by Lia Davis
2
Stirrings. Deep inside, changes. I feel…something.
Light!
A laugh rings through me, both new and familiar. The shadow of a curvy woman across my tomb lingers.
Does she sense my spirit in its lonely sarcophagus? For the first time in the long gloomy forever of night, a tiny golden thread of hope dangles like the cast off of a crystalline spider web.
Am I prey or predator?
I’ve never been a patient man, but time has given me no choice…
* * *
“Gramma, I’m home.” Ophelia pushed the door open with her foot and tugged her keys from the lock. The nurse’s aide would be gone by this hour.
I hope Gramma’s okay. I shouldn’t have stayed out so late.
She set the bottle on the kitchen counter and her purse beside it. She picked the bottle up again and looked inside. It appeared empty. She twisted the metal ring on the glass stopper and loosened it enough that the stopper was the only thing keeping the bottle closed.
Ben’s words lingered like the remains of a fractured nightmare, but she brushed them aside. No time for his drama right now. Too many bad dreams in the real world to take care of first. She set the bottle down.
I’ll open it later.
She washed her hands, dried them, and then took off her jacket and hung it on the hook in the mud room.
Everything in her gramma’s house was so tidy. Full, but tidy. The cleaning ladies made sure they got as much of the dust as they could from the two-hundred-year-old windowsills. The old house needed a good deal of repairs, but for its age, it was in remarkable shape.
She headed to her grandmother’s room down the main hall, hoping she was awake. She stopped at the six-paneled door and rapped on it lightly.
“Gramma?” She leaned close and listened. “I’m home.”
“Come in,” the raspy voice replied.
Ophelia turned the crystal doorknob and pushed the door open. “Hey, how’re you feeling?”
Her grandmother sat propped up in bed, still in her nightgown, but dressed in a smile. “I’m doing fair to middlin’. How about my favorite granddaughter? Did you have fun in town?”
“I did. Thanks for the idea. You were right. It helped clear my mind and get outside in the fresh air.” Ophelia moved to stand beside the bed. “I hope I didn’t stay too long. You must be starving for supper.”
“No, the nurse’s aide fattened me up with a big lunch. I think I’d rather start with tea and sandwiches if it’s all right with you.” She picked up a tissue and blew her nose. “Maybe we can eat a late supper, if that’s all right. Or maybe just a midnight snack will do.”
Ophelia watched her gramma’s hand tremble. She’d grown so thin, her skin showed every vein and bump of bone. The doctors predicted the cancer would take her quickly, especially since she refused treatment. With a full head of straight white hair that reached to her hips, the aides had fun braiding it and trying new styles. Tonight, it hung in two long, simple braids wrapped at the ends with strips of floral fabric.
Even though Gramma was in her pajamas, she wore the amethyst pendant. The crystal was a single point wrapped in silver wire, and the most beautiful shade of deep purple. Ophelia had never seen her gramma without the necklace, day or night.
Ophelia straightened the covers on the bed. Gramma’s green eyes still sparkled—the same green Ophelia saw staring back at her in the mirror. In fact, most people who’d known her gramma when she was young said Ophelia was the spittin’ image of her.
“That’s fine. Whatever you want, Gramma. Let me get it ready and then I’ll be back to get you, okay?”
Gramma smoothed out the thin quilt over her legs. “That’s fine. Can we have some of those pimento cheese sandwiches you made yesterday? They were so good.”
“Of course. There’s still some spread left.” Ophelia pulled another thin quilt over her gramma’s legs then bent and kissed her on the forehead. “It’ll take me about fifteen minutes to get the kettle hot and the sandwiches ready. Can you wait that long?”
“I’ll be here.” Gramma smiled. “Can’t go anywhere without my wheels.” She nodded toward her wheelchair.
“You could if you got sneaky. But I’ll be back to get you.” Ophelia patted her hand. “And I’ll leave the door open in case you need me.”
“All right.” Gramma’s voice wavered a bit.
Ophelia made a note to get the doctor to check her gramma’s throat, though she was sure it was nothing. She was old and sick and growing weaker and there wasn’t anything Ophelia could do to stop it. Help ease her symptoms, give her some peace of mind about her finances and house and that was about it.
Ophelia headed down the hallway to her own room and slipped off her shoes, tucking them under the small desk by one of her windows. She peeked out. It was full dark now, and not even fireflies lit the evening.
Her feet ached from walking so much in town and it felt good to putter around in socks on the hardwood floors of the old house. She peered out the opposite window of her room. A giant magnolia tree grew outside. In the sunlight, it shaded the whole side of the house. In the distance, the narrow Savannah River bisected the property, but she couldn’t see it in the darkness. Her gramma still owned over a hundred acres of land on what used to be one of the largest plantations in the area.
Her ancestors grew rice at the manor, Hemlock Grove, flooding the land from the river, but then cotton was king for a generation and bales of the fluffy plant were shipped downriver. Ophelia had always been embarrassed that the family had owned slaves and proud at the same time that her gramma had paid for college for as many of the descendants of any slaves she could locate. It’d been a touchy subject her whole life, and Ophelia intended to continue to do her part to help.
Right now, the house and what was left of the land was in disarray. The house needed a lot of work to keep it up, including a new roof, and the land no longer grew crops unless you counted trees and weeds. Much of the acreage had been sold off through the years since the Civil War, though what was left was beautiful and just the right amount of land to raise a family.
Ophelia let the lace curtain drop into place. What would she do with the property and house after Gramma was gone? Letting it go to someone not in the family felt sacrilege, but moving back to Savannah meant leaving her job. Gramma wanted to be buried in the family cemetery under the river oaks down where the water hooked a curve and the long rays of the fall sunset spread orange fingers of warm light across the stone monuments, warming them on the cool autumn days.
A beautiful spot for a final resting place, and many family members were there. How could she sell that?
“Mom and dad are there, too.” Ophelia picked up the brush off her dresser, pulled it through her hair, then slipped a hair tie in. If her gramma caught her making food with her hair loose, she’d fuss.
She sighed. How would she ever let the house go when her parents and gramma were buried on the property? And so many more relatives. Yet, what would she do with property in Savannah?
She set the brush down and headed toward the kitchen. When she’d made plans to come home, she hadn’t considered how difficult all the decisions would be. Or how many choices she’d have to make. She trailed her fingertips along the hallway walls, the ridges tickling as she walked. Right now, all she wanted was to spend time with her gramma and try to make her last days as happy as possible.
* * *
Ophelia rolled the wheelchair down the hall to the kitchen, careful not to bump her passenger’s legs into the wall. The ancient floor creaked and cracked as the chair rolled over the ageless wood.
“I’d say we eat on the porch, but it’s really chilly out there for October.” She slowed to go over the threshold. Her gramma didn’t weigh much and it barely felt like she was wheeling anything in the chair.
“It’s going to be a cold Halloween. Coldest in fifty years, I’m betting.”
“What makes you say that?” Ophelia whee
led her to the kitchen table where she’d already moved the chair out of the way. The setting was in place, the fine china out and the sandwiches on the tiered tray.
Her gramma lit up at the sight. “Oh, the wooly worms are almost completely black. Not much orange. Going to be a cold winter.”
“Oh, I’ve not seen one since I got here.” She sat beside her gramma and unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap.
“Saw one crawling across my screen last night. Big fat one. Pass the sandwiches?”
Ophelia served two mini pimento cheese sandwiches. “Want a cream cheese and cherry one?”
“Ohhh, you sure know how to spoil me! Yes, please.” Gramma clapped her hands together.
Ophelia smiled. She’d hoped Gramma would be happy about the pink sandwiches. They used to be one of her favorites. She served her two of the little circles then served herself two.
“Tell me what you did in town today. And what did you do for lunch?” Gramma nibbled on one of the sandwiches.
Ophelia lifted the teapot lid and checked the tea. Looked perfect and smelled even better. White tea was one of their favorites. And with a bit of flowers in it—Divine. The jasmine made it luxurious.
“I walked around the riverfront mostly.” She poured tea into her gramma’s cup, then her own. “Then I ate lunch and went into an antique store. Then I came home.”
“No nice young men?” Her gramma sounded disappointed.
“No, none. Besides, I don’t have time to date. I’m here to tend you.”
“I worry about you being alone when I’m gone.” Her gramma tilted her face upward. “I don’t like the feeling of leaving behind an untrained witch.”
“Oh, Gramma, don’t start that foolishness. You aren’t a witch.”
Her grandmother slumped in her chair.
She waited, sure her grandmother would start the conversation again, but she remained quiet.
“I’m sorry, Gramma. I know you believe in all that magick stuff but I don’t.” Ophelia sipped her tea.
“You will.”
“Can we talk about something happier? Less contentious?”
“Fine.”
Her gramma didn’t touch her sandwiches. Ophelia grimaced. How to walk the line between not offending Gramma and letting her know that she simply did not believe in magick?
“What is that doing here?” Her gramma pointed a long, bony finger at the bottle on the counter. Her lower lip and chin quivered. “Do you know what that is?”
“Ben told me there was some kind of ghost or spirit in it.”
Her gramma’s eyes flashed. “You got it from Ben?”
“Yeah, he said you could tell me the story of Francois Beaumont. Did you know him?”
Gramma’s face paled and she gripped the edge of the table. “He was bad news. Bad news.”
At that moment, the bottle tipped and fell over on the counter, the cork falling to the floor. Ophelia stared, the cold chill she’d felt earlier returning and slithering up her spine.
“How did that happen?” she asked.
“Things are about to get a lot more interesting at Hemlock Grove. I hope you’re ready.” Gramma picked up a pimento cheese finger sandwich and stuffed it in her mouth. “I hope we’re all ready.”
3
She is pure beauty.
When she touches my tomb, the stirrings of life become stronger. Could she be the one to free me?
I must get closer, yet I’m trapped inside this damned glass confinement. If only I could get her attention. She speaks the name of a warlock, the devil who imprisoned me.
Francois Beaumont.
Renewed anger swirls around my prison.
The glass rattles but doesn’t make a sound. Suddenly the world tilts and the stopper keeping me from my freedom falls out.
* * *
Brows drawn, Ophelia stood and cautiously approached the bottle. After picking up the cork, she placed it back in the top, sealing it once more. The glass warmed under her touch and sensations of…something she’d never felt filled her. It was like a low hum of electricity that sent tingles up her arms.
She set the bottle upright on the counter, then turned to her gramma, noting she had finished her finger sandwich and tea. Gramma was also eyeing the bottle like she expected it to jump up and bite someone. Or a demon to pop out and destroy them all.
Ophelia shook her head and sat in her seat to finish her sandwiches.
“I don’t think the bottle needs to stay in the house.” Gramma’s voice was soft, yet stern. Ophelia swore she picked up on a hint of fear in the tone.
Come on. It was a bottle. Nothing more. Ophelia didn’t believe in magick or ghosts. “It’s an old bottle. I think it’s pretty.”
“Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. If there were ever a time you needed to open your eyes to magick and the world around you, now is it.” Gramma met Ophelia’s stare. An odd flash rippled through her gramma’s green eyes.
Impossible. I’m tired. That’s all.
“I think we’re both tired.” When her gramma yawned, Ophelia nodded. “See? Off to bed with you.”
She wheeled Gramma to her room. “Tomorrow we can bundle up and eat breakfast on the porch.”
It was one of the things Ophelia missed. Sitting on the porch in the crisp fall mornings with a cup of hot cocoa in her hands. And Gramma beside her.
A pang hit her heart. This was the last fall she’d get to spend with Gramma.
Her grandmother sighed a little too dramatically. “Fine, ignore my warning. Ignore your fate.”
Fate? What was she talking about?
After helping her gramma into bed, Ophelia tucked her in and kissed her cheek. “Night, Gramma.”
“Night, dear.”
Ophelia hovered by the door. A nagging feeling pitched at her insides. Something she couldn’t ignore, yet she had no idea what it was. “Gramma, you did know Francois Beaumont, didn’t you?”
Gramma dropped her shoulders, then patted the bed beside her. “Come, sit.”
When Ophelia sat on the bed next to her gramma, she took her thin, frail hand in hers. Gramma covered their linked fingers, giving a gentle squeeze. “Francois was a disturbed and power-hungry man. It wasn’t enough that he was the most powerful warlock on the eastern coast of the US. He wanted immortality. Little did the coven know that he’d already lived hundreds of years. Our best guess was he was at least five centuries old when he died.”
Ophelia suppressed her groan of frustration. Would Gramma ever stop with the witch and magick stories? Yet, Ophelia did ask, so she had to play along with Gramma’s storytelling. “How did he live so long?”
Gramma stared into the distance as if remembering something. Something terrible. Her hand grew cold and Ophelia rubbed it. Whatever Gramma was remembering, whether true or a false memory, affected her deeply.
After a pause, Gramma turned to Ophelia. “Francois collected souls…in glass bottles and jars, sealing them with magick. When the coven discovered what he was doing, they kicked him out and banned him from performing magick. He grew angry and the number of missing tourists escalated, even as young as teenagers. As it turned out, he was killing people to harvest their souls to not only extend his life, but to grow his power. His was into dark magick.”
Gramma was holding onto Ophelia’s hand so tightly, it began to tingle from the lack of blood flow. The earlier fear she saw in her grandmother’s eyes when she spotted the bottle had manifested in a swirling string of emotion around them. The air in the room cooled at least ten degrees.
Ridiculous.
Gramma continued. “The coven had no choice but to step in and stop him. We gathered outside Francois’s house while he slept and performed a ritual to trap him inside. Then we burned the house down.”
Wow. Her grandmother just admitted to burning a man to death. What the hell? First, Gramma said he was a dark magick warlock, then she spoke of killing him like it was expected, or normal. Why hadn’t the police gotten in
volved?
After a long moment, Ophelia took a deep breath and released it slowly. “So, if he’s dead then he’s no threat. Why all the crazy ghost stories?”
“Oh, honey, please focus. Look inside yourself and find that magick you were born with. Believe.” Gramma brought their hands to her heart. “That bottle you brought home is one that was in that fire. It survived when the others didn’t. I believe it means something. And if you felt a need to have it, then you are connected to it. It called to your magick and you responded. You have to look inside and find out what it all means.”
Ophelia shook her head. Gramma’s pleas touched a deep part of her, yet her mind couldn’t wrap around the idea that any of this was real. Magick didn’t exist. “Francois is dead. You and your so-called coven killed him.” She eased off the bed and kissed her gramma on the forehead. “He can’t kill or hurt anyone else again. Not that I believe he was evil to begin with.”
“Dark magick never truly dies.”
With another sigh, Ophelia said, “Goodnight, Gramma.”
With a heavy heart, Ophelia returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning. As she passed the bottle, a chill slid up her spine. She studied the bottle for several long moments before shaking her head.
No, she didn’t believe in magick and she never would. That wasn’t the real world. Gramma was living a fantasy.
Once the dishes were washed and the house locked up for the night, Ophelia carried the bottle to her room. Setting it on top of her dresser, she hovered her hands around the glass. It seemed to have lost some of the glow—for lack of a better word—it had when she bought it.
Odd.
Just then a chill passed over her neck and left arm. The sensation of fingers brushing her skin made her jump and twist around. Her heart hammered. Nothing was there.
The room was empty.
Scaredy-cat. Ugh. All the talk about ghosts, spirits, and dark warlocks had made her jumpy.
As she pulled her dresser drawer open to take out her white cotton nightgown, the sounds of thunder rumbled outside, shaking the old windowpanes. Great. A storm.
