Spell or High Water Page 14

  “Why on earth would I do that?” I said. “I know this whole town is spooked today, but that’s no reason for incivility to neighbors.”

  She seemed momentarily taken aback, then shook her head so briskly it loosened the bun at the nape of her neck. “I’m not spooked, you simpleton. I’m disgusted. You shouldn’t exploit the dead!”

  “I’m going inside,” I said, hiding my disquiet. “As for the posters, I suggest you take that up with Jeb and Lilly… whose last names I don’t remember at the moment.”

  Inside the café, the mood was not much brighter. Kela and Alex sat at the counter, looking at what appeared to be another poster. But as I approached, I realized that this one was different.

  “What’s this?” I asked, turning the paper on the counter to face me. It was a homemade sign declaring that the proprietors of The Aunt-Tea-Query were demon worshippers!

  Kela grimaced. “It was on our door. People are cray!”

  With that, she and Alex marched out to the garden to tend the vegetables. My mother promptly shifted in to take Kela’s place at the counter.

  “Mom, have you noticed any spirit activity here recently?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Have you sensed any unusual energies?” I pressed.

  She tapped her fingers against her thigh as she worked through it. “Last night when I was helping Alex, I felt a surge just before the kitchen fire.”

  “Mom, knowing what you do of the spirit realm, do you think the ghost of Abigail Windsor is real?”

  She thought for a moment, then looked at me with rare conviction. “I believe that if enough people believe in anything, it becomes real.”

  I went to bed that night feeling uneasy. How I had become involved in this ancient mystery was beyond me, but I nonetheless felt responsible for setting things right.

  Outside it began to rain, drumming on my window in a steady rhythm. The rain conjured up images of Abigail Windsor, with her wet hair plastered against her face. It occurred to me that the photo being put up all over town couldn’t be legitimate, if Abigail’s body was never found. So where had it come from?

  I turned on my old box TV, then quickly turned it off again when I saw the movie Rosemary’s Baby was playing. I heard Mr. B paw at my door, and I felt relieved in knowing that he was on guard. He might not fight a spirit on my behalf, but he’d hiss and raise a ruckus if Abigail did make an appearance tonight.

  I woke several hours later to deep and silent darkness. Even the clock and the ceiling fan were off. Must be a power outage. I leaned over and lifted the corner of my curtain. The rain had ceased but the clouds remained, blotting out the moonlight. I was exhausted and could have easily fallen back to sleep, but my skin prickled. I sensed a difference in the energy of the house. I rummaged blindly for the flashlight I kept in my nightstand drawer, then swung the light around the room. Nothing appeared out of place. Still, the hairs on the back of my neck were at full attention. I knew I couldn’t rest until I had inspected the entire house. At the very least, I could reset the breaker in the basement.

  I cried out when I opened my bedroom door. The beam of my flashlight caught a black shadow darting along the floorboards. “Mr. B! You scared me to death!”. The cat blinked in response, then followed me towards the stairwell, seemingly curious about my nocturnal adventure.

  None of the house lights were working. With nothing to guide me but the beam of my flashlight, I walked carefully down the narrow wooden stairs; they were cool and slick on my bare feet. Halfway down, Mr. B ran past me, disappearing into the darkness below.

  “Mr. B!” I whispered, hurrying after him and slipping on a step in the process. I managed to catch hold of the banister, but in so doing dropped the flashlight. It bounced down the remaining steps before landing with a thud, its light blinking out.

  I stood motionless, wondering which way I should go. Without light, I felt vulnerable. Abigail Windsor could be waiting for me in either direction, with her wet, matted hair and terrible neck bruises. I swallowed, steeling my courage for the descent. It seemed the most practical thing to do, as I was closer now to the bottom than the top.

  But before I could move, I felt a bony-fingered hand clutch my shoulder. Another hand clamped itself across my mouth, silencing my scream.

  “It’s Alex,” my captor whispered, releasing me. “I heard you creeping around out here. Figured you might need help. Or at least company.” He clicked on a penlight attached to his keychain. “We’ll flip the breaker, check the place out, and get back to bed. In the morning, we’ll figure out how to get things back to normal in this crazy town. I promise you, Mom’s the only ghost haunting this…”

  We were a few feet into the café when Alex’s penlight caught a figure in its thin beam. It was a young woman in a blue dress, her mouth drawn open as she hovered a few inches above the floor.

  “Alex!” I stepped backwards, away from the dreadful image, nearly tripping over Mr. B. The girl disappeared, leaving Alex waving his light around, desperately trying to find her again.

  “Did you see that?” Alex asked, his mouth agape.

  “It was Abigail. She was wearing her blue dress and had flowers in her hair,” I said. Just like she had in the newspaper photo.

  “No,” Alex said, his expression bewildered. “She was wearing her white nightgown. And there was only lake weed in her hair.”

  We stared at one another. We had both seen the same ghost at the same time, but she had appeared to us differently.

  “What do you think, Mr. B?” Alex asked, crouching to pet his cat, but Mr. B seemed completely unaffected, nonchalantly cleaning his paw with his tongue.

  “Alex,” I said, watching the two of them. “I think I understand why Abigail has resurfaced and how we can be rid of her - and her curse - once and for all.”

  Kela spent the following morning re-inviting the guests from the séance. She told them she had new information, and that she believed we would be able to contact Abigail Windsor again. And this time, send her home.

  “I’m not happy about this,” Alex grumbled as we prepared the garden to repeat the event. “Can’t we just let sleeping ghosts lie?”

  “Alex, unless we close this circle, Abigail’s ghost will be an eternal fixture in Reed Hollow.”

  “Abigail was much more fun when she was just a legend,” he said as he headed off back to the kitchen.

  Mother sputtered in, her eyes wide with excitement. “Thank you, Bay Leaf, for asking me to help! I’ve been up all night working on my parts. I promise, I’ll wait for your cues and do just what you told me. Cross my heart.” She giggled nervously, then disappeared like the Cheshire Cat, still beaming. I wondered for the umpteenth time if it was wise to enlist my mother’s help, but unfortunately, she was all I had.

  At 11:00 that night, Lilly, Jeb, Ella and Patricia took their seats alongside Kela and me at the table. Even Dave returned, hoping to take more spirit photographs.

  Kela’s voice was excited yet clear as she began: “Since we last joined hands at this table, the spirit of Abigail Windsor has been sighted several times, not just among us, but all about town. Last night during my meditations, I saw Abigail Windsor, clear as day. She stood before me with her hand out, and I knew she was trying to ask me for something.”

  Jeb squeezed my hand so hard it hurt, while Patricia dropped my other hand to touch the white lace peeking out yet again from her front jacket pocket.

  “What did she want?” Lilly asked.

  “To be left alone?” Ella ventured, crossly.

  Kela raised a refined eyebrow. “No, Ella,” she said coolly. “What Abigail communicated to me was that someone has something of hers, and she wants it back.”

  “She wants her killer!” Jeb said, his wife nodding in fervent agreement.

  “Abigail Windsor,” Kela continued, undeterred by the interruptions. “We are calling you. You showed yourself to us before, will you do it again?”

  There was nothing for a long mome
nt and I began to panic. Then, an orange flame filled the kitchen window, just as before. I furrowed my brow. That was not part of the script. Alex opened the window, yelling an apology at us as smoke poured out. “Sorry! I have no idea what’s going on with the microwave lately!”

  “I think I’m having déjà vu,” Ella said. She scratched her ear, making her glasses bounce on her nose.

  As Alex closed the window, the table began to shake. It was just a low rumbling at first, but then it shook so violently that one of the legs lifted itself several inches off the ground before slamming down hard.

  The thick scent of smoke filled the air - and not just the from Alex’s microwave fire. It was woodsy smoke, like you’d smell around a campfire. The candles on the sideboard all flickered, and the twinkle lights flashed just once. Everyone at the table gasped as a column of white mist rose up behind Kela.

  Click. Click. Click. The beat of Dave’s camera was as quick as our heartbeats.

  “She’s here!” Patricia exclaimed, pushing her chair away to stand. She pointed at the misty figure hovering just behind my cousin. “Abigail’s returned!”

  “Thank you for coming forward, Abigail,” Kela said. “I know you had a message for me. You needed something returned. Can you please tell us what it is so that we can help you?”

  After a prolonged and anxious moment, the lights above our heads twinkled in response.

  “Very good! I know that took a lot out of you,” Kela said, beaming. She tucked a lock of her brown hair behind her ear and pressed her hands onto the crystal ball for effect. “Now we just need to know what you want. Then you can move into the light in peace.”

  The lights twinkled again, and then went dark. The misty form started to fade away, like a cloud being stretched by the wind. I pressed my lips together, wondering how much longer we’d have.

  “We’re losing Abigail,” I said with urgency. “This could be our last chance to—“

  Patricia’s shaking fingers pulled the white lace from her pocket and dangled it over the table. “She’s come for this!” she said, her voice cracking. “Abigail was my great-aunt. She made this lace with her own hands. It took her a year to make enough for an entire dress. Her younger brother, my grandfather, tore it from her dress the night she disappeared. He begged her not to go, saying he knew he would never see her again.” Patricia turned with watery eyes and handed me the lace.

  I inspected it with gloved hands. It was just as I suspected. “How did you get the lace, Patricia?” I asked, rising to meet her.

  “My mother gave it to me. She heard the story from her father, after asking why he carried it in his pocket all the time. He eventually went mad and had to be committed. I suppose he never got over the guilt that maybe he could have stopped her. I think…” Her eyes drifted to the ghostly image, hardly more than a haze now. “I think she wants her lace back, to let him know she’s forgiven him. I think that will bring us all peace.”

  I picked up the lace and walked over to ‘Abigail.’ I offered the piece of ornate white stitch-work in my open hands. “Abigail, here is what you were missing. Take this and find your peace.”

  The lace, and the remaining mist, promptly disappeared completely.

  The twinkle lights flickered back to life and the woodsy smell was replaced by lavender and roses.

  “She’s gone,” Patricia said, revealing the first smile I’d ever seen from her. “Her spirit is finally at rest.”

  “Nice show you put on there,” Ella said to me in the garden, after the other guests had gone home. “I’m not sure how you did it, but I know there was more high jinks than seancing going on there. But if it will put this nonsense to rest, once and for all, then you have my blessing. This legend has been around so long it took on a life of its own.” She sniffed the air, as if checking for rain. “Smells like your mother out here. Tell Vivi I said hi.”

  She squeezed my arm, the closest to approval I would get from her. Then she stomped her heavy boots all the way to the gate and left without a goodbye.

  My mother appeared, radiating pride. “The performance of an afterlife!” she exclaimed, giving herself a congratulatory hug. “I really channeled Abigail, don’t you think?”

  “You did great, Mom. Thank you.”

  My mother opened her hand and revealed the white lace. She handed it over to me. “Now, see if you are right.” She gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. It felt like a butterfly’s wings. Then she wafted off to the house, invisible by the time she reached the door.

  I took off my gloves and set them on the table. Mom was right. I had to prove whether my theory was correct.

  Looking around to make sure I was alone, I closed my eyes and squeezed the lace between my fingers. In a dizzying moment, I was pulled under, enveloped by the memory.

  “Abigail! You can’t go!”

  “Conrad, I have to. He’s leaving town tomorrow. Going west. If I don’t go with him, I may never see him again. I can’t live my life wondering what might have been.”

  “You’re only fifteen!”

  “Most of my friends are already engaged. I can’t stay in this town any longer. Not under Mother and Father’s archaic rules. They will never let me marry for love.”

  “But a homesteader?”

  Abigail checked her reflection in the mirror. The white gown fit perfectly, despite having been locked away in a chest for twenty years. It wasn’t a modern gown, but the lace collar had made the old look new again. She added a few more things to her canvas travel bag, which was growing uncomfortably heavier by the moment. “I’m going, brother. I love you. Promise me you won’t tell Mom and Dad.”

  “Until when?”

  “Until never! They must never know.”

  “What will I tell them then? And does that mean you’re never coming back?” Her brother’s face looked panicked.

  She tried to soothe him. “You and I are destined for different lives. I’m a woman. I don’t have the same opportunities that you do here. Promise me, dear brother, who I love more than anything in the world. Don’t let them know. They’d suffer more thinking that I’d failed them than anything else they could imagine.”

  It was a sad confession, but it was true. And Abigail knew by the look in Conrad’s eyes that he knew it, too. Her parents’ pride was more important than her happiness. If she didn’t break free now, she never would. And if they knew the truth, they’d hire someone to find her and bring her home.

  She lifted her bedroom window, put one leg over the ledge, and tossed out her bag. “I love you!” she said, stepping carefully down the ladder she had placed earlier. But as she pulled down her bag, she saw her brother grab it and tug.

  “No!” He leaned out the window, reaching for her. Clutching the neckline of her dress, he gripped tight. She looked up, giving him a frown, but continued down the ladder. A bit of lace tore free from her gown, and was left dangling in her brother’s hand.

  Reaching the ground, she called over her shoulder, “Goodbye! I love you! But I promise, if you tell our parents, I’ll never forgive you.”

  I opened my hand and looked at the lace more closely. I had thought it was wedding lace, and I was correct. In Abigail’s time, this would have been precious and valuable.

  Abigail’s body was never found because she hadn’t died. She had run off with a boy her parents wouldn’t approve of, and made her brother promise not to tell. A promise that would cost him his sanity later.

  The only question left was how so many people had seen her apparition. My guess was that her legend became so strong, repeated so many times, that she was a manifestation of a mass hallucination, a projection of our collective beliefs brought to life. Our town believed so strongly in the ghost of Abigail Windsor that our belief became real. That would explain why Alex and I saw her in two different dresses: He saw her as she appeared on the poster, while I saw her as she appeared in the newspapers. Our individual perceptions of her shaped her appearance. And the more we thought of her, and feared he
r, the more powerful the vision.

  The energy in the air felt lighter. By tomorrow, the rumors would begin again, but this time the tale would be about Abigail’s solace. With any luck, we’d never see her again.

  Dave came in through the gate, an excited look on his face. “I haven’t looked yet. Shall we?”

  It hadn’t occurred to me that he might have taken photographs of my mother during the séance. If he thought they were of Abigail, the whole circus might begin again. As he readied to scroll through the photos, I grabbed his wrist, ready to confess.

  “Dave - “

  “One second. What the…”

  “Let me explain.”

  “Explain what? I have no idea how this happened, but there is nothing on these. Nothing! Not even ectoplasm. I thought for sure I’d get something!”

  He handed over the camera and I breathed a sigh of relief. He was right. There wasn’t anything.

  He took the original séance photos out of his bag and laid them on the table. “Huh?”

  The blurred image and the ectoplasm were missing from all the pictures, except the last one. He picked it up reverently, but the anomalies on it too disappeared, like an Etch A Sketch that’s been shaken.

  “Can someone tell me what happened?” he asked. “I was ready to write the story of a lifetime! Now I have nothing!”

  “Her ghost wasn’t real,” I said, taking his hand. “Abigail was a normal young woman with dreams, and she left town to pursue them. Her disappearance became the seed of a legend that grew over generations. Now that Patricia’s let her go, the rest of the town will, too. Without our continued belief, her form can no longer exist.”

  Dave scratched his head. “I – uh – you’re telling me this was all thought projection? And I didn’t capture that on film either? Gah!”

  “There are many mysteries left unsolved,” I said, exhaustion now taking over. “You’ll get your break. Want to come inside with me? I’ll treat you to one of my brother’s scones.”