by Jack Massa
Granma is busy with a customer, so I look around. The small space is packed with china, picture frames, glassware and silverware, crystal, even some antique clothes. Not much furniture— just a few small tables and stools, nothing Granma couldn’t move herself. Some of it smells a little musty, but there’s not a speck of dust. I think how much work it must be for Granma to keep it all tidy.
I’m spacing out, staring into a case of old costume jewelry, when Granma’s voice startles me. “So, what do you think of the place?”
“Oh…pretty sweet. I can’t believe you manage all this by yourself.”
“Well, it keeps me busy.” I can feel she’s very proud of it. “How was your visit with Molly?”
I try to keep the stress out of my voice. “Fine…She’s an interesting girl.”
Granma smiles. “She comes on a little strong sometimes, but I like her.”
I want to ask what she knows about Annie Renshaw. But then I think how hard it hit me to hear the story from Molly. Any talk of a Renshaw curse is bound to be painful for Granma too, so I leave it alone.
I spend the afternoon learning about the shop. In between customers, Granma shows me the stock and how to use the cash register and credit card device. The side walls have big openings that lead to other shops, and Granma takes me to meet her neighbors.
On one side is Palmer’s Books, a space much bigger than Granma’s, and crammed with all kinds of books—floor to ceiling, in narrow aisles. The owner, Kevin Palmer, is a Black man around Granma’s age. He’s a retired anthropology professor from the University of Florida, and he asks me about my honors reading list. On the other side is the Harmony Gallery, which sells original arts and crafts—pottery, jewelry, paintings, and stained glass. It’s run by a fortyish woman named Jenny Nesheim. She looks Swedish or Norwegian, with short blond hair and very pale skin. She likes to knit, and in the air conditioning she wears a handmade shawl.
Processing all this new information keeps my mind off my anxieties. By the time we’ve closed the shop and are driving home in Granma’s old Honda Odyssey, I’m wondering why the talk with Molly freaked me out so much.
Seriously, the fact that some people a hundred years ago might have been into the occult and that one of them might have come to a bad end has nothing to do me. As for the skunk ape and the devil, they were probably just intruders—vagrants, as Granma said, or somebody dressing up as a hoax.
All this paranormal talk is making my imagination run wild.
That’s what the rational part of me says. That’s what Dr. Mark would tell me.
And yet, as we near Granma’s house and I glimpse the dull water through the trees, fear gnaws at the pit of my stomach.
I haven’t run in over two days. No question my body and brain are missing the calming influence. It’s about six, and the weather is cooling off. Since it’s June, there will still be at least a couple more hours of daylight. So when we pull up into the front yard, I tell Granma not to wait dinner for me, that I’m going for a run. She says okay, but warns me to keep to the roads and not venture into the underbrush.
I change into workout clothes and put on one of the three pairs of running shoes I brought on the trip. Outside, I stretch and take in deep breaths to center myself. I start up Bliss Road in the direction away from town. The hard-packed sand has ruts and potholes, so I have to watch my step. Just as well—concentrating on that keeps my mind off other things.
The road loops around the top end of the bayou and then down toward the houses on the other side. This is the way Timothy drove me yesterday. I come to the fork and run all the way out to the county road. After I double back, I figure I’ve run about two miles. So I continue down Bliss Road toward the house where Timothy stopped, the house I recognized from the nightmares.
The thought of seeing it again scares me, but also makes me determined. I’m feeling like Abby the athlete, strong and tough, and my rational mind tells me to confront the place. The fear rises as I get closer, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
I stop in front of the house and look it over. No workmen are around, and the place is deserted. No sounds but a faint hissing of insects.
The fear is growing.
Face it, Abby. Face it down.
I jog toward the water, where the path twists down the slope, turns onto a little boardwalk, then reaches the old dock. That is where I dreamed of drowning. I wonder if it’s where Annie drowned. Somehow, I’m certain it is.
Face it and make it go away.
I walk down the path, setting one foot in front of the other. On my right, something slithers away through the weeds. I sidestep a puddle and keep going.
I place one foot on the boards, then the other.
The world explodes around me, freezing cold and wet.
I’ve fallen into the water.
It’s not possible. I was like thirty feet from the dock.
I’m struggling, thrashing my arms. I know how to swim, but it doesn’t matter. Something is dragging me down. I open my mouth to scream, and the water rushes in, down my throat, into my lungs. In terrible pain I look up. The gray light is far overhead, and I’m sinking…
Then I’m coughing and retching, agony in my chest. I’m on my hands and knees on the rough boards.
A hallucination—but so real.
I straighten my back, clutching my chest with both hands. I can hardly believe my skin and clothes are dry. I raise my head. And then I see him.
He stands on the boardwalk, black and dripping wet, framed against the water in the dim light. When I saw him before, he was just a floating cloud. Now he has the form of an ape or slouching man—long arms, bulky shoulders, oval head, no eyes or mouth, no face at all, just a flat, inky blackness. Like some hideous cartoon, a slimy living shadow.
As he reaches for me, I hear his slithery voice. “Little Renshaw, I can save you.”
I twist around, jump up, and run.
My legs feel heavy, the muscles almost paralyzed. After a few steps I slip and fall face down into the puddle. Gasping, I swallow a mouthful of filthy water. I lift my head, coughing.
Anger rushes in, wiping out some of the fear. I will not drown in a mud puddle!
I get back on my feet and splash through the water.
I’ve almost reached the road when the earth disappears under me, and I plunge back into the bayou. This time I know it’s an illusion. But that doesn’t stop my thrashing and sinking, or the suffocating pain in my lungs.
When I come back to myself, I’m bent over, coughing.
And he’s there again, standing right in front of me, reaching with long, wet fingers. “You cannot escape this. Not unless you come to me.”
I scream and roll away from him.
I stagger to my feet and run.
By the time I get back to Granma’s house, it’s night. An owl is hooting somewhere in the woods.
I drowned twice more along the way. In one of the falls I bruised my knee, and I’m limping. My mouth is swollen from landing on a root, and I’ve spit out some blood.
I struggle up the porch steps and find the front door locked. I don’t want Granma to see me like this, all scared and beaten up. I hope I can make it to my room without being seen, so I limp around to the back door.
But Granma’s sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea. “There you are. I was—” She jumps up. “Abby! What happened to you?”
I raise my hands to keep her away. “I’m all right. I had a fall.”
“You weren’t attacked?”
“No! No, I’m all right.”
She grabs hold of my arms. “Child, you’re not all right. Let me see!”
Panicking, I look into her eyes. And then I lose it. I slump against her, and all my fear bursts out in a loud, wailing cry.
“Abby!”
For just a moment I feel her shoulder against my cheek. Then the floor opens, and I fall into the black water…
When I come back to reality, we’re both on the kitchen floor. Granma is holding me, rocking me like a baby.
“It’s all right. It’s all right.” But she looks terrified.
“Oh, Granma. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to dump this on you.”
“Abby, please tell me. What is the matter?”
Over her shoulder I see the slimy shadow guy slouching in the doorway. “I’m losing my mind.”
“What do you mean? Do you want me to call your mother?”
“No! Please. Please don’t call her!”
“All right. All right. But you need to calm down. You’re not taking drugs, are you?”
“No. I used to be on anxiety meds, but…it’s not that.”
“Then what?”
Panting, sobbing, I try to explain. The nightmares, the real reason I came here…and what happened tonight.
“I had hallucinations before. When I was twelve. They put me on meds. But this is the worst it’s ever been. I keep drowning over and over. I’m so afraid.”
“Abby, this is serious. I think I should take you to the hospital.”
“No! Please, Granma. I’ve always been able to get hold of myself before. Please give me more time.” I’m afraid that if I’m checked into a psychiatric hospital now, I’ll never come out.
“All right,” Granma says. “No one will hurt you. I promise.”
She helps me into the living room, and I sit down on the couch. She brings a wet cloth to wash off some of the mud, and ice for my knee and swollen face. When I’ve calmed down a little, she asks me to describe the hallucinations. I tell her about the goblins and creatures I used to see and the creepy black cloud in my bedroom in New Jersey. I’ve started to tell her how tonight he’s manifested as a shadow man, when the room disappears and I drown again.
When it ends, I’m shaking uncontrollably. “Oh, Granma. I just want to die! I’m cursed. Just like my dad.”
She grips me hard by the arms. “Don’t say that, Abby! Don’t ever say that!”
I break down sobbing, and she hugs me and strokes my head. When I’ve settled down some, she asks me about the nightmares—to keep me talking, to keep me here.
I tell her everything I can remember: being chased through the woods, the blond woman in black, the girls in white dresses, the circle of people in hooded robes. As Granma listens, her expression changes, like it’s all starting to make some sense.
“And the figure that looks like a shadow. Is he in the nightmares too?”
He’s followed us into the living room, and I look over at him standing in the corner. “I don’t think so. Not that I remember.”
“Do you mean he’s here now? You see him now?”
I nod.
Granma clutches my hand. She stares at the corner, like she’s trying to see him too. “Tell me exactly what you see.”
I describe the bulky, glistening shape, the long arms, the empty blackness where there should be a face. “He’s like the figure the Parkers described, but without the devil horns. Maybe he’s the skunk ape too.”
Granma’s eyes are wide. “Abby, if this keeps up, I’ll have to take you to the hospital. There may be no other choice. But there is one thing I can try—if you’ll trust me.”
“Anything, Granma. I trust you.”
“Then wait right here. And don’t be afraid.”
She crosses the room to the hallway, and I hear her climb the stairs. I sit with my knees tucked, hugging myself, not looking at Shadow Man.
In a little while, Granma comes down. She’s wearing a robe of blue velvet with brocaded silver birds, and a silver chain for a belt. She’s carrying a knife.
“Is the spirit still here?” she asks.
I break out of my shock enough to answer. “Yes.”
“Show me exactly where.”
I point to the spot. He seems to be watching Granma now, tense like a cat.
Granma comes over and stands between me and Shadow Man. She points the knife at the ceiling. She takes a deep breath and holds it for a second, and then a tone comes from deep in her chest: “Ooooohhhhhhhhh.”
I’m stunned and frightened, but I also sense protection rising around us.
Granma repeats the tone twice more. Then she extends the knife in front of her and slowly walks around the couch. Staring at the knife, I see faint blue light coming from the tip. She draws a circle with this light, with her and me inside the circle and Shadow Man outside it.
Then she steps over in front of Shadow Man and points the knife directly at him. She traces a five-pointed star in the air, and when she speaks, her voice is deep and strong.
“I am an initiate of the Circle of Harmony. I have tasted the waters of the Five Springs. In the name of the founders of our order, in the name of the spirit Lebab, in the name of the Great Goddess Who Shapes All Things, I banish you from my presence and from this place and time. Go now, and leave us in peace!”
With these last words, she thrusts the knife and the shadow flickers out—like the dark in a room when a light is switched on.
“Is he gone, Abby?”
Bewildered and amazed, I can only nod.
Granma sinks into a chair, exhausted.
When I’m finally able to speak, I say, “Granma, what just happened? What did you do?”
“Abby, that was magic.”
5. Magic is not what you think
“I haven’t tried anything like that in a long, long time,” Granma says. “I’d forgotten how much energy it takes.”
I just stare at her, speechless.
“I know, Abby. You must be wondering about all this.” She gestures at her robe, the knife still in her hand. “Maybe now you think I’m the one who’s crazy. But the important thing is, it seems to have worked. At least for the moment.”
“I saw blue light coming out of your knife.”
“You saw that? That’s remarkable. I visualized the light when I drew the circle. But the fact you could actually see it—well, not many people are that gifted. Is the light still there?”
“Yes, but dimmer. It seems to be fading.” I’m straining to fit all this into my head. “So, does this mean it’s all real? My hallucinations are real?”
“I don’t know.” Granma sighs. “I’m not an expert…There’s someone I can call. She might be able to help us.” She pushes herself out of the chair.
“Where are you going?”
“Just to the other room, sweetie. Don’t worry. You can come with me if you want.”
I follow her, feeling like a weepy three-year-old who’s gotten hurt and needs to cling to her mother. We go into the little sunroom, which Granma has furnished as a study. She searches through an old phone book and picks up her landline phone.
“Who are you calling, Granma?” I ask as she presses the buttons.
“An old friend. She’s going to be surprised to hear from me.”
After a moment she speaks into the phone. “Hello, Violet? This is Kat Renshaw…Yes, I know it’s been a while. I hope it’s not too late to call you?… Fine. Listen, Vi, I need your help—badly. A spiritual matter… Yeah, that’s right. It’s my granddaughter, Abigail. She’s having visions, horrible, uncontrollable. I think, well, she may be under psychic attack…I don’t know ‘by what.’ She assumed they were hallucinations. She’s had them a long time, but tonight it got really scary. She said it was the worst ever. When I couldn’t calm her down, I tried a banishing, and that seems to have driven it away…Yes…I’m not sure. I don’t know what to do next. That’s why I’m calling you…Yes, we can come right over. Thank you, Vi. I really appreciate this.”
Granma sets down the phone. “We’re going to go see Violet, honey. I think she can help us.”
“All right.” I remember that I’m sweaty and filthy. “Can I take a shower first?”
Granma laughs and glances at her sleeves. “Of course. I’ll need to change out of this too.”
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We’re driving down Bliss Road in the direction of town. The car windows are open, and the night air is damp and cool. I hear an owl again, hooting over a chorus of frogs.
I glance at myself in the visor mirror—red eyes over dark circles, and the right side of my mouth has a beautiful bruise. I look like some poor, abused waif.
But at least my emotions have quieted—enough that I’m able to think. And ask questions. I look over at Granma. “Tell me about Violet.”
“Well, she’s an old friend. When I first met your grandfather, he and I studied with her.”
“Studied?”
“Yes, magic. You see, Abby, magic is not what you think. It’s not like what you see in the movies. It’s a discipline for…growing yourself mentally and spiritually. Although some of it does involve working with forces outside yourself, and it can give you power over those forces. But the main point is to give you self-knowledge and self-control. People have been practicing that kind of magic since the early days of Harmony Springs. And Violet probably knows more about it than anyone.”
I’m quiet for a while, taking this in. We’ve turned onto the paved road, and up ahead I see a few lights through the trees, the first houses on the outskirts of town.
“So you told her that my hallucinations were visions. And that you thought I was under psychic attack.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure about that… I suppose there are two ways to look at what happened tonight. One, some spirit or force was attacking you, and the banishing ritual drove it away. Or two, it was a hallucination, all in your head, but the fact that I did something that seemed reassuring and powerful was enough to bring you out of that psychological state. One thing I learned from studying magic is that there is always more than one way to explain things.”
We drive through a neighborhood of old houses built in what they call cracker style—wood-frame cabins with porches on big, wooded lots. Grandma pulls into one of these and parks in the driveway. In front of us is a Toyota RAV, and I notice a Palmer’s Books sign painted on the door.
