by Ann M. Noser
“Okay. Thanks for the ride.” I exit the car, wondering what he had been about to say. I pause to stare up at my dorm.
I don’t want to be here. But, then again, I don’t want to be anywhere right now.
With every tentative step down the long hallway to my room, I fear someone will leap out to accuse me of Mike’s murder.
I jump when a girl laughs from behind a door, my heart racing.
Is this what losing your mind feels like?
When I enter my room, it’s crowded with cardboard boxes.
Chrissy stands next to them, scribbling a note. When she spots me, she scrunches it up in her hand. “There’s an opening in a room on the third floor.”
I nod.
Chrissy avoids my gaze. “I’m moving out. You’ve been a good roommate, but now I have to think of what’s best for Kevin.”
I remember what Mike had said about Kevin wanting to marry Chrissy, but now doesn’t seem like the right time to repeat it.
“Emma, what’s wrong with you? All week long they hear nothing from you, and then they find you hiding in the choir loft at Mike’s funeral? No wonder they’re upset. Can you blame them?”
“No,” my little voice admits. “But I didn’t know what to do or what to say to them.” I pause, one hand clenched in the other. “Chrissy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think it’s my fault Mike drowned?”
She sighs, as if I’m asking a really stupid question. “I’m pretty sure it was his idea to go swimming. Drunk guys are always trying to swim that river, and you would never dream of doing that on your own. But couldn’t you have thought of some way to stop him?”
“I think he would’ve done it no matter what I said. But I’m not sure. What would you have done?”
She shrugs. “I would have just flirted with him, made him think that I liked him, gotten him to take me home, and then snuck away once he passed out. It would’ve been easy.”
“Maybe easy for you.” I turn away. Chrissy’s words prompt another wave of guilt. I blame myself as much as Mike’s family does. I watch her move all her boxes out into the hallway near the elevator door. I don’t offer to help, but I don’t make a scene, either.
After Chrissy leaves, I realize she left behind a glass vase full of flowers Kevin sent her before Mike died. The red roses are dead now, all twelve of them, their heads hanging in grief. I storm over, grab the vase, and throw it across the room. It shatters against the wall. Browned, withered petals float in pools of water and glass shards, but I don’t care.
I swallow a double dose of pain medication and let the nightmares consume me.
I stand on the damp and chilly bridge, watching the river rise up in a torrent hundreds of feet high. The giant wave rushes over the bridge, knocking me down. Sharp pain shoots up my tailbone.
“Stop it! Leave me alone!” I grip the bridge railing and back away as dead bodies pile up next to me.
Everywhere I turn, I find Mike’s unseeing eyes and blue lips.
I wake up sprawled upon the dusty dorm room floor.
As soon as I get up, I’m throwing away the rest of those damn pain pills, I promise myself.
Rolling onto my side, I spot something hidden in the far corner below the bed. I slide my arm under the lower bunk and pull out a book.
It’s Angie’s Book of Shadows.
What’s this doing here? I wonder.
I get up and place it on Chrissy’s old dresser, fully intending to return it.
For a while I sit across the room, watching the book. The deep purple fabric cover calls out to me, singing soothing music in my head.
I can’t read it. It isn’t mine.
I grab my Zoology book instead, but the pages don’t hold my interest. I stare at Angie’s book some more. Against my will, some outside force slides my feet across the floor until the temptation is within my grasp.
I can no longer resist.
My hands reach for the book. The thick pages smell of incense, wax, and fragrant old petals. My fingers trace a pattern across the smooth cover. I settle in my chair by the window, cherishing the feel of the fabric cover. The hypnotic music grows louder.
Maybe I’ll read just a little.
All afternoon, I study the Book of Shadows from front to back. Delicate cursive handwriting fills most of the book, but I recognize Angie’s short round printing toward the end. The spells aren’t written in any particular order. There are spells about love, good luck, and friendship. Angie’s handwriting details spells to honor or speak with the dead, and lose weight.
No wonder Angie was so skinny!
By the time the sun sets, I’ve made up my mind. If this book has the power to make Kevin and Chrissy inseparable and keep Angie perpetually slim, perhaps it can do much more.
Perhaps it can bring Mike back.
My fingers tingle. For a moment, I wish for Angie’s help, but I’ll never ask for it. I have to do this on my own. First I reread the spells I suspect Angie collected in an attempt to reach her dead grandmother, but I can tell they aren’t powerful enough.
All night long, I raid the Internet for anything I can find on witchcraft and spell casting. I scour my shelves for the necessary supplies. This carved wooden bowl will work, I think as I dump hair ties and barrettes out of the only thing I have left of the dead grandmother I never met. But I need candles, water, and stones. And more books on witchcraft. I need to know more before I can do this. Much more.
I attend all my lectures the next day, filled with a new sense of purpose. After class, I take the bus to an aromatherapy store.
The smiling sales clerk hands me a red plastic shopping basket. “Let me know if I can be of any help.”
“Thanks.” I evaluate her pastel wardrobe, high shirt collar, and string of pearls. Do you know any good Covens? No, I don’t think so.
I empty the entire stock of tapered candles into my basket and check out. Then I head next door to a bookstore and grab an armful of witchcraft books. After I buy everything I need, I ride the bus back to campus.
The river itself will provide the final ingredients for my spell. I carefully climb down under the bridge. At the edge of the river, I fill a bottle with water and collect a handful of rocks. Then I hurry back to the dorm, rush into the elevator, and huddle in the back as it fills with other students happy to be done for the day.
The elevator doors slide shut.
“Chrissy told me Kevin might have to drop out of school this semester,” a blonde from my floor tells a brunette I don’t recognize.
“That’s so sad,” the brunette replies.
The blonde sighs. “It’s awful! Can you imagine losing a brother?”
I sink farther into the corner. Please don’t let them turn around and find me trapped in here.
Finally, the elevator stops on my floor. I shove past everyone, including the gawking blonde, in my desperation to get away from her damning words.
Now I really have to bring Mike back. I burst into my room and grab the Book of Shadows. Heart pounding, I reread the Magician’s Rules:
1) Know what you want to do.
2) Have the will to do it.
3) Dare to do it.
4) Keep silent.
No problem. I know what I want, and I’m willing to do it. And for once, being silent is considered a good thing. I like this already.
I grab the nearest witchcraft book and start to read. All night long I study spell casting. Some resources are quite handy with their directions. Others frustrate me with their many cautions and warnings, such as: “One must perform a spell in a positive mood in order to achieve the best result.”
I shake my head. Just how positive of a mood do they expect from a person who wants to bring back the dead?
At least I’ll have the proper phase of the moon. In a few days, the Blood Moon will rise, that time of year when the membranous wall that exists between life and death is the thinnest. Native Americans named this full moon the Hunter’s Moon b
ecause its brilliant light helped them track prey through the October night.
If only I had an item of Mike’s clothing I’d be set, but I’m not far enough gone to climb into the window of his old room hunting for any scraps left behind.
After a few more days and nights of witchcraft study, the light of the full Blood Moon floods my room. I want to perform the spell at exactly 2:00 a.m., which is about the time I figure Mike drowned.
The minutes tick by. By midnight, I pace the room with shaky legs. Should I have practiced on something smaller than a person? But what else would I want to bring back from the dead? I consider killing a spider, then trying to restore it, but the whole idea creeps me out. What if it comes back bigger than before? Or hairy?
My eyes settle on the dead roses on the floor. I clear off the top of my desk, then shove it up against the northern wall. North is supposed to be a witch’s direction of power. I set a small plastic wastebasket upon the desk and fill it with bottled water. One by one, I stick the brown withered roses into the fresh water, being careful not to cut myself on the broken glass.
While my left hand rests on the Book of Shadows, I write out a new spell with my right. The words spill from my pen so quickly that I’m not sure they’re mine. My heart racing, I dig through the bag of candles and grab those appropriate for the occasion.
Reverently, I encircle the flower arrangement with candles. Then I light them and flip off the lights. A warm, pleasant sensation flows through my trembling hands. The words of my spell embolden me:
“Oh, faded gift of love,
Oh, sign of longing need
Raise up your hanging heads,
Unfurl your wilted leaves.
Flourish again in splendor,
Release your dark perfume.
Draw life from this, my ring of fire,
And open up your blooms.”
I stop chanting and bite my lower lip.
Within seconds, every flame flares taller. Soon, they stretch almost as long as the candles themselves. Flickering shadows dance upon the wall, creeping up toward the ceiling. All at once the candles go out. The once-bright moon slips behind a cloud.
Tripping over books, I stumble to the door in the dark. I fumble for the wall switch, knocking over several things on my dresser before flipping on the light. Then I pause, too scared to turn around. What if there is no change? It takes several moments for me to gather my courage, but I have to know the truth.
Holding my breath, I turn to face the roses.
They still look dead.
“This is stupid.” I cross the room and flop down on my bed. Who am I kidding? I can’t raise the dead. I can’t even fix a few flowers.
I hide my face in a pillow. This is crazy. Mike’s gone, it’s all my fault, and I can’t take it back. Oh, what am I going to do?
Wait a minute… Why does it suddenly smell like a florist shop in here?
I sit up and glance at the roses again.
I bolt off the bed and dash over to get a better look. The roses aren’t brown anymore. They are definitely turning red. The wilted flowers slowly straighten, every petal uncurling to form a perfect full bloom. The leaves turn green and firm again.
I grab a rose in my excitement, forgetting about the thorns.
“Ouch!” I drop it on my desk and grab a tissue for my bleeding hand. The roses are now the same shade of red as my blood.
“It worked,” I whisper.
I back away from the violently beautiful roses, until I run into the bunk bed and stop. “Oh man, what have I done?”
My entire body shakes. Calm down. You don’t have time to freak out. You have work to do.
I grab the Book of Shadows and start revising Mike’s spell.
Mike isn’t a bunch of roses, he’s a real person…or at least he used to be. I’ll do anything to bring him back, so this spell has to be perfect. Tonight is the only night this will work. All my research says so.
I bend over the desk to work my spell. When I glance up again, the clock reads 1:37 a.m.
“Crap! I’m late!” I shove candles, rocks, the bottle of river water, a rose, and Grandma’s bowl into a bag and hurry to the bridge.
Fortunately, when I get there, no one else is around. After all, it is 2:00 a.m. on a school night. I set down my supplies and zip up my jacket against the cool night air.
Using limestone rock, I draw a pentagram on the bridge, connecting each corner into a Magic Circle. I place candles along both bridge railings and around the perimeter of the Magic Circle.
My words echo in the dark night and travel down the river:
“I call upon the elements of Air…”
Ever so gently, I place the rose within the circle.
“Water…”
I set the bowl in the center of the circle and fill it with river water.
“Earth…”
I place one river rock on each corner of the pentagram.
“And Fire… Watch over me!”
I light every candle, gazing into each small flare.
“Guard and guide me during these rites.
Protect me during this night as I call upon the Moon.”
A flurry of owls shriek across the Blood Moon, racing away from the river. Startled, I duck as they fly past. Oh no! That’s a bad omen. But Mike needs me. I must follow through.
I search the bridge and the walking trails on either side of the river for signs of life that might interfere with my secret plans. There’s no one else around. I take a deep breath and try to calm the disquiet inside. As I read my spell, my voice sounds louder than usual, projecting far across the water:
“Oh, Moon, upon me shine―
Give back his life, instead take mine.
Send back his heart, return his breath.
Please release him from his death.
Give back his eyes, bring back his voice.
I willingly have made this choice.
Hand back his plans, restore his mind,
I willingly grant you mine.
Oh, Moon, oh, Stars, upon me glow―
Tell the river to let go.”
A heavy silence drapes the bridge.
Nothing happens.
Why isn’t this working?
The bridge shivers with the sound of creaking metal. The rumbling intensifies so that I can barely keep my balance. The candles extinguish as they fall and roll off the bridge into the river. From far below, I hear a fierce sucking sound.
With lead feet, I stumble out of the Magic Circle. My hands spark as they touch the metal railing. I lean over the edge of the bridge, drawn toward the strange noises.
Out of the darkness, the river rises up in a towering wave. It looms in midair and pauses to stare at me, the Blood Moon glistening on every ripple. My throat constricts. With a mighty roar, the water rushes hungrily towards the bridge.
My heart convulses. What have I done? This is crazy―I don’t want to die!
I drop down onto the bridge and entwine my arms and legs around the railing.
Water crashes over me.
The river pelts my back with pebbles.
I gasp for air, inhaling the smell of damp rocks. I tuck my head and hold on, determined to stay out of the same river I invited to take me prisoner. The water pummels me as I struggle to breathe.
Shaking with cold and hacking up water, it takes a while for me to realize the river has receded. Summoning all my courage, I raise my head. The bridge lights blur above me. My eyes sting as if someone’s used sandpaper to rip out my contacts.
In a panic, I dash away from the river that wants me, away from my requests and the promises I did not fulfill.
I never look back.
stumble into my room, strip off my wet clothes, yank on dry ones, and drop exhausted into bed. In my frantic dreams, I’m repeatedly chased, strangled, and thrown into the water. I wake up crying and reach for a box of tissues.
Someone coughs.
It isn’t me.
Holding my br
eath, I scan the room.
Near the window, a dark figure sits in a chair, illuminated by moonlight. Blindly, I scramble for my glasses and shove them on. I flip on a bedside lamp and stare into an unfamiliar face. Pulling the covers up to my chin, I scoot away to the farthest edge of my bed.
“Who are you?” I whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” the pale young man says. “It should be May. But it’s October, isn’t it? There are dead leaves on the ground, and your calendar says October.”
“Yes, it’s October.” I search my room for a weapon. All I spot is a hairbrush. It won’t help me much.
“Well, you see…” He clears his throat. “I can’t believe it’s not May. I mean…how can it be October already? I’m so confused.”
“What do you want? And how did you get in my room?”
“I followed you, and the door was unlocked.”
I shiver underneath the covers. How did I forget to lock my door? What’s wrong with me?
He stands up and moves closer.
I shake harder. “One more step, and I swear I’ll scream.”
He backs off. “You’re afraid of me?”
“Yes.” I probably shouldn’t have admitted that.
He laughs, which frightens me even more. “Well, there’s no need to be scared of me.”
Even my knees knock together. Is this what serial killers say to their next victim?
“Listen,” the stranger says. “I don’t know why you’re so scared. I’m the one who should be terrified. Last May, I jumped off the bridge to kill myself, and now I’m here…and it’s October.”
A sick feeling grows in the pit of my stomach.
Is he the creepy dead floating guy I saw the night I met Mike?
I’m coated with cold, sick sweat. Feeling the urge to vomit, I lunge for my plastic wastebasket. I dry heave, too terrified to be appropriately humiliated.
“Are you all right?” He brings me some tissues and pats my back.
