The Witches Of Denmark

by Aiden James

  “Maybe Mom can use some help inside.” Alisia wiped her brow, and exaggerated her panting. “Can I take a break?”

  “Well… your mother is why I came out here in the first place. She picked up the image of a frightened man that looks a lot like that guy being forced into the body of a mole, which is why I came outside to investigate,” he said, laughing to himself after scanning the front yard that lay littered with the corpses of dandelions and anything else that wasn’t a tulip, daffodil, or iris. Or a rose… forgot about them. “Would either of you have any idea where that image came from?” He eyed us both knowingly, and with playfulness.

  Alisia and I exchanged uncomfortable glances.

  “Tell you what… let’s try to keep this to ourselves,” he said quietly, an elfin glint dancing in his deep green eyes. “I’ll confirm you both have done enough for one day, and you can assist me in helping Mom hang the rest of the pictures. Deal?”

  We responded in unison that we were fully on board for an alternative assignment out of the heat, and away from any other crazies who might be lurking about. Most of the neighbors had seemed cool… seemed normal. But now we knew it wasn’t the case for everyone.

  And Dad broke a rule, one that inspired a widening grin as I closed the front door behind us. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t notice, but I watched the tender blades of grass steadily enwrap the wilted weeds we had carelessly tossed throughout the front yard, pulling them down into the earth. I smiled at the thought that in the next few minutes, should Mom venture outside to verify our work, she would find near-pristine gardens and no mess anywhere.

  It seemed, after all, even in Denmark there was a place for magic.

  Chapter Five

  As May died and gave way to June, the southern heat grew meaner by the day. I began to lose hope that things would ever change for the better. Admittedly, I don’t do well with heat, and greatly preferred the arctic blizzards that sometimes rolled over Chicago from Lake Michigan. Part of me understood that hating the present could inadvertently invite more of the same angst for my future… but I couldn’t help it. Even so, despite the unforgiving swelter and the fact time was passing slowly, a few notable events happened during the two weeks following our unfortunate encounter with the crazy guy across the street and the full-on advent of summer in the South.

  Mom and Grandma became increasingly popular in Denmark, and their presence was pretty much expected at a monthly luncheon for a local book club and another for the town’s historical society. Alisia’s presence was requested for July’s meetings, which made her much easier to deal with since her emancipation from yard work was coming soon. Meanwhile, the art school approached my father about joining their board of directors. Dad hadn’t served on a board since the 1940s, when he was the chairman for a Chicago bank, and was quite thrilled. “This gives me something new to focus on,” he said, sounding hopeful, while he and Mom waited for affirmation that a massive energy shield they placed around Denmark with my grandparents actually worked. Designed to keep the Mateis and their affiliates from finding us, the fact Grandpa and Grandma even tried to create something like it clearly announced they didn’t trust a similar shield surrounding the greater Chicago area to remain effective.

  With the prospects of becoming the official caretaker for “Twin Magnolias” looking more likely by the day, unless the folks at Wal-Mart or the string of fast-food joints gave me a call, I had less and less to smile about. The only thing on our immediate horizon that sounded interesting to me was Mom’s mention of having the author across the street and his wife over for dinner one night soon. The suggestion to do so came from Sadee, who remained determined to introduce us to the exclusive, and diminutive, ‘in crowd’ list of Denmark.

  Mom’s announcement that “Meredith and Julien Mays have accepted our invitation to dinner” brought a huge smile to my face, and she eyed me curiously. I figured she had noticed my gloominess, but likely assumed I would get over it in time. And remember… time for us has a whole different meaning than it does for most people. Maybe she didn’t get how bored I was, since she and Dad had given me and my sis daily lists of chores that sometimes kept us occupied from dawn to dusk.

  More than likely, though, neither of my parents realized I was intrigued to learn more about the eccentric man across the street; this author who concocted tales of horror in the dead of night. A loner, who managed to succeed as a maverick, living life on his terms.

  What’s not to like about that?

  Anyway, the dinner event happened on the first Friday evening in June. Sadee and her husband planned to be there, too, along with Harrison and Jennifer Crawford. Harrison was a locally famous banjo builder, musician, and ‘pointillism’ painter. I had briefly met him and his wife, when they came over to shoot the shit with Mom and Dad. He brought them a housewarming gift of an amazing portrait of a nineteenth century man that featured a melting clock in the background. I can’t adequately express how frigging cool this sucker is, and it’s hanging on a wall in Dad’s office. That was just over a week earlier, and it was Harrison’s suggestion to drag Julien Mays away from working on his latest bestseller and force him to socialize a bit. Harrison and Sadee vouched for how much fun Julien was to be around, if one could wrest this author’s focus away from his obsession. I already had heard from Mom and Grandma that Meredith Mays was a blast to hang out with, and they had been pushing hard for this get-together since the previous weekend.

  “Well, hello,” said Mr. Mays from our doorstep. I was the first one to respond to the light rap on our front door window, just after six o’clock that evening. “You must be Sebastian.”

  Although I could’ve let Mom, Dad, or my grandparents handle this in the traditional manner for accepting guests into our home, I wanted the honor. However, I didn’t let this man know I was impressed with what little I knew about him, or even acknowledge I had ever heard of him and his wife—a lovely blonde with flowing curly locks and eyes that seemed to change color as she stepped into our house. I thought they were blue when I saw her on the porch, but they became turquoise soon after I led the couple through the foyer and into the front right parlor, that served as the living room for us and the previous owners.

  As for Julien, he sort of looked like an author, or like I pictured Stephen King or Clive Barker to be like. But his mannerisms belonged to a sophisticated southern gentleman, like John Grisham. Dinner parties in Denmark could be quite formal from what I understand… unless held in the heat of late spring or summer. It would be anything goes at that point, since formalities meant little when you’re pouring sweat.

  While the other men, including Dad and Grandpa, were dressed in shorts and polo shirts, the only thing they shared in common with him were sandals. Julien preferred jeans and a ‘Metallica’ T-shirt. With lightly salt and pepper hair pulled back in a ponytail and a full moustache, he kind of reminded me of the actor Kevin Spacey, but with hazel eyes.

  “It’s Tupelo, Mississippi via Savannah, Georgia,” he said, his drawl smooth and much more genteel than what was common in this region. His smile was impish, revealing expensive veneers. “You were wondering where my accent originated from. Correct?”

  “Yeah, I guess I was,” I said, impressed he had discerned what fascinated me most, and wondered if he had similar intuitive gifts as my mother and sister. “Are you some sort of psychic?”

  He laughed.

  “No, but I wish I was,” he said. “Meredith is, though, and she hates me bringing it up. She used to do readings for the music industry people in Nashville. I could tell from your expression and your focus on my lips that you were trying to figure out where I came from. There’s only one other person I know of, out this way, who hails from either place.”

  I nodded, and then Dad and Grandpa deftly took over. I barely had a chance to introduce myself to Meredith, as the ‘adults’ disappeared into the dining room.

  “He seems pretty observant, huh?” said Alisia, emerging from the living room to join me in th
e foyer.

  “You heard what he said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah… and he is definitely different than most of the people living here,” I said. “Are we sitting in the kitchen, or is there enough room for us at table in the dining room?”

  Another older couple was coming, too, and they were long-time pals of Sadee, and were also heavily involved with the school. Though I disliked much about this quaint little town, listening to the candid local talk during the previous dinners when Sadee and her husband had joined us was damned near priceless. The slang, the gossip, anecdotes, new curse words—hell, most everything spoken was night and day different than anything I had ever been exposed to.

  Northerners are boring as hell around a dinner table, compared to this bunch.

  “I think we’ll be in the kitchen… just like most kids.” She smirked. “So, no wine for us until everyone’s gone. But, we should be able to hear everything. Remember the see-through fireplace?”

  “Ah, that’s right,” I agreed. Forgot about that.

  Dinner was as entertaining as I hoped; a delightful event. Even more irreverent than the previous nights had been.

  When Roy Hamilton and his wife, Noralee, showed up, it really got loud and merry. For reference, my family doesn’t do much drinking in a public setting, since it isn’t out of the realm of possibility that secrets can be inadvertently shared and spells cast in careless anger. Not to mention, the embarrassment of carrying on conversations in Romanian to the exclusion of our English-speaking guests. So, it was no small thing that Dad had stocked up a portable bar we had brought with us from Chicago.

  “I understand you write books about the paranormal,” I heard Mom say to Julien, when the laughter had died down, and it was time to infuse the conversation with a new topic. “Do people actually believe in ghosts, vampires, and the like?”

  “Apparently not, if my recent book sales are any indication,” he replied, dryly. The room erupted in laughter. Perfectly played quip with a reaction inspired by distilled spirits. I peered around the corner, watching Grandpa pour more wine for most of them, and freshen Julien’s drink, which looked like vodka and cranberry juice on the rocks. “It’s all fiction that I write, and some creatures of the night don’t exist. Like vampires, obviously. But ghosts… I have seen some of those, now and then.”

  “How about witches?” Grandpa asked.

  I think it was more the unexpected nature of the question that formed a lump in my throat. No doubt the reaction was the same from the resident witches and other warlock in the dining room. Maybe everyone else felt the slight tension in the air… chalk one up for my grandfather.

  “Well… I’ve never met one,” said Julien, chuckling. “Other than my lovely wife, who on occasion can be quite bewitching.”

  “Ahhh, that’s so sweet! Count on Julien to say something like that,” said Noralee, and echoed by Jennifer.

  “Well, she is beautiful,” added Roy.

  Meredith appeared to be blushing, though hard to say for sure from my vantage point.

  “Not as bewitching as our hostess,” said Meredith. “Fabulous cordon bleu, Silvia! Are you sure you don’t have roots in either New Orleans, or Paris?”

  “I’ve been to both wonderful cities, but not long enough to have established roots,” said Mom.

  I was surprised to see my mother blush… and it took me a moment to discern she had picked up on something subtle about Meredith—a kindred ‘gift’ recognition, perhaps? Maybe our neighbor had a little witch in her, though likely a milder intuitive form. But, hell, wasn’t that all it took to get burned at the stake in centuries past?

  “Meredith should be the celebrated author,” said Julien. “After all, she taught me most everything I know, and helped me make the change from songwriter to novelist.”

  More ‘ahhhs’ swept the table, followed by a hearty laugh from Harrison.

  “She certainly could do no worse in the erotica area, my friend,” he teased, his Tennessee country accent thick. “Zombies and bestiality mix horribly—especially when you do it.”

  “Tisk, tisk… like you even read that book!” Julien shot back, playfully. “And, if you had, as horrible as it was, something that awful fits the very definition of horror, does it not?”

  “Zombie Nights was truly horrifying,” added Sadee, who sat next to him, and leaned in to give him a shoulder nudge. “But we still love you, and almost everything else you’ve written.”

  “Good to know,” added my father, wryly. More chuckles….

  “Have you read anything of his?” whispered Alisia from beside me.

  “No,” I said. “I only read serious books.”

  “You’re so full of shit, Bas—you’ve hardly read anything in the past ten years that isn’t related to gaming!”

  The ‘adults’ in the other room suddenly craned their necks to where we were huddled, just out of view. Shit, way to go, sis!

  “Well… rest assured, there will be no more Zombie sex experiments,” said Julien, when the awkwardness became palpable. Grandma stepped into the kitchen, smiling knowingly and shaking her head as if amused by the fact we were truly acting like teenagers, even if somewhat lamely. “That’s why I’m sticking to ghosts, demons, a few vampires, and two new action adventure series going forward. And, I would love to write a book about real ghosts. Like the ones y’all have here in this house.”

  What in the hell?!

  “Ghosts in this house?” Grandpa sounded amused.

  “It’s time for us to join the party, I think,” I whispered to Alisia, and headed for the dining room. “Come on.”

  Grandma carried a silver tray loaded with cups and a carafe of hot tea and another filled with coffee. I intercepted her, and to my surprise she was willing to forego her love of being a good hostess to allow me a less awkward way to crash the conversation picking up speed and volume in the dining room.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts!” said Sadee resolutely. “But, I guess if one writes about them, they can seem real…. Well hello, kids!”

  “Hi Sadee and everyone else,” said Alisia, while I smiled and nodded, looking for the most suitable spot on the table to set the tray, and not finding one. Grandma lightly grabbed my arm to guide me over to the antique buffet in the corner, and I felt like an idiot for not remembering this is what the damned thing was originally used for a century earlier. “We’ve been pretty entertained by the conversation going on.”

  Didn’t expect that from her, but glad she said it. Nervous laughter quietly flowed around the table, all except Julien and Meredith. Julien studied my sister and my mother, and Meredith watched him… looking like she was silently begging him to not open his mouth. But, here was my kindred spirit… the male who couldn’t stop himself from adding fuel to a fire that would otherwise die out.

  “So, Alisia… true or false? Have you seen the ghost of a tall, attractive, dark haired woman in the ladies’ parlor—a ghost ascribed locally as the widow of the famous confederate statesman who once lived here, Sophie Atwater?”

  I doubt any of us anticipated hearing such a question; asked with the same straightforwardness one might expect when playing Clue and inquiring if anyone saw Colonel Mustard in the library. Certainly, Alisia never saw it coming, and she looked at Julien in surprise, and then at Mom as if unsure how to answer. The lack of an immediate response added support for the question, and I grinned admiringly. Julien’s expression had been mostly neutral, with a hint of amusement—mostly in the eyes that twinkled. A smile to match appeared.

  “Well, umm, I don’t think so—”

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” Mom interrupted my sister, and turned a gaze similar to mine toward our unexpectedly candid guest. “Yes, we have seen her. Alisia and I have.”

  I don’t know who was more surprised among Sadee, my father, or me. Grandpa seemed indifferent, as if a ghost residing in the house would be no more significant than having a small swarm of gnats to deal with. Grandma’s unsurprised lo
ok told me she either had seen the same apparition, sensed the presence, or Mom had previously confided the experience to her. Alisia was the one to surprise me most in my family, since she looked at our mother with relief.

  So, this is true? We’ve got a ghost… or ghosts, maybe? And, no one bothered to mention any of this to me—Alisia, how could you?!

  I suddenly pictured our unsavory neighbor grimacing at me—a man I still didn’t know by name.

  That thar’s some shit!

  “Meredith has seen her, too,” Julien volunteered, to which his wife nodded reluctantly. She shot him a look that wasn’t hostile, but did carry noticeable regret, as if she would’ve been just as happy to never bring the matter up, and hoping it would soon die. “I wish I could see the spirit for myself.”

  “Perhaps someday you shall,” Mom told him, smiling coyly. “She’s benign, and so far has taken a liking to us. In fact….”

  Here’s where I tuned out, and not for disrespect. In truth, I would’ve liked to hear what my mother had to add to this. But I suddenly recalled trying to take a nap one afternoon in the ladies’ parlor during our first week in the house. I remembered now that I couldn’t do it. Every time I closed my eyes, I sensed someone hovering over me. But when I opened my eyes, no one was there.

  “She spoke to me once,” said Alisia, and from Mom’s slightly raised eyebrow, I realized this was an aspect of the spirit’s behavior that she hadn’t shared in. “I came in after pulling weeds one afternoon, and she told me the garden below the parlor window looked very nice. I thought you had said it, Mom, or maybe even Grandma. But you both were at a luncheon that day, and hadn’t returned.”

  I felt another pinprick to the heart. What else is Alisia not telling me about this place?

  “Well, Reverend Thompson says the only ghost that we need to worry about is the Holy Ghost,” said Sadee, followed by a hearty ‘amen!’ from Dan, her eighty-year-old husband.

  Squish! There went the air out of that balloon. Nothing like a religious shield to protect against the supernatural unknown; and like pouring a bottle of Roundup on a tender rose, the fun-filled conversation at the dining table quickly waned.