Samhain Secrets

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “Me too.”

  She put away her watering can. “Come on upstairs. I’ll show you to your room.”

  At the top of the staircase, trepidation set in. It was made worse when Mrs. Hammerlin opened the door to the room with the flowered wallpaper. She walked inside and fluffed the pillow. I stood in the doorway.

  “Is there another room available, by chance?”

  She looked up in surprise. “This is the only guest room that faces the cemetery. If you want to see a ghost, this is your best option.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said under my breath, knowing I was being silly. I told her it would be fine and thanked her for letting me give this a try.

  A short time later, she left in a flurry of last-minute instructions. “Don’t go outside without a key or you’ll wind up locked out. Don’t use the fireplace, because the chimney hasn’t been cleaned. Don’t run the microwave and dishwasher at the same time, or you’ll blow a fuse. The fuse box is in the basement.”

  When the door clicked behind her, I turned to face the empty house and gulped. I wished I’d thought to bring the cat with me. Millie, for familiar? No, that’s not it. Amie, with the French pronunciation, for friend? Maybe not. Whatever her name was, she would have been good company.

  I’d been through Mrs. Hammerlin’s house before, so I already knew my way around. The first order of business was to shore up its energetic shields. Beginning in the dining room, which was roughly the center of the house, I spread my supplies out on the table, cast a magic circle, and thought about my protection strategy. I would place crystals on the ground outside, at the four cardinal directions around the house. Inside, I would sprinkle salt across each threshold (with the intention of sweeping it up before I left tomorrow), and I’d use herbs and incense in the bedroom overnight.

  Using a handful of black and white ribbons I’d brought from home, I formed a pentagram around the items on the table. I arranged black and white candles at each of the five points, lit them, and took a deep centering breath. Standing in front of the table, I softened my gaze and visualized a glowing orb of silvery, white light. The light formed a bubble that held me softly—much like Glinda the Good Witch. I imagined the light pulsating with energy as it expanded to surround the table and fill the room. It grew brighter and flowed throughout the whole house, from floor to ceiling and corner to corner, until it seeped out the windows and stretched to form a giant, protective sphere around the entire house.

  I raised my hands to recite an incantation . . . and found myself at a loss for words.

  What, exactly, did I want to accomplish? Did I want to banish and repel? Or attract and communicate?

  I realized it was both. I wanted to stop the harassment of Mrs. Hammerlin. And I definitely wanted to expel any malignant spirits that might be lurking about. But if someone, or something, was trying to communicate from the beyond, I wanted to hear the message. I wanted to be open to hear and receive. . . and maybe even to help.

  When in doubt, call upon the Great Mother. She’ll know what to do.

  I decided to invoke the Mother Goddess in her guise as Tara, one of the oldest creator goddesses, sometimes called the mother of Buddha. Appropriately enough, she presented herself in two aspects.

  In a voice that sounded more confident than I felt, I called out:

  Oh, White Tara, Goddess of Peace,

  By your power, the stars increase,

  Love is your light, compassion your power,

  Protect me now, in this place and in this hour.

  Oh, Green Tara, Goddess of Night,

  You wield great strength, a loving might,

  Help goodness speak and evil leave,

  That Grace’s fears shall be relieved.

  Goddess Tara, bless this home,

  Let restless spirits no longer roam,

  Darkness banish, light be free,

  As I will, so mote it be.

  I stood at the table for a few more minutes, directing my energy outward into the house and beyond. Then I closed the circle and headed outside to place the crystals on the ground, propping open the back door with a terra-cotta flowerpot.

  I was glad I remembered to bring a flashlight. Otherwise, I might have bumped into a birdbath or tripped over a garden gnome. The waning moon was mostly hidden by clouds, making the yard—and the cemetery—darker than I’d ever seen it before. I rushed to finish the job and hurried inside to sprinkle some salt.

  Once the house was fully protected to the best of my magical abilities, I flopped into a tufted chair in the front parlor and gave Farrah a ring. Like Wes, she was currently miles away living it up in a swanky hotel—only she was even farther away, in Atlanta, where her company was headquartered. I reached her in her hotel room, where she’d just returned from her conference dinner.

  “Why do they have to have so many courses at these things?” she complained. “I’m so full, I’m gonna be up ’til midnight digesting.”

  I laughed. “You couldn’t restrain yourself, could you?”

  “Not to mention all the cocktails beforehand. Ugh.”

  “And you have, what, two more nights of this?”

  “Yeah, I come back Sunday. I’m so bummed I’m gonna miss the Halloween party! Randall asked me to go with him, and he totally would have agreed to wear any couples’ costume I’d choose. I was thinking Adam and Eve. Or maybe Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm.”

  “Um, yeah. I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Well, keep an eye on him for me, will you? Not that he can’t freely mingle with other women. I’d just like to know about it, that’s all.”

  “You got it, girlfriend.”

  “Hang on, I’m getting a text. I’m being summoned downstairs for after-dinner drinks. As if I have an ounce of room left in this dress. Never mind—they can wait. How are you doing in that big, old spooky house all by yourself?”

  “It’s not that bad. Just super quiet.”

  “I wish you could’ve postponed for a week. I’d totally be up for a slumber party in a haunted mansion. What a lark!”

  I looked around at the heavy, polished Victorian furniture, crocheted doilies, and blown-glass figurines lining the mantel. Not exactly a party atmosphere.

  “I’m still confused, though,” Farrah went on. “Why would your aunt be haunting Grace Hammerlin’s house? Did they know each other?”

  “No. I asked Mrs. Hammerlin, and she said she’s never even heard of Josephine O’Malley. Anyway, I still think there’s going to be a logical explanation for everything.”

  “Is that the lawyer in you talking? Or the witch? Oh, hang on. I’m getting buzzed again. I only see these folks once or twice a year, so . . .” She trailed off, presumably answering the text.

  “You go have fun,” I said. “I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Okay, stay safe. And, say ‘hi’ to the ghosts for me!”

  I hung up and sat for a moment longer in the parlor. The ticking of the grandfather clock echoed somberly. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  After checking in with Wes, who was also too busy to talk long, and then aimlessly flipping channels on the TV, I decided to go ahead and get settled in the guest room. I didn’t expect to sleep much, but I put on pajamas anyway and crawled under the covers with a paperback. I read for the next hour or so, until my mind wandered and I no longer had any idea what was going on in the story. I closed the book, stood up, and stretched. I walked over to the oval mirror and stared at my reflection.

  “Aunt Josephine?” My voice sounded small and tentative. I hadn’t intended to summon her tonight. I wasn’t even sure how to do that. I was accustomed to calling on gods and goddesses, not the ghost of my recently murdered aunt, whom I hardly knew.

  I moved to the window and stared outside at the dark cemetery. The night couldn’t have been quieter. I was afraid this whole plan was going to be a bust.

  As I stood before the window, I recalled a childhood game I’d played with my neighb
orhood friends. It was a hide-and-seek tag game called Ghost in the Graveyard. Just for fun, I whispered the words from the game, in a slow, rhythmic chant: “One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock . . .” When I reached midnight, I said, in a jokey way, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  Something crashed behind me.

  I thought my heart would leap out of my chest. I whipped around and saw what had caused the jarring noise. A full-length mirror had fallen off the back of a closet door. The glass splintered in the frame, but luckily it didn’t shatter. With my hand to my chest, I went to investigate.

  How did it fall?

  Carefully, I lifted the edge of the mirror to look at the back. The nails appeared old and bent. Examining the door, I saw an outline where the mirror had been. It must have hung there for years. Then I noticed something else. There was writing on the door.

  I grabbed my flashlight and shined it on the door. There were tick marks, like on a yardstick, and dates. This was a child’s height marker, I realized. I’d had one on my kitchen wall when I was a child—that is, until my parents decided to update the kitchen and painted over it.

  Some of the lines had extra information, such as “Lost a tooth today!” and “Training wheels off.” The last one, at the top, was labeled “First day of second grade.”

  And that was it. The child—the girl, if this was her bedroom—was no longer measured. The mirror was hammered onto the door, and there it stayed. Until now.

  I dragged the mirror to the side of the room so it wouldn’t get stepped on. I was about to take another look at the dates, when I became conscious of another sound. A faint wailing.

  I ran to the window and saw nothing. I dashed to Mrs. Hammerlin’s bedroom, since that’s apparently where she usually was when she heard the noise. The sound stopped, then started again. Listening carefully, I followed it to the small dressing room attached to her bedroom. A brocade curtain covered the entire back wall. Hesitating for only a second, I pulled it aside to reveal a high window. It was open a few inches. The wailing was louder now. It was coming from outside.

  I tried to open the window farther, but it wouldn’t budge. It had probably been stuck in this position for ages. Wasting no time, I flew downstairs and out the back door, pausing only to step into my tennis shoes.

  I still had the flashlight in hand, but I kept it turned off. I wanted to remain hidden. Staying low, I scuttled over to the fence separating the yard from the cemetery.

  The wailing had stopped, but I heard something else. It was a scuffling sound, like footsteps, and then the crack of a twig. I followed the fence to the opening the kitty had shown me and slipped inside the cemetery. I was running on adrenaline, excited to be on the tail of the so-called banshee. I was also scared out of my mind.

  I kept close to the fence as I made my way back to a point directly behind Mrs. Hammerlin’s bedroom, except on the cemetery side of the fence. The screeching wail pierced the air once more. This time it came in a short burst, followed by what I could have sworn were voices. Human voices. They were coming from an old mausoleum, bordered by overgrown weeds and untrimmed shrubbery.

  I darted from tree, to tombstone, to monument, trying to make myself invisible behind each one. A stone’s throw from the mausoleum, I stopped and hid myself behind a large double headstone. There were definitely people in there. I strained to make out what they were saying.

  “Cut it out with that whistle! You’re overdoing it.”

  “Then where is he? He should have been here already.”

  “Just wait. He’s probably nervous.”

  It was two guys. I couldn’t tell their ages, but they didn’t sound very old. Or very smart. I waited for what felt like an eternity but was probably only five minutes. Then the sound came again, echoing from the door of the mausoleum. It was a whistle, I realized. Some sort of bird call that mimicked the sound of a barn owl or a sick crow. I supposed it was a hunter’s whistle, which could make a variety of sounds depending on the whistler’s hand grip and breath control.

  I was so fascinated by the eerie sound, and how it traveled through the night air to Mrs. Hammerlin’s bedroom, that I almost failed to notice the figure approach from the other side of the graveyard. It seemed to be a thin man in dark jeans and a gray hoodie. As he came closer, I ducked behind the headstone once more and remained still as a statue.

  Seconds ticked by in silence, until a whisper sounded close by.

  “In here.”

  More footsteps. More whispers. Then someone raised his voice. “A deal is a deal!”

  “Keep it down!” hissed a second voice.

  “But we had an agreement! I ain’t turning over the smack ’til he turns over the cash.”

  My eyes grew wide in the darkness. It was a drug deal. And, unless I was mistaken, it was a drug deal about to go bad.

  “Hey, hey, hey! You don’t gotta show that. I’ll get your money.”

  “Keep it down!”

  “He’s lying. He didn’t come here with the dough!”

  I was beginning to sweat. I had to get out of here and call the police. My cell phone was back in the house next to the guest bed. As the strained voices grew louder, even as the cautious guy kept telling the other two to “keep it down,” I started to back away. As before, I tried to stay behind trees and larger grave markers, but my priority now was speed. That turned out to be a mistake. I had retreated only a few yards when I tripped over a wooden cross. I landed with an oomph.

  As I scrambled to my feet, I sensed the men peeking out of the mausoleum.

  “There’s someone out there!”

  “What is this, a setup?”

  “Hey, you! Get back here!”

  I ran like my life depended on it, not daring to think it really might. I made it back to the hole in the fence, squeezed in, and ran all the way up to Mrs. Hammerlin’s back door. I grabbed the knob and pulled. It didn’t budge.

  I was locked out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was like a bad case of déjà vu. I flashed back to that moment in Levi’s cabin when I realized the closet door was locked and I had to scramble for a hiding place. Only this time, the consequences seemed much more dire. Fearing armed and angry drug dealers were hot on my heels, I sprinted to the front of the house. Of course, the front door was locked, too.

  Standing on the porch, I looked to the street, where my car was parked along the curb. It was useless as an escape vehicle. My keys were in my purse, which was next to my phone in the house.

  Goddess help me. Tara protect me. I clasped the amulet around my neck together with my pentagram necklace and envisioned the white orb of protection surrounding me as before. Soon I began to breathe a bit easier—because I hadn’t been followed to the front of the house.

  Now that I didn’t fear for my life, I realized the full extent of my current problem. I had no phone, no car keys, and no way back inside. I shivered, suddenly feeling the coolness of the air.

  With a sigh, I walked to the sidewalk and looked down the street. All the houses were dark, both the vacant and the occupied ones.

  Oh, well. I have no other choice. I started off down the pavement. I’d made it only a few steps, when something compelled me to look back. I glanced up at Mrs. Hammerlin’s house, dark and quiet. The bedroom lights I’d left on weren’t visible from the front, but there was a dim light in an upstairs window on the side of the house. As I looked, the curtain moved. I gasped. I was sure it had moved. It had rustled and then fallen still.

  I took off at a jog down the street. Several blocks later, I finally came to a house with its lights on. I crossed my fingers and rang the bell. A minute later, the door was opened by a startled-looking teenager. He wore ripped jeans and a T-shirt, and his hair was in need of a trim, but his face was sweet.

  “Hi,” I began. “I was wondering if I could borrow your phone. I locked myself out.”

  “Uh, sure.” He handed me a cell phone, which I stared at, suddenly at a loss.r />
  Who should I call?

  Originally, I’d planned to call 9-1-1, but the situation no longer felt like an emergency. The drug dealers were surely long gone by now. Besides, I wouldn’t be going back to Mrs. Hammerlin’s house tonight anyway, not without a key. I’d have to call her, as well as the police, in the morning. All I needed right now was a place to spend the night.

  According to the cell phone, it was nearly 3:00 in the morning. Who was I willing to disturb at this hour? I didn’t want to bother Mila. Her husband worked in construction and always had to get up at the crack of dawn; plus, she would have to be up early to open her shop. So many of my friends had families or jobs or both. I knew I could call Wes’s parents in a pinch, but this whole situation was not going to be easy to explain.

  Only one person’s name came to mind. Someone whose number I knew by heart, and who I knew well enough to ask such a big favor. One person who already thought I was weird anyway. That was okay. I thought he was weird, too.

  I called Crenshaw.

  * * *

  The kind teenager sat with me on his stoop as I waited for my ride. He told me his name was Pete, and the reason he was up so late was that his mother had gone into labor. His father had rushed her to the hospital, leaving Pete in charge of his two younger siblings, who were upstairs sleeping.

  I introduced myself and explained that I was house-sitting for Grace Hammerlin. I also told him I’d heard strange noises in the cemetery, which was how I ended up locking myself out of the house.

  “Aw, man. That was kind of crazy. I mean, you must be really brave. But kinda crazy.”

  “Yeah.” I chuckled. “You’re probably right about that. I think I interrupted a drug deal.”

  He nodded. “For sure.”

  “Wait, do you know something about it?”

  He shrugged. “Just rumors.”

  “Well, I guess the rumors are true. Hey, do you happen to know what smack is?”