The Spirits of Six Minstrel Run

by Matthew S. Cox

  Therein lay the problem, or at least the conundrum presently interfering with her concentration on work. Despite her ambivalence toward kids, her increasing sense of protectiveness toward Robin perplexed her. Its strength made her question its veracity. Could Robin be influencing her mind, desperate for a protector? Mia didn’t think that had happened. Or maybe she didn’t want to think that. Did a childlike spirit hold her hostage or did she genuinely feel horrible for an innocent victim of such a ghastly crime?

  And what on Earth ever possessed her to buy a child sized bed and dresser for an empty room? As best she could remember, she thought familiar things would make the girl feel better. She’d had a clear mental image of the way the room had been before, despite refusing to look at the body. Redoing the wallpaper—if she could even find that pattern—would be going too far. Besides, she feared what might lurk under the paint. Did the prior owners peel down the bloody wallpaper or simply paint over it? Could there be a massive bloodstain on the floor under that carpet?

  Mia shuddered.

  Her cell phone rang, startling a scream out of her. She fumbled it off the table and stared at an unfamiliar number on the screen. Something told her to answer it, so she did.

  “Hello?”

  “Mia?” asked Wilhelmina. “I hope this is the right number.”

  “Oh, hi. Yes. It’s me.”

  Janet Newman peeked in the door. “Mia? Are you all right? I heard a scream.”

  “Sec,” muttered Mia. She raised the phone toward Janet. “It rang and startled me. I’m okay. Thank you.”

  “Heh. You always did get deep in the zone.” Janet smiled and walked off.

  “What’s up?” asked Mia.

  “Adam gave me your number. I was wondering if you’d meet me at the Pinecone once you left work today. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you away from prying ears, and I don’t mean your husband’s. I suggested he join us as soon as he’s able to.”

  Mia craved routine. A sudden change like going out for dinner on the spur of the moment unsettled her more than it should. Home had been like that, highly scheduled. She still kept her hair in the same plain long, straight style she’d always worn it in because her parents made such a big deal about girls having ‘girl hair.’ The mere suggestion of changing it, dyeing it, cutting it, or doing anything with it threw her mother into a fury like she’d suggested killing someone. Timothy got the same treatment, only they demanded he keep his hair short and neat.

  Her mother made the same thing for dinner every Monday, same trip to the store for groceries every Sunday after church. When Mia stopped going to worship, they kept going to the store without her. To ‘atone’ for turning her back on God, they’d tasked her with carrying all the groceries into the house. That, she did without protest, figuring it a small price to pay in exchange for not having to wake up early and be dragged to a two-hour waste of time.

  Considering recent events, she wondered if her aversion to sudden change might be related to psychic sensitivity. She rolled the thought of going to the diner around in her head, teasing with the idea of going, then teasing at the idea of declining. When she aligned herself with ‘go,’ she noticed a distinct sense of calm to her thoughts that stopped when she changed her mind.

  “Okay. I’m out of here at 5:30. Never been there but I have a Garmin.”

  “Oh, you really can’t miss it. Spring Falls’ downtown is one street. The Pinecone is the only diner.”

  Mia laughed. “Okay. See you there.”

  “Wonderful. Talk to you soon.”

  “Yep.” Mia hung up, set the phone on the giant table, and resumed patching the old canvas.

  The change of routine offered her something else to think about than the horrible nightmare or worrying if sweet, innocent Robin might be darker than she appeared. Smiling to herself and feeling more than a little like a rebel for deciding to go out for dinner without much forethought, she dove into her work and lost track of time.

  The Pinecone Diner indeed turned out to be impossible to miss.

  Split Oak Road branched away from State Route 69 and meandered mostly northward among the trees until it changed names to Main Street at the point it straightened out for a not-quite-two-mile L-shaped stretch in downtown Spring Falls. Past the downtown area, it once again shrank to a winding backwoods path and resumed the name Split Oak Road.

  Mia glanced to her left at an old Gulf station with two pumps and a simple garage. A weather-worn sign bearing the word ‘service’ hung over the three rolling doors. The ghosts of where old lettering had been removed remained readable as ‘O’Riordan’s Garage.’ Five cars sat in the front lot by the service bay, two clearly having been stationary for decades. The other three appeared more recent, suggesting a mechanic might still operate there. Only the middle door was open, exposing a shadowed room and the back end of a relatively new Toyota pickup.

  The shadows beside the truck moved. A man in blue coveralls with shoulder-length scruffy black hair wiped his hands on a red-and-white cloth while stepping outside to check out the car driving by. Cold, dead eyes stared straight at Mia.

  Vic.

  She screamed and nearly drove up onto the sidewalk. By the time she regained control of the Tahoe, he’d vanished.

  Mia slowed to a near standstill, clutching the wheel hard. No other cars were on the road nearby to honk at her, but two elderly men walking by on different sides of the street both shot her looks she read as them expecting calamity whenever a woman got behind the wheel of a car. If not for still shaking from the sight of Vic watching her, she might have flipped them off.

  That’s where he used to work. I just saw a vision of the past. He wasn’t really looking at me. The bastard didn’t die at the garage. Why would he be there?

  She took a few seconds to clear her mind and resumed driving.

  The diner took up most of the inner corner of the L, one building away from the only right turn in the town proper and the only traffic light. Anyone who didn’t turn at the corner and went straight between the two stores there would find themselves on a one-lane dirt road that led off to who-knows-where. Mia thought it odd that such an intersection needed a traffic light. Maybe the town elders wanted one there purely so they could say the town had a traffic light. Could an area officially call itself a town without at least one?

  A giant wooden pinecone hung from a pole by the sidewalk. The building appeared unchanged from when it had been built in the late fifties. Metallic silver siding covered the lower half of the exterior walls, the upper part aqua. On sunny days, the Pinecone Diner could be seen from outer space. An awning of faded green with numerous holes covered the door, the word ‘Pinecone’ stenciled in white letters at the front end.

  Mia pulled into a parking lot that looked way too large for the size of the diner. It could probably hold one car each for the entire population of Spring Falls, including children. Her Tahoe raised the present population of vehicles in the lot to five.

  She parked, got out, and peered across the street at the Sheriff’s Office, flanked by a barber shop on one side and an ancient clothing store on the other with child-sized mannequins in the window, dressed straight out of the early eighties—or maybe late seventies. Gold lettering on the glass above a plastic boy in a goldenrod plaid shirt read ‘Pfeffer’s Boutique.’

  The large front window of the sheriff’s office looked in on a room with three or four desks and two people in khaki uniforms: a man with short, dark brown hair and a blonde woman about Mia’s age. Hmm. Guess the town has more than one cop now. The man noticed her looking at them, and the woman turned toward her. She offered a pleasant wave and headed for the diner entrance.

  This town is eerie. There’s hardly anyone walking around.

  Two flapping doors, also aqua, with giant round windows led to a long, narrow room with gaudy green-and-white tile floor. A row of aqua-colored stools lined up in front of a counter trimmed in mirror silver. Booth seating extended in both directions, per
haps twenty-four tables in total.

  Wilhelmina waved to her from the fifth table left from the door. A bored-looking black-haired woman behind the counter glanced up from a book at Mia, but upon noticing Wilhelmina waving, went back to reading.

  Guess I seat myself. She waved to the waitress despite the woman no longer looking at her, and walked down the aisle to the booth.

  “I trust you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.” Wilhelmina wagged her eyebrows and took a sip of water.

  Mia laughed and took the seat opposite her. “Nope. It kinda stands out.” She sent Adam a text, letting him know she found the diner.

  “You seem on edge, dear.”

  She waved dismissively. “I’m not usually the sort of person who does spontaneous things. And, this town is kinda creepy.”

  “How so?”

  Mia glanced left out the window. “It feels like an abandoned movie set. One street set up with shops and stuff in the middle of the woods. Almost no one around. So different from Slingerlands, where we used to live.”

  “Oh, it’s been like that for years. People here tend to either head to Syracuse for the ‘downtown’ experience or eat at home. Mostly, you get the older crowd here at the Pinecone Friday night and Saturday. Also rather popular for Sunday breakfast.”

  Mia’s phone chirped.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” asked the waitress while walking up to the table.

  “Unsweetened tea if you have it, or water,” said Mia.

  “Know what you want to eat?”

  Mia held back the ‘I haven’t even looked at a menu yet’ ready to fly from her lips. “Sorry, need a minute. First time here.”

  The woman nodded and walked off.

  “Wow.” Mia peered over her shoulder at the departing waitress. “I get the feeling we’re inconveniencing her.”

  “Martha’s not as rude as she comes off. It’s just her personality. You’ve heard of ‘resting bitch face?’” Wilhelmina smiled. “She’s got ‘resting bitch.’”

  Mia laughed and picked up a menu, glancing at the phone before opening it. Adam estimated about a half hour before he’d be there and told her to go ahead and eat. He’d get a burger or something he could take with so they didn’t have to wait for him to finish.

  She sent back ‘like we’re going to be late for something.’

  A wiry, fortyish man in a green flannel shirt, jeans, and blue ball cap, a week late for a shave, entered the diner. He nodded to the reading waitress and made his way down the aisle, seating himself two booths away with his back to them.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering what prompted me to suggest we meet here.”

  Mia skimmed over the menu, which proved rather limited. “Yeah, just a bit.” Hmm. Guess everyone who comes in here has it memorized already.

  “I’ll assume you believe in ghosts at this point.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are your thoughts on theology in general?”

  Mia settled on a grilled chicken, bacon, and cheddar cheese sandwich, then closed the menu. “I told you about my parents already. My thoughts on religion aren’t too nice. But, I suppose it’s the political aspect of it that bugs me. Like, if there is something out there, that wouldn’t bother me. I just hate it when people use unproven stories of a supreme being to justify being shitty to each other or hurting people. Obviously, the anti-LGBT morons are a close issue for me, but also like those whack jobs who have a sick child and refuse to take them to the hospital because they think their imaginary friend will magically zap the disease gone? That stuff pisses me off. Like, if they believe in this whole ‘god plan’ deal, why would they expect him to heal the disease he gave the poor kid in the first place?”

  Wilhelmina patted the table. “Calm down, dear. I was asking about your feelings toward more esoteric concepts of theology.”

  “Oh, like magic? Wicca? Druidy… Thelema or whatever that was?”

  “Well, every group has their interesting members, but yes, more or less what I mean. Would you be inclined to burn a witch, consider her insane, live and let live, or are you curious?”

  Mia fixated on the older woman’s bright blue eyes, certain she had a sense of where the conversation would go and why the question had come up. “I’m definitely not like my parents. No witch burning for this girl. But this isn’t exactly new. You already told me you dabbled with hexes as a kid. A month ago, I would’ve said live and let live while thinking they might be a bit off their rockers… now”—she emptied her lungs into a sigh—“I guess I’d be curious. I used to think people who claimed psychic abilities were nuts.”

  “Hah.” Wilhelmina covered her mouth to hold in laughter as the waitress approached.

  “Make up your mind yet, hon?” asked Martha.

  “Yes. Sorry. Can I have the grilled chicken, bacon, and cheddar sandwich, please?”

  “Which number is that?” Martha scratched her head.

  “Uhh…” Mia started to reach for the menu.

  “B11,” said Wilhelmina. “I’ll have the S4.”

  Martha jotted on her pad, almost smiled, and hurried off. “You got it.”

  “Wow, you really do have the menu here memorized.” Mia blinked.

  “It has twenty-seven items. Twelve burgers, ten sandwiches, and five ‘dinners.’ Lloyd tried to add ‘wrap sandwiches’ about six years ago, but the locals accused him of hugging too many trees, so he got rid of them.”

  “What do wrap sandwiches have to do with trees?”

  “Hell if I know.” Wilhelmina shrugged. “So, you’re curious?”

  “I’m going to take a stab in the dark here and guess you’re a witch or at least someone who practices some form of magic, and you want to make sure I’m not going to freak out before you tell me that you’d like to use magic at the house.”

  “Almost. I was thinking you might fit in with our group. And no, I’m not pulling a Weston and trying to recruit you. Any help I may be able to offer would require the assistance of my friends, and I thought you would enjoy the opportunity to extend your social circle. Perhaps meet with them in a few days.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Mia shrugged with one shoulder. “That sounds nice.”

  Wilhelmina’s eyebrows rose. “That was quick. Didn’t you say you’re a bit of an introvert?”

  “Nah. I’m not an introvert… or really an extrovert. Kinda in the middle. It’s not people that bother me, it’s deviating from routine that puts me on edge. I can cope with a lot if I have advance notice.”

  “Grand. I’ll run it by the others then and we’ll pick a day.”

  “I’m getting the feeling you wanted to have this meeting before my husband showed up. Is your coven a ‘ladies only’ situation?” Mia took a sip of her iced tea.

  “Not by decree. It is all women, but that happened merely by chance. He’s more than welcome to come along, though it’s been my experience that most men wouldn’t choose to be stuck in a room with six women debating the proper amount of powdered bull penis needed for a luck spell.”

  Tea streamed out of Mia’s nostrils, spraying all over the table. She half coughed, half choked for a moment before catching her breath. Martha walked by and dropped off a stack of paper napkins with a bit of an annoyed smirk.

  Mia wiped tears from her eyes and fanned herself. “I wasn’t ready for that.”

  “My dear, few people are ever prepared to hear the phrase ‘powdered bull penis.’”

  She giggled while mopping up the spatter. “That’s really a thing?”

  “It is, though difficult to obtain in this country.”

  “Wow. I suppose I shouldn’t be so astounded that magic might be real considering everything I’ve witnessed over the past week.”

  “It’s probably nothing like you’re expecting. Almost everything we do could be explained away as coincidence.”

  Mia held up a dripping wad of napkin, wondering where to put it. “How do you know it isn’t? Coincidence, I mean.”

  �
�To be perfectly frank, we don’t. We strongly suspect the elements, the spirits, and the Goddess hear us and answer our requests, but short of a deep circle summoning—which I haven’t done since 1988—there’s little actual proof to be seen.”

  “Sounds a bit like prayer.” Mia set the napkin on the edge of the table.

  Wilhelmina nodded. “That is a valid comparison. Many similarities can be drawn between pagan spellcasting and certain religion’s prayers. Much of the ritualism involved in modern religions has origins with earlier mystical traditions. Focused desire, a specific set of words, gestures, rites, even specific clothing or paraphernalia… voicing one’s desire to the universe. Magic and prayer are different only in the semantics of their application.”

  “I don’t think many priests or pastors use powdered bull penis,” said Mia, not quite able to keep a straight face.

  Wilhelmina chuckled. “Before you consider me hypocritical, bear in mind that I do not think the world is controlled by an all-powerful being with a plan for everything, and then ask him to change his mind because I personally disagree with how things are going. The entities we call upon during our rites are powerful, but not without limits or faults. That prayer exists as a concept is contradictory to an omnipotent being who has a plan. Somewhere, long ago, a message got mixed up.”

  Mia smiled. “Yeah, just a little.”

  Martha approached the table and set an enormous mound of bun, chicken, bacon, and dripping cheese in front of Mia, then a turkey club sandwich in front of Wilhelmina. “Can I get you girls anything else?”

  “My husband will be here in about twenty minutes. He’ll order something when he arrives.”

  “All right. I’ll keep the check open then.” Martha swiped the green slip back from the table and returned to her spot behind the counter—and book.

  Mia watched her walk off, wondering if Evelyn had worked here, or if Martha knew her. The woman didn’t look old enough, probably would’ve only been a toddler—if that—when Evelyn died. But, Spring Falls didn’t have any other diners. Unless she commuted to Syracuse or worked in another, larger town nearby, Evelyn would’ve waited tables here.