Echo, p.17
Echo, page 17
Only the sword of a spirit of light could kill a dark spirit, but Vanna and Kirby had lost their powers years before. So, if what Doyle said was right, what were we supposed to do?
***
The house was oddly quiet that night. Ebba and I arrived to find the lights out and no whispers or noises whatsoever. We knew Jackson had taken Lillian to see her grandmother, but where did Tara and Grandpa go?
We headed to my sister’s room upstairs, but before I knocked on the door, I heard Grandpa’s voice from inside. "First, she calls off her engagement, then drops out of college. She’s rarely home, and she’s surrounded herself with new friends—"
"Her friends are nice," Tara interrupted. "Ebba is harmless, and her other friend, Doyle, seemed like a gentleman. This is all Mom’s fault. She’s the reason Echo is acting this way."
"Your mother is gone, Tara, and your sister is a grown-up, not a rebellious teenager."
"You’re right." Tara’s voice dropped. "I didn’t want to show you this, Grandpa, but look what I found. Echo dropped this on her way out."
"What’s this?" Grandpa asked. I heard the crunching sound of a plastic bag.
"Please, tell me it’s not drugs," Tara begged.
There was a short pause before Grandpa replied, "I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not drugs."
My heart ached as I listened to their conversation. Who would’ve thought I’d end up being such a disappointment. What did I drop on my way out? Should I go in and defend myself? But what am I going to say? I was going crazy.
"One day, they’ll learn the truth," Ebba whispered, trying to comfort me. "And they’ll be proud."
Her words didn’t help numb the pain, but she did stop me from storming into the room. It wasn’t like I could explain anyway.
***
"Dinner party?" I was really surprised when Tara came into my room with her announcement. After her conversation with Grandpa the night before, I expected them to be furious, not to throw a party.
"Why not?" she said, forcing a casual tone into her voice. "I learned some new recipes, and I want to try them out on your friends. It’s also a good chance for Grandpa to meet Doyle." She winked at Ebba.
"You want my friends to come over to eat?" I asked again, just to make sure I got it right.
"Yes, Stiff Head. That’s what a dinner party means," she replied. "What’s wrong with you today? Your eyes are puffy and red."
"Allergies." I averted her gaze.
"By the way, you dropped something the other day." She handed me a bag of white birch powder I used for purification spells.
"Thanks," I said. I put the bag in the nightstand drawer without offering an explanation. This must be the drugs they talked about.
At Vanna’s apartment, everyone prepared themselves for the party—except for Vanna, who decided she didn’t care. Doyle emerged from Kirby’s room in a chevron gray tweed suit I bought for him.
"I’m new to this world, and yet I know these clothes come from the 1940s," he said.
Thoughtlessly, I grabbed his hand and put a fancy, silver smartwatch around his wrist. "Now it doesn’t."
"Explain again, why do I have to wear this?" Kirby waved the beret in his hand. He was wearing brown pants and a waistcoat, like a young French poet.
"It’s either this or the hair dye," I said as I sprayed him with cologne.
"I’m not going—A-choo— to change my hair for you." He grabbed a tissue from the table. The woody aroma must have tickled his nose.
"I’m sorry, Kirby. Grandpa can be overly judgmental, and I want him to think we’re a group of sophisticated friends who have nothing to do with magic...or drugs."
Kirby sighed and reached out to pat me on the head. "Don’t worry, Echo. We’ll make you proud, but I’m keeping my hair."
"This is not the hand you sneezed in, right?" I pointed at the hand touching my hair.
"If that’ll make you feel better, sure," he teased.
***
The living room clock ticked, its long arm moving from one minute to the next. Staring at it, I wished for the night to be over.
"So, Kripke. What do you do for a living?" Grandpa crossed one leg over the other. He sat on the chair facing mine, while Ebba, Kirby, and Doyle took the couch.
"It’s Kirby, sir," he answered politely. "My sister and I own a pet store."
"Does that pay the bills?" Grandpa asked with a squint.
"Most of the time, sir."
Grandpa turned to my other awkward friend. "What about you, Doyle—"
"He’s a librarian," I cried out, letting the panic get the best of me.
Doyle cleared his throat. "Yes. I work at a library." He went along with my lie.
"Which one?" Grandpa asked.
"Oracles Bibliotheca," Doyle said.
I was surprised he remembered the name. A while back, we had passed by that library on our way to Dr. Jensen’s clinic.
"What the hell are you guys wearing?" Tara cruised into the room, laughing out loud. "You did this, didn’t you, Echo?"
I covered my face.
"Never take fashion advice from my sister," she said. "She doesn’t even know what Chanel is."
My friends stared blankly. They didn’t know what Chanel was either.
***
After dinner, Ebba, Doyle, and I lounged around in the kitchen while Tara prepared the dessert. "Put that down, Echo," she said. "We’re about to eat ice cream."
"I can’t help it." Tara’s cookies were my weakness—crunchy on the edges, buttery on the inside. Not to mention the irresistible cinnamon flavor. I couldn’t let the cookie jar go.
"These aren’t going anywhere," Tara preached. "Don’t stuff yourself."
"Whatever, Mom." I chewed.
The mouth-watering smell of chocolate grew stronger as Tara stirred her special sauce on the stove. She didn’t have any trouble cooking while holding baby Lillian in her free arm. I should’ve been more helpful.
Tara’s phone started to ring, so she pulled it out of her pocket and glanced at it before turning to Ebba. "I have to take this. Can you hold Lillian for a minute?"
Ebba’s lips parted, but before she said anything, Tara had placed the baby in her arms and walked away. Wincing, Ebba stepped back, almost toppling over.
"He-hey." I caught her from the shoulders. "I’ll hold Lillian."
Ebba nodded repeatedly and brought her hand to her throat. "I need some air."
"Sure. Go ahead," I said as I took the baby from her, and as soon as I did, she ran out of the kitchen.
"Is something wrong?" Doyle asked.
"I think Ebba has some kind of phobia of kids," I said as I checked in on the baby, glad she didn’t wake up. "There’s something else too."
"What is it?"
"I don’t know if I should tell you this, but I’m really worried about her. Ever since she moved in, I noticed she gets terrible nightmares. One night, she was whimpering. Her eyes twitched and her chest pounded. I was scared she’d hyperventilate. Do you think this is sleep paralysis?"
"What is sleep paralysis?" he asked. It made sense he didn’t know the term.
"It’s a condition common between trauma survivors. There are other causes too, I guess. I’m not an expert," I said, thinking back to when I first met Ebba. "Perhaps she’s having a hard time after what happened to her father."
"Perhaps." Doyle closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His brows came closer as he sank in thought.
Does he feel bad about Ebba’s father? It seemed that way. A changed man, isn’t he? Or am I just seeing a new side of him? There was so much I didn’t know about Doyle, but despite all, I trusted him.
"Back in the Oasis, Ebba acted strangely. Didn’t she?" he asked.
"Yeah, you’re right." The memory came to me. "All the man did was offer her a flower, yet she panicked and yelled at him. It’s like he triggered her."
The baby’s scream interrupted the conversation. It was one of those long-lasting, frustrating fits. Her face became pained, and her voice barked like a car alarm in the middle of the night. "Hey, Baby Girl, what happened?" I asked as I rocked her in my arms.
"Is she hungry?" Doyle asked.
"No, Tara has just fed her." I sniffed her diaper. "And she’s clean."
"Then what is it?"
"I don’t know." I tried everything to calm her down. I paced around the kitchen, sang to her, and made funny faces, but nothing worked.
Soon, I burst into tears. "Come on, Lillian. Stop it. I can’t take this anymore... She’s so loud."
"Echo, you don’t have to... cry." Doyle loosened his arms. He seemed to have no idea how to handle a crying baby (or a weeping adult woman). "Try singing again. That song about spiders and walls."
"You do it." Sniffling, I handed the baby to him.
"I-I don’t know the words," he said.
"Just sing anything else." I wiped off my tears with my sleeves.
Doyle looked reluctant. His lips curled down and his eyes widened. As the crying persisted, I continued to panic, leaving him no choice but to utter. "Row, row, row your boat..."
His voice seeped through the noise, lulling us into silence. I must’ve heard this nursery rhyme hundreds of times before, and it had never stirred me, but listening to Doyle, a wave of sorrow took hold inside me. It was his grief, his remorse, his hurt—all revealed in a light hand tremble and a shaky voice. I wondered how strong a person had to be to contain all these feelings and not crumble.
"Life is but—Watch out!" Something whizzed right by my face. It would’ve hit me had Doyle not pulled me away.
"W-was that a fork?" My voice shrilled. It wasn’t just the fork, but all the knives and the cutlery flew out of the drawers and began to attack us.
While shielding me and the baby, Doyle flipped the table over so we would hide behind it. "That’s Zaros’s work," he said. "We have to leave. Can you teleport?"
"Not with a baby, no," I said, panicking. "What are we going to do?" I had gotten used to fighting with fire, wind, and water. But spoons? Plus, we were in the house, which meant my family was at stake.
***
Meanwhile, in the living room, Mr. Knight and Jackson watched the soccer game. Kirby had agreed to join them, thinking it was a board game. He was shocked when they turned on the TV.
Trying to fit in, Kirby mirrored everything Jackson did—from cheering and yelling at the screen to leaning forward while resting his forearms on his thighs.
"Miller is determined to win today," Jackson said.
"He’s a smooth passer," Mr. Knight replied.
"I agree," Kirby broke in. He had no idea who Miller was.
"If they win this game, they’ll get into the semi-finals," Jackson said. "Do you think they have a chance, Kirby?"
"Of course," he said with a grin.
As the game went on, the TV flickered and buzzed. "What’s going on?" Mr. Knight pressed on the remote, but nothing changed.
The chandelier swung on the ceiling. Its rattling noise grabbed everyone’s attention. "An earthquake?" Mr. Knight clutched the arms of his chair, which started to shake. "We never have these in the city."
"That’s true," Kirby said, seized by an unsettling feeling, a familiar yet strange feeling. He rushed to the window. There was no sign of an earthquake outside. Looking at his feet, he saw a dark shadow moving through the floor and into the wall. "Uh-oh."
The earthquake escalated quickly. Off the piano, the black panther fell, smashing into pieces. The earthquake brought down the wall paintings and the vases. The three men hid behind the couch. "I have to find Tara," Jackson said.
"Hold still," Mr. Knight replied. "It’s dangerous to move."
"But, sir. My wife and daughter."
"They’ll be fine," Mr. Knight affirmed.
The ceiling cracked with the weight of the swaying chandelier pulling it down. Kirby jumped to his feet and grabbed Mr. Knight by the arm. "Jackson is right, we have to get out of—"
With a loud thud and shattering noises, the chandelier fell. Hadn’t it been for Kirby’s quick reflexes, Mr. Knight would’ve been crushed. Feeling pain in his leg, Kirby glanced down to see blood wettening the fabric of his pants.
"Are you happy now?" Jackson yelled. "Kirby is injured because of you."
"Have you lost your mind, Jackson?" the old man yelled back. "How dare you talk down to me?"
"What are you going to do about it?" Jackson asked in a belittling tone. "I’m sick of this unsparing humiliation you’ve shown me and Tara. You’re always trying to control everything." He grabbed a piece of a broken vase and waved it at Mr. Knight.
"No." Kirby held him back. "What’s going on with you two?"
"Stay out of it, Kripke." Mr. Knight punched Jackson in the face.
"Stop it." Kirby hurled his body between the two to stop the scuffle. "Look around you," he said. "You don’t want to hit each other. They’re making you do it."
Kirby pointed at the walls, where sinuous, umbral shadows crept like drowning people desperate for air. But it wasn't air they sought; it was attention. The devils only gained power by hijacking the human mind.
"What the hell is this?" Jackson flinched when a shadow reached out of the floor and caught his leg.
"Don’t panic," Kirby said. "These are just shadows."
"What are you talking about?" Mr. Knight panicked. "What’s happening here?"
"Doesn’t matter now," Kirby replied. "Where do you keep the salt in this house?"
The three men escaped the living room and tiptoed near the hallway walls, surrounded by shadows. To reach the kitchen, they had to cross a long corridor, whose ceiling had become saggy.
"Can you run?" Kirby asked.
"I’ll try." Mr. Knight glanced at his weak knees.
The three sprinted forward. As soon as they reached the kitchen, the hallway ceiling collapsed. Mr. Knight pressed his hand to his chest and tried to breathe. Jackson shook his head, unable to process what had just happened. The house was falling apart.
Kirby shut the kitchen door, preventing them from looking outside. He grabbed the salt bottle from the pantry and sprayed it all over the place. Salt was the one thing the devils hated the most. It blocked their energy, temporarily incapacitating them.
"Mr. Knight. I apologize in advance," Kirby said before he threw some salt at the old man’s face.
"What the—?" Mr. Knight almost exploded, but the salt cleansed away the power of the dark spirits, instantly soothing him. "I feel...peaceful," he said in a sleepy-like manner.
"Awesome." Kirby threw some salt at Jackson, who also came to his senses.
"Mr. Knight. I can’t believe what I said to you," he said. "I don’t know what has gotten into me."
"All is well. All is well, Son." Mr. Knight replied.
Kirby exhaled in relief. "Where’s Echo and the others?" He tried to call, but his phone wasn’t working. He didn’t realize that, at the moment, he was in a different reality.
***
Doyle and I made a successful run to the living room, but it wasn’t any safer than the kitchen. Not only the cutlery but the furniture also attacked us. The carpet somehow caught fire, and a gust chased us around like a tiny, loud tornado. To make things worse, the baby was crying again. I hid with her in a safe corner while Doyle fought off the flying chairs and vases. The fire blocked the only exit.
"Can you extinguish it?" Doyle yelled. I barely heard his voice over the baby and the rumbling tornado.
"I can make it rain," I yelled back, then started to cough because of the smoke.
"Rain?" He pushed against a violent armchair that just wouldn't give up. "We’re indoors."
"I’ll improvise."
I closed my eyes and moved my attention to the water pipes inside the walls and beneath the house. I can easily break one of them, but this will get out of hand. What if I increase the water flow and teleport it to the living room? A two-in-one spell—this might work.
The more I concentrated, the faster I reached the meditative state where I saw and heard the water flowing inside the pipes. Flexing a finger, I imagined the desired outcome I wanted. "Sine pluviam abundantem cadere solum."
Water plunged into the living room through the door and the windows. I almost slipped and dropped Lillian, but Doyle caught us.
It took seconds for the flood to cease, leaving the furniture burned and doused. Lillian stopped crying and gaped at us with innocent curiosity.
I tried to call Vanna, but I got no signal. I considered letting Doyle out of the window with Lillian, but separating wasn’t a wise choice. After all, we didn’t know where our friends were or what had happened to them.
***
Beneath Doyle’s feet, the devils flowed through the wet-carpeted floor like fish swimming in water. "Killer, killer," they whispered.
Sweat slid down Doyle’s cheeks. As his tension heightened, he began to detach from his surroundings. The whole room vanished, and he was left alone in the empty, in a starless space with no walls, no floor, no burned furniture, and no ceiling to bind him.
Only when the time was right did the devils appear, penetrating the darkness in a bright red color. The sound of heels echoed in the empty.
Doyle froze, unable to believe what he saw. "Viessa."
"What’s wrong, Doyle?" She said with her wax-doll expression. "Are you scared?"
"You’re not real. I’m hallucinating."
"Are you?" Viessa blinked twice and opened her arms. "Then why don’t you come and give me a hug?"
"Stay away from me!" Doyle cried out and stepped back. Once he wished for a weapon to protect himself, a knife appeared in his hand.
"Ain’t this funny?" Viessa toyed with her hair. "You’ve always hated humans for being killers, but now you’re just like them."
"I’m not a killer," he uttered forcefully.
"You killed me." She eyed him with her big, unreadable eyes.
"You wanted to kill me first."
"That’s right," she said. "But when you kill a killer, what does it make you, Doyle?"
