by E. M. Moore
At Abigail’s, Drake saw an advertisement for the Psychic Fair in the Adams Gazette and pointed it out. “You want to know what your dad would have done? This is it,” he said, tapping the paper on a black and white crystal ball that took up half the page.
So here we were, making our way there. Drake stopped just on the edge of the park, eyes shining as his stare wandered over the different booths. Finally, he grabbed me by the wrist and tugged me toward a table with a sign that read “Palm Readings $5 by Jennie”.
Drake and I sat in front of a rather normal looking girl who was barely older than me. She was probably Drake’s age and appeared to be sane, like someone you might come across in a grocery store, green polo shirt and jeans with shoulder-length blonde hair. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Jennie.”
I smiled back and went to say hi, but Drake launched right in. “Sarah needs her palm read.”
My mouth dropped. I assumed he would be the one getting the reading. Besides, I didn’t know how I felt about all this see-into-your-future stuff. “Really?”
“Well, yeah,” he answered.
Psychic Jennie held her hand out, waiting for mine. I hesitated, peeked down at the fingers clutching my thighs and shrugged. What could this girl tell me that I didn’t already know?
Finally, palm up, I placed my right hand in Jennie’s. I flinched at her icy skin.
She winced. “Sorry. For some reason, my hands are always freezing.” Jennie picked my hand up and bent over it. “Any particular question you have?" she asked, still staring at my palm, moving it up and down and side-to-side to get a better view.
“Well, I…um…”
When I didn’t say anything, the palm reader looked up, a small smile on her face. “You’re not into this are you?”
“No. Not really,” I admitted.
Jennie tilted my palm and pointed at a creased line. “I can tell. It’s all right here.”
She tapped one of the long lines spanning the width of my palm. I bent over, studying the line. I didn’t know how anyone could read anything from a wrinkle in the skin.
A short chuckle caught my attention. When I looked up at Jennie, she burst out laughing.
My face grew hot. This was such a stupid idea.
Jennie glanced at Drake and then back at me. Finally composed, she dropped my hand. “Listen, I know it’s hard to believe in things you don’t understand, but sometime, you just might need something to believe in. When the time comes, you should believe in it.”
I stared at her, blinking.
“Nice,” Drake said as he pulled out a five-dollar bill from his wallet. “You got a spooky one.”
Jennie took the money and motioned for Drake and I to switch places. “I’ll do you both for five, okay?”
I broke into a huge smile and nodded. He laughed as grabbed his hand and handed it to Jennie across the table. If I got a crazy psychic reading, would he too.
Jennie did the same to him, twisting and turning his palm, trying to find the lines she needed. “Do you have a specific question?”
“Hmmm. Let me think.” He drummed his fingers against his chin with his free hand. “What does my love life look like?”
Jennie smirked, eyes peeking to me. She brought his hand closer to her face, staring at it awhile before her eyes fluttered closed. Her chest rose and fell with an enormous breath. She repeated that a few times before I nudged Drake’s leg and choked back a giggle. He shifted his gaze to me with an ‘Is this girl crazy?’ face.
Jennie’s eyes popped open. We both snapped back to attention, like we were scared of getting caught slipping notes back and forth in health class. “Your lines are much like hers.” She motioned with his palm toward me. “The heart line is deep and crisp and starts below your index finger, meaning you’ll be content. See the way it curves upwards?” Jennie asked, tracing her finger along Drake’s line. “That means you’re a romantic. The intersecting lines here, which look like an asterisk? Palm readers call that a star. A star along the heart line means you’ll have a happy marriage. You also have another fainter line here. It kind of mirrors your true heart line, runs parallel with it. That means your loved one will always protect you.”
“Thank you,” Drake said, his voice freakishly even and lacking any of the earlier humor. When he looked over at me, his eyes were glassy pools.
When we stood together, the spell broke immediately. He winked at me, his usual good-natured fun taking over. “Whew. I’m glad she didn’t bring up my other girlfriends."
I nudged him with my shoulder. “Do you mean Marlene?”
His mouth snapped shut. “That’s just not funny.”
“I thought it was.”
He squeezed my fingers and led me through the crowd. “So, you liked it?”
I shrugged. Yes and no. I thought it was interesting but I didn’t think I’d put any real stock into any of it. “For entertainment purposes only."
“Good. I was worried you’d think it was stupid.”
“I do kinda. I’m glad you didn’t take me to anyone like that.” I pointed out a psychic who looked exactly like a gypsy. The woman’s onyx-black poodle hair and flashy cloth headband attracted a lot of attention with the Crazies. At least twenty people stood in line.
“There’s Rose,” Drake observed, arcing his chin to a spot behind the popular psychic. She leaned over the woman and whispered in her ear.
“Huh. What do you think she’s saying to her?”
“She’s probably telling her to get a move on.” Drake called out and waved, “Hi, Rose.”
Rose’s eyes lit when she saw him and waved back.
Still conscious of the semi-fight we had earlier, I only smiled in return.
“What’s wrong?” Drake asked.
I sighed, unsure of how much to tell him. “We got in a little bit of a fight earlier. I guess.”
Drake laughed. “A fight? About what?”
“She found me in the library and told me I couldn’t go in there.”
His face was open, caring, with soft lines highlighting his features. But his chin was rigid, firmly set. “Well, it is her house.”
“I get that,” I said. “It’s just that I found a journal in the library that looks just like my dad’s. I tried to ask her about it but she shooed me out and told me there wasn’t anything of my dad’s in there."
“Sarah,” Drake sighed my name like I was being stupid. “I know why she wants you to stay out of there.” He reached up and moved my hair off my shoulders, even played with one of the curls. “A lot of the old books are kept in her library. She has old journals and things from the first settlers. You probably freaked her out when you went in there and it shocked her. Did you give her a chance to explain? She’s not used to living with someone, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Drake’s attention flicked toward Rose and his voice faded to a whisper. “My dad even told me once that she has a lot of books about Wicca in there.”
My mouth dropped and my hand reflexively tightened around his. “Wicca? Like the witch religion? Is she, you know, a witch?”
His eyes flashed. “No. She was doing research to tie the old journals from the first settlers into modern and ancient practices. She wanted to find out if some of the villagers back in the day were actually witches. That’s probably where the rumors got started."
Rumors? Maybe that’s what Marlene was about to say at the diner… “Did she find anything? Any proof, I mean."
Drake’s eyes shifted and he stared off at nothing. “I don’t know. My parents died before I could ask about it again. I haven't actually thought about that since the accident.”
I put my arms around him before I even realized I moved. It was reflexive, like catching a falling baby or breathing in the perfumed smell of flowers.
He smiled down at me, eyes creasing at the corners. There was a different hesitation to him. Not like he was uncomfortable, but like he thought any sudden movement might scare me away.
His lips parted. They looked smooth, like unworn silk. “Sooo…,” he said, obviously trying to change the subject.
A light touch trailed down my spine. My heart thumped in response. I wanted to kiss him in the worst way. To feel the soft touch of him on my lips, his muscled body embracing mine.
He cleared his throat. “Do you want to do anything else? Psychic readings, crystal balls, tea leaves, anything?”
I shook my head and stepped away. When Drake was around, I had to constantly remind myself that this wasn’t a vacation and he wasn’t going to be some sort of summer fling. “I don’t know.” I hesitated. “The rest of these people seem kinda out there.”
Drake’s eyes scanned the crowd and I followed his gaze, looking for a normal psychic. Realizing that was in and of itself ironic, I gave up.
Instead, I stood watching townies wait in long lines and shell out five dollars here and ten dollars there to learn things they already should know about themselves. Both the men and the women observed their psychics with bated breath as they performed their little rituals and made lavish predictions.
I even saw a man leave one psychic just to wait in line for another, clutching a picture between his fingers. I stepped away from Drake’s grasp and watched as the man stared down at the photo. My heart hurt for him. Was it his wife? His kid? Mom or dad?
Dad.
What was I doing hanging out with a cute guy when I needed to be learning about my dad? I wanted to do things my dad would’ve done, and I doubt he would’ve enjoyed the touch of Drake’s hands on his back.
What was wrong with me?
Drake turned. “Hey. Do you mind if I go and say hi to Pete over there? I haven’t talked to him in a while.”
I followed his gaze. Pete was a guy about Drake’s age with dark brown hair. He stood at a booth motioning for him to come over, drinking from a water bottle and flirting with a young psychic.
“‘Course not.”
Drake smiled and squeezed my fingers before jogging over. I heard him call “Hey” to his friend before I turned and walked amongst the Crazies all by myself.
I surveyed the crowd. People hadn’t dressed up like they had yesterday. Adams almost seemed normal. Well, as normal as could be for a psychic fair.
A cold hand gripped my wrist. I jumped and whirled, expecting Drake. Instead, I stared into Jennie’s face, dark and intense.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
The veins in Jennie’s forehead bulged as she tried to drag me behind a booth. “You’ve got to come with me.”
I tugged back, wrist burning where she was twisting my skin. “What is your problem? You need to let me go.”
“And you need to listen to me.”
I leered at the palm reader’s hold in disbelief and stopped trying to dislodge my wrist from her grasp. “Then you need to talk faster.”
I didn’t really have any other option. Jennie was a freak, yes. Weak? No.
“You’re in danger. I didn’t want to say anything in front of your boyfriend, but he…he’s no good,” she blurted, her whispered voice rising.
My first thought was to yell, He’s not my boyfriend. God. Instead, I rolled my eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw it. He’s filled with anger…and evil...”
I laughed. Maybe not the best thing to do when a weirdo had a death grip on you, but I couldn’t contain it. “Do you even know him?”
“No.”
“Well, if that’s all you’ve got to go on, I’m glad I don't believe in all this voodoo stuff.”
Her gaze hardened. “I know what I saw.”
“Sure,” I said.
Jennie’s grasp loosened so I tugged my hand free.
“He’ll hurt you.”
I gave one last glance at the palm reader, remembering how just a short time ago I thought she was normal and turned to walk away.
A soft voice chimed from behind. “You’ll end up like your dad.”
I stopped and slowly turned. She must have heard Drake and I talking. Were we even talking about him? How did she know my dad was dead?
“I didn’t give you the full reading before because you didn’t want to listen. But I know things. Your dad died here, right?"
Her haunted eyes sent pings of dread through me. “Y-yes. He had a heart attack.”
Jennie laughed. “He didn’t have a heart attack. He was killed.”
The earth rolled underneath me, shaking everything solid and concrete and turning it to tatters. “What?”
Jennie’s eyes darted around the park, voice coming out in a hoarse whisper, “You’ll see, Sarah. You’ll see.”
Someone called out, “Hey…Sarah…”
I peeked back and spotted Drake walking toward us. My body relaxed.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
I turned back toward Jennie. She’d left. Gone. “Yeah,” I huffed. “Tell me. Are you the only sane one in this town?”
“Okay, spill. I saw you two talking. It didn’t look cheery.”
He stood next to me and looked around, eyes scanning the crowd, as if he were my own personal secret service. “What did she want? More money for the reading?”
“No. She was giving me one I didn’t ask for.”
CHAPTER SIX
Isabella
1639
Threads of fog weaved their way in and out of the dense trees. The cold, brittle branches snapped as Isabella walked through the forest. The rays of the moon barely reached the earthen floor, the high canopy of trees forbidding the light.
She shivered, but still she marched on. Her feet stepping one after another, searching for what her mind knew not of. She drew her nightshirt closer to her, swathing herself in its warmth.
From deep within the shadows, a light grew, reaching out to Isabella, beckoning her. Her pace quickened, body racking with cold tremors. Light meant heat and heat she needed.
A singsong voice floated along the fog to her, enveloping her in its melody. She was not alone. Another traveler sought out the heat in this damp night. She trudged on, not moving the chaos of branches that scratched her face, wanting nothing more than to search out the light.
The forest broke into a clearing. A small fire sent shadows jumping into the thicket of trees, reaching farther out into the dark. Breathless and shaking, Isabella stepped into the light. The heat of the flames warmed her in an instant.
A woman stood across the clearing, her back to Isabella and the fire. Her hands stretched high above her head as she sang a beautiful melody.
Isabella stepped forward, needing to thank the woman for the use of the fire.
The woman’s head cocked to the side, a small smile played against cracked lips. “I see you,” the woman said.
Isabella stumbled backward as the woman turned, the blaze flickering on her face.
Mrs. Shipton.
Isabella awoke with a jolt. She sat straight up in bed, her chest heaving fast and her aching, tightly stretched muscles begged for release. Her blonde hair so damp it clung to her neck and face. Her gaze darted around the cold, black room. Searching. Fog clouded her vision, disturbing her, but she finally locked on her target. The desk.
It glowed crimson in the early morning light that reflected off the window.
The door to her bedroom burst open. Her mother stood in the entryway, gasping for air, her hair wild and eyes wide like before.
Isabella clenched her bed sheets, tangling them in her fists and bringing them tight around her neck. It was time.
Tears streamed down her face. She knew she needed to be silent, yet they kept coming as sobs broke her chest.
“Dear Isabella, are you well?”
“They have come.”
“Who has come? I heard your screams.”
“They have come to take me.”
Mrs. Lynne flew to the bedside and gathered Isabella in a hug. “Oh no, Child. I came because you were screaming. Are you well?”
Isabella lifted her hea
d to the desk. It did not glow. Mrs. Shipton was not before her. Her cries quieted. "I must have had a nightmare,” she breathed.
“The screams were terrible. I thought you were inflicted.” Her mother hugged her tighter to her, sinking that word through her skin and into her insides so fast that Isabella wanted to choke on it.
Inflicted. On Sundays, the fearful word was hammered into her by the Reverend Samuel Ludington at the meetinghouse. It meant horrible, tortured, unfathomable things.
“But of course you are having nightmares,” her mother continued. “We are living in the devil’s hell. One cannot tell whether we are awake or if sleep has taken us.”
Her mother looked deep into her eyes. “Of what were you dreaming?”
Isabella tried to smile. She did not know what she saw or the reality of it. One cannot tell whether we are awake of if sleep has taken us. But she knew of infliction and of the images that conjured. “I do not remember, but I assure you I am well."
Mrs. Lynne’s eyes grew lighter and she sighed, smoothing Isabella’s hair from her face. “Oh, my dear, you scratched yourself."
Isabella’s heart thundered inside. She barely felt anything as her mother took the blanket from the bed and wiped at her face. Smears of red came away on the fabric. Again, Isabella was in her nightmare, running through thickets of trees, running through needle-like branches.
“Dream sweet dreams,” Mrs. Lynne chastised. Then her mother was gone with the wooden door shut behind her.
Isabella lay back down in bed. Her eyes wide open, whipping back and forth about the room again. Too scared to shut them. Too scared to be thought of as inflicted. Too scared to see again what she already saw. Mrs. Shipton in the woods outside her house.
There is a clearing to the north, for surely Isabella had passed it many times. Though never before had she seen Mrs. Shipton with eyes that glowed like fire.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sarah
Blaming parents for things was easy. Blaming parents for everything was easy, actually.
