by E. M. Moore
Frowning, he turned to his wife who stuck her chin in the air, face resolute, though fresh, wet tears adorned her cheeks. Thomas caught the exchange and he moved closer. His face transfigured in pain and even though he still stood, his whole body buckled into itself, shrunk with the weight of despair.
With great care, her father kissed her aching cheek and looked deep in her eyes. His face solemn, but heroic. His eyes said what his words could not. An apology. For her throbbing cheek? For his future absence? For her unacknowledged love? She knew not.
Isabella pushed past him and escaped to her room.
***
A short time after the men left, a loud knock rapped on the door to the Lynne home. Isabella stiffened, her quill ceased to move across the journal paper in mid-word.
Voices.
Isabella listened, waiting to hear shouted orders from her mother. The words exchanged were in whispers though. Hardly audible from within the confines of Isabella’s bedroom. She moved to the door and cupped her ear against the wood.
Women voices.
Isabella turned the knob and, as slow as the worm crawls in the summer heat, she inched the door open. Her heart quickened with the ever-growing sliver of light. As the picture before her appeared in full view, she gasped and grabbed hold of the door casing lest she might fall.
She stood there—the witch—just before her in the kitchen, towering over her mother with a crooked grin. Isabella’s step faltered and she tripped back into the room. Her footfall sounded heavily on the creaking board in the middle and her mother’s head snapped to look at her.
Isabella drew in a ragged breath and blood raced through her veins. “Mrs. Shipton?”
She searched the little crevices of the room, looking for something, anything to use as a weapon against the evil thing.
“Isabella, calm yourself,” her mother implored. “Please.”
Her eyes were etched in anger.
“Why is she here?” Her voice came out terse, but wavered despite herself.
“Dear Isabella,” Mrs. Shipton exclaimed. “You are getting prettier and prettier by the day.” Her constant haggard features wrinkled even more. “Pray tell me, what is your secret? Do you possess those womanly powers that most artless women crave?”
Mrs. Shipton’s gaze sliced through the young girl. Isabella reached back and ran her hand over her long braid, but Mrs. Shipton’s eyes did not follow. They stared into her, not at her, reading her, seeking all the good inside and scoffing at it, burying it with her fire eyes.
A tremor raked her body. What could Mrs. Shipton be about? Saying those things to her? “I assure you I possess no powers but those traits which my mother and father have given me.”
Mrs. Shipton laughed, laying a hand over her middle. “Oh Isabella, I see that the dire times have reached your ears.” The old woman looked back to her mother and frowned. “I did not mean powers such as Isabella took me to mean. I meant womanly powers such as beauty and grace, which most insipid, ugly women want. You know, much like myself. My mother and father were not as kind to me as yours have been to you.”
Mrs. Shipton waved her hands, shooing away evil like she would scare away a fly. As if this all meant nothing to her, as if everything meant nothing to her.
With narrowed eyes, Isabella walked up to her two elders. She leaned forward a little on her toes, tipped her chin and then looked down, masking the rapid beat of her heart. “You must know, Mrs. Shipton…You must see that you cannot be here."
Mrs. Lynne’s hands clenched the sides of her apron. “Isabella!”
Isabella did not spare a glance to her mother. “My father is away on a witch hunting party—”
“As is Mr. Shipton. The same one, I am sure.”
Isabella fell back on her heels. “I must ask you to leave. Three women, alone…at night…it looks suspicious.”
Mrs. Lynne, prepared to yell at her daughter again, choked back her words.
Mrs. Shipton gazed at Mrs. Lynne and then nodded. “Hmm. Perhaps you are right, young one.” She turned to leave, but before the door closed behind her, she looked back in and said, “Perhaps you should take as much caution with other villagers who come visiting at night.”
As the door shut, Isabella followed after, making sure the latch secured itself in the resting place. Her hand lingered there and she pressed her forehead against the cool of the wood door.
“Isabella, my, what is a matter with you? You cannot behave like that.”
Voice quieted by her churning mind, Isabella said, “She is evil ma’am. Please.”
Mrs. Lynne shook her head and snapped out, “You believe she is evil because she gave you away.”
Isabella spun around, her mouth open in surprise.
“Yes. She is the one who informed me of you and Thomas meeting secretly.”
Isabella shook her head as if the force of her disagreement would help sway her mother. “She is evil and I know it.”
Mrs. Lynne sighed and leaned against the wall, her face toward the rafters.
Isabella clamored over, stepping closer to her mother. “She did not hurt you?”
“I am well.”
“But she leaned over you here. The look on her face…” Isabella’s words trailed off, her mother already shaking her head in disagreement.
“We were just talking. She wanted to trade crop. Pretty Isabella…” her mother slouched down in a chair, confusion racking her face. Her brows drew together as she studied her daughter. “Why do you think this of Mrs. Shipton?”
Isabella’s heart stuttered to a stop, like the last gallop of horse’s hooves on packed dirt. Her terror let her speak the words. Too afraid for her family to lie to her mother now. “I have heard stories.”
“From Thomas, I suppose.” She looked deep into her daughter’s eyes.
Isabella could not tell what the look meant. It wavered between horror and sadness.
“‘Tis true, Mother, from Thomas Ludington. We—”
Mrs. Lynne interrupted. “Mrs. Shipton has told me of you and Thomas Ludington.”
Isabella’s eyebrows arched. “I am not sure how Mrs. Shipton would know of anything.”
Her mother patted the stool next to her. “She said she saw you talking. She meant to put me on my guard. She agrees that this is merely a silly dalliance, but Isabella, you cannot be too careful.”
Isabella’s heart ached. Silly dalliance?
“If Mrs. Shipton was able to see you two together, any townsperson might have. If the wrong person spied you…”
“I love him,” Isabella choked out, her face drowning in sadness.
She wanted to say more, needed to say more, but her mother began again, “Then why has he not proposed? Has he spoken to his parents?”
A tear streamed down the pink cheek of Isabella.
Mrs. Lynne stood up straighter and said in clear, commanding words, “You are not to see Thomas Ludington again.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sarah
I eyed the two police officers joking at the counter. They were engrossed in a conversation about the older man’s wife and her less than spectacular cooking skills. Slipping my cell from my pocket, I made sure they were still pre-occupied and then snapped a picture of the symbol.
Drake’s eyes flicked to the laughing men. “You can’t do that," he whispered.
“Stop me.” The warning shot off my tongue, doused in sarcasm.
I texted the image to Mom, along with: TX for telling me dad got RAN OVER! Does this symbol mean ne thing to u??
I flipped the phone shut and waited. Drake nudged me with a piece of paper, the corner jabbed the fleshy skin of my bicep. “You need to see this.”
His eyes darkened as I took the paper. He watched the officers now too.
A SYMBOL (ATTACHED IN FORM 3-E) WAS FOUND ON THE LEFT BREAST. SYMBOL UNKNOWN AND CONCLUDED NOT IN INTEREST TO THE INVESTIGATION.
Not in interest to the investigation? These hicks didn’t even know how to do their
jobs. How was I supposed to learn anything from this when they did nothing? I jumped up, grabbed everything from Drake’s hands and threw it.
Sheets of paper spiraled through the air in disarray between us and the counter. Catching air underneath, the sheets changed direction here and there as if a tornado of shoddy police work stormed through the small lobby.
Drake scrambled up behind me. “Sarah,” he warned.
“No…no…I want to know what this is.” I marched to the desk and slapped the drawing of the symbol down in front of the startled cops. “I keep seeing this everywhere.” I jabbed at the paper, pointing, like taunting a coiled snake.
“Miss…”
My phone buzzed and I opened it, holding out a finger to the cops. I can’t believe ur bitch of an aunt told u that.
“Miss?” the older police officer started again, teeth clenched.
I motioned with my finger again for them to give me one second. Screw you MOM!!!!!!!!, I texted back before pushing the power button so hard I thought I might break the key before the phone turned off. The tip of my thumb turned white.
“Drake,” Pauly said. “You might want to…”
Drake tried to take my elbow to lead me away, but I tugged it from him and placed both hands on the desk, lifting myself up as tall as I could go. “I want to know why this wasn’t looked into.” I cocked my head toward the symbol.
“Miss!” the older cop shouted. “If you would like to file a motion to open the case again, by all means, go ahead.” His lips pressed tight together before they opened again. “But until then, I suggest you leave. Now.”
My blood pulsed in my head so hard I could feel my skin throbbing, like a needle dipping up and down, approaching warning temperatures. Drake’s lips moved on my ear. “Come on, Sarah. I know this hurts. Let’s get out of here and we’ll talk about it.”
My body deflated, conforming to Drake’s soft arms. He nodded at Pauly and Rudy while he led me away. When I felt the crisp night air on my skin, I collapsed into him.
He held tight, arms encapsulating me. After a few minutes, I moved away, not caring my mascara probably left my eyes black-rimmed with trails of dark tears down my cheeks. His fingertips lightly brushed them out.
“I’m sorry,” I choked.
“Me too.” He cleaned me up, his thumb trailing my cheekbone. “Where else have you seen that symbol?”
I breathed in the cool air, allowing it to calm me. “At the Wiccan meeting.” Remembering the eyes that blazed with the lightning symbol, I took a shuddering breath. “I asked you about a symbol on our way home? When I freaked out. That was why. I saw that symbol.” I started to rattle again, hands shaking.
“Shh,” he soothed.
“Have you ever seen it before?” I asked, searching his face.
“No.”
My shoulders sunk. Drake and Aunt Rose were the only ones I could trust around here and I now only had a fifty-percent chance of someone telling me what the symbol meant. “I’m sorry I accused your grandfather.”
Drake smirked. “That’s just another reason you can’t use not to date me.”
I thought about kissing him, but remembered how he wanted more the last time. Drake would always want more. He wasn’t like the use ‘em and lose ‘em type from Miami. The kind I used to lament about with friends. Now that I had a gentleman—a perfect gentleman who wanted me—I was scared. Who would want me when I’d probably end up being just like my mother anyway?
I sighed and laughed at the same time, my feelings as screwed up as my relationships. “No, I guess I can’t use that as an excuse.” I ran my fingers through my hair and wiped at my face. “I need to find out what that symbol is.”
I looked up at Drake, hoping for an answer.
He shrugged. “Google it?”
***
When I returned to Rose’s, I turned my phone on immediately, ignoring the beeps as new text messages came in. The signal wasn’t strong enough to get on the internet through the phone, but I could try to connect to a wireless signal.
The phone beeped. No Connection.
“Ugh. I really am living in the 50’s.” I tossed the phone on the end table in the foyer. “Rose, are you here?” I called out. “You’ll never guess where I’ve been.” I searched the dark foyer. “I’ve been at the police station. I think something happened to my—”
“There you are,” Rose bellowed. “You are not the only one in this house, you know.” She pointed up the stairs. “I’m trying to sleep, but I can’t with all that noise you’re making up there.”
“Noise?” I shook my head. She’d known I left the house earlier. “I’ve been with Drake, I haven’t—”
The older woman’s eyes narrowed. A physical pulse of anger shockwaved through her body. Then, her voice turned haughty, like an 1800’s gentleman talking to a poor, ignorant servant. “If you weren’t here, then why did I hear bangs coming from your room? I know you’re upset about your father, but that is not the proper way to handle it.”
My voice sounded small next to the authoritative tone of my aunt’s. “I have no idea what you’ve been hearing.”
Rose’s face turned to disgust. “Did you have Drake over? Is that what you’ve been doing in your room?”
“No!” I shouted, shocked she would insinuate something like that. My cheeks burned in embarrassment. “We weren’t here…and I haven’t been doing anything like…like—”
“And I am not a small town hick as you may think I am. I have enough senses to trust my ears when I hear things.” Rose thrust her finger up the stairs. “You are the only one here besides me.”
“Rose, really, I haven’t been here. Come, check.”
“I will check!” Rose’s face enflamed, shaking with anger. I watched her implode, not understanding how the warm aunt I saw around Drake could flip like a switch and turn into Britney Spears with a shaved head and an umbrella.
Rose turned on the heel of her pink slippers and clopped up the stairs. I arched my eyebrows in amazement, remembering my father calling her “spry” in the journal. I thudded up the stairs right behind her and reached the top just as Rose turned the doorknob. She peeked back at me and smiled with one lip curved up higher than the other as if she were snarling.
I closed the gap between us in two strides. We both stood in the open doorway. I took a quick look around to make sure I didn’t have underwear lying anywhere or any other “evidence” to make Rose think Drake and I were actually fooling around. The other investigated for who knew what—a clue in some phantom bangs case?
“The noises are coming from here,” Rose said, walking to the corner of the room. A few steps in, her head snapped back, curlers jumping in an escape attempt, but they buoyed right back. “No wonder.” The older woman pointed at the desk. “You’ve moved it!” The wrinkled hand gave way to long, perfectly polished red nails. “Why did you move that desk?”
My pulse quickened, throbbing in my wrist first, then in my temples. Anger and apprehension swirled around inside in a tornado of mixed emotions. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t touch the desk. It’s been there since you told me to come up here that first night.”
“That’s impossible. I moved that desk to the attic years ago.”
“I’m not sure what’s going on here.” I exhaled a deep breath. It whistled out like a steam-run train.
Alzheimer’s was my first guess. Isn’t that what the woman from The Notebook had? She couldn’t remember things, even people. Maybe Rose was suffering from that. She was old. Old enough to forget if she had a desk in a spare bedroom she hardly used, but it was more than that. It was the bangs she claimed she’d heard and the fact that she’d forgotten I'd went to Drake’s earlier. I wasn’t even at home when she claimed to have heard the noises.
The rigidness of Rose’s shoulders softened. She took a deep breath and let it out all in one whoosh. Her face was expressionless while she stared at me, though judging by her opaque eyes, not really seeing me.
Fleeting as it was, I caught the look and then suddenly she was out of it.
Rose walked toward the desk, letting her fingers play over the wood. Closing her eyes and muttering, she talked in whispers, her voice low. There was a repetition to whatever she said, a melodic tune.
“What’s wrong?” I took a few steps closer to the corner of the room where she stood. “Are you okay?”
Rose cocked her head. “It can’t be,” she choked out, face paling white. “It can’t be.” Suddenly, she ripped her hand away from the desk. Gaping down at her pointer finger, she gasped. The tip of her finger was red and bulging. “You brought it out! You brought it out!”
I started to tremble, uneasiness quivering through me. “Aunt Rose, I…”
The older woman came at me with careful, purposeful steps. When she was right in my face, she said, “No. You brought it out.” She turned and walked from the room, letting the door slam behind her.
I reached in my pocket for my phone. I needed to talk to Drake. Maybe my dad was right. Rose didn’t seem at all with it. She went through mood swings like crazy and she had to be way past the point of menopause symptoms. It could’ve been menopause on steroids, but I was betting on something more serious. Maybe she was losing herself…
Crap. My phone wasn’t there. I’d left it downstairs. I bent over the desk, eyeing the wood design for any clues as to why Rose freaked. It just looked like a desk to me, an old one, but with the same drawers and cubbies like any other desk.
Hell, it looked a lot like the desk Mom bought me after engagement number one didn’t work out.
Johnny Brimbauer. His wife had died, leaving him with no kids. I really liked him actually, even begged him to stay. Plotted out a route to run away, straight to Johnny’s house on the water after they broke up. Come to think of it, my mother had bought me a whole new bedroom set for that one.
This time I ran away to true family. I wasn’t doing it again.