Called, Spirits of Savannah Book #1

By Kira Saito

Sophie seems to have it all, a thriving career at the MET, a handsome soon-to-be fiancé, and an eccentric father who is the toast of the academic world. Yet, fate has other plans for her. After the death of her father, she starts to see visions of a beautiful woman who claims that Sophie needs to return home and take care of some unfinished business.

But where is home? And what business? Unexpectedly, she receives a strange invitation from a mysterious organization in Savannah, Georgia. Determined to find out more about the circumstances surrounding her father’s death and her sudden ability to see the dead, she accepts.

Welcome to Savannah, Georgia, a city so beautiful that it was spared from the wrath of Union General William T. Sherman. In this city filled with the spirits of the dead, arching live oaks draped in picturesque Spanish moss, luxurious looming mansions, and men who have impeccable manners and voices as smooth as butter Sophie is an outsider. Yet, she begins to discover that maybe the answers that she has been searching for are closer than she expected... Step into the haunting yet beautiful world of Sophie and Savannah where the dead walk among the living and every nook and cranny has a mystery that demands to be solved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kira Saito
• Release date: Jan 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005314293

Kira Saito

Kira is a magic junkie and loves writing YA paranormal romances. Some of her heroes include: Jack the Pumpkin King, Willy Wonka, Larry David, Princess Tiana, the vampire Lestat, Andy and her Maltese Costanza.

Book preview

CALLED

SPIRITS OF SAVANNAH

BOOK #1

Copyright © 2022 Kira Saito

All rights reserved: no part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters and persons living or dead is strictly coincidental

Smashwords Edition

Gullah

Mustekcyear a de root fa heal de tree.

English

You need to take care of the root in order to heal the tree.

Table of Contents

Chapter One Lost in Time

Chapter Two Uninvited Guests

Chapter Three How you Thrill Me!?

Chapter Four The Mysteries

Chapter Five A Proposal, You Can’t Refuse?

Chapter Six It’s Witchcraft

Chapter Seven I Put A Spell On You!

Chapter Eight A Night You Won’t Forget

Chapter Nine How Can the Show Go On?

Chapter Ten Peter the Doctor

Chapter Eleven A New Day

Chapter Twelve Hard Times, They’ll Take you Door to Door

Chapter Thirteen Lost in a Book

Chapter Fourteen When the Veil is Torn

Chapter Fifteen When Calls the Spirit

Chapter Sixteen The End of a Chapter

Chapter Seventeen Welcome to Savannah

Chapter Eighteen Ghosts and Other Things

Chapter Nineteen We Take Things Very Seriously Around Here

Chapter Twenty The Soul of A Nation

Chapter Twenty-One My Darling Clementine

Chapter Twenty-Two Me, an Heiress?

Chapter Twenty-Three A Dreadful Sorrow

Chapter Twenty-Four You Have to Do it Savannah Style

Chapter Twenty-Five That Time of Day

Chapter Twenty-Six Chatham Artillery Punch

Chapter Twenty-Seven To Catch a Killer

Chapter One

Lost in Time

Brooklyn, New York

T ime is precious, my father used to say as he stirred up a batch of his famous Egyptian red lentil soup. His blue eyes would be so focused on chopping up the onions, boiling the red lentils, and making sure that there were just enough spices to get the flavor exactly the same as his favorite diner in Cairo had served up so many years ago. His salt and pepper hair would shine under the kitchen lights and despite his love for cooking not a splash of fiery broth would land on his impeccable white shirt or the shiny black granite countertop. He played the part of mom, dad, brother, and sister so well that I often forgot that there were only the two of us who existed in our spacious house.

Cooking was another ritual that we bonded over. One of many that kept us connected. There was something both comforting and calming about it. As I grew older, I would stand by him in the kitchen, stuffing warqa with spiced goat cheese and cilantro, or filling tokrichaat with ginger-spiced chickpeas and colorful vegetables.

Yes, I know, I would say. I eagerly waited for him to finish the nightly story that kept me and my friends in suspense even as we grew into realistic adults who were obsessed with finding the right rent-controlled apartment, job, and potential plus one. Anyone and everyone who knew Jonathan Ibrahim would come to our place for one of three things, advice, a story, or food that was so delicious that they were often left wondering why he wasn’t a gourmet chef instead of a curator at the MET. Some of them were even convinced that he should have been a writer or should have had his own single man Broadway act telling the stories of the faces that he saw before him all while cooking them a hearty meal.

But it is also tricky. Did you know that the Egyptians were so obsessed with time that they invented sundials, shadow clocks, Merkhets, and Obelisks to track it? But, let me tell you, time is best told in the stars, in the faces and special objects that are a mystery until the onlooker is brave enough to learn the real story. A story that is often clouded with misinformation, half-truths, and shadows. Time and history are much like pomegranates, solid on the outside but filled with an endless maze of delicate seeds that matured it into something rare and special. Only the brave dare enter the labyrinth of the unknown and choose to face the unfamiliar...

Like my mom, she’s one of those mysteries that you refuse to open the sarcophagus door to. I would half-joke and half-hope that he would finally tell me more about my mother aside from the fact that she had died while giving birth to me and that she had no living relatives that we knew of.

In my mind, she was eternally akin to Poe’s Annabel Lee. A maiden so fair and virtuous and she had been too good for the world. Knowing this, the angels in Heaven had taken her away to protect her. I was a child and she was a child, in this kingdom by the sea, but we loved with a love that was more than love—  I and my Annabel Lee—With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven coveted her and me. I would think as I asked questions that I knew I would never get straight answers to. For some reason, the picture of a dainty maiden dressed in an antique Victorian lace wedding gown sweating as she gave birth to her first and only child would always pop into my head. As she lovingly handed me over to my father she had passed away to the other side where St. Peter had immediately allowed her in through the pearly white gates. Mind you, as a thirty-year-old, this vision had changed somewhat minus the hauntingly beautiful lace dress. More grown-up questions had entered the picture like if my father had loved my mother why hadn’t he married her? Silly, sentimental, but perhaps my inner romantic would never fully die.

Sophie Maria Ibrahim, you know, I have told you all that I can tell you.  He would hover over the stove as he boiled some fragrant Basmati rice that I loved way more than any other hipster in the neighborhood. Some stories are not mine to tell, they are so sacred that they belong in the depths of one’s heart and soul only. But, you only have to look in the mirror to see what she must have been like. That thick black hair, those deep almond eyes that peculiar skin tone not quite olive. That wit, charm, and strength of character are exactly what she was like. That is all that you need to know. Then, for a split second, his eyes would get a faraway look that was full of melancholy, his bow-shaped lips would droop and his hands would shake ever so slightly. I suppose it was the reason that he never brought any girlfriends home. He never said the words, but it was clear to me that whoever my mother had been, she had stolen his heart in a manner so brutal that it would never fully belong to any other woman aside from her.

As a kid, I had made a private vow that I would never marry a man who didn’t love me the way my father loved my mother. It may have seemed like a corny vow given the state of modern society and Tinder hook-ups, but there was an understated romanticism in finally finding your Mr. Darcy. Of course, I never let another living soul know about these romantic notions as they would have been tirelessly mocked by the too cool academic crowd that I worked with at the MET. The only exception was Lisabeth, my best friend in the entire universe, she shared the same secret sentiment. We would only get married when our Mr. Darcy’s arrived. The moment a man proposed, he would have to pass the Darcy test, or we would not be the other’s bridesmaid.

Jonathan Ibrahim, why did you have to drop dead? You were way too young to leave. It had been exactly one month and five days since he had died mysteriously, but it felt as if he was still there in that home where he had given me a life so rich and inspired that it seemed unreal that it could continue without him guiding me. Without him, I was just plain old Sophie, devoid of any compass. Every move that I had made had been guided by him. Now, I was an adult, a real adult who had to make her own decisions without an anchor or lighthouse for security. What they didn’t tell you about growing up was that no matter how old you got, home was home and it would always have the biggest piece of your heart.

A stiff autumn breeze ruffled through my long, slightly unkempt hair as I walked up the stone steps leading to the front door of the rusty brick house. It seeped through my flimsy chiffon dress even though I had thrown a leather jacket over it as a means of protecting myself against the dropping temperatures. The wind brought with it the scent of dead leaves and the low lament of branches as they clawed against the side of the house seemed as if they were welcoming me back, asking why I had abruptly abandoned them. There was something undeniably mystical about fall in New York, as the leaves underwent their yearly ritual of changing from green to crunchy brown, fiery red, and mustard yellow. The owners of the regal houses that lined the street all had dutifully raked their lawns and had put out bright orange pumpkin bags that welcomed in the fall.

My hands shook as I inserted my key into the door. I knew that I couldn’t keep myself holed up in a hotel forever. I was never one to escape from reality, I liked to confront situations head-on, but this was one thing that I hadn’t been prepared for. I didn’t believe in ghosts, vampires, or any of that nonsense, but there was something supernatural about a big old house whose owner had recently departed. Every creek and noise was as if the house was aching in pain, waiting with bated breath hoping that its owner would return and that it would be filled with colors, flavors, scents, and warmth. As I walked inside, I was met with a dreaded and cold silence that sent a sense of despair down my back.

All the horrid details of that night came rushing back like a bad Adam Sandler movie that you simply couldn’t unwatch no matter how hard you tried. There had been no warning signs. No prolonged illness, it had been a simple case of him calmly telling one of his stories to me and my boyfriend Eric over a delicious vegetarian moussaka and full-bodied bottle of Chianti Montespertoli. There had been no signs of ill health, his eyes had sparkled and his face full of life, excitement, and vigor that comes with just getting back from a month-long trip to Europe where he had scoured through old castles and islands to find discoveries for the museum. Retirement, taking it easy, and moving to Florida were never on his cards. He wasn’t that type of man. Honestly, he was the best at what he did, and museums all over the world actively sought his advice and guidance. He had friends in high places and low places, his advice was always welcomed by people who were curious about the strange objects they came across and if they were worth a dime or billions.

Such was the latest trip he took to the castle of some Italian Count who swore he was related to the Medici Family and had uncovered important documents that would change the course of humanity. Turns out the documents were no more than poems written by some long-forgotten Renaissance poet, or that’s what my father told me. As much as he loved to tell stories, I knew that there were certain secrets that my father did not share until the time was right. Sometimes, he never shared them at all. His spacious office was filled with rows and rows of strange boxes, documents, and leather-bound books that appeared as if they were snatched right out of the catacombs of medieval monks.

This particular bottle comes from an Italian Count whom I have formed a fond relationship with. A fine fellow who wants to donate his rare collection of first edition Renaissance poems to the MET. Sophie, if you’d like, I’ll let you take credit for the offer, he had said raising his glass. He had known that my current junior curatorial assistant salary wasn’t exactly raking in the big bucks considering I had decided to go back to school and pursue my Ph.D. in history and art and then climb the ladder rather than piggyback off my father. It was a promise that I had made myself, and one that got strange remarks from my peers who insisted that I use my father’s name to override all the other Head Curator wannabes. There were numerous times when I had been sorely tempted especially when Thomas, my arch-rival managed to pull a fast one over me. He had no problem using his family’s name to appear smarter than he was. The competition was tough, but I was determined to be tougher.

Mr. Ibrahim, your daughter never takes handouts, you should know that, Eric had said proudly. His blue eyes had sparkled and earlier that night he had announced that it was time for our families to meet. It was something that I had been putting off since his father happened to be the Senator of New York. His mother also came from a WASPY political family, she was known to be ruthless to anyone her son was dating or rumored to be dating simply because she thought she owned the city. Now, I was strong enough to hold my ground, but the question always lurked in my mind was if I needed that type of drama in my life. My world was one filled with color,  that is all I knew, becoming vanilla to impress a boyfriend’s mother wasn’t one of my top priorities at the moment. Besides, I was not sure if I was ready for that type of commitment. Although it had already been a year since we had started dating and we weren’t exactly teenagers anymore. Suddenly, all of those times that Lisabeth had forced me to watch Sex and the City came rushing back and Carrie’s problems didn’t seem so silly. They seemed rather relatable. Just like that.

I know she gets that from her mother. My father had responded cutting off my train of thought. That spirit. Eric, let me give you some gentlemanly advice that a priest who worked in the bell tower of the majestic Notre Dame told me, you cannot buy spirit. It is a gift from God.

Being a lawyer and a soon-to-be politician who was bent on taking over for his father, Eric always liked to argue these types of matters with my father. Did Faustus not bargain with Mephastophilis knowing that perhaps God was not the one who would give him what he wanted and needed? Did he not willingly decide that a pact with the devil was the only way to fulfill his ambitions? Did he not do it happily and with all of the consent in the universe? Did he not convince himself that hell was not as bad as the history books made it out to be? Did he not state that perhaps one needed fortitude to survive? Or perhaps, hell and heaven are mere fairytales that are meant to keep us good. Or perhaps as I am convinced, God is a figment of man’s very active imagination. His English background came out at times like these, strict, no-nonsense, down to the point and factual. He wasn’t one to play games which is why his star was rising quickly.

Wow, I had said taking a deep sip of wine. Eric and my father often spoke late into the evening about such philosophical issues. Even when my father disagreed, he never lost his temper or belittled Eric’s point of view.  Eric was a strict atheist, while my father described himself as spiritual. Like so many other liberals my age, I described myself as whatever floats your boat. I liked to study what the dead had thought about these issues, but I never really liked to think about them myself. I was perfectly fine leaving the dead where they belonged, in museums, behind glass where they would remain untarnished. Perhaps that was all any of us could hope for to be remembered after we were long gone.

My father had smiled at Eric’s spunk and had taken a few sips of wine before excusing himself. He had mentioned something about the wine going to his head and needing a few minutes to let it pass. Ten minutes had passed and then twenty. Finally when thirty minutes had gone by I had excused myself and went to check on him. Dad, are you okay? I had knocked on his bedroom door. When the knock went unanswered, I pushed the heavy door open and walked over to the four-poster bed where he rested. The wine got to you tonight, must have been a long trip. No worries. I had reached for the cashmere blanket to cover him when I noticed that his chest wasn’t moving. My hand landed on his heart and I couldn’t feel a beat. The slow, steady rhythm of the drum that kept the blood pumping was absent.

The following hours and days went by in a blur of tears, questions, and despair the depths of that which I had not ever felt before. It was as if someone had ripped out my own heart and buried it with him.  Eric and I told the police, paramedics, and doctors all that had happened that night. The same questions were asked. No, he didn’t have a pre-existing condition, no he wasn’t on any medication. Yes, he was healthy as a horse and had the freshest diet, in fact, he probably was way healthier than me given I did have a secret Taco Bell addiction. When it was all said and done, the results of the autopsy revealed that he had died. There was no rhyme or reason to it, he simply died and there was no way to bring him back. All of those philosophical questions of heaven, hell, and souls and spirits circled endlessly in my head following his death.

The funeral had been one that Tim Burton would have envied. Rainy, full of guests dressed in black and wearing shades despite the weather. I swore I caught a glimpse of Helena Bonham Carter and Johnny Depp in the crowd. Eric and Lisabeth had stood beside me as I shook hands with people I knew and with those who I had never seen before. They all said the same thing, I am sorry for your loss. He was a great man and he left too early. The priest from our local church preached about the eternity of the soul and how this life was a mere vapor in the scheme of it all, according to him, my father was now in a better place. The only reason I had decided on this type of funeral was that my father had been friends with Pastor John. It just felt like the right thing to do. Did I believe his words? Honestly, no. The dead were just that, dead.

After the funeral, I had packed a bag filled with the bare minimums and had checked myself into a hotel room in the city not able to stay in the house that we had shared. Of course, during my university years, I had moved out, explored the city, had met friends and lovers, but that glorious house had pulled me back as had my father’s presence, but now, he was no longer there. He was rotting away in a tomb where light, hope and happiness dare not enter. Eric and Lisabeth had offered their places up as temporary residences, but I had refused. I wanted to savor the exquisite pain of being an orphan. One that was now officially all alone in the world without any blood relatives. My father had been an only child and his parents had died when I was a teenager. There would be no comforting casseroles delivered to this doorstep. No fawning aunts or possible secret love children waiting in the wings to steal their share of whatever fortune had been left behind, and that was what scared me the most. The silence and finality of death, the last and final curtain as Frank Sinatra so elegantly sang.

After exactly a week and five days, loads of greasy diner food, and expensive room service that I couldn’t afford, I decided that it was time to get my act together and go back home. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t stay sheltered away forever, I had already fallen behind in all of my classes and professors were sending threatening emails warning of letting my academic grades slide when I had worked so hard during the previous semesters.

Work was a whole other story, the MET’s annual Halloween party was being held in the Sackler Wing where the Temple of Dendur was located. The theme this year was Lost in Time and the Department of Egyptian Art was hosting the event which meant overtime for us who worked there. I had asked for some time off, but that grace period had run its course. I had been the one who thought it was a good idea to use that theme. I always pictured the gate of Dendur as a giant portal where one could simply step through and end up on the other side where they would be greeted by the Goddess ISIS surrounded by lotus flowers and half-naked manservants. Lucky for me, the lotus and half-naked manservant idea had gained popularity within the ranks of the department and had gotten me some much-needed brownie points, but there was still a lot of planning to be done and Dr. Yeats had sent me what seemed like a hundred emails regarding the details.

My mind wandered away from my obligations and back to the task at hand which was settling back inside the house that my father had made an extraordinary home. Intelligent, organized, and eternally sophisticated is how he would remain immortalized in my memory. He had been a man as complex and fascinating