September, 100° F
The apartment is dark when I return, the blackout curtains doing their job of keeping the late afternoon sun out. It doesn’t matter, though. The air is stifling hot, thick and oppressive. Sweat gathers on my skin, sticking clothes to flesh.
But I welcome the heat. Today is the last day of summer, the last day for such high temperatures.
The last day to summon a ghost.
June, 90° F
It was your idea to summon spirits in the summer.
It was hot that day. You and I were down on the floor, skin exposed in indecent amounts, sticky with sweat and sucking on popsicles while we halfheartedly argued the direction ceiling fans should spin.
“I think it’s counterclockwise,” I said, waving a lazy hand in said direction.
You hummed noncommittally. “Because?”
“… something something science. It makes air cooler.”
“It’s spinning counterclockwise now, and it definitely doesn’t feel cool,” you griped. “Science sucks.”
“Science sucks,” I agreed, dragging my tongue along my popsicle. “Too bad we aren’t ghosts,” I mused, giggling, head more than a little addled from the heat. “Create our own cold spots in the summer. Supernatural AC.” I laughed again, lolling my head to look at you.
But you weren’t laughing; you were frowning, squinting at the ceiling fan, the popsicle in your hand forgotten and melting in slow drips down your wrist.
“Ghosts,” you repeated slowly, “make cold spots.” You turned to me, face flushed, hair frizzed, and smiled. “Ghosts make cold spots.”
September, 99° F
I lean over the freezer drawer when I open it, taking a moment to be revitalized by the chill in preparation for the summoning.
Necromancy, in the most general sense, isn’t difficult. Like all magics, there are levels to it. Heavy-hitter witches can do resurrections, travel beyond the veil, possession. Middling witches like me rarely go beyond basic maintenance, keeping the local dead from becoming too vengeful or straying too far.
Summoning is somewhere below ghost maintenance and above communication, seeking just the shade of a spirit, more memory than ghost. Necromancy lite, I remember you calling it. Side effects no worse than the fatigue felt from stress, sleeplessness.
A long, hot day.
June, 92° F
Your eyes rolled back, gazing beyond the veil. I closed my own eyes, focusing on the feel of your magic, a charge buzzing under my skin making the hairs on my arms stand at attention.
A shift in the air, a sudden temperature drop. I shivered—I shivered—and opened my eyes.
An amorphous cloud was above us, rolling just below the ceiling fan’s blades. It coalesced into a woman dressed in rockabilly, smiling as she glanced behind her at someone, saying something we could not hear from this side of the veil.
She was beautiful, ethereal, and so, so cold.
You flopped dramatically back to the floor with a loud cackle of triumph. I scooted closer, reaching out a sticky hand to grasp your arm, and we laughed together, almost hysterically. It was the relief of the cool air, the absurdity of the spell, you, lips stained Red Dye #40, together with me.
September, 97° F
I make my way into the living room, stripping off my damp shirt as I go, and lay down on the floor, bare back tingling where it touches the cool tile. Above me, the ceiling fan spins counterclockwise, as it should.
June, 95° F
On the hottest days, during the hottest hours, we summoned the ghosts of tenants long past. We watched their memories play out before us like silent films, passing hours upon hours together, happy and cool on the living room floor. First a novelty, then a treat, then a habit. Dozens of ghosts, summoned over dozens of days.
Like when the power went out, we brought forth a trio of sisters in flapper flare and watched them gossip, the whispers of their long-gone breath a chill wind on our own cheeks.
September, 94° F
I pick up the popsicle I brought from the freezer, unwrapping the plastic to reveal cherry-flavored ice, bright red. I touch it to my lips, breathing its sweet scent, letting it stick to the moisture there. I shiver.
July, 99° F
During the wildfires, we summoned a conscripted soldier who tried on his uniform for the first time.
September, 90° F
I reach for my magic.
July, 102° F
We celebrated our own anniversary by inviting, from the beyond, participants in the Summer of Love.
September, 85° F
I open the veil.
August, 104° F
It was the best summer of my life.
September, 79° F
And see you.
August, 105° F
It was the last summer of yours.
September, 72° F
Sweat slicked and frazzle-haired, tank top and shorts, cherry red lips mouthing words I only hear in my memories now.
“Ghosts make cold spots.”
August, 106° F
I waited for hours, soaked in my own sweat, until the sun sank and our popsicles were just red puddles on the floor.
But you never came home.
September, 64° F
Your chill freezes the sweat on my skin, leaving me gasping, but I roll ever closer, chasing the cold until it burns. You laugh and reach for a different me, the me that was with you there, then, while I’m stuck here, now, warm and alive and alone.
August, 108° F
It was the heat, they said. A deadly build up so slow you never noticed, effects easy to dismiss as from stress, sleeplessness.
Too much spellwork.
September, 57° F
I hold you until there is no warmth left in my body, until you stop laughing and close your eyes, falling asleep on the other me’s shoulder. And when the sun sets and the temperature drops, I open the veil to where there are no seasons, no sun, no cherry popsicles or counterclockwise ceiling fans, no me, not yet, and I let you go until I see you again.
Next summer.
