Page 36 of Hot Ghost Summer

I close my bedroom door to check my reflection in the mirror that hangs on the back.

“This is…”

I look like I’ve been vacuum-sealed into my own wardrobe. My navel winks in the morning light and my shorts look like those vintage-style athletic ones that let half your arsenal hang out. I twist my torso to see, but it’s an awkward movement, as if I’m an oversized action figure forced into toddler-sized clothing.

A scowl drags my brow down and sets a deep wrinkle into the bridge of my nose. I don’t have many clothes, and I can’t just afford to replace them. Even the money I forked out for this T-shirt of Brigid was a lot, considering that I don’t have good job security.

Yanking on the fabric to stretch it is pointless; there’s no way it’s going to return to its previous size. My eyes drift to the ExorSquad coveralls still hanging in front of the window, then to the underwear and vests on the drying rack. Have they all shrunk too? Is everything ruined? But how?

Yesterday’s trip to the laundrette flashes through my mind. Specifically, how the washing machines had all fritzed, the lights had flickered, and everything had powered down. My fingers curl into fists at my sides.

I’d taken Hollis out as a favour, but the first thing he did when we got there was try to leave. For whatever reason, he couldn’t, and he only returned to his phone because I was leaving—but not before he reset all the machines. Including my machine. Which contained my laundry. Which has now shrunk.

“Hollis!” I yell, grabbing the bedroom door handle to pull it wide open.

I storm the short distance to the table in the living room and snatch up his phone, which disconnects the charging cable. Then, right into the speakers, I accuse, “You shrank my clothes!”

No response.

“Oh no you don’t. Not this time. I know you can hear me.” I step into full view of the webcam on his laptop, and hold his phone out like I’m filming myself too. “Look what you did! You did this on purpose.”

I bring his phone close and narrow my eyes right at him.

The phone remains dark.

Inhaling through my nose, I clench my teeth.

“You know what?” I snap. “Fine.”

Slamming Hollis down on the table with a dull thud, I march over to my little under-counter fridge.

“I was going t’ be nice about this, talk it through and stuff. Now, I’m not.”

Squatting, I retrieve the sage I bought from the big shop yesterday and rip open the packaging, releasing a strong earthy aroma. I dump the bundle, tied with a blue elastic band, on the counter while I hunt for a lighter.

“What’s that?” This message doesn’t show on Hollis’s phone screen, but instead is robotically read aloud from his laptop’s text-to-voice service.

“Sage,” I confirm, not looking back as I rifle through my cutlery drawer.

“From the supermarket?”

“Where else?” I snark. “I don’t have an organic allotment, Your Lordship.”

Finally, I discover the long-reach lighter half buried under the pizza wheel and test the size of the flame. Turning it up full, I hold the bundle of sage in my other hand and stalk menacingly toward his laptop.

No more messages.

I set the flame closer to the sage leaves, but they don’t catch right away. They curl and char under the intense heat, producing wisps of dark and fragrant smoke. I wave the plume over the laptop and phone, but I do it too fast and put out the burgeoning flame.

Re-clicking the lighter, I hold the flame closer this time, and instead of waving the herb, I walk slowly around my flat with it.

“Evil spirits aren’t welcome ’ere,” I state, aiming a pointed look at the phone on the table. “I cleanse this space.”

I take a deep breath, ready to tell Hollis specifically that he is the evil spirit, but all I get is a mouthful of woody smoke. Coughing, I extend my arms further away from my face and move toward the window.

More smoke coils through the air from the dense bundle now, easily filling the living room. Maybe I shouldn’t have lit the entire thing.

I push the window wide open, but the outside humidity clashes hard with the burning sage, instantly turning the fragrant smoke into voluminous white plumes. Reflexively, I pull the neck of my T-shirt up over my nose and mouth, but the stubborn smoke persists in choking off my airway. Tears fill my eyes, stinging where they mix with the heavy particulates in the air, and I wheeze and gasp.