Night Visions

by Ariana Dupre

  "A curse. A curse on those who killed Theodore Slayton."

  "There is a price, Mary."

  Her head dropped. Her pockets were empty. “If it's money you want, I have none with me,” she said. Sighing heavily, she stood to leave.

  "It isn't money I require."

  The rumors came flooding back, and Mary's heart quaked. Did she dare ask? “Then ... What?"

  The gypsy witch stepped from the shadows into the light, and stood insolently in front of her.

  Mary gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth to silence the scream that threatened to burst from her. She scrambled backwards into the darkness, to hide. “You're ... a...” Her mind whirled. This couldn't be right.

  Candles flamed to life around her.

  Speechless, Mary gazed up at the gypsy seer.

  He was gorgeous. His long hair, the color of a raven, fell across his shoulders. His white shirt hung open to expose a tanned and muscular chest. His unblinking smoky gray eyes scorched into hers, as if he could look right into her soul. The candlelight danced over his handsome features. Opening his mouth slightly, he ran the tip of his tongue sensuously across his full lips.

  Mary stared in disbelief. “But ... You're a man!"

  Hadn't others who visited this cave told her she would find a woman here? She searched the recesses of her memory, suddenly realizing that she'd never heard anyone describe the gypsy witch.

  "Surprised?” The seer's tone was arched.

  Mary ignored his question. She had already experienced so many terrible things today, and now this...

  It was too much. Her emotions were spinning out of control still Theodore must have his revenge.

  Stay strong, Mary. Fearing for her soul she asked again, “What do you require in payment?"

  "A kiss."

  A kiss? A wave of dizziness buckled her knees, her body swayed. Kiss the devil himself? Kisses were the last thing on her mind. How could she kiss someone else? Her kisses were only for Theodore. But this was for him—she must do this for her husband, whose dying words still echoed in her ears.

  "Is there no other way?” she asked, lifting her chin in defiance. “Do you not wish to take my soul instead?"

  Mary's body burned under the gypsy witch's intense inspection, as he slowly looked her over until his gaze finally locked with hers. “A kiss is what I require.” He took a strand of her hair, curling it around his fingers, awaiting her reply.

  Revulsion grabbed at the pit of her stomach at the thought of kissing something so evil. Could she bring herself to do it to revenge her beloved husband? Yet, he hadn't asked for her soul or her child, only a kiss. “In return, you will curse all those who hurt Theodore Slayton?"

  He stilled and scrutinized her face. “Are you sure of what you ask?"

  In her mind's eye Mary saw her sister's mangled body, broken and violated by a group of rogues the day after Ruby had banished her from the farm, just because she had flirted with Clyde. She saw her mother's stooped shoulders, weighed down by years of overwork under Clyde's rule. Then Theodore's brilliant smile nearly broke her heart.

  "Yes, I'm sure."

  "And you understand this affects several families?"

  "Yes."

  He released her hair, slid his hands across her shoulders and down her arms until he grasped her hands. “You must be certain."

  Her body trembled at his touch. “I want them all to pay.” A tear inched down her cheek but still she stood tall. “I'm positive."

  The gypsy witch blinked and all four candles on the table burst into flames, drenching the cave in a bright light. He moved quickly, pulling Mary near. With his free hand, he grabbed some salt from a bowl and sprinkled it on the ground around the table, enclosing them inside a circle. Then, releasing her, he took herbs from the smaller bowls and dropped them into the large one, chanting words she didn't understand.

  "What language are you speaking?” she asked.

  "The Romany of my ancestors.” The white candle flickered to life. He turned to face her, a mocking smile played on his sensuous lips. “Now ... Payment."

  Mary closed her eyes for a brief moment. “Forgive me, Theodore,” she whispered.

  She went to him, stood on tiptoe to reach his mouth. As she lightly held his shoulders for balance, she felt hard muscles ripple beneath her hands. A brush of her lips against his and she stepped back, releasing him.

  His eyebrows lifted. “That's it?"

  Mary nodded. “It was a kiss, as you required."

  "That's not payment.” He grabbed her around the waist, pulled her hard against his body, held her tight as he crushed his lips to hers.

  Mary struggled against the fire inside him, pushing at his shoulders, but it was no use. He filled her with his unholy passion, until she surrendered beneath him, relinquishing with a deep shudder all the goodness left in her soul.

  He broke the kiss and then stared at her. “That's payment."

  Seizing her hand, he ran the knife blade across her spread palm. She screamed in pain. When did he grab the knife? She tried to wrestle free but his grip was relentless. He held her hand above the bowl. Three drops of her blood dripped onto the herbs inside. Only then did he release her.

  She pressed her bleeding hand against her breast, her pulse throbbing through the wound. The gypsy witch reached over and in one deft movement sliced off a lock of her hair.

  "What are you doing?” She cried out, grabbing at the shortened strand.

  "This is the curse you place on all who harmed the one you love. You are the main ingredient. One drop of blood for each of the three who can break the curse, a lock of hair and spit bind the potion together. Now spit."

  "What?"

  "Spit in the bowl, Mary."

  She did as he commanded then wiped her chin with a sleeve, her gaze glued to his blazing eyes.

  Once more, he took her bloody hand into his own and placed the mixing stick in her palm. Wrapping his fingers around hers, he slowly stirred the potion. He closed his eyes and spoke in a soft songlike lilt.

  "In answer to harm done to you, I put a curse on love that's true. Never shall the lovers gain, instead to them comes only pain. Until the three shall meet as one, all joined by family once unknown, the souls of those who live today shall walk the lands and never stray."

  Mesmerized, Mary watched his eyelids flutter open. He lifted the stick from the bowl and laid it on the table. Taking a handful of potion, he sprinkled it over the candle flames and closed his eyes again.

  "The gifts of sight I now bestow, the virgin shall dream, the sister shall know. To the secret one I give visits from others who might have lived. Two hundred years, no more, shall pass, before these three find true love at last. When the three bind blood to blood, the curse I place shall turn to love. The souls I capture by my hand will then be free to leave the land. But if true love is never found, the souls will ever walk the ground. When at last the time's at hand, they will meet in the circle of trees you plant. Then they shall see all that is true, why love was lost, avenged by you."

  The gypsy witch raised his eyelids to look at Mary. His smoky gray eyes were now pitch black. The four candles on the table dimmed then went out. He reached over, snuffed out the white candle and picked up the double edge blade.

  Mary cringed.

  He whispered more words of his ancestors, then, bending down, he placed the blade into the earth and cut through the circle of salt, breaking the circle. Straightening, he turned to Mary; then reaching out, he ran the pad of his thumb across her cheek, removing a single tear.

  "It is done,” he whispered.

  Mary blinked, and, in the next moment, she was standing in her kitchen, a knife in one hand, the palm of the other cut and bloody.

  How did this happen? She dropped the knife, grabbed a cloth and pressed it to the open wound. As she did so, she recalled the details of the curse and that she must plant a circle of trees deep in the forest.

  She stood for a moment searching her thoughts. And f
rowned; then shook her head. No matter how hard she tried, she could not remember what the gypsy witch looked like. But what difference did it make? She'd carried out her husband's dying wish.

  Oh Theodore! You're gone. You're really gone. Suddenly overwhelmed from the pain of the loss of her husband, the emotional turmoil of the day, and the pain in her hand, Mary collapsed on the floor. Lying there, brokenhearted, she buried her head in the bend of her elbow, and let the emotions pour from her, mourning her loss with sobs and tears.

  Without Theodore, all that was left in her life was sorrow and despair. Not even the thought of her unborn child could console her.

  * * * *

  Chapter 1

  Old Slayton Homestead—present day.

  There was nowhere to hide.

  Angie Benton watched the young woman running through the forest. As she fought the brush and bramble, her torn clothes ripped even more.

  She tripped over a tree root and fell to the ground. Quickly, she struggled to her feet while leaves caught in her hair and briars slashed her arms, drawing blood.

  Angie could feel the woman's terror—like a knife slicing through her own heart.

  Just then a man appeared. Angie, watching from a high perch in the trees, trembled. What now?

  Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, the man opened and closed his fists repeatedly as he tramped towards the frightened woman. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the sweat glistening on his heaving chest. He looked so angry, so hostile. She could even hear the fury in his strong, deliberate footsteps.

  The woman heard him, too, and looked over her shoulder.

  Angie gasped. The woman's face was her own!

  Horrified, Angie watched the woman who could be her twin run into a clearing; then pause, and look frantically around. She could feel her desperation, and when the other woman sprinted across the meadow toward an old shack, Angie herself experienced a jolt of hope and a burst of energy as she mentally followed her twin.

  Arriving breathless at the cabin, the woman jumped onto the porch, pushed through the broken door and ran into the first room on her left.

  Angie spotted an exit at the back of the shack. She willed her twin to find it and escape that way. Instead, the woman ran wildly through the house in terror, searching for a place to hide.

  Entering the kitchen at last, she didn't run out the back door as Angie willed. Instead she crouched in the corner behind an antique hutch.

  The old pine floors creaked as if under a heavy weight.

  Angie screamed, “Run! Run!” But the twin didn't move.

  The man's footsteps moved methodically through the dilapidated old shack, searching, slowly, room-by-room.

  Still her twin waited motionless, until, at last, the footsteps left the house.

  Tentatively, the young woman stood up and glanced around. Inching toward the back door, she looked through the screen and out the side windows, surveying the yard with wide, frightened eyes.

  All clear.

  Cautiously, she opened the door and slipped out. With her back to the yard, she quietly closed the door behind her; then spun around to make a run for it.

  And crashed right into her pursuer.

  A loud whistle pierced Angie's hearing. What on earth was happening?

  Someone was pulling her from her perch. Someone had a grip on her biceps, and searing stabs of pain were shooting through her arms.

  She looked up and stared into the angriest blue eyes she had ever seen.

  Eyes belonging to the man she'd just seen outside the cabin door.

  Her heart pounded. How had she become the woman she'd been watching?

  The man's sandy brown hair hung over his face in wet strands, its blonde highlights still noticeable. Sweat beaded across his brow. He clenched his jaw against chiseled cheeks, and he tightened his grip by digging his fingers deeper into the soft flesh of her arms.

  Angie jerked her body violently, but could not break his hold. Wave after wave of terror crashed through her. She had to escape!

  "Angie!” He growled.

  She snapped her head back to look up at his angry face.

  A flash of light in her peripheral vision caught her attention, and she turned to see someone, shadowed by trees, leveling a gun at them.

  Angie froze. As if in slow motion, the muzzle of the gun moved until it was pointing straight at her. She heard a booming blast, so loud it hurt her ears. Oh God, I'm going to die, she thought in terror.

  But the man with the sandy hair whirled her around, using his body to shield her from the oncoming bullet. Suddenly, his face contorted, his back arched and his grip on her arms loosened, then released, as he fell to the ground.

  Angie watched him land in a crumpled heap at her feet. She'd barely had time to take this in before she felt something hard and cold jab into her back and an arm clench around her neck, forcing her to look skyward. She heard a deep, raspy, laugh behind her as a man dragged her backwards, knocking her off her feet with a quick pull, his laughter intensifying.

  Angie struggled frantically with the gunman. She was so desperate, so frightened, that several seconds passed before she noticed that the man who had come between her and the bullet was no longer there.

  Where had he gone?

  The pressure increased against her throat.

  Angie twisted and turned, trying to break free, trying to find the man who had saved her before.

  But it was useless. He'd disappeared, and the more she struggled, the more her assailant tightened his hold.

  And then the realization hit her. The sandy haired man was dragging her across the yard. Somehow, he'd captured her.

  A gunshot rang out.

  Fire burned through Angie's chest. The man pushed her away and she sank to the ground, feeling her life ebbing away....

  * * * *

  Angie's eyes flew open. She didn't dare move as she peered into the inky blackness.

  Where was he?

  Who was he?

  Propping herself up on one elbow, she covered her racing heart with her hand. Her nightgown, wet with sweat, stuck to her chest. Even the sheets were soaked.

  The dream terrified her.

  He terrified her.

  Those angry blue eyes, crystal clear and light as the sky, still seemed to be staring at her, so full of intense emotion she couldn't look away. She tried to swallow but her parched throat tightened until she thought she might choke.

  Shaking her head to clear it, she slipped out of bed and headed through the darkness to the kitchen for something to drink.

  It isn't real, she reminded herself, it is just a dream.

  A dream that followed her, tormented her, caused so many sleepless nights, more lately than ever. And it was always the same. She was an outsider looking in, unable to do anything to help.

  Except this time, for the first time, she had watched herself. That worried her. She didn't have a twin.

  She reached for a glass, filled it with cold orange juice from the fridge. She drank deeply; then set the glass down on the counter with a thud.

  It would not be like the other times when she had been a dream observer. She simply wouldn't let it.

  When she dreamed of Aunt Martha's death before it happened, she'd told herself that it was only a coincidence. And her dream about the accident that left her great-uncle paralyzed? Same thing. And the time when—

  "No!” The sound of her own voice startled her. She hadn't meant to speak aloud.

  Angie knew the truth in the depths of her soul, but she would not, could not, admit that her “observer dreams” came true. Aunt Martha called them prophetic.

  But she was wrong. She had to be.

  Angie licked the juice from her lips and glanced at the stove clock. Five a.m. There was no way she would ever fall back to sleep now.

  "Might as well start the day,” she said with a sigh. She went into the bathroom, turned on the shower and peeled off the clammy gown. The scent of lavender soap mixed with the silky warmth
of the hot spray had a calming affect, but still the dream haunted her.

  Stepping out to dry off, she tried hard to think of something, anything, other than the nightmare. But it was so hard. Still unsettled, she selected her clothes and dressed; then checked the mirror to make sure everything matched.

  The store doesn't open until ten, she reminded herself, dabbing lavender perfume behind her ears and on her wrists. I could complete the jewelry inventory and submit reorders.

  The house creaked, and Angie jumped in fear.

  "All right, that's it!” she yelled at the walls. No way is this stupid dream going to take over my life!

  She wasn't about to screw up after all the years of hard work she and Aunt Martha had put into The Variety Vine. She would not lose her focus now. Together, she and her aunt had made the store one of Dansburg's most successful gift shops. She'd practically grown up in The Variety Vine, until she decided to become an interior decorator—a job she'd given up the moment Aunt Martha willed the store to her.

  Angie picked up a scrunchie, pulled her hair into a ponytail and went into the kitchen. Still thinking about all the work she needed to do at the store—and the dream—she warmed a bagel; then spread cream cheese inside.

  I better go in early, she thought pushing the dream to the recesses of her mind.

  Grabbing her breakfast and briefcase, she headed out the door.

  * * * *

  Angie parked her sport utility vehicle in front of The Variety Vine at exactly six A.M.

  The store had been converted from a family home years ago—"the old Randall house,” people used to call it. Sitting off the road with no other buildings in sight, it looked eerie with the sun dawning behind it. A misty fog surrounded the wisteria vines that covered the front porch banister and crept up the round columns to the roof.

  Angie climbed out of the SUV and brushed the breakfast crumbs off her shirt. Grabbing her briefcase, she locked the vehicle and headed toward the store.

  She saw the spider's web, shimmering with sunlight through droplets of dew, just before it touched her face. Too late, she dropped her briefcase, jumped off the steps and frantically pulled the web from her eyelashes and hair.

  "Uugghh!” She shuddered, spotting the spider. “Nasty little creatures."