Shadow Tales

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “With his parents as well,” Aunt Tildy replied with a wry twist of her mouth. “His mother never got over it.”

  “I’ve always known that they didn’t want Uncle William to marry you, but...” Emma paused as the pieces fell into place. “Was that why you and Uncle William eloped and started a new life away from his family?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to Martha?”

  “Obviously our friendship ended, but I heard through other school friends that she eventually married and had children.” Aunt Tildy shook her head. “As far as I know she’s still living in the same town where both she and William grew up.”

  “So it worked out for everyone,” Emma commented.

  “I hope so...” her voice trailed away. “I never wished Martha any ill. I never meant to hurt her. What happened, happened, and I truly hope she’s had a happy life, but still—”

  “You felt a little guilty?”

  Aunt Tildy nodded. “It’s one of the reasons I’ve never wanted anyone snooping through the attic. I knew William had kept those mementos of her, and every time I thought of them, it bothered me.”

  “Why didn’t you destroy them?”

  “They weren’t mine to destroy. That was William’s choice. As long as they stayed buried in the attic, I could ignore them.”

  “But—”

  Aunt Tildy stood, cutting her off. Holding out her hand, she helped Emma to her feet. “It’s late. We’ve dug up enough ghosts for one night. Let’s go to bed.”

  Linking her arm with Aunt Tildy’s, they walked through the quiet house and up the stairs to their bedrooms. It wasn’t until Emma had kissed her great aunt good night and lay snuggled in her own bed that a thought occurred to her.

  How did Martha’s handkerchief wind up on her pillow?

  *

  The first thing Emma did the next morning was run over to Nick’s. Ringing the doorbell, she waited and picked at the sack holding a dozen of Aunt Tildy’s home-made cinnamon rolls. What if she can’t make amends? What if Nick refuses to accept her apology? The thought made her heart hurt.

  Finally he opened the door, all tousled and still half asleep. Without a word, he flung open the door and held his arms wide.

  Emma flew into them.

  “I’m sorry...I’m sorry,” she murmured, her forehead resting on his bare chest.

  Patting her back, he placed a kiss on the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.” Stepping back, he held her at arm’s length. “Next time, I’ll do a better job listening.” His attention traveled to the sack in her hand. “Breakfast?”

  Emma looked at him with a sly smile. “I thought it might be a good idea to sweeten my apology with a few of Aunt Tildy’s home-made rolls.”

  Laughing, he pulled her inside the house. A few moments later they were seated at the kitchen table with fresh coffee within easy reach, digging into the rolls.

  After taking the first bite, Nick’s eyes almost rolled back in his head as he savored the rich pastry. “Please tell me you know how to make these.”

  “Maybe,” Emma replied with a giggle. “Would you dump me if I said no?”

  Nick’s face softened as he reached out and twined his fingers with hers. “Baby, I’d marry you if you couldn’t boil water.”

  “Right response, slick,” she said, squeezing his fingers. Sitting back, she sipped her coffee. “Don’t worry, Aunt Tildy insisted I learn how to cook.”

  “Umm.” Nick wiggled his eyebrows, grinning. “Lucky me.” His face sobered. “Speaking of Aunt Tildy. Did you make peace with her?”

  Emma nodded and proceeded to tell him about Martha, Aunt Tildy, and Uncle William. Finished, she leaned forward and crossed her arms on the table. “You don’t have any old fiancés hiding in the closet, do you?”

  “Nope,” he answered with a shake of his head. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever asked to marry me.”

  “Good,” Emma said emphatically. Rising, she picked up the now empty plates and carried them to the sink. Nick followed with the coffee cups.

  Together the rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. When they’d finished, Nick hopped up on the counter.

  “What did she say about the handkerchief? Did she put it in your room?” he asked.

  “We never got that far. I think it would be best if that incident were forgotten.” Emma leaned against his leg and sighed. “She had a hard time telling me about Martha. Even though she and Uncle William were happy, she’s always carried a twinge of guilt over the way the whole situation played out. Asking her again about the handkerchief will only make her feel bad.”

  Nick jumped down from the counter. “You’re probably right.” Throwing his arms around her shoulders, he placed his forehead on hers. “Hey, we’re getting married in six days,” he said, pulling back and looking deep into her eyes. “We want everyone to be as happy as we are.”

  His words gave Emma the reassurance she needed. All the stress and worries vanished. Who cared about what happened sixty years ago? Let the secrets stay buried. This was her time now, and nothing was going to spoil it.

  “Nick, she said, placing her palm on his cheek. “No one can be as happy as we are.”

  *

  Emma literally skipped through the rest of the day. Every time she caught her reflection in the mirror, she noticed her glow. Even Aunt Tildy commented on it.

  “It’s good to see you smiling,” she said, as they sat on the porch swing, enjoying the growing twilight.

  Emma gave a small chuckle. “I’ve been grinning like a fool all day, haven’t I?”

  “I wouldn’t say a fool,” Aunt Tildy replied, nudging the swing with her foot. “More like an excited bride.”

  Emma pulled her knees to her chest. “I am.” Resting her chin on them, she looked out over Aunt Tildy’s immaculate yard. “Not so much this time yesterday. The spat with Nick—.”

  Aunt Tildy stopped the swing. “You had a fight with Nick?”

  Emma waved her hand. “It was nothing...just a misunderstanding. I didn’t think he took my concerns seriously.”

  “You told him about our disagreement,” her great aunt stated flatly.

  “Yes,” dropping her legs, she faced Aunt Tildy, “but that’s in the past. I want to look forward, not back, so let’s not mention it again, okay?”

  “But last night you wanted to know how the handkerchief—”

  “I’ve decided I don’t care,” Emma interrupted. “It’s not important. I’m chalking up everything I experienced to a bad case of pre-wedding jitters, including the handkerchief,” Emma stressed, letting her great aunt know that the subject was closed.

  Later that night as she lay in bed, Emma’s mood hadn’t dimmed. Her mind whirled with all the tasks still unfinished. Gifts for her bride’s maids, a final meeting with the florist, preparations for the rehearsal dinner and a last bit of shopping for their honeymoon.

  Curled up on her side, she spotted her day planner lying on the seat of the wing backed chair by the window. She really should get up and go over her lists she thought with a big yawn, but it was too much of an effort. She was so comfortable and relaxed. There wasn’t an ounce of tension in her body. So nice after the way she’d felt yesterday.

  Giving another yawn, Emma hugged her pillow as her eyelids drifted shut.

  She dreamed of weddings again. Only this time she was an observer. A bride and groom stood at the garden altar before the minister with the backs toward her. The bride wore a gown exactly like hers, and the groom was the same height as Nick.

  A thought penetrated her sleep soaked brain...she was witnessing her own wedding. Cool. In her dream, she saw white clouds glide across the blue sky and heard the birds singing. An atmosphere of joy and happiness filled the small garden and she felt herself smile. All the details had come together and it was as perfect as she’d hoped it would be. She settled back to watch her wedding play out.

  A crow’s caw had Emma glancing at the sky again
. It had changed. The white clouds were gone and in their stead, angry black fingers of an approaching storm crawled across the sky, changing the blue to a dismal gray. The air grew heavy, and Emma felt it weighing against her. The wind shifted and blew in great gusts across the garden. Hats flew and the bride’s veil whipped around her head. From within the sound of the wind came a whisper...the same whisper Emma had heard last night in the garden.

  “Emma...Emma...”

  She spun, searching for the source of the sound. When she came back around, the bride stood in front of her.

  A shriek tore from deep inside. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t move.

  Emma’s attention was riveted on the bride. It wasn’t her eyes that stared back at her, but two black holes, their centers’ glowing red. Lank, gray hair straggled across a pale and withered face. Emma opened her mouth to scream again, but two skeletal hands shot out and fastened around her throat, choking off the scream. The hands squeezed tighter and tighter as the bride’s lips curled in satisfaction.

  Emma fought to draw air into her burning lungs as black spots danced before her eyes. The spots became bigger until only a small circle of light penetrated her vision. She struggled to lift her arms, to shove the harpy choking her away, but she didn’t have the strength to raise them. The tightness in her chest grew.

  “Nick,” she croaked as she felt herself sliding away.

  Her body shook, and she heard her name again. Not a whisper this time, a call, insistent and compelling. She felt her consciousness pulled toward the voice. The shaking became more demanding.

  In an instant, the bride vanished as Emma opened her eyes to see Aunt Tildy leaning over her, jerking her hard enough to make Emma’s head thump the pillow. She scrambled to a sitting position, wheezing and coughing.

  Her knees giving out, Aunt Tildy sank to the bed. “My god, Emma,” she said, her hand clutching at the bodice of her nightgown. “What’s going on? I heard you screaming.”

  “Nightmare,” Emma gasped as she rubbed her raw throat.

  Aunt Tildy jumped to her feet. “I’ll get you a glass of water.” A moment later, she returned and handed Emma the full glass.

  She drank it down it two gulps. Placing the empty glass on the nightstand, she raked her hands through her hair as she leaned back against the pillow.

  Aunt Tildy sat next to Emma and picked up her hand. Holding it tightly, she rubbed Emma’s arm with her other hand. “Tell me.”

  Running her tongue over her lips, Emma took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I was at a wedding. I thought at first it was mine, but it wasn’t.” She shook her head. “The bride—the bride turned into something out of a horror movie and tried to choke me.”

  Emma let her gaze wander around the room. Everything was as it should be. The chair by the window, the dresser against the far wall, the lamp casting a warm light throughout the room. In this reality, her words sounded asinine. How ridiculous, getting choked by a dream bride.

  Her attention settled on Aunt Tildy. Tears ran down her great aunt’s face.

  Emma leaned forward. “Don’t cry,” she pleaded. “It was only a stupid dream. I’m fine now.”

  Aunt Tildy released Emma’s hand and covered her face. “My fault,” she mumbled into her hands.

  “What do you mean?” Emma asked, confused. “I know you want to protect me, but you can’t control my dreams.”

  “No, no.” Aunt Tildy rose and crossed to the window. Pulling the curtain aside, she looked down at the garden, silent for a moment. Finally, she dropped the curtain and came back to stand by the bed. “It’s Martha.”

  “Huh?”

  “After all these years, Martha’s getting even with me by hurting you,” Aunt Tildy replied sadly.

  Emma hopped out of bed. “Aunt Tildy, that’s silly. I know our talk last night stirred up a lot of old memories, but don’t get carried away. The woman doesn’t even know me.” Emma paced to the dresser. Turning, she leaned against it as she faced her great aunt. “And even if she did know about me, she lives miles away from here.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  Emma stared at her great aunt waiting for her to finish.

  “Martha’s dead.” Aunt Tildy crossed the room to stand in front of Emma. “This morning I called an old school chum who knew us both. She told me that Martha had passed two months ago.” Aunt Tildy glanced over her shoulder at the bed. “Only I don’t think she crossed over.” She turned back to Emma. “I think she’s here,” she finished in a whisper.

  Emma fisted her hand on her hip. “What?” she exclaimed. “Martha’s dead, so now you think her restless spirit is haunting me?”

  Aunt Tildy nodded. “I think she’s trying to ruin your wedding like I ruined hers.”

  Emma dropped her hand. “I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s crazy.”

  “You don’t believe in spirits?”

  “Of course not,” Emma answered.

  Aunt Tildy gave a long sigh. “I suppose when I was your age, I didn’t either, but now—” Her attention traveled to the open door and the hallway beyond. “There are nights when I could swear I hear William.” Her lips twisted ruefully. “When you’re my age, maybe the veil between this life and the next gets thinner.” She focused on Emma. “Whatever the reason. I know what I know, and I know Martha is behind this.”

  “Maybe this wedding is getting too much for you. Maybe we should’ve eloped—”

  “You think I’m just being senile, don’t you,” Aunt Tildy broke in.

  “Humph,” she snorted when Emma didn’t reply. She placed her hands on Emma’s shoulders and turned her around to face the mirror. “If I’m being senile, then how did you get those marks on your neck?”

  Emma’s attention shot to her reflection. There at the base of her throat were two red spots, both the exact shape of a thumb.

  “Looks to me like somebody tried to choke you.”

  *

  Tamping down the desire to look over her shoulder, Emma settled her sunglasses on her nose and hurried after Aunt Tildy into the simple storefront building. Everyone in this town knew her great aunt. What if someone saw them entering this building? Wouldn’t that get the tongues wagging? Soon this town would be her home, too, and the last thing she wanted was to start out her new life as the main topic on gossip chain. The whole thing was crazy. A few bad dreams and Aunt Tildy insists on running to a psychic.

  By the time Emma made it through the door, her great aunt was already browsing the displays of crystals. With a nod to the sales clerk, she crossed to where Aunt Tildy stood.

  “Isn’t this lovely?” Aunt Tildy asked, holding out an amethyst geode. “Look at the way it catches the light.”

  Emma guided her great aunt’s hand back to the shelf. “Yeah, it’s great.” She leaned in close. “Don’t we have to check in or something?” she asked in a low whisper.

  “This isn’t a doctor’s office,” Aunt Tildy replied with a chuckle. “Madame Katrina knows we’re here. She’ll be out in a moment.”

  Emma had hoped that in the cool light of morning Aunt Tildy’s theory concerning Martha would disappear, but it had been the opposite. The more she’d tried to convince Aunt Tildy that her nightmare was nothing more than a result of nerves, the more entrenched Aunt Tildy had become. Why couldn’t she forget it and let Emma get on with her wedding?

  But before she could voice that question, a small blonde bounced out of the back room. Dressed in khakis and a navy blue top and wearing a big smile, the woman walked up to them and held out her hand.

  “Hi, I’m Katrina, but everyone calls me Kat,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling.

  “Hello, Kat. I’m Tildy Anderson and this is my niece, Emma,” Aunt Tildy replied.

  Emma tried to hide her shock. This was Madame Katrina? Didn’t fortunetellers wear bangles, beads, and a lot of black? The woman looked like she’d be more at home watching kids play soccer than staring into a crystal ball.

  Turning her attentio
n to Emma, Kat lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, honey. I really am a psychic.” Her nose crinkled and her voice dropped. “We don’t like to use the word fortunetellers.” Taking Aunt Tildy’s arm, she motioned to the door at the back of the store. “If you ladies will follow me.”

  Silently Emma stepped in behind Aunt Tildy and Kat. Once inside the door, the room was so dimly lit that she finally removed her sunglasses. This was more like it, she thought, as her eyes scanned the room.

  The walls were a dark emerald green and a small fountain bubbled merrily in the corner. A round table sat in the middle of the room. On the table sat a tape recorder, a large purple candle, and a book of matches, but no crystal ball. She didn’t know whether or not to be disappointed.

  From over her shoulder, Kat gave her a curious glance. “Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning to the two chairs placed on one side of the table. She took the chair across from them. Leaning forward, she folded her hands on the table. “How can I help you?” she asked, directing the question to Aunt Tildy.

  Emma stifled a snort. If she were psychic, shouldn’t she know the answer?

  For a second, Kat’s attention shifted to Emma then back to Aunt Tildy.

  Settling in her chair, Aunt Tildy gave a big sigh. “We have an unwanted presence in our house.”

  “A woman.” Kat stated.

  She had a fifty-fifty chance of getting that one right, Emma thought.

  Kat focused on Emma as Aunt Tildy answered with an excited nod. “The spirit is attached to you.”

  Emma lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “My great aunt seems to think so.”

  “I see.” Kat flipped on the tape recorder and picked up the book of matches. Striking one of the matches, she lit the candle and leaned back in her chair. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let the breath out slowly. She continued breathing—in and out, in and out—for a few moments. Finally she opened her eyes and stared into the dancing flame of the candle. A frown crossed her face.

  “Not good, not good,” she muttered, her frown deepening.

  Emma felt a chill go down her spine.

  “Shadows lurk around you, Emma,” she continued. “A protector who is trying to shield you, but the battle is taking its toll.” Kat inhaled sharply. “The shadow grows stronger. Years of hate boiling over and—”