Spirit Caller 01 - Spirits Rising

They’ve been outside ever since.”
    “What’s a Skraeling ?” He looked at me.
    “It’s a Viking word. People believe they were referring to the people who came before the Beothuks.”
    David snorted. “Well, you Newfies killed off all the Indians, so we don’t need to worry about them .”
    Right. I’d forgotten he wasn’t a Newfoundlander. That’s why he didn’t talk with an accent. And why he was such as asshole.
    “That was rather hateful,” I said, keeping my voice low and steady. “I was adopted by a white man and a Cree woman.”
    “I wasn’t saying it was a good thing.” His words might have not had hate in them, but his eyes did. “It’s not like they are going to rise from the dead before Judgement Day, at least.”
    “Ah.” Jeremy’s voice shook. I looked up the road where he was pointing. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
    Sneaking down the road, in full red paint, was some thing that looked rather like a Beothuk.
    An instant later, Hell unleashed its terror.

    CHAPTER 4: Zombies Aren’t Real

    Instinct took over. The three of us dropped flat to the gravel driveway as arrows, axes, and garbage cans flew overhead. The caterwaul of the caribou-hide-clad painted people pierced my soul. I’d never been around so many strong spirits before and my mental defences were not established well enough to handle the surge of other alongside the abject fear of having an arrow embedded in my skull.
    Jeremy reached a protective arm around me, partially shielding one side of my body against his. Through the shrieking in my brain, I could faintly hear him on the radio, calling for help.
    “Blessed Redeemer, save us,” David prayed.
    I struggled against losing consciousness. I focused on the physical world around me: the howling wind, Jeremy on the radio, the crashing waves against the wharf. I rebuilt my defences, one brick at a time. After this, I’d need a quiet place to meditate to recover from the psychic bombardment. For now, I needed to stay conscious.
    In languages I could not understand, Viking men shouted and hurled themselves at the Beothuk-like peoples, but could never catch the fleet-footed Skraeling s. They possessed a surefootedness that made them appear to be running a centimetre or so off the ground. Considering they weren’t alive, there was no reason to suppose that they were hitting earth.
    I gulped down my fear and managed to look at Jeremy. He pulled his sidearm and took a shooting crouch, though he did not fire.
    “Shoot them!” David hissed.
    “This isn’t TV. I don’t just shoot people.” Jeremy looked at me, waiting for my answer.
    I shrugged. “They aren’t real. It probably won’t do any good.”
    David looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Consistent, I suppose, with several dozen ghosts heading our way. Jeremy, at least, hung around me enough to have heard my stories and believe something other in the world existed; he’d even seen some questionable things in his life. David O’Toole, on the other hand, believed anything outside the biblical world was tantamount to devil-worship.
    “Who are they?” He asked, his voice trembling.
    “Ghosts.” I answered, sucking in a deep breath of the cold, salty air. “Only worse.”
    Jeremy stared at me. “Define ‘worse.’ “
    A Viking picked up a circular, wooden garbage bin from the end of Manny’s driveway and hurled it at a Beothuk hiding behind a car. The bin missed and, instead, smashed against the car’s windshield, the safety glass pebbling and splintering.
    Siren wails pierced the evening air. Porch lights flicked on as people came out of their houses to see what the commotion was about.
    I didn’t take my eyes off the skulking Beothuks as they hid in bushes and tree shadows, avoiding the street lights. “Whatever, or whoever, brought them back, didn’t just raise their spirits. They raised their bodies, too. They are flesh and blood.”
    “You’re telling me these are zombies?” David snapped. “Zombies are walking down the streets? Zombies?!”
    I shook my head and let out an exasperated sigh. “No, no. Zombies aren’t real.”
    “I don’t care what they are—we need to do something,” Jeremy said.
    Several ideas flooded my brain. The most likely course of action was also my least favourite one. “There’s no way that I can send them back permanently, but I can banish them until sunset tomorrow.”
    “Banish?” O’Toole screwed up his mouth. “Witchcraft.”
    I glared at