The Witch's Grave

by Shirley Damsgaard

  I felt like a friggin’ invalid.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” I heard the weary note in my voice. “Darci, why—”

  “All tucked in?” Abby bustled into the room, carrying a steaming mug. “Here, drink this,” she said as she handed the cup to me.

  I sniffed the rising steam suspiciously. “What is it?”

  With Abby, one never knew what kind of concoction she’d made. She wasn’t above slipping “a little something extra” into the tea if she thought it might help me sleep. And I wasn’t so sure I wanted to sleep. With sleep came dreams.

  She waved away my concerns with a toss of her hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s chamomile. It will help you relax.”

  I took a cautious sip and felt the hot, sweet tea warm the cold spot that lay deep inside my heart. My vision blurred as the tears gathered in my eyes. With trembling hands, I raised the cup to my lips again and choked down the rest of the tea, almost scalding my tongue. I didn’t care. I needed the heat to break through the numbness wrapped around me like a chain.

  Darci stepped away from the bed as Abby sat next to me. Seeing the tears, she took my hand in hers and rubbed it softly. “There, there,” she murmured. “It’s all right, Ophelia.”

  “No, it’s not, Abby. I saw a man shot down; I saw the blood seep out of his chest.” A tremor ran up my spine. “I’ve seen violence in my dreams, but it’s different seeing it in real life. In dreams, I can’t change anything—it’s already happened, but this…” I pushed my head back against the pillow and shut my eyes.

  Sudden weariness fogged my brain, and I couldn’t seem to string my thoughts together. “I don’t get it.” Opening my eyes, I looked at her. “I knew something was about to happen, but I thought it was going to be something good…not bad.” I clenched my jaw and exhaled slowly. “Did you sense anything?”

  Abby shook her head. “No, but then I wasn’t trying to pick up any vibes. We don’t see everything, Ophelia.”

  “I did—I did see, but I read the signs wrong,” I argued, more with myself than her. “If the vision had given me more of a warning, I could have stopped this from happening. I failed again. What if Stephen dies? I—”

  “Don’t go there.” She squeezed my hand…hard. “Don’t resurrect the past. You know you weren’t responsible for Brian’s death, and you’re not responsible for that young man today. There are things we can’t change, nor are we supposed to.”

  “That’s what you always say,” I mumbled, fighting to stay awake.

  “I say it because it’s true. And I’ll keep saying it until you believe it.” Abby’s face swam in front of me as I tried to focus. Losing the battle, my eyelids slowly drifted down.

  Damn, she did put something in the tea.

  I woke up to a bedroom dark except for moonlight. A warm body curled next to mine. Stretching out my hand, my fingers found soft, thick fur. A low purr greeted me. The bed moved, and my cat, Queenie, shifted her body closer to mine.

  Combing her fur with my fingers, my eyes traveled around the room, spotting familiar shapes and shadows: my nightstand with an antique lamp sitting on its marble top; my dresser along the east wall; my comfy reading chair, placed just right by the window located on the west wall.

  The chair’s shadow suddenly altered. A form came out of the depths of the chair, and, in the faint light, I caught the glimmer of blond hair.

  Tink.

  “Are you awake?” she whispered in the darkness.

  “Yeah.” Slowly scooting up, I flicked on the antique lamp, filling the room with warm, mellow light. “How long have you been sitting there?”

  “Not long.” Tink rose and crossed the room. With a sigh, she plopped down on the bed next to me. “Are you okay?” she said while her violet eyes roamed my face.

  “Umm-hmm,” I replied with a smile.

  She gave me a skeptical look. “You sure? You seemed really out of it.”

  “Ah, well, I think there was more than just tea in that cup.” I rubbed my forehead with my fingers as if trying to scrub away the residual lethargy. “Abby ‘medicated’ me.”

  “Valerian drops, I bet,” Tink said with a nod. “Calms you down and helps you sleep.”

  My mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Whatever it was, it worked.”

  “Did you dream?”

  “Nope.”

  Thank goodness. I’d have to deal with dreams eventually. As a psychic, I knew I couldn’t experience something as traumatic as the shooting without some kind of mental fallout. But for now, I was safe.

  “Is Abby still here?”

  “Yeah, she’s downstairs on the phone with Arthur. He was worried about you, too.” Tink paused. “Abby told me what happened. She said someone was shot.”

  I hesitated. Tink, like Abby, had a habit of rushing into situations best left alone. If it had been attempted murder, I wanted her as far away from the investigation as possible. The less she knew, the better. But before I could answer, she spoke again.

  “Who tried to kill him?”

  So much for keeping her in the dark.

  I held up my hand. “Wait a second. We don’t know that it was attempted murder. Bill said it might have been an accident. A hunter whose shot went wild.”

  “Right, and it’s just a coincidence that you were standing there.”

  “Yes.” My voice didn’t sound convincing even to me.

  “This was just something that ‘happened’?”

  I didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. “What do you mean?”

  Tink lifted a thin shoulder in a careless shrug. “Abby says there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

  Brother, how many times have I heard that one? And if they learned about my dreams…? I needed to nip this in the bud right now.

  “Tink,” I said, my voice serious, “what happened was awful enough without making more of it than it is. Bill will discover the truth.”

  Tink ignored me. “Maybe you’re supposed to discover the truth. Maybe the Universe put you there for a reason.”

  I snorted. “You sound more like Abby every day.”

  She smiled proudly. “Thanks.”

  I wasn’t sure I meant my remark as a compliment.

  “Tink—”

  Abruptly, she leaned forward and gave me a hug. “I’ve got to get to bed.” Standing, she smiled again. “Don’t worry, Ophelia, you’ll figure out what the Universe wants you to do.” Pivoting, she headed for the door.

  I sat forward. “Wait a second…I’m not—”

  I spoke to an empty room.

  Four

  I tossed around in bed trying to find a comfortable place.

  Was Tink right? Was Abby right?

  I glanced at the clock. Eleven.

  Did Stephen survive his surgery? If I called the hospital would they tell me?

  Probably not—I wasn’t a relative, and I doubted the nurses would release information to a stranger. I’d have to wait until morning to learn of Stephen’s condition.

  Suddenly hot, I kicked off the covers and jumped out of bed. Queenie, routed from her cozy position, rose, stretched, and with an indignant look at me, jumped off the bed and sauntered out of the room. Crossing to the window, I pulled back the curtain and stared out into the backyard of my little Victorian cottage. A full moon lit the night. Long shadows cast by the trees ringing my property dappled the ground, and a hazy mist floated just above my freshly mowed grass. The scene was peaceful, yet eerie.

  The air in my bedroom felt stifling, and I took a deep breath as if I couldn’t get enough oxygen into my lungs. All of a sudden I felt caged—the room seemed to grow smaller and smaller. Shoving my feet into a pair of clogs, I fled.

  Quietly, I moved swiftly down the hall to the stairs. I didn’t want to rouse Tink or Abby. I needed to think before we had any more discussions about the shooting. Creeping down the stairs, I heard Abby’s voice coming from the main floor guest room. The way her voice carried, it se
emed she was still on the phone with Arthur, who often took out his hearing aids at night. Good, she’d be concentrating on making herself heard, and not paying attention. The irony hit me. This was just like high school, trying to sneak out from under the watchful eye of my mother.

  As I rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, from over my shoulder I spied my dog, Lady, curled up in the living room by the fireplace. She lifted her head and one blue eye, one brown eye, watched me in speculation while her tail thumped the floor.

  Turning, I placed a finger on my lips. “Shh,” I whispered, and patted my leg softly. “You want to go outside?”

  She scrambled to her feet, and together we slipped out the back door onto the patio. I chose the chaise lounge, while Lady ran toward the trees, her nose close to the ground, sniffing for the trail of some elusive squirrel. Leaning my head back, I took another deep breath and let the night calm me.

  The sounds of crickets chirping, and Lady rustling through the underbrush as she searched for her squirrel, filled the night. The air, though heavy with humidity, felt good against my bare arms. Stars, scattered across the sky above me, winked and sparkled like glitter.

  In my mind, I returned to my original question: Were Tink and Abby right? Was I supposed to be there? Did the Universe have some task for me?

  Yes. And it scared the crap out of me. It had only been a couple of months since Tink’s kidnapping, one of the worst experiences in my life. We’d all struggled so hard to find her. It had been a battle of a lifetime, and I didn’t know if I was up to facing another ordeal so soon. What if my psychic gift had been depleted? What if my “batteries” needed to be re-charged? It might account for why I hadn’t sensed the danger before it struck Stephen down.

  Abby always said to trust myself, to have faith. Right. At times, that’s easier said than done. Facing challenge after challenge can beat you down until all you want is a little peace in your life. Some respite.

  A long sigh escaped while I stared at the night sky. One thing I’d learned over the past couple of years—it didn’t make a difference if I was ready or not. Another fight was on the horizon, and I’d better be prepared.

  Reclining on the chaise, tiredness slithered up my body and my limbs felt too heavy to lift. Damn Abby’s potions—how long were they going to linger in my system?

  A comet shot across the heavens above as sleep once again claimed me.

  I walked through fields of wildflowers as before, only this time the world wasn’t sunny and bright. Storm clouds roiled across the sky and, from miles away, the low sound of thunder rumbled. Wind whipped the tall grass, bending it low to the ground. Each step was a struggle against the force of the wind.

  Stephen stood on the crest of a hill, as he had in the other dreams, but he faced away from me. I shouted his name, but the shrieking wind blew the words back in my face. Yelling his name again, I lowered my head and fought to move forward. I had to reach him—somehow I knew my life, his life, depended on it. I lifted one foot, but it felt as if it were encased in mud. Struggling, I tried to hurry through the weeds, but the more I tried, the heavier my steps became. Vines wrapped around my ankles and I fell facedown. Thistles scratched my face. Arms trembling with exertion, I pushed myself to my knees.

  Lifting my head, I called out, “Stephen, help me!”

  Stephen’s body slowly rotated until he faced me.

  Bleak blue eyes stared at me from across the meadow, and I stretched a hand toward him.

  “Stephen…” I ripped away the vines and shoved myself to my feet. If I could only reach him, everything would be okay.

  With my eyes focused on him, I watched him raise his hands in a helpless gesture as a small circle of bright red appeared in the center of his white shirt. The dot grew bigger and bigger, spreading beyond Stephen to color the meadow in a crimson haze.

  Wind roared in my ears, and I shut my eyes to block the sound and the sight of the once beautiful field now stained scarlet. Dizziness swept over me. Shaking my head, I fought against it.

  The world suddenly righted, and the wind stopped. A shove in the middle of my back had my eyes flying open.

  “Hurry.”

  Racks and racks of clothing surrounded me, and the small room seemed clogged with people. Tall, rangy women stood in a line and were being poked and prodded by a small man with a thin mustache. A tape measure dangling from around his neck swayed as he flitted down the line from woman to woman. Each one stood patiently while he yanked at their clothes and fluffed their hair. Then with a push, he sent them out between curtains hung across the doorway. Each time the curtains parted, the cloying smell of perfume wafted through the room.

  What was he doing?

  “Madeleine, get in line. You’re next.”

  As I looked around to spot Madeleine, a rotund woman grabbed my arm and began to pull me toward the little man.

  Me? I’m Madeleine? I tried to take a step, but something was wrapped around my knees. I stumbled.

  “What is wrong with you today?” she asked with a yank, righting me.

  This is so weird. I minced along beside the woman until I was in front of the little man.

  “Tsk tsk,” he hissed while pinching at my waist. “No more croissants for you. You’re lucky this still fits.”

  Wait a second, this might be a dream, but I didn’t need some strange little man telling me what I could or couldn’t eat. I tried to take a deep breath in order to deliver a scathing reply, but the bodice was so tight, my ribs barely moved. My eyes traveled down.

  No jeans, no long flowing dress—instead I wore a tight-fitting jacket that flared over my hips. It had shoulder pads that made my silhouette look like a linebacker’s. Its material was black with tiny white polka dots. A body-hugging skirt of the same material completed the ensemble and seemed to swaddle my legs to mid-calf. No wonder I couldn’t walk.

  “Look at me,” the man commanded. He lifted my chin and turned my head from side to side. “More powder,” he said with a snap of his fingers.

  A woman in a white smock scurried over and dusted my nose and cheeks with a soft puff full of fine, light powder.

  I sneezed.

  “Zzt, none of that,” he scolded. “Do you want them to think you’re sick?” Reaching up, he drew a net veil down over my face.

  It felt scratchy on my nose, and I lifted a hand to brush it away, but the man stopped me.

  “Leave it alone. I know you don’t like hats, but the customers do.”

  With a shove, he sent me out through the curtains.

  My startled eyes flew around the room.

  The entire room was decorated in white and gold. The walls were white satin and the floor was covered with gold carpet. Large vases of creamy white lilies on gold pedestals littered the room. Elegantly dressed women, with hair so blond it was almost white, stood in clusters, sipping pale liquid from fluted, crystal glasses. The tall women I’d seen in the little room strolled from group to group, pausing in front of each and doing a little pirouette. The blond women studied them with arctic blue eyes, and a couple of the blondes lifted thin, penciled eyebrows as they sized up the clothes the tall women wore.

  I’m at some kind of a fashion show and I’m one of the models.

  The thought ricocheted through my brain and I stifled a laugh.

  Me? Ophelia Jensen? The fashion challenged Ophelia Jensen? A model?

  It was ridiculous even for a dream. Had to be the stuff Abby put in the tea to make me dream something as crazy as this.

  I took one halting step forward then stopped when I noticed the blondes’ companions—a group of men in the corner sitting rigidly on white chairs trimmed in gold. They were dressed in gray uniforms, with epaulets on the shoulders and collars trimmed in silver braid. Their posture was stiff and they all looked bored. One man, with close-cropped hair, drummed his fingers impatiently on his thigh as he spun a peaked hat with a visor in his other hand. He stopped and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. As he did, the gold me
dal on his jacket pocket caught the light. An iron cross with some kind of insignia stamped in its center.

  The veil covering my face made it difficult to see, and I squinted for a better look.

  My god—a swastika.

  Where the hell was I?

  Five

  A cold, wet nose nudging my arm had my eyes flying open while my heart still raced. I shot straight up in the chair and took a long, deep breath of the moist night air. With a groan, Lady nuzzled her head in my lap as if trying to comfort me. The pounding of my heart slowed, and I reached down to scratch her ears.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I said softly.

  She cocked her head to the side, and I could see the doubt in her eyes.

  Stroking her ears, I forced a smile in the darkness. “No, really, I’m okay, but that was one heck of a dream. Remind me not to drink any more of Abby’s tea.”

  Was it the tea? It had to be. All my life I’ve had dreams, but never one that strange. Never had I dreamt of events that had happened long ago. Chewing my lip, I tried to recall the images. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the men in my dream were Nazis. The swastika on the medal was a big clue.

  Okay, the dream was taking place during World War II, or there about. I’ve never been a fan of military history, so why would I dream of that time period? I searched my memory for anything that might have triggered the dream. Had I read any articles about the war? Had we received any books on the subject in the recent past? Nope—not that I could recall.

  And what about the model thing? What possibly could’ve caused me to imagine that? As Darci frequently pointed out, I had no sense of fashion, and she’d made it a life mission to clear out all of the polyester in my closet. I wore linen in the fall and tweed in the spring—according to Darci—a big “no-no.” She’d even made me throw away my favorite hair accessory—scrunchies. Had Darci’s constant efforts to give me some style filtered into my subconscious, causing me to dream of being a model?