The Trouble with Witches

by Shirley Damsgaard

  Where she belonged? Wow, could I understand that concept, and it was another link I had to the missing girl. Most of my life I’d been dealing with the same thing. If I hadn’t had Abby to guide me, to understand what it’s like to have a gift like mine, I would have been lost, too. Maybe…

  Rick sensed my hesitation and pressed his advantage. “Her parents are beyond worried. She stopped calling about a month ago and they haven’t heard from her since. Like I told you, Brandi is their only child, and they’ve tried everything to find her. The police have done all they can. I’ve tried to investigate, but I hit a wall of silence.”

  “Rick—”

  “You two are the only people I know who might be able to find Brandi,” he said, butting in. “Look, if I thought you or Abby would be in danger, I wouldn’t ask you to do this.”

  I plucked at the blanket covering me. “Rick—”

  “You do have vacation time, don’t you?” he asked, breaking in again. “And don’t worry—I’ll cover all your expenses.”

  “Yes, I’ve got vacation time, and it’s not about money. It’s—”

  “Please?”

  The please and the desperation in his voice tipped the scale. Somewhere out there a young woman was lost. A young woman everyone saw as “different.” I hadn’t been able to help Henry, but maybe this time…

  “Okay, I’ll talk to Abby,” I said with a groan.

  As I drove up the lane leading to Abby’s house, I saw the August heat shimmer in steamy waves above the gravel. It was only 9:00 A.M., and already the day promised to be a hot one. The heat wave we’d been having was affecting the vegetables Abby grew for her greenhouse. I noticed the pumpkin vines looked sad, as Abby would say. The green leaves seemed to droop toward the black soil at the base of the plant as if they were trying to suck what little moisture they could from the rich earth. If we didn’t get rain soon, Abby wouldn’t have many pumpkins to sell come Halloween. They’d all have withered on the vine.

  Abby’s farmhouse came into view when I rounded the last corner of her lane. The house stood proud, with its dark green shutters shining against the brilliant white of the clapboard siding. And even in this heat the wide wraparound porch looked cool and inviting. During my summer stays as a child and as a teenager, I’d spent a lot of evenings on that front porch, swinging slowly back and forth on the swing, and sipping iced tea with either Grandpa or Abby. My lips twisted in a wry smile—even though Grandpa wasn’t with us anymore, I still held his spirit in a special place in my heart. Abby, Grandpa, the memories this house held, they were my sanctuary. And even though I loved my parents, and they had provided me with a good life, Abby’s house was and would always be “home” to me. A safe place to go when trouble seemed to surround me. A place where I belonged.

  The girl Rick wanted us to find—Brandi. Did she ever have a refuge, somewhere to go when the problems overwhelmed her? Had she thought she’d found that special place with the group at Gunhammer Lake?

  My car rolled to a slow stop, and I got out and walked up the path to Abby’s front door. After two light raps, I swung the door open and strolled into Abby’s wide entry.

  “Knock knock. Anyone home?” I called, and sniffed the air. A delicious smell of fresh strawberries greeted me. I knew Abby must be putting up preserves. My nose guided me down the hall toward the kitchen located in the back of the house.

  I paused in the doorway, watching my grandmother. She stood at her old wood-burning stove, stirring a steaming kettle of strawberries with one hand, while in the other she held the receiver of the phone. Turning, she smiled, and her eyes, the color of moss, crinkled in the corners. With the hand holding the wooden spoon, she waved me toward the table. I sat and waited for her to finish her conversation.

  “Yes, I know. It’s going to be hot,” she said into the phone.

  Even now, after living in Iowa for over fifty years, Abby’s voice had the soft, easy tone of someone who’d been raised in the mountains of Appalachia. It was in those mountains where she’d learned the art of healing, using crystals, herbs, candles, and spells. An art taught to her by her mother, who in turn had been taught as a girl by Abby’s grandmother. An art handed down from generation to generation, mother to daughter, grandmother to granddaughter, in a line of women stretching back over one hundred years. The art of magick.

  But I had no child of my own, no daughter to train in the art. And with each passing year, the chances of ever having a child grew less and less. Unless my life changed, I would be the last of that line. The magick practiced so long by the women of my family would die with me.

  The thought saddened me.

  “Tsk tsk, such sad brown eyes for this early in the morning,” Abby said, pulling my attention to her. “Why such a long face?”

  I’d been so lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed that she had finished her conversation and now stood watching me as she dried her hands on her apron. Her hair was braided and coiled on the top of her head. And the steam from the strawberries made little tendrils of silver hair curl around her face. Sitting down at the table, she brushed them back.

  I shook my head. “Never mind, it wasn’t anything important. Hey, don’t you think it’s kind of hot to be canning?” I asked, and glanced at the row of bright red jars lined up on her counter. “Your woodstove puts out a lot of heat.”

  “Oh, nonsense.” She brushed her hand in the air. “My mother canned in weather twice as hot as this. And without the benefit of electric fans.”

  Abby had all the modern conveniences—electricity, telephone, the things we take for granted. She even had a computer tucked away in one of the upstairs bedrooms and was becoming quite a whiz on the Internet. But in her kitchen, she preferred the old ways, the ways of her mother, and her mother’s mother. Her kitchen looked like it had been transported from an old cabin in the mountains. Dried herbs hung in neat rows from the exposed beams in the ceiling, and the windowsills gleamed with rows of crystals.

  I shook my head again, knowing it would be pointless to argue with her.

  “So who were you talking to this early?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Arthur,” she replied in a shy voice.

  Oh yeah, Arthur, better known around Summerset as Stumpy, the owner of Stumpy’s Bar and Billiards. And Abby’s elderly boyfriend. I don’t know; there was just something a little disconcerting about the idea of my grandmother having a romance, so my solution was to ignore it as much as possible.

  “When he was here last night, he thought maybe he’d—”

  I held up my hand, stopping her. “That’s okay. I don’t need to know what you were talking about.” I felt a hot blush creeping up my neck.

  Abby chuckled. “Poor Ophelia. You don’t like to think about me being involved with someone, do you?”

  “No, no,” I stuttered. “It’s not that. I like Stumpy…ahh, Arthur. I really do. He was great when you were in the hospital, after Charles Thornton had conked you on the head. But I just don’t need to know…” I winced. “…the details.”

  She chuckled again. “You’re worried about too much information?”

  “Yup,” I replied, nodding vigorously.

  She reached over and patted my hand. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll say no more.”

  I blew out a sigh of relief and smiled. “Thank you!”

  “Since I had company last night…” Abby paused, noticing the look on my face, and smiled. “…I didn’t have a chance to call you and ask you how your reading went with Henry. Were you able to help him?”

  “No,” I said, my voice laced with frustration. “The missing man is dead, a suicide, but I couldn’t tell Henry where to find the body. All I saw was a pasture, with crows flying around. My last glimpse was a pile of bones, so I know they won’t find him till next spring.”

  Abby folded her hands and looked down at them for a moment. “I’m sorry. Not knowing with certainty what happened to him will be hard on the man’s family.”

  “Ye
ah, that’s what Henry said, too.” My face tightened in a frown. “Something else happened—Rick Delaney called me in the middle of the night.”

  Abby’s eyes widened in surprise. “Rick. You haven’t heard from him in some time, have you?”

  “You’re right. I haven’t. After leaving Summerset last fall, he called pretty frequently, but then the calls became farther and farther apart. It’s been, I don’t know, at least three, maybe four months, since I’ve heard from him.”

  “Why now?”

  “He wants our help. A young woman, the daughter of close friends, is missing.”

  “Is he sending you photos of her to try and trigger a vision?”

  “No. I said he wants our help. He wants us to go to Minnesota to where the young woman, Brandi, was last seen.”

  “Why?”

  “Well…” I said, and traced the pattern on Abby’s tablecloth with my finger. “It seems she got mixed up with this group supposedly conducting psychic and paranormal research. He thinks sending a couple of psychics to snoop around would be a good idea.”

  “And we’re the couple of psychics?”

  I looked at Abby and smiled. “You got it.”

  “Hmm. I’ve never allowed myself to get involved with any kind of an investigation—”

  My snort stopped her.

  “Well, I haven’t,” she said defensively. “Not until last fall when we met Rick, and then, of course, this spring with Charles Thornton. But that’s different, you were in danger, and I was trying to help.”

  She had a point. Abby had always kept the knowledge of her talent to herself. She had never done readings or given warnings of approaching disaster to anyone. And to do a spell to direct a specific outcome for someone behind their back, even if the spell was for their own good, was unthinkable. She felt very strongly that to try and influence events without a person’s consent was a serious invasion of their privacy. She would give advice, if asked, but would do so under the guise of a “hunch.” Whoever had sought her advice never knew it was based on anything other than the wisdom Abby had gained over the years. A very clever woman, my grandmother.

  “Does that mean you don’t think we should go?” I asked.

  Abby gave me a thoughtful look. “No, I didn’t say we shouldn’t go, but I’m not getting any kind of a feeling about this Brandi.”

  “Do you think that means she’s dead?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me exactly what happened. From the beginning.”

  “Okay. I was sound asleep, dreaming I was in the library. Mr. Carroll was there. A big black spider sat on his shoulder. He was yelling at me about the library’s choice of books—”

  Abby smiled. “Nothing odd about that. Mr. Carroll never likes the books you order. And you’ve been complaining for months that the library needs to be fumigated.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Did I mention he was naked?”

  “No, you left that part out,” she replied, her smile widening.

  I shuddered. “We’ll talk more about why I would dream of a naked Mr. Carroll later. Anyway, Mr. Carroll’s yelling was accompanied by a loud jangling. The phone. That’s what woke me up. It was Rick. He told me about Brandi and asked for our help. That’s it.”

  “What did he say about this Brandi?”

  I shrugged. “She’s an only child and her parents are very worried. She’s been upset ever since her grandmother died. They haven’t heard from her in a couple of months, which is unusual. Rick went up to Gunhammer Lake—that’s where this group lives—but he didn’t learn anything. He thinks we’ll have better luck.”

  “What else did he say about Brandi? There’s something about her that bothers you.”

  “Very astute.”

  “I’m psychic,” she said with a chuckle.

  “Supposedly, so am I,” I said, shaking my head. “But I’m not really picking up much on this one. All I have is a sense of unease, but I don’t know if it’s because something’s happened to the girl or because, from what Rick said, she has always been ‘different.’”

  “And you understand that?” Abby asked gently.

  “Yeah, I do. If it hadn’t been for your understanding of how I felt growing up, maybe I’d have been as lost as Brandi evidently is, or was.”

  “Well,” Abby said as she pushed away from the table and stood, “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

  I looked up at her. “And what way is that? Some remote hocus-pocus to find out what we should do?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her. “We go to Minnesota.”

  Two

  For the rest of the day I stewed about calling Rick. My unease seemed to simmer in my mind like a bubbling cauldron, and I sought things to do around my small Victorian cottage.

  Much to the resentment of Lady and Queenie, I gave them a bath and wormed them. After those tasks were finished, and under the distrustful eyes of the dog and cat, I cleaned out all my cupboards and organized my spice rack. I would’ve alphabetized the spices, but I thought that was carrying things a bit too far. Unfortunately, none of these jobs helped allay the thoughts cooking in my head.

  What if Brandi had met with foul play? If so, how far would someone go to keep her fate a secret? From past experiences, I knew the threat of discovery could drive people to do horrendous things. A chill shot up my spine. Like what Adam Hoffman had done last fall when he murdered Butch Fisher and left his body in the woods, on the bank of the stream. Left there for the wildlife to dispose of. And by the time some poor un-suspecting soul—in this case, me—had literally stumbled onto the body, the scene wasn’t a pretty one. Did I want to risk exposing not only myself, but this time Abby, to something like that again?

  Maybe Brandi had just taken off with some trucker and was too busy having fun to call home? If that were the case, our assistance wasn’t needed. Eventually she’d turn up.

  Thinking of Brandi, on the road, in a semi, didn’t help my uneasiness. The thought cranked the feeling up another notch.

  Oh, just call Rick and go to Minnesota. Quit dithering about it! said a voice in my head. But still I hesitated.

  Pouring a glass of iced tea, I wandered out to the patio with Lady and Queenie at my heels. By now they’d both forgiven me for the worming and the baths. Pulling out a lawn chair, I propped my feet up and watched the stars flicker on, one by one.

  Since last fall, after the incident with Adam Hoffman, I’d finally accepted my heritage, my gift, and had worked with Abby on learning the art of magick. And I was getting better. I still didn’t have scrying down, where I’d stare into a flame and try and pick up an image, but I was getting pretty good at using my great-grandmother’s runes. Abby had given them to me last fall, and by now I was able to think outside of the box, as Abby had advised me to do. The funny markings on the runes made sense to me now, and my accuracy was increasing.

  Hmm, the runes. Abby didn’t think remote hocus-pocus would help, but she hadn’t said anything about not trying a rune reading. Shoving myself to my feet, I went back into the house to prepare.

  After a purifying bath in sea salt, I dressed in a loose-fitting robe and went to the den located in the rear of my house, overlooking the trees that ring my backyard. It was my space, the space I’d created for magick.

  I was still damp from my bath while I moved around the room lighting candles. A lot of questions tumbled through my mind, so I lit only the candles that would increase the energy I needed to seek my answers. When I finished, seven candles of black to bind me to the earth, and seven candles of indigo to increase my psychic awareness, lit the room with soft yellow light. My shadow danced across the bookcases as I walked to my desk.

  Nestled there on the shiny surface was my collection of crystals. Amber for creativity, green fluorite for balance, rose quartz for love and harmony, emerald for healing; they glowed with the colors of the rainbow. I passed my hand over the shimmering crystals several times, and each time felt their combined
energy vibrate around them. Finally, I selected the ones that would help me the most. I picked up a piece of hematite for grounding and an amethyst to increase my psychic energy and placed them in the pocket of my robe.

  Walking to the center of the room, I set one silver candle in the middle of the polished wood floor. The energy of the silver candle would assist me in interpreting whatever I saw.

  Starting at the north, I walked slowly clockwise while pouring a thin line of salt on the floor, creating a wide circle made of salt around the candle. The circle would protect me against any nasty energy lurking about, seeking a place to call home. But before I could start, I needed a few more things—a notepad and pen to record my impressions, a square of linen, and of course the runes.

  When I picked up the worn leather bag that held them from the top of the desk, I felt the stones quiver inside the old sack. Almost as if they were excited to be of use again. Stepping carefully over the circle of salt, I sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the candle and lit it.

  Next I spread out the linen square. Laying the notebook and pen to the side and the runes on my lap, I took the hematite and amethyst out of my pocket. Holding the hematite in my right hand and the amethyst in my left, I concentrated on clearing my mind. And while I did, I tried to pull energy from the earth, up through my body. When I felt at peace and connected with the earth’s energy, I framed my question.

  “What will we find in Minnesota?”

  After laying the amethyst and hematite in front of the candle, I reached into the bag and let the stones slip through my fingers until one felt just “right.” After placing the stone in front of me on the linen, I repeated the process two more times.

  The runes seemed to glow with a light of their own as they lay there on the linen square. A nice straight line of three; the Norns, the Three Sisters. Urdhr—the past, Verdhandi—the present, and Skuld—the future.