Sylvie nodded. There was nothing else to say. The hag knew she would be back. Zozo’s eyes narrowed and his grin widened. He knew she would be back. Sylvie knew she would be back. And she knew she would have a hand of glory.
To a Tea Party
A cough had been threatening for the last few minutes. Bridgette could feel it deep in her lungs. She tried taking shallow breaths and that helped for a while. Then, without warning, the cough exploded, doubling her over with its ferocity. She tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs refused to obey. Cough after cough seized her, rendering her helpless in the attack.
She gasped for air, black dots dancing in front of her eyes. She grabbed the arms of the rocking chair to keep from collapsing on the floor. Finally, the coughing fit died down. It was over for now, but Bridgette could still feel the threat down deep in her lungs.
She looked around the empty living room and glanced at the windows. It looked like it was early evening. Bridgette instinctively reached for her cell phone to check the time, but stopped when she remembered there was no cell phone to be had. The panicky out-of-control, sliding sideways feeling loomed up and she fought it back down. She assured herself she would find a way out of this. But the conviction of that thought was more bravado than a sure thing. She was more horrified than she wanted to admit. Sylvie was the most vile human, creature, yes, creature that she had ever encountered. And she was IN ITS BODY! She wanted to scream, cry, and throw-up all at the same time.
Her nausea intensified. Suddenly, she was freezing cold. She stood up, grabbed the quilt, and wrapped it around her shaking body. A wave of vertigo washed over her and she held the mantle hoping it would pass.
Shakily, she sat back down in the rocker. She could see the journal lying on the floor, but she didn’t dare try to lean over to pick it up. Instead she sat back, wrapped herself in the quilt and willed herself to feel better.
The sandwich was still on the little table. Next to it was a spoon and a clear green bottle filled with blackish liquid. An image of Sylvie’s bowl of black goo filled Bridgette’s mind. She tried to force it away, but it melted into a chaotic tumble of thoughts filled with knives, blood, and glowing red eyes.
Bridgette closed her eyes and forced herself to relax. She took as deep a breath as she dared, not wanting to fall into another frenzy of coughing. After a few seconds, she felt like she could trust her mind again and she opened her eyes.
She picked up the green bottle and stared at it. She could hear Kevin’s voice as she remembered when the three of them had gone antiquing. Holding up a bottle like this he’d said, “Back in the old days, the doctors would use these bottles for medicine. See the lines on the side? That’s how you measured the dose. Just pour it down to the next line. Cork it until you need it again.” He was always finding unique items and explaining their many uses to them.
A few years ago, he’d gone through a rough time and virtually disappeared. He was already a natural loner and since he worked from home as a freelance accountant, nobody noticed his absence except for Bridgette and Tom.
Depression ran in his family, he had explained, and with the recent downturn in the economy he had suffered significant financial losses not to mention many business opportunities. Bridgette and Tom begged him to get some help, but he refused to see a doctor or speak to a therapist. Instead, he promised he would develop a few hobbies to get him out of the house more often.
He was always interested in the paranormal, so he half-jokingly joined a ghost hunting group. In addition to that, and in a much more serious manner, he developed an intense interest in history. He researched everything. There were many weekends the three of them had spent traveling long forgotten country roads in search of an abandoned mansion or decrepit cemetery. Kevin lived in downtown Kranburg and it was an easy walk to the library and courthouse. He spent many days in one place or the other investigating whatever ancient building or person he was interested in at the time.
At least once a week, Bridgette and Tom would try to make the three mile drive into town to visit with him. Sometimes, if Bridgette was busy, Tom would go by himself and visit. Oftentimes, when she was in town, Bridgette would stop by Kevin’s to check on him and make sure he was doing ok.
They also tried to have him over as often as possible which ended up being about once a month due to his heavy self-imposed schedule. Tom’s security job schedule meant he often worked nights and weekends. He made a point to stop by Kevin’s on his way to or from work. The three of them had an easy fun friendship and with Kevin’s new interest in everything old, it made for many fascinating discussions and road trips.
Bridgette turned the bottle around and saw the lines Kevin had pointed out on the similar bottle in the antique shop. She wondered if it was the same bottle. That thought brought a bolt of panic. And as if to complicate an already complicated situation, the threatening cough exploded from deep in her lungs, wracking her body and doubling her over. She gasped for air and the cough settled back in her lungs, promising to return. “Take the medicine, dear, it will make you feel better.” Deep in her mind, Nettie’s calm voice soothed Bridgette’s tumbling thoughts. Bridgett pulled the cork. Her left hand shook as she tipped the bottle and her right hand shook as she took aim with the spoon. Fortunately, they aligned long enough for the thick, black liquid to land on target. Bridgette brought the spoon to her lips, said a quick prayer and swallowed her medicine.
Perhaps it was a coincidence, or perhaps the medicine really worked. Either way, the cough retreated for the time being. Bridgette took a deep breath and tried to relax. She corked the bottle and set it back on the table glancing at the sandwich. She hadn’t eaten in days. Her nausea had settled just below the surface. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she needed nourishment. She picked up the sandwich and took a timid bite. It was delicious. The heavy homemade bread was soft and fresh and filled with beef and a thick hunk of cheese. Suddenly, Bridgette was ravenous and within seconds she had eaten the whole thing. Her stomach settled into an uneasy truce and Bridgette was able to relax a bit more.
A tap, tap, tapping noise made its way into her conscious thoughts. It had been in the background for a few minutes and Bridgette concentrated to see if she could hear where it was coming from. The windows were open behind her, but the noise was coming from somewhere in front of her deep in the house. It stopped for a few seconds and then started up again. There was no rhythm to it, sometimes there would be one or two and a pause and then sometimes there would be several in a row.
Bridgette held her breath and listened. There was a little voice talking, a few taps, and a tinkling of a tiny bell. And it sounded like it was coming from the bedroom hallway.
Bridgette stood, testing her shaky legs. They were weak, but supported her. She held onto the mantle and listened. She could hear a voice talking, but she couldn’t make out the words. Bridgette let go of the mantle and shuffled towards the bedrooms. She grimaced and stopped in front of Sylvie’s door, but the voice wasn’t coming from there. More relieved than she wanted to admit, Bridgette moved to the second bedroom. The door was closed, but she could clearly hear the noises were coming from there. She pressed her ear to the closed door and heard a little girl’s happy voice.
“And daddy said we could pick flowers and make them into a chain.” pause, clink, clink. “Why of course, let’s ring for more cookies,” ting, ting. “Would you like some more tea, Miss Lovely? I can fill your cup for you now” clink, clink, clink. “Thank you Miss Lovely, I love your tea, too, and look! Here are the cookies!” clink, clink, pause.
Silence. Bridgette listened carefully, but heard nothing else. Miss Lovely? Who’s Miss- and the thought was interrupted by a torrent of images. The little girl from the portrait smiling sweetly at her beautiful doll. The same little girl posing with her daddy and mommy for the picture. She wanted Miss Lovely to be there, but her mommy said no…
Bridgette shuddered at the thought of Sylvie being the mother to this lovely little girl. An
d where on earth did Bridgette get the idea that there was a doll named Miss Lovely? She mulled this over. Somehow, in this new version of her universe, the idea didn’t seem as crazy as it would have before. She almost dismissed the thought and then she remembered something Kevin had said when he was telling them a story about a haunted house.
She couldn’t remember exactly, but the gist of it was: “I believe everyone leaves an imprint in certain places. For instance, sometimes if someone sees a ghost, it’s not really a spirit, but a visual recording from the place itself. Like the walls recorded an event and under the right conditions, that recording gets played for some poor unsuspecting person. I also think that you can pick up knowledge just by being in certain buildings. You may not know it, but you might have picked up a fact here and there, kind of like it was floating around waiting to be absorbed by whoever came near.”
Bridgette put her hand on the doorknob. It made sense somehow and somehow she thought it was true. Or she was going crazy and delusional… and that could very well be the case, too. But, no, she really thought the noises were Molly having a tea party with Miss Lovely. Bridgette turned the knob and opened the door.
The pretty pink room was empty. Despite the disembodied voice, she wasn’t afraid of the room. It was an inviting, comfortable little place. Like a refuge from the storm.
Bridgette looked at the empty little girls bed and over to the empty dolls bed. She knew she should go back to the living room, pick up the journal and search for a way home, but she was putting that off for now. She needed a small break from the corrupt Sylvie and her murderous thoughts. Standing in Molly’s room was like a warm embrace.
Bridgette walked over to the wall and peered closely at the wallpaper. Little flowers interlaced with ribbons ran up and down the walls. Each flower was different, a little daisy, then a tiny rose, then a delicate violet, and back to the daisy again. Bridgette ran her hand up and down the little flower ribbon stripe. After reading part of Sylvie’s story, Bridgette was 100 percent certain this wallpaper had nothing to do with Sylvie. More than likely, Molly’s daddy had put it up for her in a sweet attempt to decorate his daughter’s room.
She thought- no, she knew- that was something Tom would do. He was big and brawny on the outside, but he was really a soft hearted teddy bear. Fear and loneliness overwhelmed her and she cried out in despair. Sobs wracked her sore body. She braced both hands on the wall and leaned on it crying. Tears ran down her cheeks and onto the wallpaper. Her legs wobbled and she crumpled to the floor. She cried and cried and cried. She gave herself completely over to the heartache and grief and loneliness and fear. Yes, the fear interwoven in it all. The fear of never seeing her husband again, the fear she would never be able to tell him how much she loves him, and the fear of dying alone in a strange place and time. And, yes, she was dying. She could feel the illness making its way through her, squeezing her lungs and blocking out her air. She could feel the illness growing in her lungs, filling them up with itself until there was no more room.
Gradually, her sobs subsided. She hugged her knees and rocked herself. She laid her cheek on her knee as the last two tears ran down her cheeks. Crickets chirped and the soft scent of flowers whispered through the room. She felt cleansed, her terror washed out with her tears. A calm peace embraced and lulled her. She blotted her eyes, braced a hand on the floor and a hand on the wall and forced herself to stand up.
Once up, she waited for the vertigo, nausea, coughing, and weak legs, but none of that happened. The illness was still there, but at bay for the moment. Grateful, she walked over to the little girl’s bed. She gently patted, smoothed, and straightened the pretty quilt. The motherly, everyday motions felt good, and although not a mother herself, she felt a protective maternal love for this little girl and her room.
When the little bed was straightened she looked over at the tiny duplicate dolls bed in the corner. She walked over to it, squatted down, and repeated the same gestures. Her patting hands touched a hard corner. There was a raised section in the middle of Miss Lovely’s bed. Bridgette turned down the tiny quilt and revealed a little brown book. She picked it up, straightened the tiny quilt and stood up. Holding the book close to her heart, she looked around the empty room. The crickets still chirped and the flowery breeze still whispered. Cradling the book like a special gift, she whispered, “thank you,” and walked out of the room.
Back in the living room, the shadows had lengthened as the sun dipped in the West. Bridgette settled in the rocker, wrapped herself in the quilt and opened the little book. ‘Molly’ was written in big loopy letters on the inside cover. The tail of the ‘y’ wrapped and curlicued its way down the page, looped back up over Molly’s name and ended in a daisy.
It was Molly’s journal.
Bridgette flipped through the pages. She was wrong, it wasn’t a journal, it was a sketchbook. Molly had used her pencil to draw on some of the pages. Bridgette stopped on a page with a drawing of a happy little girl holding a happy man’s hand. A daisy chain of flowers was wrapped around the little girls head. They were standing in a field of flowers under a bright sun. A tiny figure was sitting next to the little girl with flowers in her hair too. It was Molly and her daddy and Miss Lovely. Bridgette smiled at the happy scene. The drawing was quite good and the details were striking. Molly was a natural artist and very talented.
Bridgette flipped to another page that had a drawing of Molly and Miss Lovely sitting on the floor having a tea party. Miss Lovely was wearing a hat in this picture. Molly’s hair was in two braids. There were little plates and cups and saucers. Bridgette saw a tiny bell next to Miss Lovely’s cup. Bridgette soaked up the scene, feeling happiness radiating off the page.
Gently, Bridgette closed the book, stood and placed it on the mantle like a treasured heirloom. She decided to save it for later. It was such a happy book and it would be nice to look at after… Bridgette grimaced at the nasty red journal laying on the floor. She was loathe to touch it much less open it and read it, but she knew she had to do this. She needed the answer. She couldn’t rest until she knew she had done everything possible to go home. To go back to Tom.
She sighed, stooped, and picked up the red journal. After the light and airy brown journal, this one was dead weight. Filled with dread, she sat in the rocker, found her page and started reading.
And the Hand of Glory
A night hunt was a perfect time to collect the hand of glory. Sylvie set out towards the river with a rope, a large handkerchief, and an axe. She hid her items near the bridge and followed the road towards town. Just outside of Kranburg, Sylvie stepped back into the shadows. Hidden, she hunched down and waited for her prey.
Everyone knew Kranburg had been built on fertile farmland. The importance of farming was inherent to the town. Farms dotted the landscape. The train stopped every other day, not only picking up passengers, but loading up on abundant produce and more recently, on coal.
In the past few years, the importance of the farms had been eclipsed by the run on the coal mines. Coal was becoming an ever important resource during this new industrial age. Where the farmland ended, the coal mines began. Men traveled for miles to work the mines. A few dragged their families with them and settled into the area. Most lived and worked the mines through the week, some returned to their families on the weekends, while the others either had no families or had no families they wanted to return to.
On Friday nights, Kranburg belonged to the miners. They would stream into town and pour themselves into the lone bar, burning off a week’s worth of pent-up energy and wages. After a few hours and a few fights, most would wander away to hole up in some nook or cranny for the weekend. A few would wander the deserted streets and either find their way back to the mine or the sheriff would find them and offer a jail cell for the night. Most would happily accept, choosing to sleep a drunk slumber behind bars and be turned out in the morning.
Sylvie viewed the road carefully, waiting for her chance. She watched as a couple of
drunk miners stumbled past, clapping each other on the back and singing ‘I’ve been working on the Railroad’ loudly before laughing and falling into each other and starting the whole thing over again. As they disappeared down the road their voices faded in the night.
An hour passed with no more miners. Sylvie was going to leave and try again the next night, when she saw a long figure stumbling towards her whistling. She watched as he stumbled to the side of the road, pulled out his pocket watch, thrust it up to his face and nearly tumbled into the ravine. He straightened himself out and continued towards her. No one else was around. Sylvie smiled. He would do.
Sylvie forced herself to start crying, ran to him and threw herself into his arms crying “Oh, Richard, I’ve missed you so!”
She hugged him hard, pressing her breasts against his chest.
Then she gasped and stepped back in mock surprise, “Oh my goodness, of course you’re not my Richard… he’s… he’s…” and she wailed and threw herself into the surprised man’s arms again.
“I’m so sorry,” she sniffled, “I beg your pardon, it’s just that I miss my Richard dearly, and… and…” she trailed off looking up at the shocked man in despair.
His eyes gleamed at this unexpected surprise. He paused, collected his thoughts, and slurred, “Well now pretty lady, don’t apologize, maybe I can help?”
Sylvie batted her eyes and looked up at him.
He looked down at her and grinned, “Can I walk you somewhere? Do you live around here? A pretty lady like you shouldn’t be walking about by herself.”
Sylvie Page 6
