Forbidden

by Lori Adams

  The antique doorknob slowly rotates with a reluctant click. The door opens a crack and a dark figure slips into the murky room. Sundance growls and bolts from the bed, dragging the sheets and blankets with him. Two barks explode like grenades.

  “Oh shut it, Scooby-Doo! Nobody believes you anyway!” Bailey whispers, and I fall back on the bed like I’ve been shot.

  “Bailey! What in the hell!”

  She maneuvers around Sundance, whose second wave of attack involves sloppy kisses. “Oh good, you’re awake,” she says, and plops down next to me.

  “How did you get in here?” I sit back up and clutch my shirt. My heart is a jackhammer.

  “Are you kidding? I’ve snuck in and out of more houses than Insanity Claus on Christmas Eve.”

  “Yeah, but why? What’s up? You know, my dad will—”

  “Listen, chica, I’ll give all the details on the way. Now c’mon. We gotta go.” She pulls me up.

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack. Now hurry. It’s almost midnight.”

  Bailey throws clothes at me and I pull on jeans and a sweatshirt. She explains little to nothing as we tiptoe downstairs. All I get is, “We’re in a hurry” and “We’re hoofin’ it.”

  We sneak out the front door and scurry across the street. Bailey flattens against the side of Hadley’s Market so I do, too. She does a spy-peek around the corner while I scan the square. The town is dead, a lovely shade of rigor mortis gray.

  “What are you doing?” My voice shatters the quiet, and Bailey sounds like a spray can shushing me. I get the giggles and let them loose like kamikaze fighters to die a glorious death against Bailey’s reprimanding glare. She is quite serious.

  The gazebo is still glowing from the dance lights, a lone beacon across the murky square. “Aw, Bail, look how pretty.” I step forward and point. “Somebody left the lights on.”

  She yanks me into the shadows and says, “You gotta be quiet!”

  I say, “Why?” and the spray can goes off again.

  Bailey looks around for something or someone she doesn’t want to find. Satisfied, she whispers, “Follow me.”

  We negotiate the park tree by tree, very Mission Impossible–esque, and I have to fight back more giggles. We round the far side of the gazebo and scout for enemies.

  “Who we hiding from? Duffy? Jordan?” I peek through the thin boards but don’t see anyone. “Your parents hear you sneak out?” I slump against the railing and check my pockets for leftover gum. Empty.

  “Are you kidding? I’ve got pro skillage at this.”

  Another look around and then she tugs my sleeve and we’re off. We scamper past the courthouse and then make for the side entrance of the library. Somehow I’m not surprised to find it unlocked. We head down a long hallway that smells of musty books and mildew, an attic after it rains.

  We zigzag through a large, spacious room, the nave of the original church that now accommodates long, worn tables, stained-glass windows, walls stuffed with books, and staircases spiraling up to the balconies. I am engrossed in the architecture and look for religious leftovers but Bailey turns under an archway and I don’t want to get lost. I jog to catch up, and we stop before a tall bookshelf that has been pushed away from the wall and is revealing an old, rickety stairwell. It’s dark except for a pinprick light at the bottom. She starts down but I demand to know what we’re doing here.

  “Surprise!” she says with fake enthusiasm. A sick feeling rocks my stomach. Usually Bailey and Rachel’s sporadic kidnappings involve something fun that I’ve never done before. This time Rachel isn’t here and Bailey’s odd behavior is giving me the willies.

  “Tell me what’s going on. And why here of all places.”

  “Remember I told you to be ready for this?”

  “No. What?”

  She hedges down the stairs and offers a hand. “It’s time for a little revenge.” She smiles like the Riddler, and I follow like the idiot I am.

  It’s cold and damp and smelly, and our shoes are gnashing teeth that grind grit on the stone stairs. “Remember this used to be a church?” Bailey says, and I “Uh-huh” her. “Well, we thought it would be the perfect place for the ceremony.”

  I stop. “Ceremony?”

  “Just c’mon. We gotta get down there by midnight. Everybody’s waiting.”

  “Who’s waiting?” She pulls me along and peers over my shoulder like she’s expecting someone.

  “Everybody we need. You’ll see, now c’mon. Don’t you trust me?” She offers a fake innocent smile, which I promptly mirror back.

  One horrible step at a time, we descend into the creepy basement, brushing aside cobwebs and dodging spiders. The light below is growing brighter around the corner. We turn on the landing and the last few steps dump us into a small, stony room. An old storage keep, the walls and ceiling are cut slabs of faded gray and yellow sandstone. Wooden crates against the walls hold candles that throw ribbons of flickering light around the room. In the center is a multicolored rug where three plump old ladies in purple kimonos sit like bent sausages on fat cushions. Norah and Gracie McCarthy, and Abigail Monroe. Red turbans with large purple feathers have replaced their traditional red hats. The twins have sugar-sweet smiles while Abigail’s mouth is a red pyramid of irritation.

  “Took you long enough. I can’t sit like this forever.” Abigail’s chubby body is pretzeled into a pseudo-lotus position, a kielbasa ready to snap.

  “Sorry,” Bailey says, walking over.

  “What’s going on?” I look around and sniff. Several lines of incense coil through the air like phantom snakes, a pungent smell that tickles my brain. Oversized blue and purple pillows surround the ladies and bring to mind a cheap fortuneteller’s tent.

  Abigail takes charge and raises her arms for the announcement. Her voice is loud and dramatic, a ringmaster to the circus.

  “We are Sisters of the Red Hat Society! And we will be performing a hypnotic ceremony to induce a hex on—what’s his name?”

  “Steve the Bass-tid.”

  “STEVE THE BASS-TID!” Abigail hails with a flourish, her fleshy apple cheeks quivering from the effort. Her eyes, loaded with blue eye shadow and false eyelashes, hone in on me. She beckons me with a long, red-tipped fingernail.

  I shoot Bailey a hard look, but she yanks me down onto a silk pillow. We assume the position and I say, “I don’t believe in hypnosis.” My suspicion slides over their faces and comes to rest on Norah’s sweet smile. At least, I think it’s Norah.

  “That’s quite all right, my dear,” she says maternally. “We’re professionals. It’s a simple behavioral modification technique. I’ll be inducing the hypnotic state—”

  “Oh no you won’t!” Gracie counters. “I’ll be doing it.” She is slightly perturbed, like they’ve had this argument before. Her feather is a furry antenna drooping into her face. She sputters and swats it away.

  “I’m the hypnotist,” Norah clarifies through her teeth.

  “And I’ve nearly completed the Franz Mesmer online course in hypnotherapy.” Gracie blows the feather up and out of her eyes. “Just five more lessons and I’ll get my gold mesmerizing pocket watch in the mail.” She puckers her lips and nods in satisfaction.

  Abigail is adjusting the invisible cushion beneath her large round bottom and scowling at their unprofessionalism. “Ladies! Ladies! Please! Sisters of the Red Hat Society must have some decorum!” She loses her balance and rolls onto her face.

  “But I thought we agreed that I would perform the hypnosis?” Gracie pouts like a little girl.

  “Okay, then.” Abigail relents just to get on with it.

  “Oh, she can’t do it,” Norah grumbles and slumps into her pillow. “Gracie doesn’t have the balls for it.”

  “Yes I do!” Gracie gushes out with dramatic conviction. “I do have the balls for it! Lots of balls! Big ones! I’ve got the biggest balls for the job. Right, Abby?”

  Bailey and I exchange looks and then fall agains
t each other laughing.

  “Well, I do!” Gracie contends.

  “Good Lord, Gracie! Put a sock in it!” Abby snaps, and they fall quiet while Bailey and I stifle our laughter.

  With the argument settled, Gracie, in her cockeyed turban and feather, which now looks like a ginormous inverted eyelash, wiggles over on her knees and rests her hands on my shoulders. “You must relax, my dear.”

  I giggle and say, “Why hypnosis? Why not just put a hex on Steve and be done with it?”

  “We need you in a deep state of awareness to call upon help for the curse. Once ready, you must recite the words yourself. Now hush. Calm down and relax.” Her voice is soothing yet firm, and her breath is laced with syrupy alcohol. I smile and play along. It’s better than staring at my ceiling all night.

  I exhale all my apprehension but keep all my skepticism close at hand. Maybe this will make an interesting article for the Gazette. As a member of the town council, I bet Miss Minnie would love to know the inner workings of the Red Hat secret society. Although, I’m not sure holding a hypnotically induced séance is what the founding members had in mind for the Red Hat Society. But with members like Norah, Gracie, and Abigail, anything is possible. I’m just grateful they didn’t bring the ducks.

  *

  So here I am sitting on a comfy pillow in the basement of the church-cum-library at a few minutes before midnight. Gracie is trying her darnedest to settle me into a deep state of relaxation. Her pudgy little face with serious blue eyes is so comical that I’m biting my lip to stop a laugh.

  “Close your eyes,” Gracie croons like a doting mother. She strokes my head and shoulders, reciting some soothing gibberish. It doesn’t work.

  I open my eyes to find Gracie frowning at me. Over her shoulder, I see Abigail take a swig of something amber in a bottle. She hands it to Norah who tosses back a long shot.

  “You have to want to be hypnotized, Soph,” Bailey says. “You’re not trying.”

  “Yes, you must want to be hypnotized.” Gracie nods enthusiastically. “You must believe that you can be hypnotized.”

  I don’t want to be and I don’t think I can be. There.

  They make me try it lying down, standing up, and sitting again while Gracie drones on about peaceful seashores and happy flowers. She tries swinging a medallion on a necklace in front of me but she gets dizzy and nearly topples over so we stop.

  Just as Abigail suggests somebody should’ve brought music, I yawn.

  “There! Look! She’s finally relaxing!” Gracie blasts, and I’m wide-awake again.

  “We’re not supposed to put her to sleep.” Norah hiccups and crawls over on her hands and knees, dragging the bottle. Her purple feather is an antenna guiding the way. “We’re supposed to induce a calm”—hiccup—“state of heightened awareness.” She hands me the bottle. “Here, sugar, just take a nip. It’ll snap your insides like a”—hiccup—“garter.”

  I tip the bottle back and something delicious floods my mouth. Mmm. Enough to warm my throat and stomach.

  Bailey takes a drink and then we sit back and try again. Gracie reluctantly allows Norah to take a turn, so we form a circle and hold hands. I grab on to Norah and Bailey. We close our eyes, and Norah’s voice drops to a deep, gentle tempo. She directs me to relax body parts and narrow my focus. She talks me down deeper … beyond my body … beyond my thoughts; to empty my mind of all distractions, all emotions, all sensations. Open up. Open up. Open up to the spirit world.

  I feel myself sliding out of my consciousness, my head nodding forward, my arms sagging immobile. I’m aware that I am unaware of sensations around me. The air has gone numb.

  Pages in a book flutter and stop. Norah’s calm voice becomes sharp and demanding. “By the Book of Enoch, I call upon you, heroes of old, Soldiers of the Son. Come forth and lend us your enchantments.”

  Norah’s hand slips from mine, and I feel her arms stroking the air around me, gathering up energy. Her fingers snap at intervals. I can’t understand what she is doing. I try to look but realize my eyes won’t open.

  The air begins to swirl inside the room, tossing my hair about. I raise my head to look but my eyes are still unwilling to open. My chest begins to tingle deep at the core, a place untouched and asleep for ages. The sensation travels like an echo up canyon walls, and then something deep inside me cleaves in two. I am separating from something and feel the stitches between my heart and soul strain and snap. The air cracks like a whip, and visions of Mom flash across my eyes. I sit upright in panic.

  A wave of lightness roils up from the fissure in my chest, swirling around my spine and shooting through my arms and legs, my fingers and toes. My mind is anesthetized, thoughts held in limbo. A sharp jolt rocks my head back and I react with a strange, natural instinct that has lain dormant.

  I spring to my feet, my left hand searching my hip for a dagger. There is no weapon and I am filled with panic. I hear moans—bodies struggling against one another. I try again, unsuccessfully, to open my eyes.

  A scream slams against my ears and I am terrified with the need to protect my friends. Shadows rise behind my eyelids, sharp etchings against the inky background. They move closer, and I thrust an imaginary dagger at them.

  Mom is calling my name. I turn toward the sound but realize the voice is coming from inside me. I feel her presence, her worry. She is afraid for me. She is begging someone to help me.

  The air begins to spin and roar like a freight train. Mournful cries for help swirl inside it; voices lost in time. Their prayers stick to my skin like teardrops, and I am overcome with the desire to help them. I blindly reach out, cry out, in vain.

  Mom yells, Don’t touch them! Not yet! It’s too soon! Terrified, I jerk my hands back.

  And then, without warning, the chaos stops as abruptly as it started, and I fall to my knees, my hands covering my face. All is quiet … and then I hear it, the gentle roar of the ocean breathing water back and forth against the shore. The low rocking of a strong heartbeat.

  We are not alone.

  Each breathing wave brings the smell of ice and a cold breeze that chills my skin and lifts the ends of my hair. Something very powerful is inches away from my face, and I am instantly trembling.

  I inhale sharply and the air is frigid inside my mouth and throat and lungs. I feel immersed in Arctic water, goose bumps rising on my arms. My eyes flutter and finally open.

  The room is gray but I can see Bailey and the others passed out across the pillows. I turn slowly, following the source of pale light emanating from the corner. A glowing apparition with millions of tiny white flecks is crystallizing into the shape of a man with blond hair and two braids in his beard. He is dressed in silver and white armor with gauntlets and weapons. A knight from ancient times. He has one blue eye and one brown eye, and they watch me with unabashed interest.

  I am shivering so hard that my body is jerking. This can’t be real! Something in Norah’s drink did this! No way this is real!

  I’m staring impolitely because, hey, I’m scared to death. As I open my mouth to speak, his eyes widen in shock.

  “Can you see me?” he asks astonished. An icy vapor shoots from his lips, and I realize he is the epicenter of my coldness. I nod hesitantly, and my answer lights up his already glowing features. He seems euphorically happy, his face bright and smiling like an electric lawn Santa.

  “Who are you?” I breathe out. He starts to answer but a loud bang upstairs shakes the walls, and he stops. His attention shifts to the stairwell, and irritation narrows his eyes. Happiness gone.

  The second heartbeat springs alive in my chest, and the man’s eyes snap to mine in recognition. Two words cut through my thoughts. He knows!

  I hold my breath hoping he’ll say something. I can tell he wants to stay and talk but he reluctantly steps back, his image separating into tiny ice chips before bursting into nothingness. I flinch, and he is gone. The room is black and the chill is sucked from the air and peeled from my skin like he is taki
ng it with him.

  Bailey and the others start whimpering and groaning in the dark. Footsteps and a beam of light bounce down the stairs. The light turns the corner and hits me full in the face. I squint and raise a hand against it.

  “What on earth is going on here?” Michael demands.

  Beside him, Milvi gasps. “Holy moley!”

  The beam of light dances sporadically, taking inventory of the room. It’s in shambles. A silk pillow has been torn open and white feathers float down like drunk lightning bugs with their chutes open. Gracie and Norah are sprawled across the rug, their red turbans uncoiled like bleeding laundry. Gracie is passed out, her silk harem shoes pointing straight up like the dead. Abigail pushes to her hands and knees, her purple kimono butt sticking out like a bruised hippo. She is plucking feathers from her hair and using curse words not yet invented. Bailey is sitting with her back against the wall, wide-eyed and staring at me.

  It’s like a sauna in here since the man left, and a wave of nausea rocks my stomach. I reach out for Michael. “You won’t believe what just—”

  “Sophia!” He cuts me off in that commanding voice that I know all too well. He orders everyone to get up, to leave at once. Michael is furious, like he caught us defacing public property—which I can’t blame him for, considering the mess. I try to explain again but he barks, “Not now!” and I clamp my mouth shut.

  Slowly and supporting each other, we wobble to our feet. I’m fighting back the dizziness that is pushing my vomit button. Bailey is sporting more than a few wild feathers but also an uncharacteristic look of shame. Something is up with her, but I feel too overwhelmed to ask. I just want to get out of the stifling room before I spew.

  Michael carries Gracie up the stairs, out the door, and sets her down on the library steps. A light tapping on the cheek wakes her. He instructs Norah and Abigail to see Gracie home, which they do without question. They seem anesthetized by what happened, or maybe just too embarrassed to argue. Bailey is disoriented and meandering sideways down the street so Milvi leads her toward the B and B.