Ruby's Letters

by Maggie Van Well

  Ruby’s spirits rose as she felt her strength seeping back into her essence. She would just have to have faith in Emma and help her in any way she could.

  “How did you know?”

  Ruby smelled the musk before Hilary entered the parlor. Still, she’d hoped the wicked woman would be too angry to speak. “A memory.”

  Hilary’s face seemed more opaque than ever. Maybe it was the fury that made it look so solid. “That’s not possible. You told me you could not read the thoughts of those filled with hatred.”

  “Death, it seems, takes away some limitations. Like the inability to walk through walls, for example. However, I must confess, it wasn’t your memory.”

  For once, Hilary seemed humbled. “I never thought you’d discover where I hid them.”

  Ruby floated through the air, tilted onto her back as one would float in a pool. “You underestimated me in life, and now you’re doing so in death. Maybe one day you will learn that just because you had more than most people - money, status, and prestige - it didn’t make you a better, smarter person. It just meant you were dealt a different hand.”

  The humbleness so apparent a moment ago was gone as if it had never been. “I am superior to you in every way.”

  Ruby turned to her with anger. “You are truly evil. You murdered in life, and you can still find the stomach, or whatever it is you have, to murder in death. You have learned nothing!”

  “I’ve learned never to underestimate you again. That alone should frighten you.”

  Ruby sank to the floor, as if the heaviness in her heart weighed her down. “Believe me, it does.”

  ***

  “I’m here pretending to borrow eggs.”

  Sheila’s brow shot up as she studied Emma on her doorstep, their hands clasped. “Since when do you not have anything and everything needed for cooking?”

  Emma entered her friend’s house and shut the door behind her. “I don’t really need eggs. It’s just an excuse I made up to come over here.”

  Sheila tapped her index fingers against her lips. “And you needed to make up an excuse because…?”

  “Well, I had to give Nicole and Ryan some reason for me coming over here right before dinner.”

  Sheila cringed. “Oh, you’re going to need a better excuse than that.”

  “What I need is advice and someone who doesn’t think I’m crazy.”

  “But you are crazy, hon, but in a fun way.” Sheila motioned her into the living room.

  Oh, yeah, like you’re so sane.

  “After hearing what I’m about to tell you, you just might change that opinion.”

  Emma succinctly went over the events of the evening, watching Sheila’s face grow horrified. When she was done, her friend sank into the nearby sofa with her hand over her heart, her face devoid of color.

  “Wow. I never thought it was true--that ghosts could harm us, even though I’ve seen and read a few things to the contrary.”

  Emma sat in the chair opposite her. “What am I going to do? That evil spirit or red mist or whatever you want to call it is furious with me for removing those letters. It’s bound to retaliate somehow.”

  Sheila’s eyes pleaded. “You can’t go back there.”

  Dragging her tongue slowly over her lower lip, she shook her head. “I have to.”

  “Why?”

  Emma stared at her friend, speechless. Then she simply shrugged and answered, “Because if I don’t, Betsy could be in danger.”

  “Let someone else deal with it.” Tears welled in her friend’s eyes.

  “No one will take this as seriously as I do.”

  Sheila gripped her hands so tight Emma feared she might never get them back. She pictured her hand dangling from Sheila’s keychain in place of a rabbit’s foot. “Now is not the time for pride. That spirit obviously wants you dead. You can’t go back. Think of Nicole, think of your family. Think of me!”

  No way she’d let some funky phantom harm one of her friends. “I’m not afraid. The Lady in the Shawl is protecting me, and I have you as a friend.”

  Sheila dropped her hands and pulled back. “I don’t know what you think I can do.”

  “Come on, Sheila. You know how to help me.”

  “I don’t.” Sheila couldn’t hold her penetrating stare. “There are a few things…”

  “Help me, my friend.” Emma leaned forward, forcing her to look at her. She smirked. “Come on, you owe me. Think of all the good luck I’ve brought you over the last four years, just by allowing you to shake my hand every day.”

  Sheila grinned, and then her slumped body became ramrod straight. “All right, I can see you’re determined to be the stubborn wench you are, so the only thing to do is protect you against the ghost.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  Sheila glared at her.

  “Okay, bad choice of words.”

  With a firm grip on her hand, Sheila led Emma into her library. She knew without looking most of the books were about superstitions, parapsychology, and the paranormal. But Sheila didn’t go for any of the books. Instead she opened a drawer in the hutch and retrieved a plain wooden box.

  Taking a seat on her sofa, Sheila opened it and picked up a small velvet sack. She held it out to Emma. “This is for you.”

  She reached for it, afraid of what it might contain. With tentative fingers, she untied the pull strings and reached inside. What she pulled out was the ugliest piece of jewelry she had ever seen.

  A chunky silver necklace adorned with smooth bluish-white and black stones felt heavy in her hand.

  Sheila took it from her and stroked it lovingly. “This belonged to my grandmother. The bluish stone is chalcedony, the black is obsidian.”

  “It’s a lovely thought, but I really don’t think giving me your—”

  Sheila laughed. “I’m not giving them to you, silly. It’s a loan.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  Her friend’s brows shot up.

  “This is…interesting.” Emma pulled another piece of jewelry from the sack. This one looked like chunks of coal set into a silver bracelet.

  “That’s lodestone.”

  “Ah. This is all very—what does this have to do with me?”

  “My grandmother was the one who inspired my interest in the paranormal and superstitions. She wore this as protection from ghosts.” Sheila rose from the sofa.

  The silver felt cold against her palm, but Emma studied it with a soft smile. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “That’s not all. Come with me.”

  “Okay, but I can’t be too much longer.”

  Emma followed Sheila into the kitchen. After pulling out a step stool, Sheila climbed up to the cabinet above the fridge and took out a tin. She handed it to Emma before she climbed down.

  The bronze-colored tin was large and had no decoration, but on it was a small combination lock.

  Raising her brow, Emma looked at her friend. “What’s in here, narcotics?”

  Sheila paused in opening the lock and stared into space. “No, I don’t think they’re considered narcotics.” Once open, she proceeded to retrieve plastic cups with lids from the tin and put them on the counter.

  Curious, Emma reached out a hand to grab one.

  “Don’t touch!”

  She jumped and looked at her, startled.

  Sheila opened one of the kitchen drawers and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves, snapping them on like a doctor about to give a prostate exam, before removing the cup’s lid.

  “What are they?” As nonchalantly as she could, Emma took a step back.

  Sheila held up a leaf with a jagged edge. Tiny hairs covered the underside. “This is stinging nettle. It might cause a rash.” She placed it in a plastic baggie and moved on to what looked like a small oak leaf. It emitted a foul odor. “Jimson weed. It’s a horrible hallucinogenic and can be harmful. Do not ingest or smoke it in any way.”

  Emma raised her hands, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”


  Next Sheila produced a plant with large leaves and umbels of greenish-white flowers. A pleasant smell crept into Emma’s nostrils.

  Sheila took a deep sniff. “Angelica. It’s quite nice actually. It’s used for flavoring and cake decorations.”

  With a big grin, Sheila handed over the baggie.

  Weighing the velvet sack and plastic bag, Emma frowned. “Do I really need all this?”

  The second Sheila averted her eyes, Emma knew there was something her friend wasn’t telling her. “What is it?”

  “When you explained about talking to the ghost while you had a migraine, it made me wonder.”

  “Go on.”

  “If that happens again, I’m not sure any of this will protect you.”

  “So you figured you’d give me all the repellents hoping at least one will work?”

  As if her question jarred something in Sheila’s brain, she rummaged through the large tin and took out a scallop shell banded with red thread. She handed that over as well. “Can’t believe I almost forgot this.”

  “You think a seashell with a thread around it will help me?” The cool shell felt oddly comforting in Emma’s hand.

  “Well, there’s rosemary inside.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “Every little bit helps.” Then she grabbed her salt shaker, twisted off the top and proceeded to pour salt into the pocket of Emma’s jacket.

  Emma knew better than to question.

  ***

  When Emma headed home, she didn’t feel as though she were protected against a ghost. More like she was about to make a bizarre salad wearing expensive heirloom jewelry.

  God, the stuff was ugly and bulky, but if it worked as a ghost repellent, she’d wear it with an evening gown if she had to.

  For a moment, while Sheila had been gathering the spectral repellents, Emma felt uneasy. Either her dear friend was a whacko, or she took her amateur ghost hunting much more seriously than Emma originally thought.

  She sighed as she walked in the door. Everyone should be lucky enough to have a friend like Sheila Rogers.

  The delicious aroma of the marsala chicken greeted her. Rain dripped from her nose as she removed her jacket. The wind howled, and from the looks of the distant sky they were in for another thunderstorm.

  She found Nicole and Ryan sitting in the dining room, the table set with her best china and flatware. Candles cast shadows on the walls. The radio, for once, was not playing rock or pop music but Luther Vandross. She didn’t even know she owned that CD. Ryan and Nicole sat in their chairs holding wine glasses filled with liquid.

  “You set the table and everything? You guys are awesome!”

  “Well, we had nothing else to do, since you were gone so long,” her daughter complained then clinked her glass with Ryan’s.

  Emma took her seat at the head of the table and pointed at Nicole’s glass. “That’s not wine, is it?”

  Ryan rolled his eyes. “No, she already had some while you were gone. I decided to switch her over to grape juice.”

  Emma laughed, but the expression on his face stopped her. “You are kidding, right?”

  The look he sent her was incredulous. “Of course I’m kidding. Sheesh, what kind of irresponsible idiot do you take me for?”

  “Since there is a child present, I’ll assume that was a rhetorical question.”

  After saying grace, Nicole dug into her meal with as much gusto as a contestant in a pie-eating contest.

  “You were gone quite a while,” Ryan said.

  Emma sipped her wine before answering. “Oh, you know girls. We can never do anything without having a long chat.”

  “So where are the eggs?”

  Pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth, she stared at him and gulped. “The who what now?”

  “The eggs. Isn’t that what you went over there for?”

  She lowered her hand, her mouth watering from the delicious taste she denied it. “Oh, yes, but she was out.”

  “She was out of eggs?”

  Uh oh, think fast, rabbit. “Well, yes, she’d used the last three for her, um, Tuesday afternoon…cooking ritual.” Okay, that sounded stupid even to her own ears.

  “Tuesday afternoon cooking ritual.”

  “Yeah. She—uh—chants in—um—a native tongue and then scrambles eggs and then does a simple dance while she cooks them, so she’ll be able to cook creatively for the rest of the week.”

  Ryan held his chin between his thumb and forefinger, studying her as she spoke. “Fascinating. You know, Em, you could’ve just said she hadn’t gone shopping yet.”

  She tried to hide behind her wine glass. “Maybe, but that wouldn’t have been as interesting an answer.”

  Chuckling, he went back to eating his dinner. “This is very good. If you ever want to switch careers, you can always be a chef.”

  “Nah, I’d never be able to get my hands clean enough. I’ll have soot under my nails until I’m eighty.”

  A loud clap of thunder stalled any more small talk. The lights flickered. Nicole jumped up and ran to her.

  Emma took her in her arms. “Aw, sweetie, you know there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I know, but it scared me.” Nicole buried her head against her breast.

  Emma kissed the top of her head. “Go sit down and finish your meal.”

  “Yeah.” Ryan patted her chair. “Come sit with me and I’ll tell you a story.”

  Nicole sat back down and watched Ryan eagerly.

  He picked up his glass and sipped. “When I was younger, Colin and I used to sit on this old, shabby loveseat our nana had on her front porch. Whenever there was a thunderstorm, we’d sit on the arm of the loveseat and face the window. Every time we saw lightning we’d fall back and shout ‘Whoaaaaaa!’”

  Nicole giggled. “That sounds like fun.”

  “Oh, it was, except for the times when one of us fell back too soon or too late. Those times usually ended with one of us having a bloody nose.”

  Nicole grimaced. “Weren’t you ever scared?”

  “Nah, we waited for it. Besides, everyone knows that thunder is just the sound of God bowling, and the lightning comes from Him getting a strike. That’s why they call it a ‘lightning strike.’”

  Nicole narrowed her eyes. “Then how come there’s so much lightning? I’ve seen Mommy and Daddy bowl, and they hardly ever get a strike.”

  Ryan shrugged. “Well, it’s God. He gets a strike every time.”

  Nicole picked up her fork. “You made that all up.”

  “Maybe, but it’s a lot less scary when you think about it that way.”

  They were quiet for a moment, but when the next clap of thunder shook the house, Nicole let out a loud ‘whoaaa’ and fell out of her chair.

  Ryan burst out laughing. “No, you silly goose. You can only do that while sitting on the arm of a very old, shabby loveseat.”

  Rubbing her tender bum, Nicole sighed in relief. “Oh, good, cause I don’t want to have to do that again.”

  Emma savored the last of her chicken, watching Ryan and Nicole as they chatted. The weather outside grew fierce, not that anyone inside noticed. They cleared the table, put the dishes in the washer, and scrubbed the pots clean. All the while they joked and laughed, Emma couldn’t help wondering what life would be like with Ryan by her side. She allowed the fantasy to form, if only until Nicole’s bedtime.

  All too soon, reality reared its ugly head. Nicole had to get to bed, and Emma and Ryan had letters to read. By the time she’d finished reading Nicole a story, her child was sound asleep. Emma kissed her forehead and then reached over to turn off the light.

  It flickered and died.

  At first Emma thought the ghosts had followed her home. Sheila had told her about such cases. The entity would attach itself to a person instead of a dwelling.

  She walked to the door and opened it. The house was in darkness. They must’ve lost power. Her body slumped in relief.

  “Emm
a?”

  Just like that, her body tensed again. The sound of Ryan’s deep, husky voice made her knees quake. “I’m right here.”

  She managed to add to the bumps and bruises she already had as she made her way from Nicole’s room to the buffet where she kept her flashlights and candles.

  Once she’d lit the candles in the living room, she and Ryan settled down to read.

  It seemed rather fitting to sit around a candle, reading letters from long ago. Still, it did make the task that much more challenging. Even in good light, the swirly handwriting was hard to decipher.

  Emma sat on the floor between the sofa and coffee table while Ryan sat on the sofa behind her, relaxed against the cushions, listening.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  DEAREST SISTER, REBECCA. Oh, how wonderful I feel! Miss Van Leer introduced me to Walter Montgomery. She met him whilst he repaired the plumbing in her employer’s home and knew instantly that we were a match made in Heaven. I have met the man of my dreams and tonight he proposed.

  However, my dear sister, all is not well within our home. Mother met Walter and even though he was kind, and so very polite and proper, Mother refused to allow him to court me. She says he does not have the pedigree or status to make me a suitable husband. Whenever I bring up the subject, she closes herself off to me. What am I to do? I am not like you and our lovely sister, Sara. I was neither the brave one nor the stubborn one. I have never disobeyed Mother or Father until now.

  This Thursday past, Mother almost found out about Miss Van Leer’s visits. She said she smelled lilacs, but I managed to procure some from the dining room and convince her that was from whence the scent came. I’ve asked Miss Van Leer not to visit anymore. Not because I don’t like her, oh Heavens no, but because Mother dislikes her so. I feel it’s best for everyone.

  Miss Van Leer says I have it in me to do what I need to do for love, but I’m not convinced. She insists love will find a way. Even though I am frightened right now, I will always wonder what would have been if I do not go with my heart and marry my true love. I do not know how she knows he is my soul mate, but she was right when she matched you up with Crawford and Sarah with Mitchell. Do you think, perhaps, that I do have the courage in me after all? Please write back soon. Your loving sister, Mary