. It’s a pretty safe bet that I’ll be cleared at midnight, too.

“Yes. It’s a tradition.” Mom starts to say something else to me, but is cut off by the phone. “This is Judy, Purple Lady of the Year! What can I do for you?” she asks.

Since my parents divorced fifteen years ago, Mom has supported us by hawking cheap cosmetics door-to-door. Because of her love of purple and her charisma, she rose to the top of the tacky purple ladder. Much to her shame, I don’t wear makeup because I spent my youth as her unwilling makeup model.

We also use Purple Lady Cosmetics Company is our cover because no one likes to admit they believe in ghosts. It’s a lot easier for someone to come to you, saying they need a facial exfoliator, but really need to exorcise a demon living in their attic.

            “Alluringly Autumn eye shadow and Raunchy Red lipstick? I have both in stock,” Mom says. “I’ll have Cass bring it over. Don’t forget the party tonight. Wear something purple and get a ten percent discount! See you then, Georgia.” Mom hangs up the phone, and then goes over to her trunk full of cosmetics and digs some of it out. “Here’s the eye shadow and lipstick Mrs. Harrington ordered. And she said she’s sure Blake would like to see you,” Mom adds. “In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t been over to see him yet. I always liked Blake. Such a nice boy. So handsome.” Mom sighs likes she’s taking another bite of a donut.

Every woman, no matter her age, has a little crush on Blake Harrington. He says they can’t help it. Unfortunately, he’s right. He’s charming and so good looking that it makes you want to slap the handsome right off of his face.

“Don’t try to deny it. I know you like him,” Mom says. “He was the first one to call you Cass, and ever since then, you’ve never let me or anyone use your full name.”

Despite myself, I smile again at the memory. We were thirteen. I was all braces and acne, but when Blake called me Cass, I felt beautiful for the first time in my life.

I shove the makeup into my messenger bag and leave through the sliding glass door. I don’t say goodbye, but I do grab a donut on the way out. Though the heat is heavy with moisture, I breathe in the thick air, happy to be out of the house and away from my mother. I take a palmetto-flanked path that leads through the woods to Blake’s, and just as I hop the small ditch dividing our properties, I see a small pink purse in the shallow water.

I swat a mosquito away from my face as I reach down for the bag. I search its contents, and only find an empty wallet, a melted lipstick, a slimy piece of paper that once had words written on it, but now has only blotches of bleeding blue ink.

Seeing no use in returning a trashed purse to persons unknown, I start to toss everything back into the ditch, but then I see something glinting in the dirty ditch water. I reach down and grab a necklace half buried beneath a layer of rotting debris. I pull up the mud-caked chain, and with my thumb, rub away the gunk to reveal the inscription of Brittany etched into the gold heart-shaped charm.

I’ve never met her, but I know a Brittany Moore lives a few houses down from Blake.

My hand necklace around the charm and a ghost appears.