The Trouble with Magic

by Madelyn Alt

  * * * *

  At first glance, Enchantments looked deserted except for a flickering light in the windows on the upper level. I parked Christine in my usual space out back and let myself in the store; the door was not locked. The pale light I'd seen in the upstairs windows shone as a glow beneath the closed stairway door. I opened the door and called upstairs.

  "Felicity?"

  "Up here."

  I made my way up the stairs, my curiosity piqued. "What are you doing?"

  "Waiting for you, my dear."

  My skin began to tingle as I approached the landing. It felt as though I were entering an electrically charged cloud. Every hair on my body twitched and stood at attention. My eyes wide, I completed the climb and hesitated at the top of the stair.

  The loft had been prepared for a gathering. Twisted wrought-iron candlesticks, each holding a thick white column candle at waist level, stood in a circle 'round the braided carpet that occupied the larger part of the loft space; enough to illuminate it entirely with a wavering, golden light. At the four quarters, like points on a compass, were candles of varying colors: green at north, yellow at east, red at south, blue at west.

  Felicity stood in the center of the carpet, alone, holding a candle of deepest purple in her left hand and a long white taper in her right. She wore a flowing blue gown, a cross between an evening gown and lounging pajamas. Her hair glittered as though she had been sprinkled with fairy dust, making her look a bit otherworldly and years younger than I thought her to be.

  "I'm glad you decided to come," she said, smiling in welcome.

  I cleared my throat and gestured toward the empty room. "You said you had some people you wanted me to meet."

  "They'll be along in a few minutes." She touched the taper to the purple candle and set it down by a pair of throw pillows beside her bare feet. Then she snuffed the white taper and turned to me. "First I had wanted to talk to you a bit… about what you've been experiencing."

  I moved farther into the room. The sense of electricity intensified as I stepped onto the braided rug. I shrugged and tried to pretend I didn't understand. We both knew it to be a lie.

  "It's okay to be nervous, Maggie."

  "I'm not nervous," I lied, not looking at her. "Just very… alert."

  "Well, why don't you come over here." She indicated the two throw pillows she'd set on the rug opposite each other. "Unless you're afraid."

  I hung my jacket and purse on a coat rack and selfconsciously settled myself on the plush pillow. Felicity had already seated herself, her legs folded elegantly to one side.

  I gestured around us. "What is all of this?"

  I'd seen the loft, of course, and knew well the items stocked here, away from the prying eyes of those who could not be trusted with the secret. But tonight it felt so different. I realized then that this was the first time I had been able to walk atop the braided circle. It had never seemed right before.

  Felicity let her gaze sweep the loft, which I had to admit looked beautiful and mysterious with the candlelight and with the stars shining through the sky-high windows. "We meet here in the loft. My group. And I practice here some nights when the weather is too severe for safety in the place that is my preferred ritual space."

  I spent a moment in silence, pondering what she'd told me. "That explains it then."

  "Yes?"

  "The reason I couldn't… the last time I was up here. I couldn't bring myself to walk across this carpet. And yet tonight…"

  Her laughter tinkled around us, amusement crinkling at the corners of her eyes. "So, my wards worked. Good to know I'm not losing my touch. One hopes one's mind is strong enough, focused enough, but there is always the risk of distraction to muck things up."

  So many things I didn't understand. And yet I was curious; I could not deny it. "What are… what are wards?" I asked shyly.

  "Protection spells and charms, my dear. The one I use most often, the Invisible Threshold, is very strong, indeed. And very tricky. But amazingly effective when done properly."

  Time for a confession. "I came up here alone, that first day. I didn't mean to pry. I thought the door led to a bathroom or something."

  She kept smiling that patient little smile. "It wasn't too much of a shock?"

  "Not really. To be honest, I was… intrigued by what I found here. I even borrowed a book from the used stock. I wanted to understand."

  "Why does an otherwise normal woman fritter about with spells and charms and spirits and goddesses and all topics imaginary?"

  I blushed at her intuition. Got it in one. "Something like that."

  She rose gracefully and began to pace in fluid strides around me. "Tell me something. Do you think I'm crazy?"

  I gaped at her, taken aback. "Of course not."

  "No? Do you think me the type of person who fosters a belief in fairy tales because I cannot accept the harsh world I find myself in?"

  "No."

  She sank to her knees in front of me and took my hands. "Then perhaps you can accept that there might be a scrap of truth to what I believe."

  Her eyes held me captive. Pale. Searing. Searching. I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again. Had to stop that, I was starting to remind myself of a goldfish. "I—I'm not sure."

  "Try." She squeezed my hand, and her intense expression softened. "Just try to keep an open mind. It will make things so much easier for you."

  She released me and sat back on her heels. "Now. From the day you walked into Enchantments—"

  "Fell in, actually," I couldn't resist inserting.

  She laughed to herself. "Right. From the day you fell into Enchantments, I have sensed there was something special about you. A kinship, if you will. One sensitive to another. And I believe you felt it as well."

  "Sensitive?" I struggled to understand what she was telling me. A kinship, yes… "I'm not—"

  "I have reason to believe you're a clairsentient, Maggie. An empath," she clarified, when it became obvious the word wasn't sinking in.

  "An empath," I repeated blankly.

  "Yes. Clairsentients are capable of feeling the emotions of others, both in present time and remembered time, real and inherent. Some also receive impressions of people. Gut feelings, if you will."

  It got me thinking. I cleared my throat nervously. "By gut feelings, do you mean something like listening to what a person is telling you and somehow knowing that person is lying to you, and why?"

  She beamed at me. "Precisely."

  Oh God. It couldn't be. I took a deep breath. "There must be some sort of mistake. I'm not… I mean, I might be a good listener, and I might be halfway decent at reading body language and other indicators. But there's nothing strange about that. Lots of people can do that."

  Felicity shook her head. "They can't. How many people walk around, unconscious of others, their entire lives? It's a gift, Maggie. And there's nothing to worry about, nothing to be ashamed of. I have a theory that has been proven time and time again. Each of us is born with an aptitude for extrasensory abilities. In some, the ability is immediate, instinctive from birth. In others, the ability is delayed, sometimes a few years, sometimes a few decades before the gift makes itself known to them. Others never realize their ability at all. They travel through their life path oblivious to the wonders the universe has to offer, sometimes even purposely withdrawing from the realization. These souls are the least advanced and must work past all internal obstacles before they are ready to accept. To learn. To take that next step toward perfection."

  It was all a bit much, but I was trying very hard not to slam the door of my mind shut. "Where does what I went through at the cemetery fit into all of this?"

  "Emotional memory." Another blank look from me made her expound further. "Think back and maybe you'll understand better. When did the trouble at the cemetery begin?"

  I did as I was told, closing my eyes to relive the moment. "When I stepped into the Mausoleum. It got worse—much worse—when I touched the jar that held
her ashes."

  Felicity went very still. "Ashes?"

  "Yes, Isabella was cremated," I said, watching her. Something was wrong. Then I realized from the churning in my own stomach that the emotion causing the tension in Felicity's features was nothing less than pure, white-hot rage, and I felt it, too. It was deeper and more intense than anything I had ever associated with my heretofore mild-mannered employer. In a way I wasn't prepared to admit, it frightened me. "Didn't you know?"

  She turned her head slowly to look at me, fury simmering just below the surface. "Isabella was terrified of fire. She had been from the time we were children. She would never have allowed cremation. Never."

  "But if that's true…" I shook my head to clear it. My thoughts were spinning furiously, and my stomach was in knots. "Why? Why would they go against her wishes?"

  Such disregard for the wishes of a dead woman was unheard of. Disgraceful. No, more than disgraceful. It was sacrilege.

  "I can think of one reason, and one reason only," Felicity said, her mouth a grim line.

  The candle flames flickered, all of them in unison. I was certain of it.

  "Not to get rid of evidence," I said, reasoning my way through. "Our police force may be small, but they aren't entirely inept."

  "No, not that. I think whoever killed Isabella would have been careful. No, I think this speaks more of Jeremy's will to be rid of her."

  "They could be one and the same," I pointed out.

  Felicity considered this, then slowly shook her head. "Much as I'd like to believe it, I'm afraid I can't see Jeremy putting that much effort into anything. Their marriage may not have been ideal, but for Jeremy I think it was a handy excuse. It allowed him to have his little flings without consequence. Without commitment."

  She stopped a moment, cocking her head in a delicate sparrow-like movement, her posture watchful. "Ah, good. They're here."

  Felicity held out her hand to me to pull me to my feet as the sounds of footsteps and voices began to drift up the stairwell. Within moments the loft was filled to bursting with an odd assortment of individuals who brought the chill night air in with them. A motley crew, I thought with a private smile as I watched the lot of them surround Felicity like a flock of mother hens. The women were quick to offer soft, cooing words of solace, while their male counterparts hung back with their hands jammed in their jeans pockets, their gruff words of consolation and apology all the more sincere for their apparent unease. Good friends all, that much was obvious.

  A familiar face popped into my worldview, all sunkissed freckles and flyaway hair.

  "I wondered if you'd be here. Felicity said you might need our help," Annie Miller said in her usual no-nonsense way as she swept off her fringed hippie poncho and hung it on the rack. Tonight she wore a long men's flannel shirt over an ankle-length denim skirt. Beneath its hem peeked her favorite Birkenstocks, her feet protected from the cold by thick, woolen socks. A red bandana held back her wild strawberry blond curls, but did little to tame them. Fresh-faced and looking younger than her years, she gazed expectantly at me.

  I cast a quick glance at the others, still preoccupied with Felicity. "What is all of this?"

  "We're the N.I.G.H.T.S. Northeast Indiana Ghost Hunting and Tracking Society."

  "You mean like Ghostbusters?"

  "Without that whole busting the ghost thing," she said with the merest trace of a smile. "We don't actually remove the spirits we find unless there is no other alternative, such as in the case of a dark entity bent on mischief. We promote a happy coexistence between the spirit world and the physical world, for the benefit of all."

  "I see you've renewed your acquaintance with Annie," Felicity interrupted us, giving Annie's shoulders an affectionate squeeze. "I don't suppose you've brought along some of your world-famous brownies, my dear?"

  Annie bent at the waist to pick up a foil-covered plate she'd set on the floor while she removed her poncho. "Have I ever let you down?"

  "Not in a million years." While Annie set the plate on a glass counter along the far wall, Felicity turned back to the others and called out above the din. "Gather 'round, everyone. Let's get started, now, shall we?"

  More pillows were hauled out of some built-in cabinetry that blended fully into the old-fashioned wainscoting. The cabinets had been invisible to me until that moment, their appearance a revelation. I closed my mouth and helped to empty the cabinet, wondering all the while what further revelations I would find here in this sacred space.

  When the pillows had been placed within the circle, everyone took their ease—some cross-legged, some with their legs stretched out before them and only their ankles crossed, and still others (the men, natch) leaning back on their hands, their legs splayed out unself-consciously. Felicity stood in the center of the circle in her blue silk gown, surveying the lot of us with an open affection that rolled off her in shimmering waves. There was a feeling in the room of excitement and watchful awareness. The edge of discovery.

  "I'd like you all to meet Maggie, my new assistant here in the store."

  "Hi, Maggie," they all responded, reminding me of my elementary school days. I held up my hand with a sheepish grin.

  "Why don't we start out with introductions, shall we?"

  A man rose to his feet with an audible creak of his knees, grunting slightly with the effort. He was tall and built like an aging football jock with hands like hams. We do breed our football gods big in the Midwest. "Guess I'll go first, unless someone else wants to take a stab at it." When there were no objections, he nodded and looked straight at me. "Right, then. I'm Joe Aames. I own a hog-farming operation out on 500 North. Nothin' special, but it's mine. I also have a degree in psychology, but the pigs don't do much talkin', and neither do I, most days." He tucked his battered hands into the pockets of an oversized quilted flannel shirt. "As to why I'm here, I also, uh, seem to have a knack for attracting ghosts."

  "That's an understatement," a whipcord-thin college-age boy spoke up, taking the floor. "Our Joe has a whole mess of 'em on his property. It's a real trip. If you stay with this group, you'll see things most people only dream of. Things the establishment would like everyone to believe don't exist." He pushed his round Lennon-style wire rims up on the bridge of his nose. He had messy blond hair, an overly intelligent face, and the burning zeal of a televangelist, minus the religion. Bending at the waist, he dug in the pack he'd kept glued to his side since his arrival. "I'm Devin McAllister, by the way. I go to school at Grace—you know, the religious college over in North Hamilton?—mostly because my dad insisted on it. But I'm not into that. Here. This is what I'm really into." He handed me a newsletter he'd pulled from his pack. "I put out The Speculator. Five hundred and twenty-two subscriptions strong. Editor, chief writer, printer, and mail boy. That's me. My dad would have a shit fit if he knew. He's not into any of that stuff. Just doesn't get it."

  Next came a delicate young girl, high school age at most, I'd guess, with a dreamy, ethereal face and hair like spun sugar. She declined to stand, preferring to sit on her velvet pillow, her hands looped loosely about her updrawn knees. "Hi, Maggie. My name's Evie. Evie Carpenter." She smiled shyly, but didn't seem to know what else to say.

  Felicity came to her rescue. "Evie recently became aware that the things she'd been experiencing her entire life were actually episodes of psychic abilities trying to break into her consciousness. She's been exercising her psychic 'muscles,' shall we say, with N.I.G.H.T.S. To refine them, and to learn to wield control over them."

  Evie nodded to confirm Felicity's claims. "My parents don't know. They think I sleep over at a girlfriend's house on N.I.G.H.T.S. nights." She ducked her head guiltily. "They'd never understand."

  Everyone murmured to themselves in agreement. I would bet every single one of them had that same worry with the majority of the people in their lives.

  The woman who rose to her feet next would have looked out of place in most of the continental U.S., but was somehow especially so in the elegan
t confines of Felicity's store. She was the size of a man and dressed like a lumberjack: baggy denim overalls (overhauls, my gramps calls 'em), a big buffalo-plaid wool shirt, clunky boots, and a misshapen baseball hat pulled down low on her brow. "Well, it looks like it's my turn now. Hello, Maggie. It's good to have you with us. I'm Genevieve Valmont. Former nun at Saint Vincent's in South Bend, thank the good Lord, and firm believer in the supernatural. I left the church because I believed I could do more for others here on the outside than I could bound by its strictures. I'm here to discover as much as I can about the spirit world that the church would have us believe is entirely evil. I'd bet my old F-150 they're wrong."

  "Amen," Felicity intoned softly.

  Next up was, unexpectedly, a bearded man in the distinctive clothing characteristic of all Amish men. His accent confirmed it. "Eli Yoder, ma'am. Joe there, he's my next-door neighbor. Joe and I, we share the geists that populate our land… and there are many."

  Joe Aames nodded. "Eli is a dowser. He has a special connection to the flow of earth and spirit energy. He's wicked with a pair of divining rods."

  Annie rose then. "Annie Miller's my name, but you already know that. Clairaudience is my game. I hear spirit voices," she explained when faced with my blank expression. "And I can sense the energy spirits give off. They're around us all the time, you know. Sometimes they're chatty. Other times they prefer to remain silent. You never know what you'll run into on an investigation."

  Annie was the last. When she'd finished, Felicity turned to me. "These good people, my dear this group, is my touchstone in all matters metaphysical. There are many belief systems represented here in this room. But what we all share is a strong and abiding interest in the paranormal. We share our own personal gifts and abilities in a bid to investigate and understand as much about the spirit world as possible. And this area"—she spread her hands wide and looked up at the skylight—"provides us with an amazing amount of fodder."

  I'd never thought of our small corner of Indiana as being a particularly spiritual place, though I'm sure the church leaders of Stony Mill would love to offer opposing views on the matter. Spooky, though… spooky was another thing entirely. When one ventured out of town onto more rural ground, away from the reassuring reminders of civilization, the night swallowed whole farmers' fields with nerve-wracking ease. Wind, a constant presence across land scraped flat eons ago by great hulking masses of ice, spoke in an ancient tongue through the creaking bowers of trees, the whispering leaves of corn, the shifting stalks of wheat. Walk or drive down a gravel road, surrounded by nothing but miles of fields of sky-high corn, not a soul in sight… it was enough to give anyone the willies.