by Jack Massa
The town is called Harmony Springs. My dad grew up there, in the big house on the bayou. He met Mom at the University of Florida, where he was studying for an MBA and Mom was an undergrad. After they got married, they moved into a housing development near downtown. Dad became a real estate broker, and Mom helped him in the business. She worked a lot of the time, even after I came along, which is why I spent so many days with Granma.
From early on, I knew there was trouble between Mom and Dad. Lying in bed at night, I would hear them fighting. More and more as I got older, Dad would come home smelling weird and stumbling. Mom told me he was sick, but it didn’t take me long to understand that “sick” meant drinking. He was never violent, just morbid and dull. Sometimes he would moan and burst into tears. One night he told Mom that she should just leave him and take the child, that he was cursed. I was old enough to have an idea of what that meant, and it’s always stuck with me. So, in a horrible kind of way, it made sense, the way Dad died. Late one night he drove the wrong way on the interstate and smashed his SUV into an oncoming truck.
Remembering all this is getting me depressed, but not any closer to solving my problems.
I stand up and shake it off. I put on some clothes: underwear and yoga pants, T-shirt, thick white socks. I dry my hair with the towel and then brush out the tangles. My legs are aching, and I remember I didn’t stretch out after running. Stupid. I do long, gentle stretches, breathing deeply and keeping my eyes closed. I don’t want to see any more “visitors.”
While I’m relaxing with my eyes shut, a thought occurs to me. After I finish stretching, I open the drawer in my bedside table, reach all the way to the back, and pull out my cards.
The first time I saw Tarot cards was at a party when I was fourteen. One of the girls had a deck, and she showed them to us. We sat around giggling as she told our fortunes.
I was fascinated. Every card had a picture, and every picture seemed like a window into a strange world where everything was sharp and clear in a way the real world never is. The following week I bought my own cards and started studying them. I found all kinds of information online: the history of the Tarot, different decks, multiple ways to lay out the cards and read them. And whole schools of occult philosophy, attributing meanings to the cards way beyond telling fortunes. Most of it goes deeper than I understand. For me, it’s mainly about the pictures. I can look at the cards in a spread, and it’s like they speak to me, explaining the unseen forces that surround whatever I’m reading about.
I did say I was a little weird, right? The Tarot is part of that, part of the secret Abby, the girl with too much imagination.
I mostly keep her under control. When I started seeing Dr. Mark, I gave up online gaming. I figured it was contributing to my hallucination problems. And this year I’ve been so involved with school and the track team and making some new friends around the drama club, that I’ve hardly even touched the Tarot.
But now I’m having black clouds and creepy women in pearls leaking out of my dreams, so I think maybe I’m repressing too much. I decide to give the cards another try.
I shuffle the pack and ask the unseen forces for help. Why am I having these hallucinations? What can I do about it?
I lay down a Celtic Cross spread. There are lots of wands and swords, contending forces, pain and sorrow. In the position of my hopes and fears is the Tower Struck by Lightning, utter destruction. But my eyes are drawn to the crown position—the High Priestess. I’ve read that she’s actually a goddess, seated on her throne at the place of balance between the positive and negative polarities of the Universe. I stare at her serene face and her robes. In the picture, the robes turn into a waterfall and then a blue stream that flows away. It flows down through all the other cards that have pictures of water—the Stream of Life that gives birth to everything.
In the outcome position is the Empress. She is another version of the same goddess. She’s seated on a bench in a beautiful garden, beside the same blue stream. Looking at her face reminds me of Granma.
The Empress is Granma, and the stream is Bliss Bayou.
That thought comes into my mind with a thud. And suddenly I know what I have to do.
I haven’t seen Granma since we moved nine years ago. At first we would talk on the phone every few weeks, but as I grew older we seemed to have less and less to say to each other. The past few years it’s been limited to birthday and Christmas cards. We haven’t spoken in three or four years.
But I have to go see her. The cards are definitely telling me so. And rationally, it makes sense. If the nightmares are caused by subconscious stuff from my childhood, going back to where I lived then might be the way to deal with it.
And I think I can. Those three weeks when Mom and Jim are in Europe—instead of being trapped in New York, I could fly down to Florida. I have some money in the bank from working last summer, so I could pay for the trip. Although Mom will probably pay for it, assuming I can convince her.
Assuming I can convince Granma.
I don’t know if she’ll want me barging in and disrupting her life for three weeks. I flash back to the last time I saw her, just before we moved. I stood on her porch, hugging her, crying and crying. I was seven, but I was acting like a two-year-old. And I could feel Granma sobbing too, although she tried to hide it. She had lost her only son, and now she was losing her granddaughter. Mom promised we would come back and visit often. But that never happened.
Will Granma be mad at me for not calling her more, for losing touch? Will she even want to see me? I don’t know, but I’ve got to find out.
I’m nervous and scared and excited all at the same time. I go scrambling though my desk, looking for her phone number. When I find the old address book, my hands are shaking. I pick up my phone and try to compose myself, to think of what I’ll say. But I can’t think at all. I just keep seeing the picture of the Empress, kind and reassuring.
I tap in the number and touch the call button. I hold the phone to my ear and listen to the beeps and then the ringing sounds.
No answer. After five rings, a machine kicks in, and I hear Granma’s voice. I open my mouth to leave a message, but then I freeze and hang up.
It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. I remember that Granma owns an antique shop now. She bought it a few years after we moved. She’s probably at the shop, but I don’t know the number there, or even the name.
Damn. I’ll just have to keep trying.
I call again at noon and one thirty and two thirty. Still no answer. In between I fix myself a huge breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast and jam but end up throwing most of it away, my stomach too nervous for food. I prowl around downstairs, checking the dining room in particular for any sign of Trudi and her daughters. Just in case.
When Jim and Mom come home, I retreat to my room. I boot up my tablet and get online, visiting some Tarot sites and reading the forums. Then I get on Google Earth and look at Harmony Springs. The area around the town has changed some. There are more housing developments and a new shopping plaza mixed in with the cattle ranches and patches of wetland. But the historic downtown looks exactly the same, and it’s amazing—a few blocks of old shops and commercial buildings, the streets lined with huge, twisted oak trees draped in moss. And Victorian houses with wraparound porches and pointed turrets. The street-level pictures make me all warm and nostalgic. I feel this ridiculous yearning to be there.
At a quarter after four I call Granma again, and she picks up. When she says, “Hello,” my heart jumps into my throat.
“Hello, Granma? This is Abby…your granddaughter.”
After what seems a painfully long pause: “Abby? Well, it’s been a long time.”
“I know, Granma. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Getting older, you know. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Well, I’ve been missing you, and…um…here’s the thing. School ends on June 12th, and I was wondering if
I might come visit you.”
“Oh…”
I rush ahead. “See, Mom’s going to Europe for three weeks, and, well, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I can pay for my own food and stuff.”
“Oh, it’s not that, Abby. I’m just surprised.”
“I know. I haven’t been good about keeping in touch with you, Granma. I’m sorry.” My voice sounds all wimpy and desperate. Grimace.
“Abby. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, yeah. So, what do you think?”
“I’d love to have you visit. I’d be thrilled.”
I try to keep wimpy and desperate relief out of my voice. “Thanks, Granma. That’s great.”
“But I want to be sure you know what you’re getting into. It’s pretty quiet here. The town hasn’t changed much.”
“That’s fine. Really.”
“And I don’t have internet at the house. Or cable. But they do have Wi-Fi in the library and the coffee shop downtown, and that’s only a bike ride away. You can borrow my old bike anytime you want.”
She’s still my loving Granma, explaining everything in her calm, patient way.
“It sounds wonderful. Thank you so much.”
We talk a little longer. I tell her I still need to square it with Mom. Or rather, spring it on her. Mom will certainly want to call her to make sure it’s all cool. She asks how Mom is doing, and if I’m getting along okay with the new husband, what’s-his-name. I tell her that’s all good, and that Mom and I will be talking with her soon.
After I hang up I take three long breaths, set my shoulders, and go to find Mom.
Downstairs, Jim’s flopped out in the den, watching golf on TV. Mom’s at her desk in the home office, working on her laptop. I might hesitate to interrupt her, except she’s always busy with something. Besides, the more distracted she is, the easier it might be to get this past her.
I knock on the glass-paneled door, then go in and close it behind me. She gives me her vague multitasking look.
“Sorry to bother you, Mom. Can we talk for a second?”
“Sure, hon. What’s up?”
I stand at the edge of her desk. Her eyes have roamed back to the screen. “Here’s the thing: I’ve got a new plan for what to do while you’re in Europe.”
“Not that again. It’s already been settled.”
“No, only by default, remember? Now I’ve got a better idea. I’m going to visit Granma Renshaw in Florida.”
After a second this sinks in, and Mom’s eyebrows pop up. Multitasking look switches instantly to laser-burning look. “You can’t be serious.”
“Yes, I am. I just got off the phone with her. She said she’d be thrilled to have me.”
“But Abby, you haven’t been there since you were a child. You’ve forgotten what it’s like. It’s a stuffy little town in the middle of nowhere. You’ll be bored out of your mind.”
I’m ready for that one. “No, I won’t. I can run, I can go kayaking, I can help Granma in her shop, and I’ll have the summer reading list for next year’s honors classes. Besides, it’s only three weeks.”
Mom glances unhappily at her screen. She doesn’t have time for this. But that doesn’t mean she’s ready to surrender. “What would we tell Trudi?”
“That Granma just invited me, which is the truth. Trudi won’t mind; she’ll be relieved. She was only doing it to be nice.”
Mom can’t argue with that. She considers for a second, then frowns at me. “Abby, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. I know she’s your grandmother, but it’s been so long—”
“Yes, she’s my grandmother. And I love her. And when we moved away, you said we’d go back to visit. But we never have.”
Now Mom looks hurt, and I realize I’ve punched a guilt button.
“Abby, I never meant to separate you from Kathryn. I know you love her.”
“I know, Mom. We couldn’t afford trips to Florida those first few years. But now it’s different, and I have the chance. And it means a lot to me.”
I can’t tell you how much.
Mom thinks it over. Then she gets up, and I follow her into the den. She tells Jim my plan and asks what he thinks. Jim gives me an appraising stare, but I can tell he’s thinking how this will get his sister off the hook. He shrugs. As long as my grandmother’s on board with it, he doesn’t see a problem.
I love Jim. What a great guy.
Mom suddenly hugs me very tight. “I want you to call me every week. And text me every day so I know you’re all right.”
“I will, Mom. I promise.”
I float upstairs, my stomach full of butterflies. And moths. And maybe one or two hornets. My brain is racing with all kinds of thoughts: plane reservations, what to pack, Granma, Dr. Mark, the ghostly woman in the black dress, the High Priestess in her waterfall clothes.
It’s almost five o’clock, and I’m supposed to go to the movies tonight with Franklin and a few other kids from the drama club. The idea makes me queasy—I imagine hallucinations jumping off the screen into the dark theater. This is not a good plan. I text Franklin my apologies.
I’m still queasy, and then I realize I’m ravenous. I’ve hardly eaten all day.
I go downstairs and offer to fix dinner. I find salmon in the freezer, and I bake it and fix fried rice with veggies and Chinese tea. It’s been a while since I cooked for them, and Mom and Jim both appreciate it. Jim jokes that the trip to Florida seems to agree with me.
I just smile.
After dinner, Mom calls Granma Renshaw, and we both talk to her. Mom stays on the line a long time. She’s strained at first, but they talk a lot about me, and Mom slowly relaxes. When she hangs up, she actually looks satisfied.
In the middle of the night, I gasp and sit up in bed. I’m terrified, and I don’t know why.
Then I see it: the black cloud seething with strings of gray mist. It hovers near the foot of my bed. The room is icy cold, and I smell swampy decay.
I jump up on the bed. I’ve had self-defense classes, and I take an attack pose: facing it sideways, my feet spread wide, hands raised and curled into fists. I don’t know if you can punch a hallucination, but if it comes near, I intend to find out.
It seems to read my thoughts and hesitates. Then it starts to roll in on itself and grow smaller. Just before it blinks out of sight, I hear the creepy, slithering voice:
“We will meet you at the springs.”
Instantly the room is warm and normal seeming.
“All right, then,” I answer, “you slimy creep.”
But I feel okay. Because the dark, scary energy is gone. Really gone.
For now.
I take a deep breath, drop down on my bed, and go back to sleep.
2. I’m not the only one with an apparition problem
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends!” Timothy jerks the steering wheel and the van screeches off the highway, heading for a gap in the trees that might or might not be a road.
I’m in the front seat, and the violent turn almost throws me into Timothy’s lap. When I regain my balance, I see we’ve plunged through the low-hanging fronds and are now swerving down a bumpy, unpaved road. The track is lined with ferns and towering trees draped in Spanish moss. It looks like an enchanted forest and brings up memories of the road to Granma’s house.
“I think this might finally be the place, Timothy.”
“For Abby, England, and St. George,” Timothy mutters.
Timothy, my shuttle driver, is a heavyset fortyish guy with curly black hair and a thick mustache. He’s told me all about himself in the more than two-hours since we left the Orlando airport. He grew up in Belarus, where he learned English watching the BBC on television. He studied Shakespeare at university and seems to have memorized lots of the speeches. He emigrated to the US in the 1990s, then drove a taxi in New York for ten years before concluding he
was not going to make it as an actor and that he could drive for a living just as well in Florida. He speaks with an odd blend of accents: Russian, British, and Brooklyn.
I moved to the front seat after Timothy dropped off the last of his other passengers in Lakeland. From there we drove for miles and miles on two-lane rural roads. I got more and more nervous as we neared Harmony Springs, then all gushy-excited as we drove through the historic downtown. But after we passed the cemetery and the last blocks of old wood-frame houses, things started getting weird.
The GPS kept telling Timothy to turn where there were no turns, then to make U-turns. Timothy checked the address with me and found out he had punched it in wrong: Blissful Street instead of Bliss Road. He reset the GPS, and it took us in another direction, back through town and up a county road.
But soon the directions got loopy again. I tried using the map on my phone but couldn’t get a reliable signal. (So much for my clever plan of using the phone as a hotspot at Granma’s house.) Finally Timothy switched off the GPS in disgust.
So that’s how we ended up speeding back and forth on County Road 245, turning into every gap in the trees that looked like it might be a driveway or street. Which is how we found this enchanted forest trail we’re on now, which I really hope will lead us to Granma’s.
The trail merges onto another, wider road of packed sand, and I start to lose hope again. This looks not at all familiar.
Up ahead a big house appears, steep roofs and gables looming over a line of hedges. Timothy slows down as we round the bend and stops next to the mailbox. Vans and pickup trucks are parked in the front yard. Two shirtless guys are carrying a plank from one of the trucks toward the house, and they give us a “what are you doing here?” look.
“I don’t suppose this is the place.” Timothy sighs.
But I’m staring up at the tall, broken-down house—Victorian-style, almost a mansion, with boarded-up windows and sagging roofs. Then I look to the right, where a muddy path leads down to a dock on dark, sluggish water.
I feel a tarantula crawling inside my chest. I’ve seen this place in my nightmares.
