The Starfish Talisman

by Lark Griffing

  “That makes sense,” said Reagan, suddenly smiling at him.

  “What? Why are you smiling?” asked Seth, a little nervously.

  “Because I haven’t seen anyone my age around here since I got here, but you’re living proof that there are others. Maybe my summer won’t be so lonely after all.” Her declaration was cut short by a shrill scream that ended abruptly. Wiley stiffened and growled, looking up at the cliff, and Seth stood up. “What the hell was that?” asked Reagan.

  “It was nothing,” said Seth.

  “I heard a scream,” said Reagan, rising to her feet. “It sounded weird, like it was over by the cliff, but there isn’t anyone here.”

  “Nah, it was just the wind. Sometimes it whistles through the rocks. It can really spook you if you let your imagination run away with you.” Seth started scratching Wiley’s fur again, and the dog relaxed. “Well, I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Reagan.” He turned and walked quickly in the direction he had gestured toward earlier, disappearing around the cliff remarkably quickly.

  “Nice meeting you, too,” Reagan called after him, although for the life of her, she swore she never told him her name.

  Reagan spent the rest of the afternoon parked on the porch swing reading one of the detective novels she had picked up at the library. She was addicted to them. Given the opportunity, she could spend an entire day and well into an evening reading a book straight through. At home she never got the chance to do that because she was always running around with one of her friends. Maybe staying at Aunt Willow’s wasn’t going to be so bad. Her aunt obviously didn’t have an agenda for Reagan, so she was free to do whatever her little heart desired and being lazy all day reading was right up her alley. She didn’t even notice that the shadows were getting longer, and the day was beginning to chill down until she heard her aunt’s footsteps on the wooden steps.

  “I used to spend the day reading myself. Not a bad way to pass the time.” She plopped her ample body down into a rocking chair with a sigh. Reagan glanced over at her aunt. Her hands were damp, as though she washed them quickly, with specks of clay still clinging to her wrists. Her t-shirt had a line of splattered muddy streaks across the belly, and pieces of her long graying hair had slipped from the single braid that laid down her back. She looked tired.

  “Did you have a good day, Aunt Willow?” Reagan asked. Willow looked surprised at the question, as if no one had ever asked her that before. She considered before answering.

  “Yes, I did. I had a large order of graduated matching serving bowls that I needed to get done for a New York caterer. I finished throwing the last one today.”

  “Throwing?”

  “Yes, throwing,” said Willow, laughing. “That’s what it is called when you make things on a wheel. Some potters call it turning, but I use the older term. Now the pots need to air dry. Once they are completely dry, I will fire them in the kiln for the first time. That’s the bisque firing. After that, I make sure everything is perfect, getting rid of any rough spots or bumps, and then I glaze them and fire them again. I give them one final inspection, then pack them and ship them, praying they get to their destination in one piece.”

  “That sounds really cool. Can I watch you someday?” asked Reagan. Willow hesitated, thinking.

  “Maybe. I don’t do well sharing my private space, my creative space… but we’ll see.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude…” said Reagan, somewhat embarrassed.

  “No, you’re not intruding. It’s good you’re curious. Look, I’ve been alone for a long time. A very long time. Cora Rose is the only person I see on a regular basis. I have never been good with people. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I could help out your mom, just don’t expect me to be a good conversationalist or a best friend, because I’ve never been very good at that.”

  “I understand. I always have lots of friends around, so I might not be too good at being alone. I’ll try not to get on your nerves, and I will respect the fact that you are not ready to let me into your inner sanctum. Okay?”

  “Sounds like a plan. Are you hungry? Did your breakfast wear off yet?” Willow asked with a grin.

  “Actually, no. It’s like I won’t ever need to eat again,” laughed Reagan.

  “That’s the whole idea. I usually have a snack or a sandwich in the evening, but I don’t want you to suffer nutritionally, so is there anything you need or that I should get you?”

  “No, but a sandwich or maybe a salad later would be good. If you need me to, I can always go to town to get groceries or whatever we need,” Reagan offered.

  “That’s not necessary. All you need to do is to put what you want on the grocery list that is hanging on the side of the fridge. Cora Rose will pick up whatever groceries we need on the next trip, so if there’s something special, just write it down. We usually have a couple of different types of lunch meat and cheeses, and there is always bread. I don’t generally have a salad, but there should be plenty of things to make one since I put lettuce and tomatoes on my sandwiches. Just check the fridge when you go in and add salad stuff to the list.”

  “Okay, but I would like to carry my own weight here. If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”

  “Okay. Now I’m going to go in and clean up. Make sure you come in before it gets dark, and please remember to lock the door. Bring Wiley with you.”

  “Will do.” Willow stiffly rose from the rocker and went into the house. Wiley raised his head and watched her go but was content to remain next to Reagan. Yep, Reagan really liked having a dog around.

  Chapter 7

  Wiley stood up, hackles raised, and stared into the night. Reagan had fallen asleep reading in the rocking chair. She had shared a sandwich with Willow and then came back out on the porch to finish her book. When Willow disappeared into the office, she reminded Reagan to be sure to come in before dark and to lock the door. Falling asleep was not something Reagan had planned to do. Now, she was stiff and chilly. A mosquito was currently gorging itself on her bare forearm, and something was making Wiley extremely uneasy. He growled softly and moved his body protectively against Reagan’s leg. He tensed even more. Reagan stood, peering off the porch into the darkness. Wiley whimpered.

  “Is anyone out there?” she asked. Stupid, she thought to herself. If someone was out there, I would know, and Wiley would be running at them barking. This is like all those stupid horror movies where the dumb teen asks who’s out there. I’m the dumb teen. Except this isn’t a movie, and there is no bogey man. Reagan reached over to pick up her fallen book when Wiley lurched forward with a snarl and a snap. At the same moment Reagan felt an ice-cold touch envelop her. It was like the door had opened to winter. She gasped, and Wiley began growling and snapping wildly. Then she heard it. A voice. A voice that said, “go home.” What the hell? Wiley whimpered then stopped barking. The cold dissipated, and Wiley relaxed.

  Walking quickly, Reagan pulled open the kitchen door and hurried inside, bringing Wiley with her. She locked the door and shot the deadbolt. Unnerved, she stood in the bright light of the kitchen’s overhead light. Did that just happen? What the heck was that? She reached down and patted Wiley’s head. He happily wagged his tail as if nothing at all had happened. Had it? Was she just still groggy from sleeping awkwardly in a chair? It was just remnants of a dream, she told herself. Don’t be silly. She shook herself and laughed. Wow, her imagination was running away from her. She snapped off the kitchen light and headed upstairs to her room

  As Reagan climbed the stairs, she heard the faint sound of singing, a sweet female voice singing what sounded like an old-fashioned folk-song. Reagan paused, straining her ears to figure out where it was coming from. The sound swirled faintly in the large central stairwell opening. She continued climbing, and for a moment, it sounded like it was coming from her bedroom, but then it abruptly stopped. Maybe her aunt was listening to the radio or something. She put her now finished book on one side of the sm
all desk in her room and selected another to start in the morning. Taking a minute, she sat at the dressing table and brushed her hair out until it shone. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she smiled to see that the tip of her nose and cheekbones were slightly sunburned, the result of her morning on the beach.

  Finishing, she lay her brush down and lined up her small bottle of perfume, hand lotion, and hand mirror. She laughed at herself and her neat freak tendencies. Here of all places, she didn’t need to make sure her things were just so, her aunt couldn’t care less, but Reagan hated things that were out of place, so before bed, she always straightened her room. Not that there is much here to straighten, she thought. Climbing into the big antique bed, Reagan sighed. She was worn out. In minutes, she had slipped into a deep sleep.

  Something was stroking her face, her forehead, a soft touch. A gentle touch. Fleeting, like a curtain in the wind, brushing, tickling, but resilient, like flesh. A familiar smell reached her nose. Light and floral. Then, nothing. Reagan rolled over in her sleep.

  Morning streamed in through the open windows. Songbirds greeted the day with blissful happiness. Reagan stretched, luxuriating in her bed, letting the last vestige of sleep slip away like a dream …

  She had a dream last night. Someone was here with her. A friend, lightly touching her forehead. It felt familiar, like it was a touch she knew. She smiled. She liked dreams when they weren’t scary. This one left her feeling loved and cared for. That was nice. What else was nice was the smell of coffee wafting up the stairs. It smelled amazing.

  She swung her feet to the floor, her toes recoiling at the chill of the hardwood. Grabbing her robe, she slipped it on and sat in front of the mirror. She felt a little silly and a little like a princess. She never had a dressing table with a mirror before, and she felt a little like the Barbies she used to play with. Barbie had all of those things.

  Absently, she reached for her hairbrush, but it wasn’t there. That’s strange. She distinctly remembered straightening up the dressing table before she went to bed and yet her brush was missing, and the top was off of her perfume. What the hell? She stood up and turned around. There, on top of the dresser was her brush. Had she accidentally left it there last night? Had she walked around brushing her hair? No, she was sure she hadn’t, and she sure as hell hadn’t use any perfume last night.

  Retrieving her brush, she swiped it through her hair and carefully placed it on the dressing table next to the bottle of perfume. She put the cap on the spray bottle firmly. Checking once again to make sure everything was where it belonged, she left the room, walking down the hall to the bathroom to shower.

  Helping herself to a cup of coffee on the sideboard, Reagan casually mentioned the moved hairbrush and the lid that had been pulled off the perfume bottle.

  “I can’t understand what could have happened. You guys didn’t come into my room or anything last night or early this morning, did you?” asked Reagan, shyly. Willow and Cora Rose exchanged glances. The look wasn’t lost on Reagan. “What’s going on? Did one of you move my stuff?” Her voice was pitching higher than usual.

  “No dear,” said Willow. “Neither one of us was in your room. We would have no reason to. Cora Rose will go up to clean during the day and to change sheets, but not during the night. Are you sure you put everything back where you think you did? Maybe you were tired, and you just don’t remember.”

  “Maybe you sleepwalk,” said Cora Rose rudely.

  “I’ve never sleepwalked in my life,” Reagan retorted.

  “There’s always a first time,” Cora Rose came back.

  “Be nice,” warned Willow, giving Cora Rose a significant glare.

  “Well, either she went to sleepwalking, or a ghost moved them. Take your pick,” countered Cora Rose. Reagan nearly blew hot coffee out her nose as she snorted with laughter.

  “I’m sure it was a ghost,” said Reagan sarcastically. “She liked my perfume and needed to brush her rotting tresses.”

  “Humph,” grumbled Cora Rose, “you’ll see. Wait until you see the eyes of the wolves. That will convince you.”

  “The eyes of the wolves?” asked Reagan, getting drawn into the drama.

  “Sure. They live under the dining room table. Sometimes you can see them at night.” Again, Reagan burst out laughing. Willow looked amused, and Cora Rose looked pissed. Again, Willow shot her a warning look.

  “Cora Rose has a bit of an imagination,” soothed Willow. “Sometimes it runs away with her.”

  “Did your grandmother have a bit of an imagination when she was bitten under that same dining room table? Did Adelaide have a bit of imagination when she was dragged down the cellar stairs?”

  “Cora Rose, enough! Stop carrying tales. I won’t tolerate it,” Willow reprimanded her sharply. Cora Rose glowered at Willow and started to say something else but stopped herself. She tossed a plate of waffles on the sideboard and left the room in a huff.

  “I’m sorry, Reagan. The locals here are a superstitious crowd. If they don’t understand something, they make it up. I’m sure there is a logical explanation for your brush being moved. Perhaps you did get up in the night, but you don’t remember. You are still settling into a strange, old house. It might just take some getting used to. So, are you okay? I was getting ready to head out to the barn to work.”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you. I am going to run into town to get a few things today that I need. Can I get you anything or do anything for you?” asked Reagan.

  “Thank you, but no. Have a good afternoon.” With that Willow walked out the door. Reagan put her coffee on the table and loaded her plate with some waffles and breakfast sausage links. If she kept eating like this, she was going to have to take up running. As she munched on a waffle, the exchange between Aunt Willow and Cora Rose rewound through her head. Something Cora Rose said bothered her, other than that whole craziness of the wolves under the dining room table thing. What the heck was it? Adelaide. That’s what it was. She said that Adelaide was dragged down the cellar stairs. Wasn’t that the name Willow said when Reagan mentioned she had picked the cornflower blue room? Didn’t she say that the room was Adelaide’s and that she wouldn’t mind? Who the heck was Adelaide?

  Chapter 8

  Reagan left the drugstore with her purchases in a small bag. She headed toward the car intending to go home and read for a little while and then take a walk down the cliff. Maybe she would even read sitting on the rocks at the shore. As she unlocked her car, she glanced up and noticed the small diner on the corner. A sign in the window touted the fact that they made “famous chocolate malts.” Grinning, she decided to treat herself. She tossed her purchases in the car, locked it again, and headed over to the diner.

  The Corner Grill looked like a local teen hangout that hadn’t seen an update in many, many years. The “retro style” had already gone in and out of fashion many times over the years. Reagan settled herself at the counter and absently looked at the menu. She wasn’t hungry after her large breakfast, but she was curious as to the choices should she ever decide to get a bite when in town. It was typical dinner fare, complete with meatloaf, fried chicken, and clam strips. The pies and cakes in the cases looked fresh and delicious, and the smell of onion rings was heady.

  A grandmotherly lady took her order for a chocolate malt and waddled off to the big silver mixer to make it. As Reagan was watching the waitress drop huge scoopfuls of ice cream into the silver tumbler, she became aware of a conversation in hushed voices being carried on behind her.

  “That must be the girl who is staying at Willow James’ place. I heard it is her niece.”

  “What kind of mom would drop her kid off at a place like that? She has to be nuts.”

  “Shh, guys, be nice. She might hear us.”

  The waitress plopped a napkin and a place mat down in front of Reagan. She filled a frosted, tall mug to the top with malt and left the tumbler on the counter next to the mug. When Reagan peered into the tumbler, she saw that there was still
a third of the shake left. This was going to take a while.

  She slowly spun around on her stool while taking a draw on her straw, working the thick malt up into her mouth. She leveled a stare at the group of teenagers who were still contemplating her existence. One of the girls noticed and kicked the boy sitting next to her into silence.

  Reagan slowly slid off her stool and ambled up to the kids, sucking down the malt the whole time.

  “Yep, I am the girl who is living at Willow James’ house. My name is Reagan, and my mother is not nuts. In fact, my mother is currently on an assignment covering our soldiers in Afghanistan, so I am hanging out at my aunt’s house. Is that okay with you guys?” A redheaded, freckle-faced beauty rolled her eyes a bit, but had the decency to look away after that. The young man’s face blushed slightly, and then he scowled. The third girl, a pretty brunette with an open, honest face was the only one who spoke.

  “I’m sorry. We were rude.”

  Then the redhead spoke up, emboldened. “It’s just that no one goes out there if they know what’s good for them. That place is haunted. Everybody knows that.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Reagan. “I haven’t seen any ghosts. What makes you think it’s haunted?”

  “My grandma told me a story about a boy who died out there. It was really weird. He was down at the ocean one day. Somehow, he fell in. My grandma says that his dog tried to rescue him. You know, like drag him out of the water, but he couldn’t. The kid disappeared under the waves. They say he drowned, but no one ever found the body. Well, that’s what everyone said, but my grandma said that some fisherman saw a body on the rocks at low tide. When they beached the boat and went over to see, the body had disappeared. Anyhow there was no body and no funeral or nothing.”