Crooked Crossroads (Child Lost Series Book 1)

by Trinity Crow

  “Tibetan temple bells.” The voice came from behind me, rainwater running down a chain, bamboo windchimes, a Carolina wren.

  I turned around hastily. A girl stood up from a rocking chair tucked in the shadow of the display curtains. She had some kind of sewing in her hands and put it on the seat as she rose. She laughed, the sound an eerie echo of the bells.

  “Have to be careful not to sit on that. It’s happened before.” She walked towards me and as she came slowly into the light, I could see she wasn’t a girl, but a woman. She stopped a few feet from me.

  “Welcome to Crooked Crossroads,” Her eyes were intense on mine, and she had this expectant feel about her.

  I stood there waiting for the weirdness to start, a clap of thunder or the howl of a lonely wolf. When nothing happened, I took a deep breath and got a grip on myself. Then I blurted out the first thing in my head. “What's up with your display?”

  The girl nodded calmly as if I hadn't just been flaky and rude. “Is it for you then?” she asked. Her casual “mystic moments 'r' us” tone made me grit my teeth.

  “Excuse me?” I said, getting kind of pissy. What can I say? I don't do well in awkward, supernatural social situations.

  She lifted her eyes to mine, the freaky intensity was gone, her brown eyes were dark like the earth I had kicked up under the tree.

  “I dreamed it. A girl under oaks, there were pea vines and a big, white dog.” Her face creased in a frown. “The dog isn’t right. I had to improvise.”

  We stood there for a moment. I considered a quick exit. I just wanted some facts, rules maybe. A visitor's guide to the second sight. Not dreamy woo-woo shamans girls with vulnerable eyes.

  “I’m Aren,” she said, breaking the deafening silence.

  Aaron? Erin? What?

  “Like Karen.” she said, reading my confusion, “ but no K.”

  “Oh, hey.” Great, it was Mr. Roger's Neighborhood in here. “I’m…”

  “I know!” Aren smiled happily as she interrupted me and the room went five shades brighter. It was impossible to think this girl was evil in any way. “You’re Julia.”

  The blood must have drained right out of me. I think she said something, asked if I was okay. At least, she got me to a chair before my butt hit the ground. I couldn’t think straight or breathe. Logic, reason, rules, these were the things that kept my world steady. And where were they now that I needed them?

  “I am NOT Julia!” I said, too loud even to my own ears.

  “No,” she said with aggravating calm. “Okay.”

  She poured me a cup of tea, and I saw the table was set for tea with two plates. I stared at her suspiciously. Had she dreamed this too? She wasn’t dressed like a weirdo or all Goth, just a cotton skirt, white with blue flowers and a blue t-shirt. Her pale brown hair was long, no freak streaks of color, no piercings. She seemed plain until she smiled, then it was like her smile lit a candle behind her skin and she just shone. She wasn’t smiling now. She looked almost sad.

  “It’s hard for me to meet new people,” she confessed, pouring another cup of tea for herself, tea that smelled spicy, but flowery. “People think I’m a nut. I’m lucky that most of my business is mail order. I have a few regulars, and then the Co-op members.” Aren looked up at me.

  “Every now and again, someone like you comes along. I dream of you, and maybe you're already going through something strange and disturbing, or maybe it’s about to happen, but for whatever reason, you end up pulled here.” Aren paused, adding an astonishing number of sugar cubes to her teacup. She offered the bowl to me and pushed a dish of sliced lemons over.

  “I know we are going to be good friends,” Aren said, earnestly, “but first days are so hard,” she ducked her head. “when you look at me like I'm crazy.”

  I drank the tea. I'm not a fan of tea, but it gave me something to do while I tried to deal with the situation. I didn’t have any good friends, but I had had more than my share of first days where I was the different one, the weirdo, and people looked at me like I had looked at her. I never asked to see a ghost dog, maybe she never asked to have dreams about him. I wasn't sure I wanted a friend, and definitely not a good one, but I'm actually bad at being rude. Her eyes were so hopeful. They reminded me of Nathan and I did not want to go there.

  Screw it. Maybe she can at least answer some questions.

  “Okay,” I said, swallowing down both the tea and the run-like-hell feeling.

  Aren smiled, and there was such light in her face that something in me relaxed just feeling the warmth. Her face shining, she opened her mouth, leaning forward to say something. I waited, bracing myself, for the next divine revelation to come out of her mouth.

  “Danish?” she breathed, offering a plate with starry eyes. “They're from DiMagg.” Aren held them out like a precious gift. “Someone there can sure make a Danish.”

  And then I laughed. It was impossible to keep it in. I laughed so hard that Aren laughed with me, not even knowing the joke, just two flakes, and their Danish. So I ate a Danish and drank the tea, and all the while, quizzed Aren on her dream. I had never felt so comfortable with someone. I knew that should make me nervous, but it didn't.

  “Well,” Aren's face was thoughtful. “my talents are mostly with dreams, though,” she looked at me warily, “I do some spellwork.”

  I nodded because I got her hesitation. A dream was uninvited, you didn't ask for it, but spellwork? It meant you were into this stuff, you believed it, witches, hexes, juju. I stopped myself there. Was I not going to believe it? With a dead dog living in my house and Little Miss Fortune Teller sitting here, calling me Julia? Those were the people who got eaten, the ones who didn't believe until it was too late. Not that monsters were real, but witches? It could happen. She was looking at me, waiting for me to finish arguing with my own head. I nodded to her to continue.

  “There are regular dreams which are just your brain communicating through your unconscious, these may be helpful or not. And true dreams, which,” she paused, shrugging almost apologetically, “always come true. Although they can be confusing, and one object or person may represent something else.”

  I nodded again, they covered symbolism in freshman lit.

  “Then I have sending dreams which are of people or events, they are like a message from somewhere else to me.”

  Oh, crapsicles. We're swimming in the deep end now.

  Looking over at me, her face dimmed at the skepticism on my face, and she ducked her head again, taking a sip of tea. I thought about how I would feel if I had to tell a total stranger about seeing Corky and how this ghost dog and I were total buds. Pretty much ninth gate of hell.

  “Right, sending dreams.” I tried to put sincerity in my voice to show I was on board with messages from the other side, and Aren tried to hide a smile as she spoke.

  “I dreamed of a child walking towards huge spreading oak trees. There was an old house and the girl ran across the grass from sunshine into shadow, and when she reached the shadows, a large white dog appeared and they played together. It was a very strong dream.”

  Aren toyed with her teacup, unwilling once again to meet my eyes. I took a minute to digest this along with the Danish, one going down much easier than the other.

  “But the peas,” I said, finally, “and the name?”

  “I woke up,” Aren shrugged, her face open and vulnerable, “and in my mouth was the taste of peas, eaten fresh and green off the vine, and it just came to me, Julia.” her forehead wrinkled. “I can't think how I got that wrong.” Then, her face cleared. “But you do know a Julia?”

  “Uh, yeah. Kind of? I know of her.” I made an obvious subject change. “Anyway, you dreamed a child. That's my name, Child.”

  I braced myself for the questions, the pity, when I explained. Instead, she nodded and took a huge, unladylike bite of Danish, sighing in contentment. Swallowing, she gestured to the window.

  “I put that up this morning, took me all yesterday to make that pea vine.
”

  “You made it?” I said, surprised. “It looks real!”

  “Papier Mache. I have loved the stuff since kindergarten. Something about the act of creating,” she said, “it clears my head.”

  This I understood. It was how I felt about baking.

  “I knew someone would come. I didn’t know it would be you.”

  Something about the way she said it made me pause. I looked over at her and she looked away. It was clear she didn’t want to talk about it. I could understand that. If she'd had dreams about me personally, it would be freaky and alarming for a person you just met to hear that. The thing was I didn't feel alarmed, I was kind of bummed she was so afraid of me hurting her. So, I did what my stupid communications class had recommended. I shared some of my own weirdness to balance out the “self-disclosure risk.” Huh, maybe school wasn't a total waste.

  “I guess the first thing is that I live in a haunted house,” I said, testing the waters.

  Aren looked at me, but not in the rude, judging way I had done her when she had made her sideshow announcements, but listening, accepting.

  “I didn’t really believe in any of that before I moved in.” I stalled, stirring a cup of tea I thought I had emptied. “But the thing is, I can see this ghost dog. He’s the white dog from your dream. The lady who rented me the house told me it was haunted, but she said it was this girl, Julia, well…and the dog.” I thought back. “No, not the dog. Corky, I mean, who is Julia’s dog. Nobody sees him. So she just said Julia, only I haven’t ever seen Julia. Just the dog.” I stopped, thinking of the thumps and that angry voice. “And something else. Except I didn't see it.” I looked at Aren and sighed. “I’m not telling this too well.”

  “The beginning?” suggested Aren, shifting in the chair to tuck her knees up under her chin.

  So I started from the top and told her all about meeting Corky and what I knew about Julia from Mrs. Evers. I left out the angry dead visitor, and the dreams about the blood, waiting to see how she took the first half of my crazy.

  “I would say that you need to ask yourself what you want from this “encounter.” To meet Julia? To lay her to rest? Corky to stay? To go?” Aren looked over at me expectantly.

  “Corky stays!” I said flatly. My cup rattled as I set it down. I was angry there was even a question of that.

  “Okay.” She answered, ignoring my tone. “You know, we can’t make him stay, but we can make him feel welcomed.”

  “I got him a blanket,” I said slowly, feeling dumb for getting so emotional, “and a bone.”

  “And?”Aren asked, amused. She ran her finger around the edge of her plate, collecting stray pastry crumbs.

  “He loved it. He rumpled up the blanket and lay right down, and most of the bone is totally destroyed.” I smiled, remembering. “But the ball was the real winner,” I added.

  Aren’s mouth was open, her crumb-coated finger suspended in the air. She looked like I had slapped her.

  “I’ll get him another bone,” I said, kind of defensively, wondering what the hell was her problem.

  Aren sat up, her feet hitting the floor with a thump. Her mouth worked a few times before she got the words out.

  “Are you telling me the dog is physical?” she squeaked.

  “He’s pretty active,” I said, considering. “I think he’s young though, maybe two or three.”

  Aren was shaking her head no at me. Since that clearly wasn't the right answer, I rethought the question.

  “Oh, well, I mean, the landlady said he's actually two hundred or so, but he, uh, passed over around age two or three. I'd guess.” I tacked that last bit on because she was still shaking her head at me, looking like she thought I was kind of dense. Well, what the hell?

  Aren leaned forward with that spooky intensity. “No. I meant, he moves the ball? He chewed a bone with teeth?” Her voice went all Twilight Zone.

  Was this woman nuts?

  “What else would he chew it with?” I huffed at her, annoyed. Maybe she was making fun of me.

  Aren rubbed her face with her hands and reached for her cup of tea. She swallowed, took a deep breath and then another one like the first one hadn’t given her enough air.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in that way people do when they are trying to be patient and calm, but are about to lose it if someone gets the last raspberry mint brownie before you hurry your ass up. She blew out her breath and made a visible effort to cool it.

  “You’re new to all this,” Aren said, annoying in her exaggerated patience. “You see, it’s pretty rare for a ghost or spirit,” she waved a hand around her head indicate the unseen or whatever, “call it what you will, to have physical abilities. Sometimes things are moved or maybe doors open and close. Electricity is commonly affected.” Aren looked over at me for confirmation. I shook my head no. No to the doors, electricity or moving objects, unless you counted Corky.

  “But for you to have a dog that is corporeal. Physical!” she emphasized no doubt recalling my earlier dimwittedness. “I mean he touched the blanket and moved a ball.”

  I guess I hadn’t appreciated just how special my relationship with Corky was. I was pretty sure Aren didn’t get the full extent of his corporeal behavior. I myself was grateful the biological portion of his activities disappeared before they hit the ground. Pooper scooping, even ghost doo, is not my idea of fun.

  “Uh, Aren, maybe you should have more tea,” I said. I picked up the delicate china pot and streamed golden liquid into her cup, the smell of flowers and fruit made me wrinkle my nose in self-defense.

  “What?” she said, ignoring the tea. She leaned forward, her eyes lit with some kind of ghost fever. “What else?”

  I sighed, expecting a big outburst or maybe a fainting fit.

  “He doesn’t touch the blanket or move the ball, like a nudge or push,” I explained, slowly.

  “Oh.” Aren looked crestfallen.

  “No.” I choose my words carefully, not wanting to set her off. “It’s not less…it’s more.”

  She raised one eyebrow, annoying me all over. That is something I have practiced for years and never been able to do. Yeah, I can be kind of petty.

  “He tugs the blanket and chews the blanket and drags it around the room from place to place. He goes nuts with the ball. I throw it and he races to get it. The floor shakes with his galumping.” I smiled, thinking of it. “He tosses it up and catches it, and then races back to me and shoves his big butt into my lap. I get dog spit all over me.” I paused, remembering, “But at least that goes away. The spit, I mean.”

  “YOU CAN TOUCH HIM?” Aren shrieked, much like a steam whistle announcing lunchtime at a factory.

  I pushed my chair back and gave her a rude look.

  “Okay!” she said, making an attempt to control herself, waving me back to the chair and then…“OH MY GOD!” …failed, just that quick. “I mean, I can’t believe it. What ARE you?”

  I put down my cup and stood up. Screw this! The "I dreamed you” freak was calling me a freak?

  “No, no!” Aren said pleadingly, seeing me ready to leave. “That’s good! That’s amazing!! You're amazing!!! Sit down, you nut case!” she said, breathless and smiling that Buena Vista smile.

  She had me by the arm and was laughing and tugging at me, making it impossible to be mad at her. It was really the nutcase that decided me. I mean, it was unmistakably a term of affection.

  “You know, you seemed a lot calmer, and well, more serene when I first came in,” I told her, pointedly.

  Aren found that pretty funny. “Yeah, I should have warned you.” she gasped, “I’m actually pretty shy.”

  I snorted.

  “I am!” she said. It was her turn to be defensive. “Until I get warmed up. You know, you’ve loosened up a bit yourself,” she commented, raising that eyebrow again.

  It was true, I realized. I was never this responsive around people. The whole “being unwanted” thing teaches you to keep your face blank and your emotions t
o yourself. Aren plonked herself in her chair and gazed at me with this look of awe, until to my horror, I felt myself blushing

  “Stop it,” I said warningly.

  “What?” she said and caught herself. “Oh yeah, okay.” Aren tried to look mature and composed and failed utterly. “So, Corky is a keeper.” she said. “Julia?”

  “I haven’t seen her,” I replied, hearing the relief in my voice.

  “And you don't want to?” she said. I guess she had heard it, too.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” There was a moment of silence as I thought about why I would want to see a dead girl. I had nothing.

  “Creepy?” I offered lamely.