“I've been expecting you. Come in. I had a feeling you would be dropping by, but I thought it would be later. Landers said you were timid.”
He stepped inside the strange shop. Shelves were decorated with glass trinkets, tiny crystals, spices, herbs, and small bottles of who-knows-what. Hanging from the wall were plastic pouches filled with all kinds of odd leafy matter. Tea, maybe? Some looked like rocks, others like plant parts. White paper labels marked them with unfamiliar names like chamomile, frankincense, and horehound. Scott hadn’t heard of any of it. Dragon’s Blood seemed oddly mislabeled, as the contents looked like a powder. What he didn't see was a round table with a huge crystal ball at its center, though there were a couple small glass balls for sale in a display case under the cash register.
“That's a nasty cut. I have something that might help it heal faster.”
“Neosporin?”
“Better.”
Serena moved behind one of the glass counters. Her wardrobe was overdone, consisting of layers and layers of silky, draping fabric, one on top of another. Her golden hair was curly and frizzy, either from the humidity outside or to look the part of the crazy cat lady, with a few streaks of off colors: white, purple, and green. She had enough trinkets around her neck to be a walking shop, even without the storefront. Rings adorned every finger, and multiple bracelets hung from both wrists. Maybe she had another register buried somewhere in all the cloth for making sales outside of the shop.
She grabbed a flat tin and approached, twisting it open on the way. It looked like one of those candy mint containers, but dull gray with a paper label on top. Inside was a yellow material resembling petroleum jelly. She scooped some out with her finger.
“May I?” she asked.
“Sure, why not?”
The glob transferred from her finger to the cut. She smeared it up and down, irritating the wound, and then closed the tin, returned it, and grabbed a paper towel to wipe the slime off her finger.
“Landers said you saw a ghost.”
That was certainly one way to put it. Evil shadow thing with glowing eyes wasn't the first image that popped in Scott's head when he heard the word ghost. Ghost created an image in his mind of late autumn gimmicks constructed from sheets and papier-mâché for scaring children. The name was almost insulting.
“I saw something. Online, they called it a shadow person, I think. Red eyes.”
“I've heard of shadow people,” she said. “We call them the watchers. Lots of different varieties are out there. All of them are terrifying when spotted for the first time.”
He already knew where the conversation was headed. “And, let me guess. They never attack people.”
“Oh, bull crap,” she said sharply, forcing Scott’s eyebrows to twist. “They've been known to stalk people resting in their beds. Sometimes they'll lunge at your chest, like they are trying to climb inside. They also serve as warnings of upcoming disaster. Have you ever heard of Point Pleasant?”
“No, I haven't.”
“Never mind then. But yeah, they sometimes attack people. There isn't anything tying the victims together. Wrong place at the wrong time. The good news is, eventually they go away on their own.”
“Tell that to the one that's haunting my apartment.”
“I intend to.” She smiled. Her round face glowed a little, sparking an immediate emotional response that Scott couldn't remember feeling before. It was comforting, but it set him off balance at the same time. Whatever name he’d eventually give to it, she turned from a crazy girl with colored hair into a friend he could trust within seconds.
“Come, sit.” She motioned him toward a small room beyond a beaded curtain. “Tell me everything you've discovered so far. I want to know what it's like, so I'm prepared.”
The shack was so small, he had no idea how she managed to put in a separate room, yet a wall divided the space, with shelves and trinkets hanging from it. Behind it all was a tiny space, cut off from the rest of the building. Scott pushed through the beads into the smell of an overpowering perfume. A round table sat at the center, and the walls were coated with red fabric.
“We'll do some blessings. That should help. And if that doesn't stop it, well, I might have to exorcise the fucker. House blessings are usually enough with most S-Bs.”
“S-B?”
“Supernatural Beings. Come. Sit.”
Scott was beside himself as he took a seat across the table from her. A part of him only showed up here to find out how useless the new age goof could be, but somehow, she was winning him over, one witty comment at a time. At least she was ready for action, instead of sitting around taking notes. He recounted the story to her happily, and with every question, he felt more comfortable. At one point he even wondered if she was single. He told her everything, except the threat from laptop guy.
“Okay,” said Serena. “This is what we're going to do. I'd like to perform a protection ritual on you first. Then we can take a look at your apartment, and I can try to banish the S-B. I'll drop a lavender sachet above your pillow too, just to help you sleep.”
“What's the cost for all of this?”
“Don't worry about that. Right now we need to keep you out of harm's way. We can talk later about maybe making you an ointment for that acne. I told Landers I would help you, so no worries about money. Magic isn't about making money.”
“How do you know him, anyway?”
“He was one of my professors when I went to school here. Nice guy. Actually, he's the one who got me started on my spiritual path, by opening my eyes to religions I didn't know existed in a survey course.”
“Wow.”
“He doesn't know that. He was just teaching a class on religious philosophies. It's funny though, if the old me from high school saw me now,” she shook her head, “she'd probably laugh and call me an idiot. I never believed in any of this stuff before I started seeking.”
“So what does this ritual thing entail?”
Scott wondered if he was getting in too deep. Serena placed a couple of candles on the table. At the center was an ordinary black plate upon which she placed a silver coin embossed with a star. She added a dish of salt, another cup filled with water, crystals, little statues, and a scary looking knife. He thought for sure she was going to find an excuse to cut him, but she assured him that ritual knives were never used to cut flesh. She even had a separate knife for collecting herbs. According to her, people often thought magic was some wild orgy where the participants took drugs, which forced a nod and a smile. She insisted that real magic was anything but, and that most of the normal associations came from bad movies.
Serena lit the candles and asked, “You aren't allergic to any kind of oils are you? I mean, cinnamon will cause a rash on just about anybody, but if you know of any others?”
“Probably. I'm allergic to everything.”
“Okay, I'll pick some herbs that shouldn't bother you then. I doubt you're allergic to olive oil. That's what I steep some of my herbs in. Just to make sure that they don't react with customers. It's not really about the ingredients anyway. Don't believe the spell books.”
“I've never read any spell books. Is that a thing?”
Serena chuckled. “You would not believe the kind of crap you can find at a bookstore. Love spells mostly, and all this baby crap that gets people focused on buying expensive products to do simple work that meditation would take care of. Real work is about harnessing the energies from within.”
“Work?”
“You definitely are not the type that I'm used to dealing with.” She laughed again. “Don't worry, all you need to do is close your eyes and follow my instructions. Not now!”
The music of her laughter was inviting. He'd been laughed at before, but her chuckles and outbursts came with zero sting. Her levity didn’t seek to insult or injure. She was simply a happy person. Her presence alone was enough to soothe the air, or maybe the smoke in the room was laced with sedatives. Maybe she was in here smoking pot earlier and he caught
a contact buzz. He didn't know, and he didn't care, the company was enjoyable.
The room around him was filled with spicy fragrance. She lit a candle on the table and walked circles around it, sprinkling both the table and the floor with salt, and then water. She mumbled to herself as she “worked.” The ceremony went on without chants or calls, without extravagant poses or overacting. He focused on the highlighted strands of curls in her hair. The real magic may have been inside her, but the presence of it glowed all around. He realized that lighting and special effects didn't make magic. Watching someone perform even mundane tasks with such focus and intent was enchanting.
She dipped her finger in a bowl of water, and drew something in the middle of his forehead, away from the wound. The water bowl returned to the table and a smoking brass cup attached to tiny chains came off next. She waved it in front of him.
“Okay,” she said, returning to her seat. “I need you to close your eyes and concentrate.”
Darkness filled his vision as subtle scratching came from a distance. A slight chill tickled his neck.
“Imagine a white light in your belly. Concentrate on it as it grows to fill your body.”
Scott let go of any notion of silliness in the exercise. For a moment, his self-talk tried to interrupt, but he silenced it. He pictured the light in his mind, glowing from just below his heart as the scratchy noises continued. He saw the inside of his body as a black shell, filling with white radiance.
“See it getting brighter and brighter. Breathe slowly, and keep breathing. Let the light escape from your pores and surround your body. Every breath in floods you with light. Each exhale casts away smoke and negative thoughts.”
As her commands became more esoteric, he tried his best to follow along, wondering if he was doing it right. For an instant, the scratching disappeared. She muttered more commands, telling him to breathe slower, to pause between breaths, to try and feel the energy flowing through his muscles, and for a moment, he did. Tiny electric ripples raced up and down his arms. When the scratching returned, the ripples turned into a surge that rushed through his body, from his toes to the back of his face.
The noises grew louder. Scratches turned to scrapes, mice to rats, rats to dogs. Something sounded like a screaming baby, forcing his eyes open, and his head turned toward the exit.
“Just alley cats. Don't worry.”
“They sound sick,” said Scott.
“They're horny.”
He smiled a silent laugh, which sent good energy out to combat his fears. He was calm. He turned back to her serenity. Smiling was hard enough, but normally when one broke, he was alone. Sharing one created a feedback loop of positivity between the two of them, and the scratching noises vanished again.
Serena produced a paper bag from under the table, and from it she took a fancy cookie. One of those expensive sandwiches of chocolate and toast. She broke a piece off for Scott, and took a bite for herself. Peanut butter and sugar. The rest of the cookie went onto the silver coin with a star on it.
“People think sacrifices are babies or animals, but it's usually just a cookie,” said Serena. She winked, and proceeded to put up her things, or rather organize them. She made everything on the table neat and tidy. Candles were snuffed out. Trinkets found their homes on various shelves in the room, and before he knew it, they were standing on the front porch of the Crystal Cottage.
He should have worn an extra layer. The wind cut right through his jacket. As he watched the steam from his lips rise into the night, part of him wondered if it was carrying more of that negative energy away. He was certain there was still plenty inside. The more grounded part of his mind wondered what kind of trance she placed him under to make him even consider such a thing.
He watched the wisps float into the dark heavens. “Are you sure you want to do this? You can do this right?”
“I’m not standing out here in the cold for my health,” she responded.
He could feel his own worries trying to shut down the possibility of letting a stranger into his home, even after growing comfortable with her. His consciousness caught up to quell the pointless negative vibe.
“Okay, it’s down that way.”
“Let’s go.”
13
The ground was wet, but the downpour must have come while they were inside. Maybe that was the source of the scratching noises. It was hard to be sure. The meditation and the odd environment inside Crystal Cottage left him wondering about lots of things, including the nature of reality. Scratching noises became a secondary issue.
They strolled through the city streets. Scott kept glancing up, expecting droplets to form on his lenses, but they didn't come. The light of the moon shined through a thin covering of clouds, causing veins of white between darker splotches of shadow.
“So this has been going on for two days? Three?”
“Something like that,” he replied. “It's hard to keep track with the insomnia, and the circadian rhythm experiment.”
“Experiment?”
“Yeah. I'm working on a seventy-two hour day. I crash on Sundays, and then restart the cycle.”
“I don't understand.”
“I stay up for about sixty hours straight. When you stay up that long, the need to sleep longer goes way down. To keep in pace with my weekly activities, I have a short day on Sundays where I lay around and doze all day.”
“You should really drop that. It isn't good to fight against the cycles that nature provides. That might be what made the creature curious about you in the first place. You never know. If you try to fight nature, you are always going to lose.”
A pair of cats darted across the street ahead of them. One black, and the other tabby colored. The cats ignored the passing strangers on their way to wherever.
“What about that? Black cat crossing our path. Isn't that a sign of bad luck?”
“Nah, that's just a cat.”
“I thought you spiritual people all believed in signs and luck and all that.”
“Don't confuse spirituality with superstition. Despite what people make me out to be, I'm a lot more grounded than I get credit for.” Serena tossed the bundle of curls out of her face. The cold air added color to her cheeks. Her face seemed built for a permanent smile. Muscles and skin pulled tight in all the right places.
“I'm having a hard time with that. You believe in all this magic stuff. Ghosts, spirits. Aliens?”
She laughed, and bounced off the balls of her feet as she walked, almost hopping. “No, not aliens. I mean. I don't think we're the only life in the whole universe, but I don't think alien spaceships are coming to visit us either.”
“But where do you draw the line between magic and reality? You're a palm reader. I don't know much about it, but I wouldn't trust a shuffled deck of cards or the lines on my hands to determine my destiny.”
“That's because you're thinking about it too simply.”
“What do you mean?”
Serena's arm shot out to the side, catching a passing street lamp. She swung around the post, and stopped under the yellow glow from above. Scott almost tripped as his head followed her odd movements.
“What are you doing?”
“Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
She snatched his forearm before he could pull it away, and held it while tracing the creases on his palm. Her touch was gentle against the raw scrapes. She drew around most of them without triggering any pain. Without lifting her head, her eyes raised to meet his.
“I'll bet you spend a lot of time indoors right? Lots of time on the computer?”
“Well, yeah. Doesn't everybody?”
“And you don't do any manual labor.” She poked at his hands and fingertips. “You're not exactly a shining example of health, either.”
“Is this a palm reading?”
“Nope. This is me looking at the physical features of your hands. There's no calluses, no scars. That's a sign of someone who doesn't do a lot of hard work.
The nasty spill you took a couple of days ago doesn’t detract from the obvious story on your skin.”
She peered directly into his eyes, and he looked away. All of her comments to this point were so uplifting and friendly that the criticism cut a little. She wasn’t being mean. How could she? She was the nicest person he could remember meeting. Maybe this was a response to his attack on her “magic.”
“And you're shy. And you probably don't have many friends. Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
The release of his hand spurred him to look at her again, trying his best to maintain eye contact. She didn't flinch. Looking into other people’s eyes was uncomfortable. Despite being warm, he could tell that she was figuring him out faster than he liked.
“So,” she continued. “I can tell a lot about your personality just by looking at your hands, and watching your reactions. I don't need a palm map to figure that stuff out, but it gives me a chance to get in your head.”
“So you’re a psychologist?”
“Ha.” She shook her head. “Some people accept these things without challenge, others, like you and me, require a little more science in our outlook. If it’s proof you want, then I can’t offer you that. I assume being in Landers’ epistemology course, you already knew that. But there’s evidence everywhere. Our brains form a type of bond as I ask simple questions. My subconscious evaluates things I’m not even thinking about consciously. Heart rate, pupil dilation, breathing. Divination doesn't have anything to do with the lines or the cards. That just gives a baseline and introduces a random element. Think of it as keeping the conscious mind busy while the subconscious does its thing. Some mystics disagree with me, but I don’t care about them. I had to find a way for this stuff to make sense to me.”
“The subconscious does its thing?”
“Those random elements fish out the subconscious data, and it's delivered through emotion. I can't see your future, or know what's happening in your love life, but your brain is carrying around the clues, sending them out to everyone around you. When we form a link, I let my subconscious decode those signals, and I can learn quite a bit about you, just through feeling.”
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