Finally, I said, “Your beliefs just aren’t right for me.” Arguing with her would have been like trying to blow out a light bulb.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Sophia? Are you trying to say I’m not right for you? The truth is right for everybody, but you just have to go against the grain, don’t you? Even when I need you.”
Tears filled her eyes, then started in my own. Dad always said our eyes were like root beer, only lighter. Eye-color was the only feature Mother and I shared, and sometimes I thought she was angry with me for that, too. Angry I didn’t look and act more like her, as if it were personal. As if our differences somehow meant I didn’t like her.
“It has nothing to do with me, Mom. Please, let’s not go down this road.”
“The church just wants to help you, Sophia. Can’t you see that?”
“Help me?”
I shook my head. Yes, they thought they were helping. She, Mother, and the rest of their congregation were trying to pray the Wicca out of me. At least that was what Mother had told me when I’d returned home from college.
Now Mother favored me with the same hurting look she’d given me then. “Just consider it.”
“Consider what?” I snapped. “Consider hitting the back of a baby’s calves with a paint stick when they crawl off their blanket? Consider locking children in their rooms for days at a time without food, all in the name of protecting them from the sins of this world?” If I believed in her god, I’d thank him for not revealing these little gems of wisdom to her while I was still under her care. “Is that what you want me to consider? Really?”
“You’re so lost.” She sighed and looked at her hands, then closed her eyes for a long moment. “I’m trying to help you, even though being around you is a danger to my spiritual self”. You’re inviting demon spirits—”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. None.”
“I wish you were right. I truly do.”
She wasn’t going to budge, I wasn’t going to budge, and I could hardly say she was wrong about her beliefs. That was a personal choice, no matter how wrong I might have “felt she was. I opted for another approach instead.
“Have you had a chance to visit Lauren’s church?” I asked, hoping the offer of a less apocalyptic option might do the trick. Mother could keep her faith, but without all the harmful conventions. I’d been to Lauren’s church with her, and the people there all seemed like sane, genuinely nice people who used their faith to inspire them to do good. “You could go,” I added, “just to check it out.”
Mother shook her head. “You have lost sight of God’s plans for you. Those other churches don’t understand the Bible the way Mrs. Franklin does. God has spoken to her, and, through her, He has spoken to me. If you’d just receive the truth in your heart…. Oh, Sophia. I only want what’s best for you.”
“Me, too.” I headed to the kitchen to rinse out the coffee pot.
“I’ve done a lot for you,” she said, right on my tail. “I could’ve had an abortion.”
I sucked in a deep breath, steeling myself against her words. Words that were low, even for her. Forget that abortion was against her higher belief system—Mother’s manic-depression was talking now. Still, this was the woman who’d kept secrets on my behalf. The only one who knew why I’d been covered in Mr. Petrenko’s blood—that I hadn’t just found him that way and held him to my body, but that I’d seen everything. Or at least almost everything.
Maybe it was her secret-keeping that kept me in Belle Meadow—my fear she might say something if I left—but her secret-keeping also kept me out of jail. I couldn’t blame her for being mentally ill.
She started crying. She walked over and dropped her teary face onto my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean that.”
I gave her an awkward hug. “It’s okay.”
“It’s my fault.” She was shaking, her words almost unintelligible. “My fault for having you before your father and I married. Oh, God. You were damned from the day you were born, and it’s all because of me.”
Stiffening further, I swallowed around the tightness in my throat. I released her and stepped away, watching numbly after her as she walked out and quietly shut the door behind her.
Even in her absence, the words still echoed around me, as if she lived here, too. As if she existed in the very plaster of the walls and fibers of Grandfather’s Persian rugs. I sank into the couch, wiping the stinging tears from my eyes. My face felt swollen and my ears hot. I hated crying.
Before Grandpa Dunne died, he’d advised me to do two things: sell the house, and get out of Belle Meadow. So far I hadn’t managed to do either.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. I could stop worrying about the possibility of Mother revealing how I’d found Mr. Petrenko’s body, stop worrying about how I could afford to live somewhere else or whether Dad’s feelings would be hurt if I moved away.
It was time to live my life, come what may.
The whispering voices, woven with a quiet hissing, broke through my thoughts. Mand. Br. Shhh. -kened. Shhh—I put a hand on my forehead. First things first—I needed to silence the overlapping whispers pounding in my brain. If they didn’t shut up, I would go certifiably insane.
Or maybe I already was.
{chapter four}
THERE WAS ONLY ONE PERSON I could go to without turning to the doctors who had failed me before: Great Grandpa Parsons, my great-grandfather on my father’s side.
Only one problem: he was dead, leaving me with nothing more than records and mementos. Still, there might be something. He’d spent years researching the human mind to find answers about his mother, Abigail. The family called her schizophrenic, but Great Grandpa Parsons insisted her affliction was more complicated.
The thought propelled me from the couch to the fraying nylon cord hanging from the attic loft hatch in the hall. Inside, light spilled through the rusted blades of a stilled fan that blocked the porthole window, exposing unfinished beams and cardboard boxes.
Grandpa Parsons’ old chest rested between two dust-covered lamps near the window. Mother wanted Dad to throw it away, but he gave it to me to hold onto. I’d have rummaged through these things sooner had the curse presented itself as a whispering from the onset.
The voices in my head rushed by, one thought indistinguishable from the next. I tried a few deep breaths. Please GO AWAY. My stomach churned as I struggled to find a quiet place. After several minutes, the overlapping voices finally faded.
I sat and traced my finger over one of the trunk’s tarnished metal buckles. Then, hands trembling, I unfastened the cracked leather straps and lifted the lid. Buried at the bottom of the chest, beneath old sepia pictures and plastic-sheathed Spiderman comics, awaited a promising book: Voices—Into the Minds of the Disturbed.
My fingertips scanned the words as I read, releasing the book’s essence into the air. Having studied old texts, I knew this scent—vanilla, anisole, and sweet almond—wafted from the pages because the paper was fabricated from ground wood. I inhaled with a smile. Books often made better company than people.
My smile faded as I pored over the words for nearly an hour, my posture wilting more with each page I turned. None of the afflictions outlined in the text sounded anything like what I was experiencing.
Big surprise.
I probably needed to look into something current. I snapped the book shut, dust puffing into my face. I coughed, and the pungent taste of dirt and old ink coated my tongue.
Definitely smells better than it tastes.
I placed the book back into the trunk, but before I closed the lid, I noticed the corner of a handwritten, yellowed slice of paper with quill pen calligraphy sticking out from between the pages of another book. I gently lifted the document and found a photocopy tucked behind the original.
This wasn’t how old documents should be stored. I slipped one of Dad’s old comics from a plastic sheath and eased the brittle paper inside. The plastic cover wouldn’t do for the long-t
erm, either; I’d find an acid-free folder to store it in later. I set the original document aside and rested back against the chest to read the photocopy.
On this 28th day of February in the year of 1692
I, John Thornhart, Magistrate, being of the Jury last week at Salem Court, upon the trial of Elizabeth Parsons, am desired by some of her relations, due to the disappearance of the body after hanging, to supply reason why the Jury found her Guilty of witchcraft after her plea of Not Guilty. I do hereby give reason as follows:
Standing to consider the case, I must determine her words as evidence against her, for her attempt to put her Sense upon the Courtroom. Anne Bishop affirmed to the Court that her sister, Sarah Bishop, had been afflicted by Elizabeth, myself being of witness to this affliction as the words of Sarah Bishop on that day were found to me as principal evidence against Elizabeth Parsons.
Within these pages are the words of the Court, as spake by the condemned and those present at the time of conviction.
My heart knocked against my chest. I searched the trunk for the remaining pages. Nothing. I could almost imagine what it must have been like for my ancestor to be an outcast in her own town. The trial, the conviction, the hanging. Then what? She certainly didn’t rest in peace, not if her body went missing.
I’d read legends of entire families cursed over such things, and now I wondered … is that what the whispering voices were? A hereditary curse? A new energy coursed through my body. There had to be more information somewhere. If this whispering curse ran in my family, then finding out what really happened to Elizabeth’s body might be my only hope of silencing the unintelligible whispers.
* * *
I TUGGED on a pair of Eskimo boots, piled my long hair into a messy bun, and tucked the book Paloma had given me into an organic wool tote. I wasn’t sure of the book’s credibility, but it couldn’t hurt to give it a read. I wasn’t sure how much I could trust Internet resources, either. Besides, I couldn’t exactly borrow Ivory’s computer or use the computer at work for this kind of research—not unless I wanted to explain what I was looking up and why.
On my way out the door, a kid on a skateboard rushed the sidewalk, scaring the Inca doves from my lawn. The rapid flutter of wings whipped against the air, startling me, but I shook away my nerves and hopped in my Jeep.
Sunlight beat the sides of buildings to cast a shallow shade, but despite the bright sun, the weather was much cooler than I’d expected. Since Paloma’s book was only intended as backup to more legitimate resources, I stopped by the library and checked out the only two books they had on the witch trials.
Miriam Jennings, the librarian, was all-too-eager to help. It was a fellow outcast thing. In high school, she’d been the one Mrs. Franklin’s church shunned. Apparently, they wanted to save lesbians from burning in hell, too. After all, Wiccans weren’t the only ones who needed their godly help.
I didn’t profess to be a theology guru, but I was certain of one thing: if hell existed, no one as sweet as Miriam Jennings would be sent there. I offered her a small smile of thanks for her assistance and asked her how her partner was doing while she scanned my books for check out. The entire exchange renewed my sense of hope. I didn’t need to let people like Mrs. Franklin get under my skin.
Outside the library, an elderly woman outside gave me a sideways glance, her gaze shifting over the top of her aviator-style glasses to my skirt and boots. I shrugged. Today it was my clothes. Tomorrow, they’d think my hair was the wrong shade of blonde, or that I was too short and read too much.
Once back on the road, I turned onto Midland Avenue, heading toward the edge of town—toward my favorite forest trail, where I could read without Mother or anyone else stopping by to interrupt. The road narrowed near City Hall and curved to the left. The area used to be a graveyard, but when they decided to build a street there, they dug up all the coffins and moved them to the new cemetery, which, even if not uncommon, was still weird.
As I passed by City Market, the darkness of memories I’d rather not remember rolled in. The streetlight turned red, and the whispering curse throttled through my mind. For once, I wished the whispers were loud enough to distract me from my thoughts.
To tourists, the market was merely a place to stop in and purchase a few items for their hotel fridge. Belle Meadow, mountain resort town! They didn’t care about the town’s history in coal mining, and they certainly hadn’t heard about the murder, or how Mrs. Petrenko, now a widow, sold the building to City Market. The windows had been replaced with new treatments, the parking lot repaved, and the inside freshly painted and retiled. But the shell of the building remained, a constant reminder.
For months after the murder, I’d visited Mrs. Petrenko twice a week. She taught me to garden, taught me to identify the different herbs and their natural properties. She inspired me to look at what connected nature with humanity, which ultimately led me to my Wiccan faith, though I was certain that hadn’t been her intentions.
Mrs. Anatoly Petrenko was perhaps one of the sweetest women I’d ever met. And her pelmenis, hands-down, made for the best Russian cuisine I’d ever tasted. A few times, she told me I was the daughter she’d never had. She and Mr. Petrenko had come here to start their own business, and their hardships had gotten in the way of starting a family. For all these reasons and more, I eventually stopped visiting.
I didn’t deserve her kindness.
A car honked behind me—the light had finally turned green. I hit the gas and took off toward the hiking trails.
According to a local legend, a girl had once been killed in the forest on this side of town. Eaten alive by cannibals. Bite marks all over her body—not quite human, not quite animal. The local teenage rite of passage was to spend a night in these woods, to face the ghost of the girl or the demonic forest-beings who slaughtered her.
Of course, it was all a fallacy. We just sat beneath the forest canopy drinking cheap liquor. By adulthood, our fears eased. The poor girl had probably been mauled by a mountain lion or something.
I parked my Jeep and hiked a short ways to a small clearing. I sat on the ground and leaned back against one of the aspens. Cracks in the bark carved a road map to the rusted leaves above, and the sun leered through the tree’s skeletal branches.
I took my books from my bag and laid them out in front of me, inhaling their camphoric, oily smell. I cherry-picked relevant notes from the two library books, trying to find records of my ancestor.
When the library books bared no mention, I opened the book from Paloma. The preface spoke of the more than two hundred people accused of witchcraft. At first, only the homeless and the elderly had been damned. All because Reverend Parris’ daughters had a few temper tantrums. Or maybe it’d been the weather causing ergot of rye, which led to alkaloid poisoning. The result? Screaming, seizures, and trance-like states.
Soon after the early accusations, witchcraft became a weapon against those with enviable plots of land, those too old to be unwed, and those who were simply misunderstood. Twenty innocent people were executed. More died awaiting trial.
The additional details in Paloma’s offering were unfamiliar. The book suggested the Universe had created ‘elementals’—supernaturals separated into clans for each element: earth, water, air, fire, and eventually spirit. The spirit elementals came to be called witches, though over the years, many other elementals had been accused of witchcraft, along with many innocent humans.
A footnote on the page read: ‘Only one true witch was executed during these times. She remains unlisted in traditional history.’
Elizabeth Parsons’ execution had taken place before the Salem witch trials, and there were no records of her death, aside from the court document I’d found in my attic. Maybe traditional history books didn’t list her because her body had disappeared. What if she’d been the ‘one true witch’? Or was I nuts to consider any of this?
I flipped idly through the pages, stopping at one with markings scrawled along the margins: ‘
LC 47’ and, beneath that, a partial address: 793 Basker St.
The home of the previous book owner? If so, they might know more about the book. Then again, maybe it’d be better to swallow the pill and ask Dad about all this before stomping into the lives of strangers, demanding answers. But dragging Dad into things meant putting a wedge between him and Mother. If Mother knew his ancestor had been accused of being a witch—
A voice interrupted my thoughts: Can’t you do anything right?
I clutched my bag and glanced around. It’d been clear. Distinct. Not tangled with the mess of voices usually in my head. But, as quickly as it’d come, it was gone, sinking back into the pits of my mind.
Something wet struck my lip. Rain’s coming, I thought, looking up. Clouds gathered above, dusk closing in and the moon already visible. Absorbed in the book, I hadn’t noticed daylight slinking away.
A family of raccoons darted across the clearing, straw-like grass crunching beneath their paws. As they ticked across the field, my gaze followed them until a soft breeze picked up and muffled voices crept from the shadows.
I scanned the glade. Nothing. “Anyone there?”
The evening wind changed direction, carrying a moist chill and the stink of death.
I tossed my books into my bag and hurried down the path. As I stepped over a fallen tree, the thicket of silvery peeling aspen trees clustered together and obstructed the remaining light. The darkness sent tingles up my spine, just like in my childhood.
I will not panic. I am not afraid of the dark.
If I told myself enough times, maybe I’d believe it.
Tugging at my jacket sleeves, I waited for my eyes to adjust, then plowed through the underbrush and made my way over the knobby roots of the forest path. A squirrel scampered in front of me and perched on a cluster of burgeoning mushrooms”.
The Forever Girl Page 3