by Lia Davis
After changing, she crawled into bed and picked up the book she started the night before. She hated thunderstorms. They always sat on the side of creepy to her.
Reading calmed her. It always helped take her mind off the storm.
Lightning flashed outside her window followed by a crack of thunder so loud, she squeaked and damn near jumped out of her skin. Her hands shook as she reached for her sleeping pills on the nightstand. When she picked up the bottle, the bulb blew out in her lamp, throwing the room into darkness.
Another flash of lightning lit up the space for a second. But in that second, she swore she saw a figure standing in her doorway.
Fear froze her to her spot in bed. After a few moments, she snatched her cell phone and turned on the flashlight app. When she shined the light in the direction of the man, or whatever it was, she sighed in relief. Nothing.
Her mind was playing tricks on her because of the creepy storm and Gramma’s ghost stories.
Nothing more.
Ophelia popped a couple sleeping pills, because, yeah, she wasn’t sleeping without them tonight. Then she sunk farther under her blanket and closed her eyes. Tomorrow was another day of work helping Gramma, and hopefully, no more talk of ghosts and goblins.
4
Francois is near. I feel his dark, evil essence like a hidden snake slithering under the leaves in the garden.
He’s coming for me. For my soul.
He needs my spirit to be locked in the bottle again. No. I must leave. Get far from the beautiful Ophelia before he harms her. However, the farther from her I get, the harder it is to function.
I’m bound to her, or to the bottle. I do not know which.
A soft sigh draws my attention to her as she settles farther under the covers. Desire flares to life deep inside me—I cannot recall the last time I was aroused. The urge to touch her is too strong to ignore.
Do I dare?
Drifting closer to her, I reach out and touch her, my fingertips grazing her soft skin. She shivers in her sleep and tugs the blanket tighter around her.
* * *
Why was it so cold in her room?
Upon waking, she’d peeked outside and noticed a large limb from the old oak tree had fallen. There were a number of smaller branches and leaves scattered around the yard like tossed confetti. The storm had been more powerful than she realized. Then again, she was blissfully asleep, thanks to the sleep aid her doctor prescribed for the times her anxiety kept her up.
After assessing the damage, she went straight to Gramma’s room to check on her. She was still sleeping, so Ophelia took the opportunity to jump in the shower.
She pulled on a pair of blue jeans and thin, long-sleeved, black top, and then made her way to the kitchen to fix Gramma’s oatmeal and fruit. The same breakfast she had eaten for as many years as Ophelia could remember.
Thoughts of their conversation still whirled in Ophelia’s thoughts.
The dark figure had flashed in her mind serval times since waking that morning. It was too real to be her imagination. But ghosts aren’t real. And he was gone a minute later.
Had she imagined the whole thing? Was it real or a product of her overactive brain? With Halloween so close, maybe her mind was starting to believe in ghost stories more than it should.
Once she had everything loaded onto the tray, she carried it to her grandmother’s room. Ophelia forced a wide smile as she entered the bedroom. Gramma was awake and reading.
Suspicion tickled Ophelia’s subconscious. She hadn’t seen a book in Gramma’s room the day before.
“Good morning. Whacha reading?”
Gramma glanced up and returned the smile, a little weaker than the days before. “Just a book about magick, which you don’t believe in.”
Really? She was trying to be sarcastic. “I brought you breakfast.” Ophelia unfolded the legs to the tray and set it over Gramma’s lap. “Some pretty big limbs fell in last night’s storm, so I’m going to check out the attic to make sure there isn’t a hole or a leak.”
“The storm brought in dark energy.” Gramma gripped her hand, forcing their eyes to lock. Her voice never wavered. Fear swirled in her green depths, setting off an uneasy feeling in Ophelia’s soul.
“It was a bad storm. Lots of wind and rain.” Ophelia spread Gramma’s napkin out for her.
Gramma shook her head. “It was not normal. Please, Ophelia, you must believe. Open your mind. Evil is coming to Hemlock Grove and everyone associated with it. I feel it in my bones. We must be prepared.”
Ophelia closed her eyes tightly for a brief moment. When she opened them, her grandmother wasn’t looking at her anymore but over her shoulder. Then she whispered, “Anatoli.”
Jerking around, Ophelia scanned the room. No one was there. Of course not.
What was going on? The name Gramma spoke was the one on the bottle. She must have read the name last night. Concern filled Ophelia. She would call the doctor to come out and check on Gramma because it seemed like dementia was setting in.
Still, Ophelia had to entertain the idea she was buying into the magick talk. Besides the mention of Anatoli had her too curious to dismiss. “Do you know Anatoli?”
Gramma stared into her eyes. “No, we never met.”
Rolling her eyes, Ophelia tucked a stray hair behind her gramma’s ear. “I’ll be back as soon as I check things in the attic out. You eat.”
Gramma nodded. “Be careful. And remember that I love you.”
“I love you too, Gramma.”
This had got to be the oddest trip home. Her chest tightened at the thought it would be her last. Blinking the tears away, she made her way to the end of the hallway. She leaned against the aging wallpaper and breathed deeply, regaining her composure. Gramma was acting weird and soon, she’d be gone. It was going to hurt like hell to not have her around. She opened the door to the stairs that lead to the attic and climbed them.
Dust tickled her nose as she emerged in the damp space. The only light trickled in from the tiny window on the far wall to her left. She hadn’t ever spent much time in the attic. At least, not that she remembered. Gramma used it as her office when she had her gift shop years ago, but Ophelia had always thought the space was creepy. She much preferred to play down by the river or out in the sunny pasture.
When she reached the middle of the attic, she pulled the cord to turn on the overhead light. A gasp escaped her. The room was cluttered with stuff from the gift shop. Everywhere she looked, piles of stuff. Boxes. More boxes.
She scanned the rafters, looking for any sign of a breach. The roof looked intact, as far as she could tell. Still, maybe she should have it checked by professionals.
The boxes formed rows and a narrow walking path through the attic space. No signs of water on the boxes anywhere, so that was a good. Shelves along the walls were filled with books and trinkets. Stones, crystals, and a ton of candlesticks lined one ledge. Bags of what looked to be dried herbs lined another, and small amber apothecary jars crowded onto one shelf.
Dust swirled in the sunlight streaming from the lone window on this side of the attic. The storm had gone, leaving a beautiful day. Ophelia could see the river in the distance, writhing like a blue ribbon through the greenery.
She stopped and ran her finger along the dusty spines of leather bound books and gilded volumes. So many books—why had Gramma stored them in the attic? She had a library in one of the old formal rooms. Some of the titles were in another language.
Latin, maybe.
At least a hundred books sat on the shelves. Most were tomes on rituals, spells, and herbs. Gramma had quite the collection. Ophelia shook her head. How many people’s grandmothers claimed to be witches?
Are witches even a thing anymore?
A slim blue book with golden highlights stood out from the rest, and Ophelia tugged it loose. A History of Duels in Savannah in the 1800s. The title seemed to sparkle in the dim lighting. The title sure felt out of place among all the witchy stuff.
To the right, a wooden podium stood. Beside it was an antique table with a purple and gold cloth draped over it. A few partially melted candles sat on the table.
What the hell?
Ophelia took a step and kicked something. Glancing down, she jumped sideways. Her heart leapt in her chest while disbelief mixed with all the weird shit that happened in the last twenty-four hours. She stood in the center of large circle with a pentagram in it. Painted directly onto the attic floor, the shapes loomed in her imagination like giant horrors.
What had Gramma been doing up here?
Shaking her head, she continued to back up until she bumped into something hard yet yielding. Invisible hands gripped her waist, freezing her into place. She closed her eyes, hoping it was her imagination playing tricks on her. Her mouth was too dry to scream.
Ophelia.
A voice whispered into her ear, and hot breath tickled the hairs on her neck causing them to stand. The hands tightened on her hips.
She jerked away and whirled around, but no one was there. At least not physically. But a presence filled the space.
Something is here.
It had said her name. Touched her. Something was in the attic and it was something she didn’t want to know any more about. Maybe all Gramma’s tales were getting to her. Witches and warlocks and ghostly happenings—of course, she was on edge. Still, she felt the touch and heard the voice. Time to get the hell out of the attic.
She tugged the string to turn off the light then rushed to the ladder.
Without so much as a backward glance, she fled the attic and swore to never go back again.
Whatever was up there could stay there.
5
She was so close, I could almost taste her. I cannot bear this torture.
I want to hold her in my arms like a whole man, not this nebulous thing I have become. I’m drawn to her with the force of a thousand storms.
She is meant for me, and I for her.
She is frightened. I feel her trembling when I touch her. It isn’t me she need fear—it is Francois.
And he is close.
I know he wants her. To capture a young witch would mean many more years for him than a mere mortal would bring. Her soul is powerful and yet she seems to not understand her power.
He will capture both of us and I will again be alone in my tomb while he uses my life force as his own.
Ophelia, my dearest, I fear she will meet a more gruesome fate if he captures her. I must find a way to warn her. But will she take heed?
* * *
“There are so many papers.” Ophelia put the stack of medical bills into the pile needing attention. “Have you not gone through them at all?”
Gramma shrugged. “I figured if they needed me, someone would call. I didn’t realize this was so important.”
Ophelia tried to calm herself. The amount of mail Gramma hadn’t gone through was staggering. Paper sack after paper sack of bills, circulars, junk mail, and even a misaddressed envelope or two sat beside her. She leaned back on the couch, holding her head.
“I hope we aren’t missing anything important here.” She watched her gramma’s face.
Gramma looked weaker than even the day before, but she’d insisted on helping Ophelia go through the stacks. She wasn’t really helping much—in fact, Ophelia knew she could get through it quicker if Gramma would let her handle it. But she needed to let her help. This was her mail. And probably the last time she’d go through any of it.
“Nothing there can be as important as preparing you for what’s coming.” Gramma picked up a bill with a shaky hand and dropped it into the important pile. “Things are not good. I sense it.”
Thank goodness the important pile was much smaller than the junk mail pile.
“I hope you have a lot more time left. Please don’t talk like that.” Ophelia rubbed her temples. No point in being morbid. She knew Gramma wasn’t going to live a lot longer but pointing it out often didn’t help matters.
“No, no,” Gramma wheeled herself closer to the table, “I’m not talking about my passing. That’s inevitable. I’m talking about the evil that’s coming to Hemlock Grove. And the danger it poses to you.”
Ophelia sighed. “Not that again.”
“Yes, that again.” Gramma raised her voice till it cracked. “You are in danger. I don’t want to leave my earthly shell until I know you are safe. You’re all I have.” Tears misted her eyes.
“Oh, Gramma, please. I’ll be fine.”
“Evil is coming. I tell you, I feel it.”
Ophelia didn’t know how to answer her. Either Gramma was getting more out of it every day or she was darn focused on the idea that the boogeyman was coming for Ophelia. Neither scenario was helpful in getting her affairs in order. It was a difficult enough job without all the extra hoodoo.
“Okay, Gramma, I’ll humor you. What exactly can I do to stop the evil that’s coming to take me? Hang garlic in the windows? Buy silver bullets?”
“You’re making fun of me.” Gramma scowled, her tears drying on her face.
“No, I’m not. I’m tired and not sleeping well and we have so much left to do.”
“I know there’s a lot to do, but I’m telling you this is important. If you don’t prepare for this, you won’t live. Your life will be over. How much clearer can I be?” She coughed and sputtered. “I’m scared for you. You don’t know anything about how to handle yourself in an attack.”
The coughing fit worsened and Gramma wheezed and gasped. Ophelia picked up her glass of water and held it to Gramma’s lips. Gramma drank a few sips, her breath ragged and shallow.
“I think we need to get you back to bed.” Ophelia set the water down and pulled the wheelchair out from the table. “You need to rest.”
“I’m okay. Just a little tired.” Gramma coughed again. “It’s you we need to worry about. You have witch blood in you and denying it isn’t going to change a thing. When you finally realize it, it’s going to be too late.”
“I think I need to put in a call to the doctor.” Ophelia pulled the wheelchair out and then maneuvered it toward the doorway. “I’m concerned about you.”
“I’m not crazy, young lady!”
“I didn’t say you were. I just said maybe I need to call the doctor. You aren’t doing so well.” She pushed the wheelchair down the hall toward Gramma’s bedroom. “I think you need to be checked, that’s all.”
“I’m as fine as I’m going to get. I want you to listen to me. We need to do a protection ritual. Then we need to prepare to get rid of that warlock once and for all.”
Ophelia rolled her eyes, aware that Gramma couldn’t see her do it. “Which warlock?”
“You know which one. Francois. The one whose bottle you brought into this house.”
“I thought you said you and your friends burned him to the ground along with his house, what, fifty years ago?” Why not go along with her? Once she got her to bed, she’d fall asleep quickly. Maybe the crazy ideas would go away. Ophelia turned the corner into Gramma’s room.
“We did. But obviously, he’s still alive.”
“Obviously.” The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Ophelia helped her gramma into bed. So light, gramma must’ve lost more weight even in the last week.
“You’re sassing me. If I was younger, I’d give you a taste of hickory tea.” Gramma scolded her, her finger wagging.
Gramma had never spanked her. Surely this threat was a sign of deteriorating mental health. A call to the doctor was definitely in order. “I’m sorry
. I shouldn’t have been so dismissive.”
Gramma turned over, her back to Ophelia. “Go away. I want to rest.”
“But I thought—”
“GO AWAY.”
Gramma’s words left no room for discussion. Ophelia pulled the quilt over Gramma’s shoulders then headed out of the room. Tears ran down her face. What an awful granddaughter she was—mocking her grandmother. Didn’t matter what Gramma said, she deserved more respect. Even if she was harping on evil and demons or whatever. It didn’t matter.
Fat tears dripped down her cheeks as she made her way to her room. The floor squeaked as she hurried down the hall and the walls felt like they were closing in on her. By the time she made it to her bedroom, tears had turned to full-on sobbing.
What if Gramma didn’t wake up? What if the last words she ever heard were the harsh ones Ophelia had said? She’d rarely spoken to her gramma so sternly and guilt pooled in her gut. Ophelia threw herself onto the bed and cried into her pillow.
Curling up on her side, she closed her eyes and squeezed her lids shut. Why couldn’t she have a normal life? Yeah, she did have a career she loved, but she never dated, much. The fear of being rejected once a prospective boyfriend found out her gramma believed in magick and witches always haunted her.
She took a shaky breath. Now her only living relative was dying and Ophelia had all but mocked her. Lost her patience.
Another sob shook her. Suddenly, the air in the room grew cooler, and then a palpable energy surrounded her, warm and loving. Ophelia focused on the warmth, wishing for once she’d opened her heart to finding a boyfriend, someone to hold her.
Being alone sucked.
Arms surrounded her and it felt like someone spooned her from behind. The sensation of fingers caressing her hair soothed her and she closed her eyes and sniffled. She felt lighter within. Her imaginary lover felt right, like he could be real.
If only…
