by Lia Davis
“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.”
Chapter 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 involved?
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. Gramm
a’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.
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.
Chapter 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.
She sneezed. The dust flying loose in the attic was getting to her. She shoved the book into place. No sign of a leak in the roof anywhere. The place was as tight as could be and more than a bit creepy. No time to dilly-dally and snoop around. She needed to check the last eave section and get the heck out. She dusted her hands off and turned toward the last unexplored section. The attic was so full of stuff, it was a good thing it wasn’t damaged.
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.
