I often call spirits, but this is different. These are not the gentle words I use to speak with my spirit guides or even the incantations for summoning new spirits. My mouth is dry as I call out the words that will summon a dead spirit in its own body.

“Exurgent mortus et ad me veniunt!” My own voice sounds unfamiliar to me, the power of the command lending it weight and nerves adding an edge. There is a pitiful moaning from beneath the sacred circle, but Freddie does not stir, either in spirit or body. I call out again, “Exurgent mortus et ad me veniunt!” There is a howling from beyond the Rubicon now, a fearsome, unearthly noise. I must be vigilant. The call is unspecific at this point, as the spell requires, and there are those other than Freddie who might try to answer it. As I form this thought there comes a loud banging, and the ground beneath my feet pulses upward, as if being pummeled by some mighty fist. I press on with the ritual.

Kneeling beside Freddie, holding the chalice in one hand, I rest my other palm over his eyes. “When these eyes open once more, they will see.” I touch his brow. “When this mind stirs, it will think.” I put my hand on his chest. “When this heart beats again, it will feel.” I place my fingers on his cold, blue mouth. “When these lips part again, they will speak.” My pulse is racing now, and it is taking a great effort of will to ignore the hideous noises coming up from under the circle, and not to panic at the way the floor is bulging and stretching as it is repeatedly kicked and thumped by something with monstrous strength.

I lean forward and put the edge of the chalice to my dear brother’s lips. There is such a small quantity of the Elixir that it seeps into his mouth easily. I place the chalice on the ground and slip my arm beneath his head, raising it up onto my lap. All at once I can feel the same heat that infused me flooding through his body, chasing away the chill of death. Then I see his fingers move. They move! Spirits save us, the wonderful potion is working! He begins to twitch, his arms jerking, his feet kicking out against nothing, his head thrashing from side to side as if he is asleep but in the grip of a terrible dream.

“Wake up, Freddie,” I whisper, and then, louder, “wake up, Freddie!”