“This is the spot,” I said, handing Bobby a bag of salt from out of my coat pocket, “Make a circle. I’ll draw the sigils.”
The summoning signs spring to my mind easily. The voices save their resistance for things that could get them in trouble down the track. Summoning the spirits of the long dead is work-a-day business for them.
I snatched the cigarette from Sam’s fingers and stood in the middle of the finished circle. I held it, bare inches from my left eye.
“By lighted torch I summon thee, spirit of the restless dead.”
There was a hiss and a cold, foul wind blew out the cigarette. Sam muttered in irritation and lit herself a fresh one. The air shimmered before me, our torches flickered. The pale outline of a man appeared between us, inside the circle of salt.
“Whosat?” it muttered, “Are you the one whose been diggin’ up me graves?”
It’s voice was cold and damp, the inside of a fallen tree.
“You Called to me,” I said, “My name is Tom Grey.”
“I didn’t Call you, boy. I was just yellin’. Some fella’s been diggin up the graves. Me poor sweet family. Can’t even rest in piece. I drove him off, best I could. But ‘e’ll be back ta finish the job, boy. Mark my words. E’ll be back with more than just a spade.”