I collect broken souls like some people collect fine china. Jordan came to me in pieces, shattered by a lifetime of abuse. He hid it behind an arrogant facade but I could see beyond it to the scared boy beneath.

We had an uneasy relationship. I could see more than he wanted people to know and when around each other neither of us knew what to say. Despite that, or maybe because of it, trust blossomed.

I made no secret about my interest in witchcraft and that summer I did more protective and healing magicks than I have before or since. Nearly everyone I worked closely with came to me for help. Jordan didn’t.

He was gifted with Power but he was untrained. He didn’t know what to do with his gift nor how to keep it from pushing him over the brink into insanity. I wanted to help him but he rebuffed my offers, waving it off as if embarrassed by them.

Four months, that was all the time we had, and it never progressed further than him confessing a few secrets to me in the dark. He went back to his life and I continued on with mine. Usually that would be the end of it, summer hires left at the end of the season and I never heard from them again, that wasn’t the case with him.

Once a month or so he’d call me and I’d send him letters in return. Six months passed and one spring afternoon I got a panicked phone call. I could barely hear him. The line popped and crackled and his words were garbled; it as if the very phone lines were trying to keep him from seeking assistance.

“Roe, they’re attacking me.”

“Who?” I asked, both puzzled and concerned.

“Witches.”

“Witches?” I didn’t laugh because he was so serious, but I was tempted. He was talking about the stereotypical fairytale witch so ingrained in the public consciousness, not women like myself.

“They sit on my chest at night and choke me.” Jordan’s voice dropped; I had to strain to hear his next words, “It’s my mom and grandmother.”

I tried to get as much details from him as he could give me but his voice was shaking; if the connection wasn’t so poor I’m sure I could hear his tears. I finally gave up.

“I’ll help you; I’ll protect you,” I said, confident in my abilities but concerned about his mental state. He was unraveling.

After what was only a few minutes but seemed longer, I hung up the phone. I got to work creating defenses against the psychic attacks. It wasn’t the first time I encountered people plagued by the fey creatures known as Nightmares. The last time I ran across them my room mate wouldn’t allow me to help her. She pretended I wasn’t who and what I was; her own religious beliefs making her turn a blind eye to things she didn’t want to see.

Nightmares are known by many names both within the magickal and medical communities. I didn’t concern myself with the past but rather with what I knew of them. In my experience, they attached themselves to people with abuse in their past, feeding on the anxieties and fears of their victims. They were Otherworldly parasites but, like terrestrial parasites, steps could be taken to guard against them.

I created a protective bubble for Jordan, anchoring it into four stones to be placed at the corners of his mattress. I gathered four polished stones all with protective properties from my collection: bloodstone, chalcedony, hematite and tiger’s eye. I sat tailor-style on my bed and held them in my hands. I closed my eyes and poured Power into them, charging them with my strength of will rather than any words or ritual. With my mind’s eye, I watched bright white light flood my cupped hands only to be absorbed by the stones. When the semi-precious gems had taken in as much Power as possible and were set with the purpose I imbued in them, I wrapped them carefully and mailed them off with a thoughtfully penned letter.

The stones were a stop-gap measure, something to repel the Nightmares until the underlying problem, the psychic pain of the abuse could be mitigated. Without addressing the mental anguish he tried so desperately to forget, Jordan would never be safe from the Nightmares and other beings of their ilk. His psyche was so tattered and torn it acted as a beacon to any who could read it. I wasn’t the only being who collected broken souls, but I did try to mend them, leaving a person more whole than when I met them. Jordan was no different and, after months of work, the worst of the wounds were sealed. The Nightmares never returned to trouble him, though over the years he’s called upon me to help him face other denizens of the Otherworlds. Those stories, however, are best left for another day.