Knight Shift: Spirit Caller, #3

By Krista D. Ball

After a lifetime of running away from spirits, Rachel Mills finds herself chasing them. Someone or something is harassing Manny O'Toole, a local teenage spellcaster.

To complicate things, a mysterious man arrives in town. So naturally Rachel has to find out who and what he really is. Provided she can sneak away from Mrs. Saunders, her 93 year old neighbour, a local senior and troublemaker.

On top of it all, Rachel's made a decision about Jeremy, the secret love of her life. It's time to have a chat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krista D. Ball
• Release date: Dec 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781498959070

Book preview

Author’s Note to the 2023 Edition

A lot has changed over the past decade since I first wrote this story. Language evolved. Themes changed. Major events took place. Culture shifted. I changed.

In preparing this new edition, I’ve decided not to remove/change concepts or themes or phrases that aged in the past decade, except for in a couple of very minor incidences. I resisted rewriting parts of this book, which is difficult for both a writer and someone who is always trying to evolve. I also did not modernize technology. That means the cell phones will continue to flip open. Some people even use a different music player from their phones!

I did make a couple of small adjustments to format and caught a couple of typos. I also tried to wrangle control over the — and – usage. But, let’s face it, I will never get control of them and should just give up using them all together.

I kept the Canadian spelling, and the Newfoundland accent. I know some people found the uncommon accent difficult to read, but the accent is a part of the story, a part of Newfoundland, and a part of me.

I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1

Hell, Only Noisier

There are plenty of things I’m good at. Painting, for instance; I sold over five grand’s worth in paintings this summer. I’m a great reader; I easily polished off seventy-five books last year and I even appreciate the genius that is Dickens. I am loyal, forgiving, tolerant, and inclusive. I enjoy looking after Mrs. Saunders, my elderly neighbour, and am great at cheering her up. I’m good at lots of things.

I’m not great at declaring my feelings for a certain Mountie.

In case you’ve been living under a rock, Constable Jeremy Garrett is a glorious man: blond, sexy as all hell, wicked smile, expressive eyes, and a quick wit. I love him the way bumblebees love flowers. Okay, that’s sickly sweet even for me. You get the idea, though. He’s my ideal and I’ve been in love with him since nearly the first moment we met. He doesn’t know I exist.

At least, something like that.

It’s complicated.

So, there I was, sitting on a park bench that Jeremy and I had carried up the cliff side so I could enjoy the landscape in peace, trying to focus my attention on painting ideas for next summer’s tourist season. There weren’t trees up here; the wind would never allow it. Not even the famous tuckamores, with their tops growing toward the ground instead of the sky, lived on the cliff. Just lichen and moss, a couple patches of grass, and endangered alpine flowers holding on for dear life. And below me the Atlantic Ocean slammed itself against the rocky coastline, and two small fishing boats bobbed up and down as they fought the waves. It was a calm day, for here, so the fishermen only looked like they were riding a bull.

I didn’t know if Jeremy would ever forgive me for making him drag the cast iron bench all the way up here. But he’d never complained. That’s Jeremy. Always there whenever I needed him. I let out a sigh. There was no getting him out of my mind.

And he wasn’t the only thing I couldn’t get away from. You see, there’s something else I’m really great at: hearing dead people.

The best dresser I’d ever seen, living or dead, was standing off to my right. Stellar sideburns. He wouldn’t shut up about how much he missed having sex with his wife’s sister, her cousin, her maid, the cook, and most of the Sisters of Mercy. Note that he never missed sex with his wife.

To my left, a tall, lean, fresh-faced twenty-something spirit. Shabby in a roguish way, happily chatting about how much he enjoyed Mr. Best Dresser’s wife.

And seated next to me on the park bench was the lady herself, Mrs. Jane McAvoy, wearing a silk bustle dress and whispering into my ear how she enjoyed the virile manliness of Father O’Brien, even if he was a filthy Irishman.

Welcome to my personal hell.

I loved it when he would kiss me… Mrs. McAvoy lowered her voice, down there.

I gritted my teeth. Maybe a blank card set with landscape prints. Small, inexpensive items, perfect for those mindful of their luggage weight and travel budgets.

I used to do that to your sister whenever you left the room, Mr. McAvoy said, and his wife laughed merrily.

I blew out a breath. It was enough of a challenge to keep my mind from Jeremy, without being reminded of the relationship perks I was missing out on. 

Mr. Shabby Rogue chuckled. Remember the time I caught your hand up my wife’s skirts?

That is it! I shouted. That’s enough. Go away!

The spirits only gave me quizzical looks, and went back to their lust-fuelled chatter.

There is no use in losing your temper, Dema said, strolling toward me across the lichen-covered rocks. The thousands-of-years-old spirit typically opted for a traditional look: feathers and beads adorned her braids, and a tooth-necklace circled her thin, long neck. Her caribou-hide tunic was decorated with furs, beads, and elaborate stitching of birds. She also wore purple yoga pants with neon pink flip-flops.

I gripped the edge of the bench. They’re driving me insane.

Spirit Caller, you must focus, Dema instructed.

Mrs. McAvoy whispered, I slid up and down his pole—

Be gone! I screamed, unable to bear one more NC-17 detail.

The dead love-triangle disappeared. I slumped and muttered, Thank the ancestors.

Dema tutted. See? You need to focus.

I can’t focus. I have holes in my brain. I pointed to my head to emphasize the fact.

Dema cocked hers in a bird-like motion. The spiritual damage done by the Whisperer, as you call him, is something you must cope with. It will be a long time before I will declare you healed.

All I need is not to have every single spirit in the area popping by to have a chat when I’m trying to think, eat, sleep, and — for pity’s sake — when I’m trying to shower or flirt with Jeremy.

Dema gave me a disdainful look. The tall man will not copulate with you unless you tell him you wish to… she thought for a moment, slide up and down his—

No! I pointed at her. Not you, too.

Dema flashed her signature wicked grin and my head began to ache. There was a time when the spiritual power of Dema’s presence would’ve sent me to my knees in pain. I could barely speak to her then, let alone share witty barbs. Nowadays her presence merely made me want to slap her ethereal form and the headaches were mild tension headaches — not serious, but very annoying.

Another head pain? Dema inquired.

I nodded. I saw a doctor, just in case.

And?

He instructed me to lower my stress.

Dema scoffed. What do you have to be stressed about, Spirit Caller? You do not have to gather and hunt your food. You do not need to prepare and store it for winter. You purchase your food, clothing, and housing from others. What could possibly cause you stress?

I glared at her. There are days you remind me too much of my mother.

One should never dishonour one’s mother, Dema said solemnly.

Yup. Just like Mom. I put my hand to my head. I hate headaches.

That is your spirit healing. Wounds itch when they heal.

So my brain hurts when my spirit heals?

Stop complaining. It’s unbecoming of a spirit caller.

Until the Whisperer came to our sleepy Newfoundland outport community, I’d had no idea folks like him existed. He killed — or nearly killed, in my case — with only eye contact. His psychic attack had left plenty of damage. To make matters worse, I’d allowed several ancient spirits, including Dema, to possess my body so I could protect myself and my friends.

I left my cliff perch and carefully walked down the path I’d made through the stunted tuckamores and mossy rocks, avoiding the endangered plants. It would’ve taken me a while to recover from the mental turmoil the Whisperer had put me through, even without the damage from powerful spirits possessing my battered and broken body.

Dema walked alongside me in silence, her yoga pants and flip-flops now replaced by hide trousers and thick furry moccasins. I was never sure if Dema’s outfits were authentic or if she was adapting from various periods after her own life. Hell, for all I knew, she might have been dressing to my own preconceived expectations.

I focused on what I needed to do: the everyday tasks; the things that make us human. I considered new locations for paintings and sketches. Mrs. Saunders’ potato garden needed to be checked. I had to pick up plastic to cover my windows to combat