She suddenly sat back and massaged the center of her forehead with her index finger. It was a moment before she spoke. Dropping her hand, she looked directly at Emma. “You certainly have a problem. The spirit of a woman...I kept seeing the letter “M”—”
“Martha,” Aunt Tildy gasped.
“Yes, that feels right,” Kat said, tugging on her bottom lip. “This Martha has recently passed, but she didn’t cross over as she should. Her hatred is keeping her tied to this earthly plane, and that rage is focused on Emma.”
Emma’s thoughts flashed back to the crone from her nightmare last night. Unconsciously, she rubbed the base of her throat.
Aunt Tildy place her hand on Emma’s knee. “Why Emma? I was the one who caused her pain. Emma had nothing to do with it.”
“Emma’s an easier target. You’ve had a lifetime to develop a strong spirit. Emma hasn’t had that opportunity yet and it makes her vulnerable.” Kat shook her head. “And this Martha knows the best way to hurt you is to hurt Emma.”
Emma felt Aunt Tildy’s hand tremble. “How can we stop her?” Aunt Tildy asked.
“You can’t allow yourself to be afraid,” Kat said, directing her statement to Emma.
Emma touched her throat again. That’s easier said than done. Hard not to be scared when it feels like someone is choking the life out of you.
Over the top of the candle, Kat’s eyes drilled into Emma’s. “I mean it. She enjoys your fear, and it’s making her stronger.” Kat sat forward. “I know you don’t believe what I’m telling you. You’re a skeptic. You want to pretend this isn’t happening, and you think if you ignore it, it will go away. You’re wrong.” Kat reached across the table and took Emma’s hand. “If you deny what’s happening to you, you can’t protect yourself, and it’s easier for her to slip under your natural defenses.”
“Okay, so what do we do?”
“Fight back,” Kat answered shortly.
“How? How do I fight something I don’t believe exists?”
“First you have to accept that there’s more to the world than what we can see. Then you have to stop letting her use your fear against you.”
“That’s it?” Emma scoffed. “Conquer my fears and all will be well? How about I just stay at Nick’s until the wedding?”
Kat shook her head. “Leaving your aunt’s house won’t work. Martha has attached herself to you. She’ll follow.”
Oh great.
“Your aunt’s house needs to be cleansed.”
That was ridiculous. Aunt Tildy kept an immaculate house. Except for the attic, not a speck of dust or a cobweb was allowed to linger.
“I don’t mean that kind of clean,” Kat said, answering Emma’s unspoken thoughts. “The house needs a spiritual cleansing.”
Taken aback, Emma gave a start. “And how do we do that?”
“With sage. It’s called smudging. I’ll explain how it’s done later.” Kat sat back and crossed her arms. “I also recommend your aunt places points of clear quartz crystal in each of the four corners of the house. They’ll help absorb the negative energy.”
“If we do all this mumbo jumbo, Martha will leave me alone?”
“It depends on how much strength she now has.” Kat stopped for a moment. “One last thing. I sensed reminders of her in the house. They need to be destroyed, preferably burned. They’re acting as a conduit and helping her manifest her will.”
Emma’s thoughts ran to the photo now hidden in her room. Was there anything else of Martha’s squirreled away among Uncle William’s things?
*
A short time later, and the several dollars shorter after purchasing an abalone shell, bags of sage, a feather fan, and crystal points, Emma did a slow turn in Aunt Tildy’s library.
“You have a huge house,” Emma said, not keeping the dismay out of her voice. “This is going to take forever.”
Aunt Tildy eyebrows drew together in a frown. “We don’t have a choice,” she said as she carefully laid out all their supplies. “I suggest we start with the basement and work our way to the attic.”
“But I have lists to finish,” Emma complained.
“Well, then I suggest we get started,” Aunt Tildy replied firmly.
Picking up the supplies, she headed for the basement steps. “Madame Katrina said that smudging isn’t going to work unless you set your skepticism aside,” she called over her shoulder. “Are you going to be able to do it?”
“I’ll try.”
And Emma did. As they went from room to room and walked the perimeter of each room, wafting smoke in the corners and around the windows and doors, she tried to focus on the words ‘peace and love, peace and love.’ But her brain felt like a radio station that kept flipping channels. Channels that were nothing more than static. By the time they’d finished in the attic Emma was exhausted.
Sinking to a chair in the kitchen, she laid her forehead on the table. “It’s starting to get dark,” she mumbled. “Can’t we wait until tomorrow to do the burning?”
“No, we’ll do it now.”
With a sigh Emma lifted her head and rose. “Do we have to go through Uncle William’s trunk again?”
“No, I know the only things William had was the picture and the lace handkerchief.” Aunt Tildy gave a snort. “And what’s left of it went out with yesterday’s garbage.”
Emma thought for a moment. If Martha’s spirit really was tied to physical objects, after the picture was destroyed, all that would be left was the remains of the handkerchief. The tatters now resting permanently in the landfill. Would she spend eternity wandering the dump? Emma shook her head. Talk about hell on earth.
Emma ran up to her room and returned with the photo. “Okay, here it is. Let’s get this over with.”
“Bring it with you,” Aunt Tildy said, grabbing a battery powered lantern from the cupboard. “We’ve one more place to search.”
“Where?” Emma asked with a groan.
“The garden shed,” she replied, heading for the door. “I haven’t been in there since he died...I didn’t have the energy or the inclination to attempt cleaning it out.”
“Why would Uncle William store something of Martha’s out there?”
“He wouldn’t intentionally, but his mother’s trunk is out there.” Aunt Tildy opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. “Martha and his mother were very close. She might have kept some keepsake that Martha had given her.”
Emma rushed after her. “But how are you going to know what Martha gave her and what she didn’t?”
Aunt Tildy shot her a wicked look over her shoulder. “We won’t. I say we burn the whole thing.”
From behind her great aunt’s back, Emma rolled her eyes. Oh brother, Aunt Tildy using this as an excuse to get rid of a lot of old memories. They were going to have quite a bonfire by the time she was finished.
They walked down the steps and into the deepening twilight. The flowers seemed to shimmer in the afterglow as the first lighting bugs began their nightly light show. Emma looked up at the evening star, winking in the sky. Her gaze traveled to the western horizon, and she felt a jolt. Just like in her dream—black clouds were beginning stretch across the sky. She looked quickly at the leaves overhead. Still and quiet, they drooped from the trees.
Running to catch up with Aunt Tildy, she grabbed her arm. “I think we’d better do this tomorrow.” She pointed to the horizon. “A storm’s coming.”
Aunt Tildy waved away her concerns. “We have time,” she said as the wind suddenly picked up, making the leaves tremble.
Swallowing her argument, Emma followed her to the shed. Aunt Tildy reached in the pocket of her skirt and withdrew a heavy set of keys. It took her a moment to find the key fitting the ancient padlock. Once she did, she unlocked the door and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. Moving her great aunt to the side, Emma tried, and finally the door creaked open. The smell of mold rushed out at her.
Windows covered in grime blocked what little light there was. Taking
the lantern from her great aunt, Emma flipped it on and stepped through the doorway. The shed was worse than the attic. An old lawnmower sat in the corner, its handle almost obscured by veils of cobwebs. Moldering newspapers lined one wall and tools, once oiled and shiny, now dimmed with a thick layer of dust, still hung from pegs above the workbench.
“William loved puttering around in here,” Aunt Tildy murmured from the doorway. “I never should have let it go like this.”
A clap of thunder almost drowned out her words.
“Don’t worry about it,” Emma called above the rumble. “After Nick and I get settled in, we’ll come over and clean it out for you.” Her gaze traveled around the shed. “Let’s just find the trunk and get this over with.”
“There, under the workbench.”
Placing the lantern and the picture on the bench, Emma bent and grasped one of the leather handles, giving it a tug. The handle split in her hand. She knelt on the dirt floor and clutching the sides, wiggled it until it had cleared the bench. Running her fingers over the clasp, she could see that it was rusted shut.
She hated doing it to something this old, but she had no choice. There was only one way to open this trunk.
With a groan, she rose to her feet and took down Uncle William’s hammer.
“Aunt Tildy, this is going to ruin the trunk,” she cautioned. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until we can clean it up and open it without destroying it?”
From behind her great aunt’s silhouette in the doorway, leaves skittered across the yard. The same wind that had ripped those leaves from the trees whipped Aunt Tildy’s skirt around her legs. Her mouth tightened in a firm line. “Do it.”
Emma’s eyebrows rose as she weighed the hammer in her hand. Drawing back, she swung and gave the clasp a good whack. It shot across the room. Kneeling again, she lifted the lid carefully, but the straps holding it to the base gave way and the lid tumbled to the floor. Half sick at demolishing what could’ve been a valuable antique, she began pawing through the items in the old trunk.
Yellowed envelopes dotted with spots of mold; an old moth eaten hat; a crumbling rose; old bank statements. It was obvious to Emma that Uncle William hadn’t been the only saver in his family. She was amazed at the unimportant things his mother had kept. They were going to a lot of bother for a lot of nothing as far as she was concerned. Finally at the bottom of the trunk she found a stack of letters, bundled together with a black ribbon. She read the top one, then held them up.
“Wow—” she started to say.
Aunt Tildy rushed over to her before she could continue. “What?”
“RSVP cards from Martha and Uncle William’s aborted wedding,” Emma replied, looking up.
Aunt Tildy stomped one foot. “I knew it. I told you she never forgave me,” she said with an angry snort. “And to bundle them with a black ribbon to boot? Isn’t that the—”
The shed door slamming shut cut off her words and a sudden crack of lightening followed by a crash made them both jump. Emma bolted to her feet and had started toward the door when the drumming of rain stopped her.
Now they had to wait out the storm in this dirty old shed. Not the safest place to be if the storm included a tornado.
Fisting her hands on her hips, she turned back to her great aunt. “Now what?”
Aunt Tildy yanked the letters out of Emma’s hand, and picking up the picture, dumped everything into a metal pail, sitting on the bench. Taking out a book of matches, she struck one.
Emma’s hand shot out. “Aunt Tildy,” she cried as the smell of sulfur hit her, “wait.”
Too late, Aunt Tildy dropped the match into the bucket. In an instant, black smoke rolled out of the top of the bucket.
“I don’t think that was a good idea,” Emma said.
“Nonsense,” Aunt Tildy replied while the smoke drifted to the ceiling and started a journey across the shed.
With a cough, Emma turned on her heel as a flash of lightening brightened the room. “I think we’d better open the door and let some fresh air in.”
Crossing to the door, she placed both hands on it and pushed. Nothing. She pushed again. The door remained firmly in place even though its frame shook from the thunder crashing around them.
Emma pivoted. “I think—oh no!”
She watched in horror as vibrations from another boom of thunder danced the metal bucket to the edge of the bench. As if in slow motion, it tipped forward and dumped its burning contents into the trunk. Flames shot upward, licking an oily rag that hung off the bench. It ignited and soon the blaze crept across the bench.
Rushing forward, Emma grabbed Aunt Tildy and pulled her away from the growing fire. “We have to get out of here,” she exclaimed.
She left Aunt Tildy by the door, and picking up an axe, smashed the nearest window. A sudden rush of oxygen fanned the fire and the smoke gathered in a thick cloud above them. Slowly it began to descend toward them.
“Down! Get down!” Emma shrieked above the roar of the storm, but Aunt Tildy didn’t move. She stood transfixed, staring at the growing flames.
Emma’s gaze followed. Her eyes stung and tears made the vision before her waver. She swiped at her eyes in disbelief.
Next to the fire, a shape began to take form. Vague and indistinct at first, the edges sharpened. A veil, held with a crown of flowers, appeared along with a knee length satin dress. Suddenly, the scent of gardenia’s drifted on the clouds of smoke.
Emma watched in horror as a face emerged from the cloud of smoke—the face from her dreams. The eyes, their dark holes burning bright, stared at Aunt Tildy from across the shed. Then the lips, wrinkled and cracked, stretched into a triumphant smile
Oh my god. It was Martha dressed for the wedding day that never happened.
Startled into action, Emma grabbed her great aunt and, pulling her near the door, forced her to the floor where the air was fresher. She braced her arms on the floor and placed her feet on the door then pushed with all her strength. The door moved an inch. She tried again.
A hand on her shoulder stopped her. “It’s no good.” Aunt Tildy croaked. “Martha’s won.”
“No,” Emma cried with a backward glance at the fire. She hesitated.
Another shape had appeared...a man. Dressed in a frocked coat and formal trousers, the specter grabbed at the bride’s shoulders, but she danced away, her cackling laugh ringing in Emma’s ears. The man reached again, this time clutching a hank of gray hair and pulling the bride closer. The bouquet fell from her hands as she lifted skeletal fingers to claw at the man’s face.
Emma turned away and gave the door another frantic push while Aunt Tildy’s ragged breathing mixed with the sounds of the bride’s desperate struggle.
Increasing her pressure on the door, Emma glanced down at Aunt Tildy. She lay in a crumpled heap next to her.
“Help!” Emma screamed and gave the door a furious kick.
The heat, wafting from the growing flames, mixed with a blast of cold air. Emma turned.
In the clouds of smoke, she saw the man and the bride battling. His hands wrapped tightly around her throat and he shook her like a wet rag as he edged her closer and closer to the flames eating up the walls of the shed. Suddenly he released the bride’s throat and drew back. Placing both hands on her skinny shoulders, he gave a hard push. She stumbled backward, and with a scream, fell into the raging fire.
Sparks flew skyward and with a crack, the ceiling above the workbench tumbled down. Emma threw her arms around Aunt Tildy, shielding her, as torrents of water cascaded from the hole in the roof. The fire sputtered and hissed, and the smoke that had gathered around them fled through the new opening. Sweet rain-soaked air surrounded them.
Looking up through the rain pouring down on them, Emma saw the man lift his hand then fade into nothingness.
A fit of coughing wracked Aunt Tildy, and Emma renewed her attack on the door. She had to get her to the hospital.
She was so focused on getting the door o
pen that she came close to missing the voice calling out above the storm.
“Emma, Emma,” the voice cried out.
Nick. Jumping to her feet, she ran to the broken window. “Nick, we’re in the shed,” she hollered into the night.
Pulling her head back in she turned. Aunt Tildy had crumpled to the floor and lay curled in the dirt. With a shriek, Emma ran to her, and cradling her great aunt’s head in her lap, madly searched for a pulse.
The door flung open and Nick stood in the doorway. Taking in the scene, he hurried over to them.
“Nick, we were trapped...I couldn’t—”
“A limb blocked the doorway,” he said, his voice terse while he focused on Aunt Tildy.
“Is she dead?” Emma asked, fighting the tears.
“No, but we have to get her to the hospital,” he answered, scooping up Aunt Tildy’s still form.
*
The day dawned sunny and mild. “A perfect day for a wedding,” Emma thought as she stood in her bedroom window in her perfect dress, and watched their guests take their places in the garden. It was all she’d dreamed it would be.
Her gaze traveled to the scorched earth where the old shed had once stood. They’d removed the debris, but the ground still held the scar. A sense of sadness blocked Emma’s happiness. Just like the scar that had blotted Martha’s.
She remembered how Aunt Tildy, half conscious, had called to Uncle William on the long ride to the hospital. Turning from the window, Emma rubbed her upper arms against the sudden chill. He’d been there. She knew it, felt it.
What was it Aunt Tildy had said the night of her shower? That he waited beyond the grave. That he’d be there to protect her?
Well he had. He’d been patiently waiting all these years for Aunt Tildy to join him. He’d been the protector Madame Katrina had seen. The one who’d been trying to save them from Martha, and in the end, he’d won.
The whole experience had changed Emma. She knew that she’d never look at life or love in the same way again. It was comforting to know that love lived on, but thanks to Martha, she’d learned that hate can, too. Scary.
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