The Conjuring Glass

by Brian Knight

  It was well aged, if not neglected, its dull white paint peeling in a few places. Shuttered windows were open on the ground floor, their curtains fluttering in the evening breeze. A light shone from one of the second‐floor rooms, and Penny saw the silhouette of a woman through the drawn curtains. Then the shape moved away, and for a moment Penny felt very alone.

  Penny shifted her view upward and regarded the dark attic window. It really did look like an eye, she thought, dark and watchful. It felt as if someone was watching her from that high window. Watching and waiting.

  Penny shivered, but the sudden chill came from a gust of cool wind blowing over the hill, not fright. A year ago, that watchful attic window and the unknown darkness behind it would have frightened her a bit, but not now. She had changed a lot in the last four months, she realized. There was no fear, but her curiosity came back strong. She wanted to look down on the world from that high, dark place.

  It crossed her mind that this curiosity was a bit morbid, but Penny decided she didn’t care. She was allowed to have a few morbid thoughts.

  Adjusting her view to the front door, Penny started down the walkway, toward a porch that spanned the entire width of the house, and two tall hedges that framed the steps. A porch swing swayed silently in the breeze, and wind chimes hung by the front door tinkled a discordant melody. The steps creaked beneath her as she climbed them.

  Then she stood, bag in hand, facing a closed door that was far scarier than any dark attic could ever be. She felt more alone than ever, standing at the dividing line between her old life, and a new, unimaginable one.

  The tears she’d fought hard against all day finally came.

  Footsteps sounded from the other side of the door, and before Penny could lift a hand to wipe away her tears, it opened.

  For a long moment they only stood and faced each other—Penny outside with the troubled ghost of her old life lingering at her heels—and the woman, her mom’s childhood friend, staring down in such stunned amazement that Penny was afraid she’d simply tell her to go away and slam the door in her face.

  Would Miss Riggs have left her at the wrong house just out of spite?

  Then the woman smiled and spoke.

  “You look so much like her. It’s good to see you again, Penny. I’m Susan. Susan Taylor.” She held out a welcoming hand. “Come in.”

  Penny did not take the offered hand, but she did step inside, and the caged feeling she feared did not come when Susan closed the door behind her. This place was not like the group home. This place was a real home.

  She felt a peace in this house, and a strange familiarity—as if she had many pleasant, but forgotten, memories of it.

  “She never came back to visit after the two of you left,” Susan said, stirring sugar into a mug of heavily creamed coffee. “But she wrote a few times a month.”

  “Can I have a cup?”

  Susan gave her an uncertain look. “Aren’t you a little young?”

  Penny only shrugged. Coffee was a newly acquired taste for her, one she’d picked up in the group home. After a week’s worth of sleepless nights in a strange bed, she’d gone through her lessons in a constant state of exhaustion. She’d started drinking coffee to stay awake during classes, and had grown to like the taste.

  After a moment’s consideration, Susan fetched another cup. “Cream or sugar?”

  Penny shook her head, and accepted the mug with a word of thanks.

  “No problem, kiddo.” Susan resumed her seat across from Penny.

  “How long were you friends?” Penny spoke more to fill the silence than any desire for Susan’s childhood stories, though she was anxious to hear more about the past her mom never shared with her. She had heard her mom mention Susan’s name more than once, but there was nothing in those passing referrals to suggest their friendship was anything more than casual.

  “Since before we started school,” Susan said. “We were best friends until she moved away.”

  Something new occurred to Penny, a line of thinking she’d given up long ago. Her mom’s life before Penny was an untouchable subject in their home, everything from her long-past childhood to Penny’s absent father. All she had known before the caseworker found Susan, Penny’s unknown godmother, was that her mom came from a small town, and that Penny’s grandparents had died before she was born.

  She knew nothing about her father. The only evidence she had that the man had even existed was a single, grainy picture scavenged from an old photo album. Her caseworker could find out nothing about him. His name was even missing from her birth certificate.

  Penny wondered just how much Susan did know, and how much of her knowledge she’d be willing to share.

  “Penny?”

  Susan’s voice startled her, and Penny realized she had been on the verge of sleep, despite the coffee.

  “Sorry, I’m just a little tired.”

  Susan drained her coffee mug in one long gulp, then stood and scooped up Penny’s bag. “There’s a room for you upstairs.”

  Penny resisted the urge to grab her bag from Susan’s hand. She’d learned to guard her possessions jealously at the group home, even viciously when necessary. But she reminded herself that this woman was neither a bully nor a thief. For now, unless Susan gave her reason not to, Penny would try to trust her.

  Their footsteps echoed up the staircase. A few portraits hung from wood plank walls on the landing, but the single bulb light fixture hanging high above offered too little light to make the faces out.

  The second‐floor hallway was long and narrow, with a window at the far end looking out on the night. There were three doors, evenly spaced, on each side.

  “Five rooms and a bathroom up here,” Susan informed her. She pointed to the far room on the right. “That’s my room, if you need me. The bathroom is behind us on the right.”

  “Where do I sleep?”

  Susan stopped halfway down the hall, and pulled a rope hanging from the ceiling. The creek of old springs sounded, and a sliding ladder descended from the attic door above them.

  Penny followed her up the ladder, emerging into darkness, then blinked as light assaulted her eyes. When she could see again, she was surprised into a smile, her first in many days.

  The dust of empty years covered every surface of the attic, but other than that, it was not what Penny had imagined. Not a cluttered graveyard of dusty old furniture, cardboard boxes, and castaway cloths.

  “Nice,” Penny said, and she meant it. She climbed the last few steps into a fully furnished and decorated bedroom. “I like it.”

  “It could use dusting, but I did wash the bedding for you.” Susan sat on the corner of one of two single-wide beds. “No one’s used it for years.”

  A low cathedral ceiling arched above them, ten feet high at the peak. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and wood plank walls like gaudy Halloween decorations. There were two small writing desks next to each bed, each with a lamp and low-backed chair, and a dresser at both ends of the room. The dresser closest to Penny’s freshly turned bed held a clutter of photographs and other odd items.

  Small round windows faced each other from between the beds, like eyes made of starlight.

  “If you don’t like it up here you can use the guest room,” Susan said. “It’s a bit plain, but …”

  “No,” Penny said at once. “I love it.”

  “I thought you might,” Susan said, flashing a knowing grin. She stood and stepped past Penny, stopping short of the waist-high railing around the attic door.

  “You should get some sleep. I take Sundays off, so we’ll have the whole day tomorrow to get to know each other a little bit better.” A pause, then, “I bet you have a hundred questions for me.”

  Penny nodded. She did.

  “Good night, Little Red,” Susan said, and though it was strange hearing her old nickname from the lips of yet another stranger, it didn’t upset her as it had earlier coming from her crotchety sister.

  “Good night.”

/>   Penny fell back onto her amazingly cozy bed, the thick feather comforter feeling like a cloud after a day spent in cramped, uncomfortable seats. She pulled her knees up and slid her legs below the comforter, pulling it up to her chin as she settled back.

  Comfortable as she was, Penny knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. There were just too many thoughts, ideas, and feelings clamoring in her head. However, only seconds after laying her head on the pillow, her eyes slipped shut, and she dozed.

  Penny had the old dream again that night, but this time there was more. She was running in the dark, down a beaten trail through tall and fragrant wild grass. Running toward something, or away from it. She didn’t know which; only knew she had to keep running. Run like she’d never run before.

  Then something stepped from the grass and crouched in front of her, something canine, predatory. It was only a shadow under weak moonlight. But even as a shadow its posture was visibly tense, its tall ears twitching and its fur bushed out.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” it said, and Penny awoke with a scream locked behind her clamped teeth.

  The dream faded as she rose to full consciousness, but the fear she’d awakened with remained, and it seemed like a long time before she slept again.

  Chapter 4

  Home, Strange Home

  Penny awoke Sunday morning with a jerk, arms thrown up and shielding her eyes against dawn’s bright light. The morning sun streamed through the window across from her, and in its glow, even the dust motes were golden. Yet, amid the morning’s bright blue and gold, a single image from her dream lingered.

  She pulled her blanket over her face, closing her eyes and grasping at the dream image—the red-haired man with the scarred face—and a few moments later when the rest of her dream had faded as it always did, the redheaded man remained.

  Penny threw off her blanket and scrambled to the edge of her bed, reaching blindly for her bag. She seized it, yanked the zipper open, and dug through her clothes until she had what she wanted.

  The photograph of her mother and father bore signs of travel, creased through the middle and bent at the corners, but the faces smiling up at her were unmistakable. It showed a much younger version of her mom standing next to a tall man with wild red hair.

  Penny’s hair.

  Penny’s father, she had no doubt.

  They stood close, his arm draped affectionately over her shoulder. They were a picture of perfect happiness, appearing to be very much in love. There was nothing in that timeless pose to suggest the heartache and abandonment to come.

  She studied the man’s face, comparing it to her remembered image of the dream man. It took only a few moments to decide they were not the same person. Close, the hair in particular was almost identical, but the man from her dream was older, with a wider jaw and an intimidating gaze.

  Then there was the scar. Her father’s face was smooth and unmarked.

  It occurred to Penny that the dream man could be an older version of her father, but she banished the thought with a chuckle.

  It was a dream, she reminded herself. Just a stupid dream.

  She walked across the room to put the snapshot on the dresser next to the framed pictures, and froze. It slipped from her fingers, seesawing to the floor at her feet.

  Standing amid the clutter was a picture of a girl Penny recognized at once. It looked a lot like her, though taller, and with dark hair instead of red.

  She lifted the framed picture with trembling fingers.

  Her mother.

  Penny dressed hastily and rushed downstairs, the framed picture in hand.

  “Susan?” She checked the kitchen, then the living room, which she had only viewed fleetingly the night before, then passed the open door of the empty bathroom on her way to a large utility room with a door that led to the backyard.

  Penny could not find her anywhere in the house.

  Penny rushed to the front of the house and pushed through the unlatched front door, stopping short of the porch steps in surprise.

  A boy sat on the top step, watching Susan argue with a man at the far end of the driveway. His dress was so stereotypical it was laughable. He wore a black Stetson too big for him. Tilted to one side, it disclosed a mop of unwashed hair and a mullet that hung past his shoulders. His white western style shirt and blue jeans were dirty, and the soles of his black cowboy boots thick with what could have been mud or cow crap. He held a pocketknife in his right hand, gouging the top step with it, digging out splinters of wood.

  He turned at the sound of her footsteps, looking startled for a moment, then only irritated.

  “Hush,” he said. “I’m trying to listen.”

  “Stop that!” She pointed at his knife as its tip bit into wood again.

  He ignored her, watching the arguing pair intently until they wandered too far away to hear, then turned to her again, folding the blade and sliding it into his pocket.

  “Who are you?” His attention turned fully to her for the first time, he sized her up and smiled. It was a look Penny recognized and hated, the smile of a bully singling out a promising new victim.

  “I live here,” she said, hardly believing the words as they left her mouth, surprised that she was already coming to think of the place as home. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Rooster,” he said, actually thumping his plump chest with a fist.

  “My papa,” he pointed to the distant man, “owns this town, so you better watch how you talk to me!”

  Penny began to laugh, was helpless not to.

  Rooster flushed, taking a step toward her, and Penny matched it with a step of her own. Bullies at the group home had beaten her up more than once, and she had beaten up a few of them. But even if she lost, she never let them intimidate her. She’d discovered that if you let them push you around once they would continue to do it—but actually fighting was more of an effort than most of them liked to make.

  Guys like this Rooster preferred easier targets.

  “Tucker! Come on!”

  Susan and Rooster’s dad stood in the driveway again, the latter’s face red with anger.

  Rooster—Tucker—shot Penny one last sour look and turned to join him.

  Penny walked to meet Susan, turning to watch Rooster and his ‘Papa’ disappear around the side of the house.

  “Who are they?” She stopped beside Susan and turned in time to see them step through the strands of a barbed wire fence at the edge of the small backyard, into the wheat field on the other side.

  “Ernest Price and his,” she paused, as if searching for the right word to describe Rooster.

  “His son,” she said finally. “Ernest is a local big shot and resident pain in the …”

  Susan censored herself again and regarded Penny.

  Penny heard real venom in Susan’s voice, and understood she could come to feel the same way about Rooster as Susan did about his dad.

  “He’s a farmer,” Susan said in a somewhat calmer tone. “But most of his money is in real estate. Ernest Price owns most of the land around Dogwood. He owns a lot of the land in Dogwood too.”

  Susan took Penny by her arm and led her back toward the house.

  “He owns the building my shop is in, and the lease runs out next year. He’s trying to strong-arm me into letting him farm up there,” she gestured to the rise of land behind them. “He farms the seventy back acres in exchange for my lease, but he wants it all.”

  Susan sighed and released Penny’s arm as she climbed the steps to the house. She didn’t go inside, but sat on the porch swing, gesturing for Penny to do the same.

  Penny slid a hand in her pocket, feeling the corner of the framed photograph, then withdrew her hand and sat down next to Susan.

  “The field behind the house is yours then?” Penny was curious, but also concerned. If Susan and Ernest’s business brought them together on a regular basis, she was sure to see more of Rooster.

  Susan faced Penny, a curious look of speculation on her face. Then, r
eluctantly, said, “No, not really.”

  “Then he does own it.”

  Smiling, Susan shook her head.

  “Who then?”

  “If I tell you a secret, can you keep it just between the two of us?”

  Penny nodded, feeling touched at the unexpected confidence.

  Susan looked right, then left, apparently checking to make sure Ernest and Rooster had not returned to make more trouble.

  “You own it,” she said, then laughed aloud as Penny stumbled over her reply.

  For several seconds Penny was incapable of speech. She swallowed hard to clear her throat, licked her suddenly dry lips, and tried again.

  “I own it?”

  “All of it,” Susan said, throwing her arms wide to indicate the house and all the land around it. “It’s all yours.”

  The next day Susan returned to work, and Penny faced her first day alone at her new home. Though the past four months had been a flurry of activity with social workers and the other kids at the group home, she had somehow felt more alone there.

  Here, at her new home, it was almost as if she’d found her mother again.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” Susan asked a final time on the way to her car, an ancient Ford Falcon with chipped blue paint and a spider web crack in the rear windshield. “You can browse the books and check out the town.”

  Penny considered it briefly, but decided she wasn’t ready to face Dogwood’s strange geography and new faces yet.

  The field behind their house was off limits, but that was fine with Penny. She wasn’t ready for another run-in with Rooster or his dad.

  The stretch of wild land in front of the house was wide open and inviting though. So as soon as Susan’s car vanished down the winding driveway, Penny started walking, replaying the previous day’s conversation with Susan in her mind again.

  “It’s all yours,” Susan had said, and when Penny only continued to gape at her, Susan elaborated.

  “This house, this land, has been in your family for generations.” Susan draped an arm casually over Penny’s shoulder.