Whistling Past the Graveyard (Nicki Styx)

by Terri Garey

  “Okay.” I stifled a yawn, too, gazing up at Cassiopeia one last time. It had moved in the night sky while we were talking, riding lower on the horizon than it had before.

  Mom rose and clicked on her flashlight, pine needles crunching beneath her feet as she headed for home.

  “Mom?”

  She turned, looking at me over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Thanks for not naming me Andromeda.”

  Epilogue

  My birthday party turned out not to be as lame as I expected. Emily gave me a broomstick, of all things, with a gnarly old stick for handle and a purple ribbon holding the straw tight at the base. There was even a cool purple crystal dangling from the ribbon, and I had to admit, it was pretty awesome.

  The new school year started, I finally started getting the teeniest bit of cleavage, and two different boys actually asked me to the Harvest Dance the following October. Tiffany Templeton came down with a really bad case of acne, which, I am happy to report, I had nothing whatsoever to do with.

  The very idea of having three times as many zits as she ended up with made me shudder.

  Derek went through a series of different girlfriends, and I honestly didn’t care, as his success on the soccer field seemed to have gone to his head.

  I concentrated on my homework and my earth magic lessons, and learned some cool spells, including how to raise a breeze on a hot day, and how to give someone good dreams instead of bad ones. Emily was always around when I needed someone to talk to, as was my mom.

  Some things Mom wasn’t good at, like fashion advice, so I mostly relied on Em in that department, including the outfit I planned on wearing to the Harvest Dance.

  Three months after my initiation, Emily sat on my bed while I got dressed in the bathroom. “Hurry up,” she cried impatiently. “Come on out and show me already!”

  “Voila!” I opened the bathroom door with a flourish, enjoying her startled gasp.

  “It looks great, Cassie, but um… are you sure you want to wear that?”

  I shrugged, grinning, then moved to look at myself in my dresser mirror. “Why not? Mom says it’s best to always hide in plain sight, and I really want to use your present.”

  Lily regarded me doubtfully, but her face broke into a smile as I twisted and turned, trying to get a better view.

  “What do you think?” I asked, adjusting the purple velvet brim of my pointed hat with one hand. “Does this broomstick make me look fat?”

  We both giggled, but Em’s smile died before mine. “Maybe you should turn me into a toad,” she said half-jokingly, obviously remembering what Tiffany had said. “Then I could go as your familiar.”

  I shuddered, and turned away from the mirror. Moving to the bed, I sat down beside her and took her hand. “Never say that, Em,” I told her gently. “Never say that.”

  She squeezed my hand, thinking I was referring to the “toad” comment, and I squeezed back, letting her think it.

  A LITTLE MORNING MAGIC

  Maisie Merryfeather peeked around the edge of the flower, careful not to let her delicate wings get torn by the thorns of the wild rose. The two humans splashed and played naked in the pond, just like she and her sisters sometimes did in the drops of morning dew. Why must they be here now, when it was time for Himself to emerge and count His treasure? And why must it fall to her to distract them when they obviously had no desire to be distracted?

  With a sigh, Maisie closed her eyes and concentrated, picturing the hues and colors of the universe and painting them into the sky with the gift that was hers, and hers alone. Sometimes when the moon was full and the night was quiet, Maisie could paint a swathe of white sparkles across the sky, brilliant diamonds scattered on the power of a wish, but in the daylight, colors were her specialty.

  "Look, ‘tis a rainbow," said the woman, awed pleasure in her voice.

  Maisie smiled, but kept her eyes closed, concentrating. The splashing ceased.

  "So it is, me darlin'," returned the man. "You know what they say about rainbows, don't you?"

  The woman laughed. "Sure and you're not tellin' me you believe in those tales your old Granny told, are ya? The pot of gold and the King of the Leprechauns, and if how you catch him he'll grant you three wishes?"

  "I’ve only one wish," said the man. He murmured something Maisie couldn't hear, and the woman gave a sudden squeal of laughter.

  "You don't need a rainbow to get lucky, Ian McDonald. Take me home to our warm bed and we'll see about making some little people of our own."

  Maisie laughed out loud, knowing the human couple would hear only the trill of a bird in the trees.

  Soon the pond would be empty, and Himself would be able to count his treasure in peace yet again.

  “Filthy creatures, those humans,” came a voice from the bushes. “Always thinking about sex.”

  Maisie’s heart sank, for the voice was familiar. She opened her eyes to see Groot Gingerroot, the boldest of the Brownies, leering rudely at her from a nearby branch.

  “As if you don’t,” she retorted, keeping herself aloft with the merest flutter of her wings. It wouldn’t do to get too close to Groot, for his hands were grabby as well as grubby. Always rooting about in the dirt, those Brownies.

  “Don’t be that way, Maisie.” His leer became even more pronounced. “You mustn’t knock something until you’ve tried it. You might like it.”

  “Away with you,” she scolded, letting the colors of her rainbow fade. “I’ve no time for you today.”

  “You never do,” he said, and leapt at her, using the branch beneath him as a springboard.

  Startled, Maisie darted upward and away, too surprised to look where she was going. By the time she felt the wispy strand of a spider web brush her left foot, it was too late, for her wings had brushed against it as well. Panicked, she fluttered harder, and quickly became enmeshed in the sticky, translucent web.

  “No,” she cried, “Oh, no!”

  Far below, she heard Groot shout, “Stop moving, Maisie! You’re only making it worse!” He sounded genuinely concerned, which made her dislike him no less, dirty little ground grubber that he was.

  Forcing herself to take his advice, for she knew the right of it, she stilled her wings, holding her breath in the hopes it would help. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought, maybe she could tug herself free after all, maybe her own weight would break the flimsy bonds that held her…

  But when the spider web continued to dip and sway, despite her stillness, Maisie knew she was in deep trouble. Turning her head, she saw the spider into whose web she’d blundered, and let her breath go in a scream of horror.

  Long legs, longer than her wing span, covered with brown, bristly hair. Eight beady little black eyes, each and every one trained on her as she hung there, helpless, suspended in mid-air. It scuttled toward her in fits and starts, getting closer and closer, as she screamed and thrashed in terror, knowing herself doomed.

  “Get away,” shouted Groot, who’d begun to throw pebbles at the spider. “She’s mine. Get away from her!”

  One of the pebbles whizzed by her head, and wildly, Maisie wished it had struck her, so she wouldn’t be able to see the spider, hairy-legged and heartless, moving even closer.

  “What’s this, now?” A woman’s voice, a loud rustle in the bushes. “Oh, look, Ian… it’s a poor little butterfly caught in a spider’s web.”

  Doubly terrified now, Maisie went limp, for she was doomed either way. It was death to be captured by humans—Himself had set that rule long ago, for the greater good of their people. The touch of a human hand was as poison to her kind, for the survival of the Faeries lay in the power of belief, not proof.

  “It’s the way of nature,” answered the man. “Come away now, and let’s go home.”

  Maisie could see them both, a dark-haired young woman and a fair-haired young man, damp and disheveled from their swim in the lake. They peered at her closely, while she closed her eyes and wished for death to come quickly.


  “Oh, but it’s so pretty,” crooned the woman, her voice soft with kindness. “What a lovely shade of yellow on the wings.”

  “I doubt the spider cares about that,” said the man with a laugh. “A fine, fat meal for his dinner—that’s all he cares about.”

  “Kill it,” said the woman.

  Maisie dared open one eye.

  “Kill the spider, Ian. Nasty creatures, all of them.”

  The man sighed. “Mary, it’s just doing its job, ridding the forest of insects.”

  “Lying in wait for some innocent little butterfly, is what it’s doing,” said the woman staunchly. “The world needs beauty in all of its forms, and I’ll not stand here and watch it be destroyed, particularly on such a beautiful morning as this.”

  “I suppose we do owe Mother Nature a bit of bounty in return for that glorious rainbow,” the man said. He glanced around his feet, barely missing catching sight of Groot, who lurked in the bushes still. Picking up a branch, he used it to jab at the spider, who scuttled away in the opposite direction.

  The action broke the web, and for a heart-stopping moment, Maisie felt herself fall. Then the web caught, leaving her dangling, right before the woman.

  Gently, using the tip of her fingers, the woman reached out and pinched off the bit of web that held her. Not touching Maisie, or her wings, she lowered her to the bloom of a nearby rose bush.

  Scarce daring to breath, Maisie clutched at the bloom and buried her face in the petals, hiding her true nature as best she could.

  There was a thump behind her, and a grunt of satisfaction from the man. “There, now,” he said. “That spider won’t be trapping anything again.”

  “Thank you,” said the woman, her breath light as a feather on Maisie’s wings. “Fly away free, little butterfly.”

  “Come now, Mary,” said the man. “Let’s go home, me darlin’.”

  There was more rustling in the bushes, growing fainter as the two humans left the lakeside clearing.

  “Maisie?” Groot whispered, his grubby face peering up at her from within the rose bush. “Are you all right?”

  To her very great surprise, Maisie found that she was. “Yes,” she said bravely, though her voice quivered. “But I’m all sticky.”

  “That’s what you get,” he said, with a nasty smile, “for being such a stuck-up.” He climbed toward her, moving gingerly past the thorns. “You Fae are all alike… think you’re too good for the likes of us Brownies, don’t ya?”

  She didn’t answer, not wanting to antagonize him.

  “I only wanted a kiss, Maisie. Just a wee little kiss.” The rose bush rustled as he climbed closer.

  Maisie looked around, starting to panic. She couldn’t fly like this, and it could be hours before any of her sisters came looking for her.

  Groot was closer to her now, close enough for her to see his eyes. She’d expected them to be brown, like the rest of him, but they were green, and full of malice. “Pretty little Maisie Merryfeather, at my mercy. Not so high and mighty now, are ya?”

  There came a rustling in the bushes, and the man stepped back into view.

  “Ian?” The woman’s voice came from several yards away. “Where did you go?”

  “Here, my love,” he called to her. “I just forgot something, that’s all.”

  Heart in her throat, Maisie watched as the man’s hand came closer, then closer still. His fingers closed around the stem of a rose just a few inches away. Careful of the thorns, he tugged it free from the bush, slender branches shaking.

  Groot, cowering beneath a leaf, was unable to hold on. He let go and dropped to the ground, where he crouched, waiting for another chance to climb up.

  “Ah, there’s a pretty one,” the man muttered, and stepped forward to pluck another bloom, then a third one.

  “What are you up to, me darlin’?” called the woman.

  Hands full of blooms, the man stepped back with a look of satisfaction, which quickly turned to dismay. “What’s this, now?” He looked down at his foot. “Ugh.”

  Scarcely daring to breathe, Maisie watched as the man scrubbed his foot along the ground, leaving a Brownie-sized smear upon the grass.

  “I’ll be right there,” he called to his woman. “Stepped in somethin’, that’s all.” Then he turned and left the clearing, bearing his bouquet of roses.

  Looking up, into the sky, Maisie saw that the faint remnant of her rainbow still shone above the lake, and knew that Himself had not forgotten her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, letting the breeze carry her words to Him, knowing that He counted her as valuable a treasure as any pot of gold.

  POSSESSION IS NINE TENTHS

  The knock on my front door came at 9:56pm. I checked through the peephole, just to be safe, before opening it to the members of the Gilford Paranormal Society. Dave Morgan and Steve Rogers, who were burdened with backpacks and boxes, and Maureen Dempsey, a middle-aged woman in a sweatshirt and fanny pack.

  “Thanks for coming, guys.” My nerves were on edge; it had been a quiet night so far, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to stay that way.

  “No problem, Stephanie.” Dave was tall, thin to point of gauntness, gray hair cropped short. “We never pass up an opportunity to investigate the scene of a murder/suicide, especially if the homeowner has reported active poltergeist activity.”

  “Is there somewhere I can put these boxes? I like to start with some preliminary readings, get a baseline.” His partner, Steve, was as plump as Dave was thin, and had introduced himself earlier in the day as an electrical engineer, with a special interest in EVPs, or Electric Voice Phenomena.

  Maureen had been introduced as an “empath”, a person who relied not on science, but on feelings and impressions. “Psychic residue,” she’d called it, which was as good as explanation as any for what had been going on in my house.

  Thumps and scratching noises. Whispers, just at the edge of my hearing, and moving shadows, just at the edge of my sight. Objects, lost and then found, in places I’d never put them. Bad smells, the feeling of being watched. I’d been willing to write it all off to an overactive imagination, until an idle chat with my next door neighbor had revealed some facts about the house that I hadn’t known, and now wished I didn’t.

  Ten years earlier, the original owner of the house had been shot and killed by his jealous girlfriend, who had then turned the gun on herself.

  Even then, I hadn’t wanted to believe that the house was actually haunted, but this morning, when I’d come into the kitchen to find all the drawers and cabinets standing wide open, and a message written in silverware across the counter, I’d had no choice but to believe. Mine, the message read, forks and knives precisely aligned.

  It was a clear declaration of possession, but of what, and by whom? The former owner of the house? The jealous lover who killed him? I didn’t know, but it left me terrified enough to seek the help of the Gilford Paranormal Society.

  I led Dave and Steve toward the dining room table, moving a vase of flowers out of the way so they could put down their equipment.

  “Nice place,” Steve offered, looking around. “Pretty big house for one person. Did you know the history when you bought it?”

  I shook my head, putting the flowers carefully on a sideboard. “No. My husband and I just fell in love with it, thought it would be a good place to raise kids.” I tried to keep my voice light, but failed miserably. “The plan changed.”

  He shot a glance at my empty ring finger and let the subject drop, clearly sensing it might be a sore one.

  “It’s a beautiful house,” Maureen said, taking it all in as she came in through the living room.

  The house was beautiful, though I was no longer quite so in love with it. Two-story brick, with white shutters and a wraparound porch. Hardwood floors, roses in the front garden, sycamores in the back yard. It was like something from the pages of a magazine on Americana, but I’d learned the hard way—both in my marriage and in this h
ouse—that looks could be deceiving.

  Dave concentrated on the setup of his equipment, putting down his box and shrugging off his backpack. He dug around until he came out with a small black box, dripping with wires.

  Steve followed his lead and did the same, unpacking his own box without further comment.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked. “What’s all this equipment?”

  “Voltage meter, infrared camera, air temperature and air pressure monitors.” Dave patted the boxes as though they were precious. “Radar motion detectors.”

  Steve plucked a small silver box from the pile and cradled it carefully. “DR60 recorder. Very sensitive to electronic voice phenomenon.”

  Dave held up the black box in his hand. “Electromagnetic Field Meter. I can monitor VLF and ELF frequency fields separately with this baby.”

  “We tape the entire experience and watch it back immediately afterward,” Steve said. “We often find visual phenomena appearing on video that’s invisible to the naked eye. We catch orbs and ribbons of light all the time.”

  “Extra batteries for everything, of course,” added Dave, more to himself than anyone else. “The spirits often drain energy from the electronics.”

  “They do?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Maureen piped up. “Spirits love electricity. They’re just pure energy themselves, you know.”

  I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “Just like you in a way, dear,” Maureen went on. “A bundle of energy. Your aura is red, tinged with orange. Strong passions. I can see why the spirits might be drawn to you.”

  “Okay,” Dave announced, all business. “Let’s get the set-up going and get to work.”

  Two hours later, after placing various pieces of equipment throughout the house, Dave requested that we turn out all the lights and sit quietly in the kitchen for a while, giving our eyes time to adjust to the dark.

  “Ready?” He rose, holding an infrared camera. Steve had a voltage meter and some kind of air pressure monitor.