What Lies Beyond

by B. B. Palomo

  What Lies Beyond

  B.B. Palomo

  Copyright © 2021 by B.B. Palomo.

  First Edition: June 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  Published by Ember Sky Publishing, LLC

  Edited by Emily A. Lawrence

  www.lawrenceediting.com

  Cover Design by Hampton Lamoureux , TS95 Studios

  Ts95studios.com

  Print ISBN: 978-1-7350666-2-2

  E-Book ISBN: 978-1-7350666-3-9

  Kindle ASIN: B08D3LZBMD

  In loving memory of my husband’s father.

  The loss we feel is great, but the love you gave us is even greater.

  Always and Forever.

  “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”

  Edgar Allan Poe

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  A Word from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Blood Society

  Also by B.B. Palomo

  Chapter One

  The cleansing fumes from the recently burned sage still hung heavily in the air. Its scent clung to my nostrils despite the mint gum I smacked, open-mouthed, occasionally blowing the air up and out from my lungs in an attempt to mask the stench that had long seeped its way into the fabric of my clothes. The remainder of the bundled herb sat in a small, silver tray on the entry table, still smoldering steadily with a motivation to stay alive I could only wish to duplicate. Tendrils of smoke slithered up toward the ceiling, disappearing under the mustard-colored lampshade positioned above it before reappearing out of the top like a cheap magic trick.

  I used my tongue to fit the gum onto the front of my teeth, stretching it across the enamel to thin it out before sucking the flattened chew back into my mouth, creating little popping sounds that resembled an overdue chiropractor visit. My mom, who sat in her “office” with her “client,” cleared her throat through the red-and-orange-colored beads hanging from the doorframe. They acted as a curtain, kissing the floor lightly, but were still transparent enough that you could easily peer through them, seeing whoever or whatever was on the other side.

  Even if my back hadn’t been facing the room they sat in, the kitchen counter behind me obscured any chance I’d catch a glimpse of her or the annoyed look she undoubtedly cast my way for the disruption. If we were alone, it would be followed with a motherly Willow Harper, letting me know I was drawing on her last nerve, but as she entertained her client, I knew I’d be safe. Having to yell at your nineteen-year-old daughter didn’t exactly present an ideal reading experience.

  Especially when half the town hated your guts to begin with.

  I shifted in my seat and shot a glare over my shoulder into her general direction, retaliating just in case, before turning back to the paper I had to write for my English class. Mom preferred I wasn’t home while she conducted her business. The first time I walked in against her orders, she screamed at me like I’d caught her committing murder. After that, I learned the hard way the repercussions of asking someone if they were a lady of the night as she shielded me from viewing the man who studied his future from the cards she’d laid out in front of him.

  I hadn’t decided if the truth was better or worse. Draining the townspeople of their money by giving false prophecies and tarot readings didn’t seem so bad when mothers pulled their young children to the other side of the road when we walked past.

  Sure, I’d grown up with Mom hating every aspect of the craft. The very thought making her green in the face as the memories of Grammy and her spiritual knowledge came rushing back like the sharp sting of a triggering event, stopping you in your tracks just as you thought you’d overcome the trauma.

  Granted, her apparent misguided anger with Grammy was deep-seated in the fact that people were terrified of the unknown, of what Grammy embraced, and fear, well, it brought the worst out of humankind. More than three hundred years had passed since the witch trials, and yet the name was still pinned onto my family because of my great, great, great-grandmother. Some people inherited heirlooms from their parents, but here, amplified in this small, middle-of-nowhere town, the only thing that was as constant as the sun rising and setting was the hateful looks cast in our direction.

  I took a sip of water from the condensation-covered glass next to me, needing the liquid to help swallow my countering frustration with Mom. The emotion was selfish. I knew that. She’d taken a hard look at her skills as a housewife and the dilemma of a town full of small businesses with explicit biases against—our kind—whatever that meant, and knew finding work would be nearly impossible.

  Since the accident, I’d haphazardly packed as many courses as I could fit onto my schedule from the local community college, my scholarship to Richmond long forgotten. The repeated excuse about not knowing what I wanted to do was only half true. Really, staying near Mom and being as busy as possible was waging war in my mind, with this being the only solution I could come up with.

  The last-minute change left no time to apply for financial aid, so my mom was footed with the bill. Even the insurance payout dried up almost as soon as it hit her bank account. If I thought it would be enough to save me from my future educational debt, I was severely mistaken as gluttonous, overdue bills jumped at the opportunity to get paid.

  I did my best to help, landing a part-time job down at the local library. It was the only place in town that would hire someone with my name, but I didn’t mind because I had a secret obsession with the way old books smelled. Ms. Jasmine wasn’t kind and rarely acknowledged my existence, but I was still grateful every time I saw my name posted back up on the schedule, ensuring I’d have at least one more paycheck coming my way.

  It also helped that it was only a few blocks away from campus because I didn’t drive, at least, not anymore.

  I could easily make it over with extra time to spare and browse the long aisles. Though it was not near as large as the library I routinely studied in, the picturesque colonial structure still had a commanding presence that beckoned the townsfolk to come inside for generations. It had been marked as a historic building, limiting updates and changes, which
only added to the monetary value and allure.

  Mom clicked her tongue in the room and exhaled slowly as if she was thinking hard. The soft slap of plastic tarot cards being placed meticulously against the table in front of the client reminded me of Grammy doing something similar when I was younger. It was fleeting, only scratching at the surface like digging into the sand, each granule sliding back in as you venture deeper, losing all your progress. She’d been prominent in our lives one day and the next, gone. Disappeared from my life quicker than a child lost in the grocery store. All her pictures were removed from our walls and shoved into boxes in the darkest corners of the attic as if the simple update would change the fact she’d existed at all.

  It didn’t stop her from floating along the outskirts of Dad’s funeral, but then again, Mom shut it down before I could so much as wave hello.

  I’d assumed it was a big fight between my mom and her, but anytime I’d ask, the subject would be changed. After a while, I couldn’t remember what I missed. Had we gone on playdates? To the ice cream parlor? The only thing I knew for sure was that her and Mom's staple arguing had ceased, and now, my mom’s smile stretched wider, shined brighter than I’d ever seen it. The weight that had been lifted from her shoulders by closing that section of her life was as visible as a lone wildflower growing through a crack in the sidewalk.

  A twinge of guilt sliced through my chest. If it hadn’t been for me, Mom would never be doing this. Everything would still be perfect—one small, stupid action ruining both of our lives.

  “What does that mean?” Her client’s anxiety-coated voice permeated around me.

  I could picture my mother, with her tight, champagne-colored curls piled at the top of her head, almost certainly held together with an inexpensive plastic clip and styled with one of her favorite silk scarfs. She’d move her hands delicately over the cards, the precise motion deceivingly full of experience, painting her as a true believer. In reality, it was tactical. She needed to create a dramatic reading, luring her clients into a place of excitement and reservation as they decided for themselves if it was a hoax or not.

  Her expression-filled eyes would look down through prescription-less glasses that hung on the edge of her sharp nose. The gold croakie connecting to each plastic arm would contrast against her alabaster skin anytime she’d remove the spectacles and let them dangle at her chest. She’d study the deck laid out across the black velvet tablecloth. A standard three-card spread outlining the client’s past, present, and future. Her deep chocolate eyes would dance from the beautifully drawn pictures, having meanings I wasn’t allowed to learn about, and back to whoever was sitting in front of her, analyzing where they were in their feelings.

  People expected a particular—experience—from the town psychic. Mom invested lots of time and the little bit of money she could in all the bells and whistles. They’d want to see her in soft, Gypsy clothing as they seemed to fall into a trance while watching her slender hands, styled with bulky gemstone rings on each finger, move around the table like she was mixing an unknown elixir. All the details, down to the crystal ball that sat in the middle of the round table she’d sit them at, had to be perfect.

  I was surprised how naturally it came to her.

  Despite spending her entire life distancing herself from those fallacies and trying to prove to people she was normal, it didn’t take much to convince the townspeople that she had some strange, future telling abilities. If our grandmothers’ trial and execution was supposed to save us from vilification, we lived as proof salvation wasn’t in our cards. Mom’s shoulder never slouched when people whispered to each other words like witch or devil worshiper, but it did earn me the brunt end of two fistfights. It’s partly why I’d always dreamed of escaping to a place where no one knew me.

  I’d been so close, too.

  Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if Grammy was less flamboyant. Mom had told me once she’d go on and on about our family history, the gifts we apparently had, and the powerful women in our lineage to anyone who paused near her long enough to listen. Infamous as the crazy lady who lived in the woods, lurking behind the trees where she boiled her witches’ brew of herbs and danced in the full moon’s white light—known as the lady you should stay away from unless willing to pay the price.

  No, that was doubtful.

  The population of our small town in New Hampshire loved to hate my family. Quick to avoid us in fear of a hex but also the first to book an appointment to see if fortune was in their futures or if their spouses were cheating as soon as Mom started taking on clients. That was the one positive to her new façade, people truly believed the rumors and were rushing to get in on the action, even if it was in secret.

  In the end, Mom was coming out on top. That was the difference between us. She was a survivor, whereas I’d only ever survived. To most, it probably seemed like the same thing, but the polarity of it was like sticking two north poles on a magnet together. They had the same energy but could never meet, not entirely. She had the will and drive, and I had the pure, unadulterated luck. I could only wish to encapsulate the need to move forward that she showcased every day.

  Just as the thought entered my head, her smooth voice carried over to me from her office.

  “Hmm,” she mused to herself. “There was an aggressive presence in your past. A very abrasive energy, taking what it wanted with no regard to the damage caused by its wake. I can sense a great deal of suffering and loss for you.” Her words were strong and clear. I could picture the Knight of Swords, followed by the card of Death spread out on the table. I’d once glanced in to see them both after hearing a similar thing from her mouth with another client. Her statements remained generalized, allowing her guests to fill in the gaps without ever realizing they were readily supplying the information my mother had no way of truly knowing.

  “Y-yes.” The woman choked, edged fear in her voice palpable. “How’d you know?”

  “I see all,” my mother responded, and I tried my best not to roll my eyes and stifle the chuckle that wanted to lurch from my throat.

  “My husband,” the woman replied.

  A strike of pain zipped through my forehead. It throbbed right where the raised, pink scar peeked out from my hairline. I brushed the tips of my fingers to the spot, the untamed eyebrow hair there tickling the inside of my hand, and pressed down as if the pressure would alleviate the sudden migraine ripping through my skull.

  “Is he here?”

  “Yes,” Mom responded without delay, and the only thing that stopped my eye roll was the fear it would cause the hammering in my head to intensify.

  “Oh, my goodness! Larry! I’m here,” the woman said to the air, speaking more confidently with the confirmation.

  Warmth dripped from my nose, startling me. Bright crimson splattered against the silver casing of my borrowed laptop. It was steady, like the trickle from a loose faucet that needed a good tightening. The last nosebleed I’d had was years ago. They used to be frequent, but one day, out of the blue, they stopped, and I figured I’d finally grown out of it.

  “Shit.” I kept my voice low to not alert my mom.

  A quick swipe across my face left a trail that stained my blond arm hair red. I tiled my head back and pinched my nose, immediately choking as the blood ran down my throat, reminding me that it wasn’t the right thing to do. Dizziness spun my eyes as I shifted forward, crushing the bridge of my nose tighter as I waited for the bleed to clot.

  I squeezed my lids closed, reopening them slowly to make sure it wasn’t my eyes playing tricks on me. My nose was forgotten as soon as a man appeared before me. Standing no more than five and a half feet tall, there was no reason he should be menacing, but the way his icy gaze froze my lungs said he commanded respect from around him.

  He wore wrinkled slacks, the coffee-stained white undershirt visible from his partially opened, sky blue button-up. A pale circle contrasted against tanned skin right where a wedding ring would be. I dropped my hand, thankful when
nothing dripped from my nostril as I peered around to figure out how this man had gotten into our home.

  “W-who are you?” I asked, wishing I had something close enough to use as a weapon. I couldn’t scream for help, my tongue growing heavy as a rock every time I worked up the nerve.

  He didn’t respond.

  Instead, his unblinking eyes peered into mine as if he wasn’t sure I was talking to him. Aside from the deep wrinkles in his forehead, like he’d spent an eternity frowning, his face was expressionless. I tilted my head to glance around him. The front door lock was still shifted northwest, indicating it hadn’t been tampered with, and unless he used a window, that was the only way in or out.

  My chair screeched under me as I pushed my flattened feet against the floor to create distance between me and his sudden movement forward. The fingers on his outstretched hand spread wide as he reached for me. The scream that had been lodged in my throat released as my back crashed against the counter behind me. I was trapped. I swung my arm across my face, covering my eyes in a desperate attempt to avoid whatever fate was coming my way.

  “Willow!” Mom’s face appeared in front of me as she gripped the arm I wasn’t willing to bring down. “Hey!”

  I finally turned to look at her, arm still raised as if she was about to strike me. Her eyebrows rose as she pressed past me to a tissue box I hadn’t noticed. I nervously licked my lips, copper stinging my tongue, and I realized I was probably a bloody mess. I darted my gaze to her client, terror overtaking her rounded features.