by Lia Davis
Ben shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that news, Ophelia. I really am. She’s a good one—a real upstanding woman. Always has been.” He paused to stare into the store then snapped his gaze back to Ophelia. “Time marches on, even in Savannah. Even for witches.”
“Don’t start that mess now.” Ophelia scowled. “She’s no witch. There’s no such thing.”
Ben held up his hand. “Sorry. I know you don’t believe. I’d have thought all that college education would have taught you about real things. But what do I know?”
Ophelia sighed. She shouldn’t be cross with Ben. He always talked about witches and magick and spells and curses. It was part of his spiel and maybe he really did believe it. “I don’t know what I’ll do without her.”
Ben stared into Ophelia’s eyes for a moment. “We all move on and the next generation has to step up and take the lead. One day it’ll be your turn, just how it is.” He scratched the back of his head. “I’m real sorry you’re hurtin’, though. We old ones gotta make room for the new ones. It’s life’s way.”
“I suppose.” She rubbed her nose. He was so practical in some ways and so wacky in others. Probably why she was always drawn to talk to him.
“What are you doing down here on the river today? She send you for somethin’?”
Ophelia looked around at the shelves of dusty wares. Pots and ceramics, old lamps and so much more. “She insisted I take a break today. A mental health day of sorts. So, I’m shopping.”
“Sounds like her.” He laughed. “You go right ahead and look around and see if there’s anything that tickles your fancy. I’ll be right here, taking up space,” he picked up the newspaper and rattled it, “doing the crossword,” he picked up a pen and clicked it, “in ink.”
She nodded, holding back a grin. “Perfect. If I need some help, I’ll holler.” She winced. Back in the south a few days and she was deep in her accent again. If her boss heard her, she’d never hear the end of it.
“You do that. Bet you find just what you’re looking for. Betty sent you for a reason.”
“Oh, I’m not looking for anything.” She smiled.
“We’re all looking for something.” He winked. “‘Bout time you acknowledge that. Sooner the better.”
“Whatever you say,” she replied with a smile as she moved toward the aisles. She remembered Ben was a talker but never so philosophical. Must be her mood. Finalizing her grandmother’s things—both her material and financial affairs weighed heavily on her mind and there was still so much to do.
She reached up and lifted a clear purple vase from the shelf. The thin glass covered in a layer of sticky dust was probably beautiful in the sunlight when it was clean, and perfect for a handful of daisies. She considered it briefly then set it back. She never picked fresh flowers in Boston. There were none to pick. And she certainly never bought any fresh flowers there. No time.
She headed toward the back of the store, past a row of brass figurines and china teacups of every color. A rack of old picture frames crowded a bin and she flipped through them aimlessly. Her mind wasn’t really on shopping, but on the host of things she still needed to go through at her grandmother’s house. After all, everything in the house was being left to her.
She’d convinced herself to head home when a flash caught her eye from a shelf of clear glass in the very back of the store. Like a beacon amongst the dirty glassware, the object flashed again and she moved closer. She peered behind the stack of mismatched carafes and glasses at the culprit and carefully pulled it out.
What the heck?
It was an old bottle with air bubbles within the glass itself from being handmade, stoppered, and about ten inches tall with a partial label stuck to it, hand-written. She turned it in her hands. Somewhat teardrop shaped and fluted, it had a narrow neck and larger base. It was empty but covered in dust and soot. The cork in the top was tightly stuck inside and singed like it had been in a fire.
“Hmm.” How had the dirty bottle caught a reflection of light? And where did the light come from? There were no windows to let the sun into the back of the store. She examined the bottle closely.
The label was scorched, partly burned off, and she couldn’t make out any words other than “Anatoli.” A name, perhaps? Maybe it was an olive oil bottle or something that had been in a kitchen fire. There were a few words below the presumed name, but the label was so charred, she couldn’t tell in the dim light of the store. Interesting, but nothing she had a use for.
She started to put the bottle back.
As she did, a flash hit her like a slap, zapping her arm to the shoulder. She suddenly needed to have the bottle. Why, she didn’t know. But something about the bottle, something…
Need wasn’t the word. She had to have the bottle.
She hurried to the counter, never having felt so ridiculous, yet so sure of anything.
The bottle was hers. It belonged to her.
Whatever the cost, whatever the reason, she wasn’t leaving the store without it.
“Hi, Ben. I want to buy this.” She set the bottle on the large wooden counter. It teetered a second and she grabbed it and righted it before it could tip over.
Ben looked up from his crossword, pen in hand, and froze. “Are you sure, missy?” He peered up at her, his blue eyes clouding over for a brief second then clearing. “This is no ordinary bottle. I can’t sell it to just anyone. Why do you want it?”
“Oh, Ben, I have to have it. I have to.” She heard herself and couldn’t believe it. Why was she acting like a child?
“Do you know what this is?” His voice grew low and he set the pen and newspaper down.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I know what it is. It’s an old bottle. A hand-blown one from the looks of it.” She sensed her own impatience but couldn’t do anything about it. She had to own the bottle and Ben was taking too long to tell her she could have it. “It looks like it was in a fire. Maybe a kitchen fire. It looks like it might have held oil or cooking sherry.”
He shook his head. “This bottle belonged to Francois Beaumont.”
The front door opened, the bell rang, and then the door slammed. Ophelia watched, but no one came in. A chill raced over her and she turned back to Ben. “No one came in.”
“I know.”
“What the hell, Ben?”
“I can’t explain that.” His eyes widened. “The door does that sometimes. And I agree, you need the bottle. Get it out of my store.”
“Who’s Francois Beaumont?”
“Betty never told you?”
“Not that I remember.” Unease coated her throat like fuzz.
“He was the greatest warlock that ever lived in Savannah. Betty knew him. Died fifty years ago this Halloween in a blaze that wiped out his house.”
“You and your witches,” Ophelia scoffed. “What does that have to do with this bottle?”
“You’re drawn to it, aren’t you? Gotta have it. You know that bottle has been in my shop for almost fifty years and no one has ever brought it to my counter? No one!” He banged his fist on the counter and Ophelia jumped as the bottle wobbled. “A blaze was the only thing that could kill Francois. The only thing. Ask Betty. She knows and it’s high time she tells you.”
“Leave my grandmother out of this. She’s ill. She needs rest and relaxation, not fairy tales and drama.”
“It called to you, didn’t it?” Ben’s eyes almost glowed blue. “Tell me the truth, Ophelia. I have to know for sure. I know it will pick the right person.”
“It was hidden behind other glassware.” She pushed it toward him.
“It called to you.”
“Bottles don’t talk.” She crossed her arms. “It flashed.”
“I knew it! It was his. See the scorched paper? This bottle was found in the ruins of the fire.”
“So, it was in a fire. That doesn’t mean it belonged to a warlock.” She shuddered. “Can you ring it up? I need to get back to my grandmother’s.”
“Of course. Betty knew Francois, better than most. Maybe she’ll tell you what happened.”
“If I get the chance, I’ll ask her.”
“Don’t you want to know what the bottle is?”
Ben smiled a smile that was so dramatic, Ophelia almost ran. But she couldn’t leave the bottle behind.
“Okay, but please hurry.”
“Legend has it…”
She rolled her eyes, immediately feeling guilty. Ben was lonely. He couldn’t help himself.
“Legend has it,” he spoke more loudly, “that Francois captured young men’s souls and trapped them in bottles, binding them with dark magick to prolong his own life. Over a thousand broken bottles were found in the basement of his burned down mansion, many with names of men who lived in Savannah or went missing passing through. Only this one bottle was intact. I brought it here. It’s remained sealed.”
Ophelia knew her mouth was open but couldn’t close it. Everything was so bizarre, like some huge Halloween trick. “Why haven’t you opened it?”
“Only the right person can, of course. The person who can save the soul inside.” Ben turned to the antique cash register and rang up the price. “That will be one dollar.”
“One dollar? Seriously?”
“Would you like to put a value on someone’s soul?”
Chapter 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?<
br />
“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 wheeled 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?”
