Spell or High Water Page 13

  “I swear, I didn’t see anything like this last night when I was taking the pictures,” he confessed. “The only paranormal stuff I witnessed was the twinkle lights and the vibrating table, which I assumed was Kela’s doing.” He laid the pictures out on the step between us, shaking his head. “I’ve never captured anything like this. On one hand, I’m really excited! Proof of the afterlife - that life exists beyond the grave! Do you know what that could mean, if it’s true? But if it’s not true…”

  I tapped each picture lightly, checking for imprints. I could sometimes pick up a person’s memories through a photograph, but nothing came through.

  “I can’t just publish these without proof, can I?” Dave asked. He sounded like he was ten years old again, wanting me to talk him out of trading his prized marble collection for a puppy his mother would never let him keep. “And…,” he continued, when I didn’t immediately respond, “if these photographs are real, we can’t just release them in The Reed Hollow Sun! We would want to go national, wouldn’t we?”

  One of the things that had bonded us together early on was our quest to discover what lay beyond the veil. Neither of us felt we belonged to this world, and we were anxious to discover answers. Perhaps I wasn’t as inclined now, having lived with the ghost of my mother, but I still understood his need.

  “Let’s check the garden,” I said.

  The gazebo was still set up, though the strings of lights had been taken down. Aside from the table and chairs, everything else had been cleaned up and put away.

  I walked to the spot where the ghost of Abigail Windsor was seen – and apparently photographed. I stood there, with my palms upturned and my eyes closed, feeling… nothing. But then again, I couldn’t read energy like an empath could. My gifts were more tactile in nature.

  Patricia had requested the séance and had been the only one to see the ghost. But now that Dave had these eerie photos, it couldn’t be explained away so easily. I touched Patricia’s chair, but even with direct contact I wasn’t shown anything.

  “You didn’t see anything last night?” Dave asked.

  “Only what you saw. But when Patricia touched my arm, I saw a girl in her memory. Then when she announced that Abigail was with us, she described the girl exactly the same way. It could be dementia…”

  Dave knocked on his camera bag. “Except we now have corroborating evidence. Maybe the legend is true, and the drowned girl is looking for her killer.”

  I’ve got your lace.

  Patricia knew something. And it was tied to the lace she kept in her front pocket.

  Dave turned his hat around and looked up at the advancing sun. “I’m glad I stopped by. You don’t know how hard it was to resist publishing them this morning.”

  “You didn’t run the story then?”

  “Nah. I ran a controversial piece about the bikini carwash that opened near the freeway. And on that note, I have to go do some research for a follow-up feature.” He grinned, sheepishly, and I wondered whether he was joking or not.

  While Dave was busy interviewing the scantily-clad carwash girls, I layered myself from head to toe with protective sunscreen. My light skin and hair made me particularly susceptible to the summer sun, and I left The Aunt Tea Query wearing a wide-brimmed hat, long white gloves, and oversized sunglasses. I felt both glamorous and overdressed as I passed tourists along Main Street wearing their cutoffs and halter tops. Though one woman with lobster-red skin did ask if she could buy my hat.

  The numerous stores along the way hung signs in their windows: Sale – One Day Only! or Beat the Heat in Our Retreat! Their doors were flung open, blasting passersby with tantalizing touches of the air conditioning they offered. Along the sidewalk, there were three ice cream vendors, a man on stilts juggling apples, and two teenagers walking around with sandwich boards declaring that there was ‘Live Bait on Sale at Jessie’s,’ with arrows pointing in a direction that differed whenever they changed direction.

  I was aiming for the ice cream cart parked next to the bookstore, when my phone buzzed. It was Ella, who had attended Kela’s séance. She was one of Reed Hollow’s oldest people, and had once been a renowned witch. These days, she ran the rival tea house, The Little Tea Pot. “Can you please come over!!” she texted. It was not a question.

  As I hurried over, a piece of paper taped to a streetlight pole caught my attention. On it was a blurry photograph with the caption: Abigail Windsor. Drowned in Crystal Lake. Be Warned. The Dead Return.

  Though fuzzy, I recognized it as the image in Patricia’s memory. It was a frightening photograph, and I tore the poster down before someone could see it. Reed Hollow had a haunted history that was appreciated only in the autumn months. No one wanted to hear about a girl who drowned in the very spot you were boating in, no matter how long ago. I stuffed the picture into my purse, and found two more on the way to Ella’s door. I grabbed them, but a quick glance down the street told me it would take considerable time to collect them all.

  Stepping through the glass door of The Little Tea Pot on a hot summer day was like arriving at the gates of paradise. Parisian-style fans spun lazily overhead, while small water fountains cooled the air. The café was adorned with climbing ivy, Impressionist art, and a pastry counter three times the size of ours. Not to mention, Ella’s food was much better-tasting. My mother had been quite the chef in her day, but Alex had not inherited her gift. It was a family joke that if we couldn’t sell Alex’s biscuits as food, we could probably hawk them as doorstops.

  Ella was currently busy with a woman deliberating between three gorgeous cupcakes. She looked at the pink, then the red, and then the yellow, before returning to the pink. “What do you suggest?” the woman asked.

  “Take one of each and be done with it,” Ella snapped. The woman seemed momentarily rattled, before agreeing this was indeed the best idea.

  Ella left the counter and grabbed me by the elbow, escorting me through a maze of tables into her kitchen. I had been a frequent visitor to The Little Tea Pot, but this was the first time I’d seen the galley. It was surprisingly smaller than I’d envisioned, housing only an assortment of utensils and pans, two baker’s stoves, and a bored-looking dishwasher. I had half expected an army of elves to be operating the place.

  Ella released my arm and stared at me over her wire spectacles. She clicked her tongue in judgement.

  “Ella, what’s wrong?” I said. “Did I do something to offend you?”

  She reached into her apron pocket and produced a wadded-up piece of paper. I knew before she spread it open that it was another poster of Abigail Windsor. “You people shouldn’t have meddled in raising the dead! Crazy Patricia’s been out all morning, posting these all over town. I’ve lost three customers today from all the rumors. I don’t know if the ghost of Abigail Windsor is still walking around, but it doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what the looney-toon town believes. And if it harms my business, mark my words, yours will go, too.”

  “Surely everyone knows this happened over a century ago - if it happened at all.”

  “People don’t always have common sense! Does the word Salem ring a bell? Critical thinking isn’t our species’ strong suit.”

  I looked at the crumpled poster in Ella’s hand. “Is that Abigail’s actual photo?”

  Ella shrugged. “Beats me. But the girl does look exactly the way everyone said she did. Of course, anyone can do those tricks with Photo-Hack now.”

  I mentally calculated that Ella was probably only a generation removed from the origin of the myth. “What do you remember about the legend? I’m wondering if it’s changed much since your time.”

  “My time!” Ella stared at me with eyes as bright as stars. She may have been advanced in years, but she had not relinquished her crown, just yet. She cleared her throat and her voice took on a more ominous tone. “When we were kids, our parents threatened us with tales of Abigail’s murderer, who they claimed was still watching us. ‘Abigail ran off without asking her parents, and
she was punished for it,’ they’d say. The implications were clear to us. It was obviously a different time.”

  The timer rang on one of the ovens, prompting Ella to gracefully remove a tray of gingersnap cookies. The edges were crisp and the centers warm, just how I liked them. Their smell was both pungent and inviting, and I reminded my stomach that we were on a diet. Still, if she were to offer me one, it would be rude to turn it down. She didn’t.

  “Why do you think Patricia’s distributing these posters?”

  Ella squinted up at me from the oven. “Because she’s crazy! This isn’t the first time she’s done something like this. Thirty years ago she went around telling everyone that one of the campers who drowned that year was drowned by Abigail herself. After that, Patricia disappeared. Shut herself into her house, and the only reason anyone knows she’s still alive is her occasional trip to town, where she hardly speaks a word.”

  Another timer sounded on the opposite stove. Ella opened the oven to reveal three bubbling apple pies, and I felt my dieting resolve weaken. “I need to attend to these,” she said. “But I wanted you to see the mess you can cause when you mess with things you don’t understand.”

  Outside The Little Tea Pot, I planted myself on a bench beneath a leafy tree and searched for The Legend of Abigail Windsor on my phone. There were only a few articles, most published well after her death. A human interest article written for Halloween in the 1950s claimed that Abigail was fifteen when she reportedly drowned in Crystal Lake. Her body was found floating atop the water, the hem of her white dress torn. Reports conflicted as to whether the marks around her neck were from the laces of her boots or the lace from her torn dress. The article added that Abigail’s ghost is said to be restless, unable to find peace until her killer is found. The ad next to the article conveniently advertised life vests.

  I did a quick search for Patricia Morton. The information on her was almost as scant. There was a short article in a neighboring newspaper stating Patricia herself had nearly drowned at Crystal Lake sixty years ago. A fisherman pulled her out of the water wearing nothing but a strand of white lace around her neck. She had begged the fisherman to let her return to the water. Strange.

  The internet search also pulled up the obituary for Patricia’s mother, just a year after her near-drowning. Helen Windsor.

  Windsor? Was Patricia related to Abigail?

  I now realized why the old woman lived alone on the outskirts of town. Reed Hollow was a superstitious town, with long memories of witchcraft and curses from centuries ago. She must have grown up with the weight of the Windsor name on her shoulders, along with the legend of the ghost-girl who still wandered the woods.

  If Abigail and Patricia were related, it meant that Abigail was a real person, not just a legend. Was that why Patricia was obsessed with finding her? And what did it have to do with the lace that kept showing up?

  I put away my phone and sat there on the bench, musing it over while the sun beat down on my exposed knees. A century-old legend. A haunted descendent. And a warning posted all over town. How did this all tie together? Maybe Dave had more information in the archives at The Reed Hollow Sun.

  Heading towards Dave’s office, I came upon Jeb and Lilly in front of a coffee shop. They were talking in whispers, standing before one of three posters taped onto the glass window.

  “Patricia must have been up all night posting these,” I said “She’s trying to get everyone all worked up. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  Jeb’s weathered face momentarily lost its eternal tan. “Patricia didn’t put these up,” he explained. “We did.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Yes,” Lilly confirmed, shaking the white curls around her head. “We’ve been putting them up all night. Only stopped for coffee.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” I asked, confused.

  “The curse,” Jeb said, matter-of-factly. “Every thirty years or so, another person drowns in that lake. I thought it was all superstitious nonsense, until last night. This is the year another victim is slated to be taken.”

  “We need to warn everyone!” Lilly added.

  “I don’t mean to be morbid, but people have always drowned in the lakes around here. It’s a sad but true fact of living in this community. The lakes are deep, and cold.”

  “But Abigail doesn’t stay dead,” Lilly pointed out.

  Jeb scratched the side of his whiskered chin, smacking his lips in thought. “I guess you are too young to remember the Scout troop incident thirty years ago. Two girls were out swimming, away from their group, when they saw a woman in a white dress hovering above the water, calling to them. One girl was so frightened she swam to the dock and ran for help, but her friend stayed in the lake too long and was pulled underwater. The entire town closed down after that, and it took years to recover.

  “It happened nearly the same way thirty years before that. A family went out canoeing. The boat tipped over and a little boy drowned. The mother swears she saw a white mist hovering nearby, just before the accident.”

  “You really think she’s back again?” I asked.

  “She’s been spotted three times already today!” Jeb declared. “And we haven’t taken a count since noon.”

  Ten minutes later, I arrived at the office of The Reed Hollow Sun. The door chimed as I entered to find Dave alone, hunched over his desk. Laid before him were the photographs, arranged in a line. He was so engrossed that he didn’t even look up when I entered, though he managed a beckoning gesture with one hand.

  “I can’t stop looking at these,” Dave said, finally pulling himself upright. He dragged over a swivel stool for me to sit on beside him. “I’ve been researching since I saw you. The shadow behind Kela can be explained away as a tall bush or something, but this ectoplasm shouldn’t be here. It’s not even a real thing. How do you explain it?”

  “Not every case of ectoplasm has been disproved,” I countered. “In fact, many mediums claim it exists in the parallel dimensions they travel to. Maybe you actually captured photos of something very rare.”

  Dave’s face flushed with excitement. He blinked his reddened eyes, and I could tell he hadn’t gotten much sleep, if any. “You know, I could be crazy, but these seem even clearer now than they did earlier.”

  “Dave, have you checked newspaper records for old stories of Abigail Windsor yet?”

  He smiled with pride. “Already ahead of you. You know, The Sun goes back almost two centuries. It’s the oldest newspaper in the county.” He swung his chair around to face an archaic microfiche machine. After clicking some clunky buttons and adjusting the lens, he handed it over.

  I peered through the eyepiece to see an old newspaper clipping:

  Abigail Windsor, 15, was reported missing early Sunday morning by her brother, Conrad. She was last seen wearing a white nightgown by a fisherman near Crystal Lake. The family is offering a substantial reward for information on her whereabouts.

  Another article, dated a week later, explained that efforts to find Abigail Windsor had ceased after discovering one of her boots floating in Crystal Lake. Accompanying the clipping was a photo of a stark young woman in a blue dress with flowers in her hair. She bore little resemblance to the photo of the ghost woman posted throughout town. But then again, it was taken when she was alive.

  Dave spun the dials a few more times, producing a new image. It was dated twenty years after the last.

  “38-year-old Conrad Windsor, devoted husband to Ginger and father to Helen, has been committed to St. Margaret’s Hospital for the Insane. Several respectable townsfolk witnessed him, running around town last Thursday night, naked and inebriated, screaming that he was bewitched. Despite sedatives and an extended visit by the local physician, no one could calm poor Conrad down. “‘First Abigail, then her brother Conrad,’ said one resident. ‘That family is cursed, if you ask me.’”

  I looked up from the machine. Dave hovered above me, his arms folded. “What do you make of all of this?” he as
ked.

  “It’s all interesting… and rather sad,” I said. “The Windsor family lost two members- one to drowning and the other to mental illness. Conrad must be Patricia’s grandfather. This explains why Patricia never had children. She thinks her family is cursed.”

  “I hate to be a cynic,” Dave pointed out, “but she’s the last in her line, right? And she’s ninety if she’s a day. Seems counterproductive to break a curse on a family that is destined to die out anyway, if you ask me.”

  “Dave, I’m usually the pragmatic one,” I said. “But maybe after all these years of being haunted, Patricia just wants to leave this planet in peace.”

  I emerged from Dave’s office, bleary-eyed and surprised to see the sun was still high. I’d only been in there a few hours but it felt like forever in the dark office. Though I was feeling rather exhausted from the day, I sensed a new energy in the town, a buzzing if you will. The kind of electricity you only feel when something important is about to happen.

  As I made my way to The Aunt-Tea-Query, I heard snippets of conversations along the way, and quickly realized what was brewing in the collective energy. Ella was correct. Tourists were anxious about rumors that the ghost of Abigail Windsor had returned. The older locals gave it credence. “Stay away from the water!” they warned. “That’s the only way to be safe when she’s out roaming.”

  Out of curiosity, I called Dave’s grandfather Jax, who owned a bait and tackle shop on one of our smaller lakes. “How’s business?” I asked, after our initial pleasantries.

  There was a thoughtful pause on his end. “Dried up, as of today,” he said. “’Cept for a few kooks who want to shoot ghost-hunting videos. We should have left the dead alone.”

  By evening, there was even a poster on the porch railing of Bend and Break, the yoga studio next door to our tea house. Yvette, the earthy woman who owned the studio, burst out her front door as she saw me heading up my walk. “Is this your doing?” she asked, ripping the poster from the railing and marching towards me in her flip-flopped feet.