A Spot of Bother

by Magenta Wilde

  “What are you picking up?” I asked.

  “Well, we have some of the names and the story cobbled together. Obviously Cora was in love with Ernest but didn’t go with him. I’m not sure what happened to him, but I sense he left the picture — permanently — not long after the events surrounding these letters, the drawings and other items. There’s a lingering wound — a festering one, I guess you’d call it. Also a kind of resignation.”

  “Like she gave up? Maybe he went to war or he died of flu or her parents gave an ultimatum? That kind of thing?”

  “It’s a bit muddled, like there’s something extra mucking up the works.”

  “But we know it’s unhappy,” I sighed.

  “I would say so,” Mitten agreed. “And there’s no indication what happened to him in all this stuff in the box. No diary entry, no letter, no obituary clipped from the paper.”

  “I’m trying to learn more about the location, too, where my friend Scott is opening his brewpub, since we found the items there.”

  “I wouldn’t mind giving it a look-see myself. A hidden room. A safe. You said yesterday you’d seen a ghost. ...”

  “That probably can be arranged.”

  “Now, do you want me to read you?” I offered. “It’s the least I could do for all your insights.”

  Mitten squinched up her face in a comical grimace and gave a curt headshake. “Nope. In payment I want to read you.”

  “Really?” I was surprised.

  “You thought I’d want to hear about myself. That’s why most people want readings, after all.”

  “Yes, that is the big draw for people,” I agreed.

  “Eh, I’m old. A good night of sleep, a bit of bourbon in whatever I’m drinking, a good poop, maybe to see what the young ones are up to — that’s all I want to look forward to at this point.”

  “Just life unfolding around you as normal then?”

  “Pretty much,” Mitten rasped. “Now, first off, get a bowl of water and set it on the table. Any old container will do. But you — ” she stabbed her index finger in my direction — “you, red, need to pick the bowl and fill it with water.”

  I did as told, sitting back down before Mitten.

  “Now, take your non-dominant hand and trace your name in the water, like you were writing on a fogged-up window.”

  “Why my non-dominant hand?”

  “You’ll have to focus more on the task.”

  “That makes sense.” I did as ordered, looking up to see Mitten eyeing me with interest. “See anything good?”

  “I can see you have magic. Now, take one of these here lit candles, whichever one you feel compelled to pick up first… and keep using your left hand.”

  I did as told, holding the taper in my hand and waiting.

  “Hold it above the water for a minute and clear your mind.”

  “And then?”

  “And then something will happen.”

  “What if nothing happens?”

  “Then that’s something, too. Even nothing means something. I doubt that’ll be the case for you.”

  I wanted to ask what might happen — other than wax dripping down, of course — but I held the candle above the bowl of water and focused on the liquid, how the surface reflected the candle light in our dimly lit corner.

  My eyes began to feel heavy, tired, and as I felt myself drift my hand began to tingle and the flame danced and flickered. It suddenly blazed up and several blobs of wax quickly melted and dripped down into the water.

  When the flame returned to normal and my hand felt the same, I looked up at Mitten. She gave a curt nod, seemingly pleased.

  “Drip the wax on that little dish to the side there and make the candle stand freely on the plate.”

  I did as told. The candle gave another sputter and the flame turned briefly purple then green before returning to its almost white-yellow fire.

  Mitten leaned forward and peered into the water basin for a moment and then at the plate where I’d stuck the wax and gave me another nod.

  “See anything good?” I asked.

  “Plenty. Plenty of interesting things, too.” She pointed into the bowl. “You see that shape there, that looks a bit like a heart?”

  I peered into the container and nodded when I saw what she meant. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s love, but a bit lopsided. The heart is big and firm, so it’s a big love, not wishy-washy, but it’s a little deformed.”

  “Deformed? I’m not sure I like the sound of that word.”

  “Think of it as imperfect then. That’s not always a bad thing.”

  “It sounds like it means a few bumps in the road.”

  Mitten nodded.

  “Does it give any indication what kind of bumps are ahead?”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t think it’s anything major, but the shape of the wax leads me to believe it’s an internal problem.”

  “As in?”

  Mitten shrugged. “It’s not a separation by distance. I think it’s an internal struggle. By that logic, it’s also an internal solution.” She trained her eyes on me. I suspected she knew more but wasn’t letting on. I waited. “It’s nothing bad. Not a calamity, but a sort of mental roadblock. Trust me. You’ll know you’re there when you arrive. And you really don’t want to know more than that. That’s a big reason why you can see a lot of people’s futures and/or pasts: Because they want you to. You like a bit of mystery, seeing where things take you as you live your life. Had you wanted the wax to reveal more, it would have.”

  I opened my mouth to say something but closed it. “You’re right. I don’t want to know too much. That would disrupt the day-to-day.”

  “And you’re mostly content with your life, so you don’t want to rock that boat. The heart is intact, solid, too, so that’s good.” She turned and looked at the candle on the plate. The wax was dripping down, like big fat tears. “That there is your past, on that plate. I see loss. Your father died when you were young.”

  I nodded.

  She tapped her finger on the wax. Most of it had set but one piece remained pliable. “He’s still a part of your life. He hung around and you talk to his ghost.”

  I nodded again. “Can you see ghosts?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’ve never been able to see spirits. I can sense when one’s around, by chill in the room or by smell, but seeing, no.” She pointed at another part of the wax that had dripped down. “This brings to mind leaves and flowers. You’re connected to nature. To the earth. And this here, even though the candle is white, there’s a purple tinge to the wax. That’s your witching ability.”

  I leaned closer. She was right. There was a tiny bit of a violet hue at the edge of the wax puddle. It almost looked like an optical illusion but it was most definitely there.

  “So, it’s always there, huh, just on the edge of things? Just like in everyday life.”

  “Yep. Just like in everyday life.”

  19

  “So this is the Parker house,” Mom said as Tom, Roger and I followed her inside Ash’s rental one evening. From the street it was hard to gauge how large the place was on the inside, but it was surprisingly roomy. It felt a lot like stepping into decades past, too.

  I gazed around in awe. “Is this how the owners decorated the house? I did not expect that.”

  “Oh, no,” Ash said. “I paid extra to store their furniture and bring in my own. Their furnishings were one step above what you’d find in a particularly ambitious mid-range furniture showroom.”

  That made sense. The place was filled with old but well taken care of velvet sofas and loveseats, framed with elaborate carvings, and vivid oriental rugs adorned the hardwood floors. Gigantic ferns and palm trees flanked the windows. The air was perfumed with something that gave off hints of vanilla, tobacco and bourbon. The curtains were elaborate ivory lace. A large antique globe sat in one corner; a statue of a nude and very nubile young woman stood in another corner, gazing down upon u
s; and across from her stood another marble, a young man, and a very well endowed one at that! I had to give that one a couple of good glances — as I was surprised because most classical male statues were either cut short in that department or designed with shortcomings. Not so with this one.

  Mom, never at a loss for words, said, “That statue sure is hung.”

  “As yes, that’s my beautiful Beldon,” Ash said as he approached. “I had his likeness carved some years back.” He turned his gaze to Jordan. “I’d like to bring the artist to town to make a statue of Jordan, too.”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing that,” Mom whispered into my ear. “I also wonder if he would do one of Roger.” Her eyes never left the area a few inches below the statue’s navel. “I hear from the gossip mill that he and his brother sport comparable anatomies in that department.” She elbowed me in the ribs and gave a hearty chuckle.

  “It’s too bad for you that I loathe gossip,” I sniffed as I walked to Roger’s side and accepted the drink he’d procured for me. “How about seeing if Tom would pose for a statue?”

  Mom grimaced and shook her head. “No. As much as I love Tom, a more fitting tribute would be a stack of donuts on a plate. Naked, he kind of looks like what he eats.”

  I tried not to think too much on that description, instead turning to eye Roger up and down. He didn’t sport abs of steel or anything, but he was tall, muscular, and didn’t boast any signs of a beer belly. His chest hair hadn’t migrated to his back, so I considered myself a winner.

  “Come, you can stare at Beldon and Bella some more after I finish giving you the tour,” Ash said, motioning with his fingers that we should follow him up the ornate staircase. The upper level matched the downstairs in décor, albeit not quite as elaborate.

  “Is this all yours, too?” Roger asked, looking at a room filled with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves.

  “Most of it. I kept a few items around because they matched my tastes,” Ash said.

  “Some of these rooms are smaller,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Yes, those are later add-ons,” Ash replied. “It turns out some of the Parkers hit hard times. A couple walls were added to make some rooms suitable for boarders, so Mrs. Parker could keep things afloat after her husband died.”

  Most of our group paused and chatted in the library as I wandered into a couple of the smaller rooms. One faced the river. I peered through the window to take in the view. There wasn’t a lot to see because it had already gotten dark, but the lights in the park across the way offered some illumination.

  I watched a young woman power-walking along the roadside path with two golden retrievers on leashes, but other than that it appeared deserted.

  Then I spied the form of a man near the river. He was mostly in shadowy relief so I couldn’t gauge his age or anything, but he drew close to the water, standing by the fence that blocked access to the St. Mary’s. I got the impression he was deep in thought, perhaps enjoying the river sloshing by, waiting for a freighter to come through.

  Suddenly I noticed a woman standing maybe twenty feet away from him. I couldn’t make out much of her due to the dark, but she appeared to be wearing a long fitted coat, light gray or light brown in color, and only noticeable because she was near a lamp post that illuminated her slightly. She only seemed interested in watching the young man as her gaze remained pointed in his direction.

  I let my eyes drift back over to him watching the river. A few seconds later he looked up in the direction of the street. I felt a chill race up my spine as I grew certain he made eye contact with me. It seemed unlikely he’d single me out, but I felt exposed even though I should have been near impossible to make out from my vantage point. Suddenly it seemed like we were much closer than we really were. He stared up at me for a long moment and then hoisted himself over the fence and vanished. I jolted, certain he’d thrown himself into the river. I looked toward the young woman who’d been watching him, expecting her to run to the barrier and call out for him, but she had vanished.

  I jammed my hand into my pocket to retrieve my cell phone.

  Nothing was there.

  I realized I’d left it in my purse downstairs. My heart pounding, I pivoted to find someone and let them know what I’d seen. It was at least a mild night, so maybe this man could be rescued.

  I turned, my mind clear of thoughts unrelated to helping, and stepped into what felt like a wall of ice. Surprised, I jerked backwards and found myself staring into the coal black eyes of the man I was certain I had just seen by the river. He’d appeared dry across the way a moment ago but now was soaking wet with plant matter entwined in his fingers. His face was unnaturally pale and bloated and his hair plastered flat on his scalp and forehead. He opened his mouth, revealing two rows of crooked teeth, and water dripped out. I caught a whiff of something earthy and decaying, of rotting plant matter paired with something more rancid and sickly. It made my senses ring out alarm bells. In response I hopped backwards to avoid it, and he lurched forward, reaching his arms out to me.

  I let out a shriek and bellowed out “Go!” in the fiercest tone I could muster.

  The specter vanished the moment I uttered the command and a couple seconds later Roger dashed into the room, followed by everyone else in the party. He rested his hands on my shoulders and looked me up and down. “What’s wrong? You let out a heck of a scream there.”

  I took a deep shuddering breath and looked around the room. The drowned man was gone. I felt shaky from the shock of it and turned to peer out the window, in the direction where I’d first spotted him. I saw nothing now.

  Roger leaned over me and peered outside, too. “What did you see? Are you okay?”

  I finally found my voice. “Yes. I’m okay. I just thought I saw something.” I looked down at the floor, wondering if I’d see some water there, but it was dry. Roger trailed my gaze. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I replied. “There’s nothing here.”

  “Now,” Mom said, tiptoeing around the room, her heels clacking away. “There’s nothing here now. But you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I might have,” I said.

  “Whose?” Jordan asked as he stepped forward and looked around. He made a point to step around the spot where the specter had stood. Either he’d seen where I was looking or he instinctively knew he didn’t want to land there. I wasn’t sure which.

  He raised his nose to the air and took a deep inhale. “It smells wet here.”

  “Wet?” Roger asked, also sniffing. “I don’t notice anything. Wet how?”

  “I’m not sure. It reminds me of sogginess. Like you get soaked out in the rain, or you fall off the dock and into the lake. It’s that kind of smell, but there’s something else there. Something kind of rotten.” He kept looking around, twisting his young features into a grimace. “It’s disappearing now, though.”

  I inhaled, and sure enough he was right. It smelled again like a vanilla candle, and not like dirt and wet and rot.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Roger asked, wrapping his arm around me. I leaned into him, enjoying his warmth and feeling safe and soothed.

  I nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s an old building, so who knows what I saw. It’s definitely gone now.”

  Roger led me out of the room and I saw Ash standing there looking around. He seemed to have sensed something, too, but what exactly, I wasn’t sure.

  “Do you see anything,” I asked him.

  “Not exactly. But I haven’t been looking, either,” was his evasive reply.

  20

  The rest of the evening had gone off without a hitch. Mom enjoyed her chance to explore, and Ash and Jordan, working together, turned out to be quite good cooks. Ash would mix something together and Jordan would eye the process and add a pinch of this or a dollop of that, and the end result was sublime.

  We all walked out with achingly full bellies, and I felt calmer since I hadn’t seen my watery friend for hours.


  Plus, Roger spent the night, so surrounded by his warm form and my two cats, I felt safe and sound and quickly drifted off.

  The dreams were strange and unsettling, however.

  In the dream I felt like a spectator.

  I spied a chestnut-locked beauty enchanted with an ebony-haired lad. He boasted an Irish brogue and made her breathless with delight as he squired her around town, dancing in the park under the moonlight as he sang Old Country tunes to her, or sweet-talked her into letting her hair down and winding flowers through the waves so he could sketch her as a forest maiden or some pre-Raphaelite muse.

  I felt I should be happy watching their love story unfold, but all I could feel was a strange ache of resentment that hung heavy like a wet curtain. Instead of the wild roses she’d entwined in her hair, I smelled rotting plant matter and tasted a bile-like bitterness on my tongue.

  The songs he’d sing were full of life and love and flirtation, but then they’d veer out of tune into a dull monotone that sounded more like an angry drone. Once, he picked up a fiddle and played an achingly sweet melody for her but the sounds soon grew shrill and grating.

  She’d be spun in his arms and I felt the urge to race up to her and shove her away. At one point my dream self raced over to the young man and leapt onto his back to grab him, and instead of making contact with solid flesh he dissolved in my arms and I felt myself tumbling away, rolling downhill and splashing into the river where green and twiney fingers clasped my ankles and pulled me downward toward a bottomless gloom.

  I awoke, gasping for air and for a moment felt like I’d forgotten to breathe. Roger reached a hand up to comfort me and pulled me near, caressing my brow until I calmed down. I breathed deeply and evenly, hoping to convince him that I had fallen asleep. It must have worked. In a few minutes he was back to snoring gently and I quickly extracted myself from his arms and tiptoed downstairs for a cup of tea.