Samhain Secrets

by Jennifer David Hesse

  I met his eyes. “Her name was Josephine O’Malley. Ever heard of her?”

  He shook his head.

  “She was a friend of Fern’s. She lived in Edindale back in the early seventies, but then took off and moved from place to place. I’m not sure what she was doing exactly, except she had a business called Sister Seeds.”

  I thought I detected a flicker of recognition in Zeke’s eyes, but he only grunted. “So, what’s your interest?” he asked. “Did you know her?”

  Did I know her? Not at all. I sighed. “She was my aunt. I suspect she might have been involved in Fern’s . . . network. But Fern won’t tell me anything.”

  Zeke regarded me thoughtfully, then tossed back the rest of his soda. “I’ll talk to Fern and see what I can find out. Then I’ll give you a call.”

  “You will? Thanks, Zeke. I really appreciate it.”

  “No sweat. But next time we meet, let’s make it dinner and drinks. My treat.”

  “Um, yeah. Maybe. We’ll see.”

  * * *

  After leaving the café, I decided to walk over to Moonstone Treasures to say hi to Mila. She always went all out for the Samhain season, and this year was no exception. Her shop windows were decked out like a Gothic Halloween dinner party, with crystal beads draped over black candelabra, gold-rimmed obsidian goblets, painted skulls, and candles galore. On one side, a cauldron bubbled with manufactured fog, while on the other, a spooky raven perched on gnarly tree branches. It was delightfully chilling.

  Inside was just as enchanting. I was greeted with the warm scents of pumpkin spice and cinnamon and the sight of vintage witchy art alongside cheery harvest decor. Soft Baroque music added a touch of refined drama to the atmosphere.

  “Don’t you just love October?” said Mila, as she descended the iron staircase from the second floor. She carried a black sequined sorceress gown, which she hung in a prominent place up front. She, herself, was wearing a black satin jumpsuit with an orange and purple paisley scarf, wine-colored suede boots, and silver skeletons dangling from her earlobes. I just loved her funky style.

  “This is a busy time for you,” I said, as the door jingled behind me and a trio of young women entered. Mila winked at me and went to say something to her assistant, Catrina, who was ringing up a customer at the register. Then she beckoned me through the gauzy curtain that led to her divination parlor.

  “Never too busy for tea with a friend,” she said, waving me to sit down at the round table in the corner. Today it was adorned with a lacy, web-patterned cloth and a heavy vase of purple carnations.

  “I had coffee right before coming here,” I said, declining the tea. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in for a minute. Has Fredeline been by yet?”

  “She came in this morning and we had a nice chat. She’s an interesting woman. Proud of her heritage and loyal to her homeland, but also eager to learn new things.”

  “It’s too bad there isn’t someone else from Sister Seeds who can help her out. I’m going to try speaking with Fern Lopez again. I’ll ask her about it.”

  Mila straightened a deck of tarot cards on the dresser next to the table before pouring herself a cup of tea and sitting down across from me. “Fredeline said something else I think you should know.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She seems to be worried about money. I got the impression that part of her purpose for coming here was to obtain another donation from your aunt. I don’t know if Josephine had stopped sending checks, or if Fredeline thought she could send more, but I believe Fredeline viewed this trip as a fund-raising mission. And since that’s no longer an option . . . well, let’s just say she might be exploring other possibilities.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, she might be hitting you up. It seems that she views you as your aunt’s heir or successor, someone to pick up the mantle of her charity work.”

  “That’s an awful big assumption, isn’t it?”

  “She also asked about what you do for a living and whether you’re well-off—which could be nothing more than natural curiosity. But I wanted to give you a heads-up anyway.”

  “Thanks.” I wasn’t sure what to make of this information. For some reason, it didn’t sit well with me. On the other hand, I couldn’t forget that Fredeline came from a place with astounding rates of poverty. I couldn’t blame her for having money on her mind.

  I fingered the lace on the edge of the table cloth and looked around at the exotic decor on the walls and tables in Mila’s parlor. She’d added a couple new pieces since I’d last visited.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been here, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it has,” said Mila. “You’re the one who’s been busy. How are you holding up?” She searched my face as if she could read the truth without my saying a word. In fact, she probably could.

  “I’m fine. Except . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I had a vision of my aunt. I saw her living a happy life, but something was off. It felt incomplete to me, like something was missing.”

  Mila nodded. “Of course. Her life ended in a very sudden, unexpected way.”

  I bit my lip. As someone who wholeheartedly believed in unseen forces and magical synchronicities, I was a little embarrassed at the question on the tip of my tongue. Seeing Mila’s open, nonjudgmental face, I decided to go ahead and ask.

  “Mila, do you believe ghosts are real? I mean, do you think it’s really possible for spirits to stay behind? It seems almost clichéd to me. In every book, TV show, and movie about ghosts, there’s unfinished business to take care of. The troubled ghost is confused or angry or regretful, and can be helped by only that one special person, the one with the ‘gift’ to ‘see dead people.’ But that’s all fiction, you know?”

  Mila tipped her head in acknowledgment. “It’s a common storyline, no doubt. But perhaps there’s a grain of truth in all fiction. Perhaps these ideas have taken such hold on our imaginations because deep down, we know they are true.”

  “Or,” I countered, “these stories reflect our deepest fears. People fear death and the unknown. They can’t abide the thought of death being a permanent end, so naturally they prefer believing our spirits live on. In that case, it would make sense for ghosts to have the same fears and needs as the living. In other words, imaginary ghosts are just projections of our own feelings.”

  Mila raised her eyebrows ever so slightly and didn’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry. I sound cynical, don’t I?”

  “You sound like someone who’s never experienced a ghost firsthand.”

  “I suppose so.” I glanced over at the storage side of the back room, partially hidden by Japanese folding screens, and remembered the night I’d found a dead man in that very spot. Later, Mila, Catrina, and I performed a space-clearing ritual in the room, and I eventually helped bring the man’s killer to justice. But I never felt the presence of his spirit—at least, not in any way more substantial than as a memory.

  As if guessing my thoughts, Mila touched my hand. “You know, I happen to believe that our souls do move on after death. I think there’s truth in all those stories, myths, visions, and dreams: We’ll be greeted by angels or loved ones, follow a white light, and enter a place of love and understanding. We’ll join the oneness and then, most likely, transition to the next phase in our spiritual evolution.”

  I leaned forward, taking in her words. She sounded so wise.

  “And yet,” she continued, “sometimes a part of us does stay behind. It might be no more than an impression, a strand of memory, or a feeling. Sometimes this lingering energy attaches itself and becomes a part of the place where it was felt the strongest. It’s like an echo, what some call an etheric imprint. Anyone can feel it if they’re open, but sensitives and psychics feel it more.”

  I thought of Mrs. Hammerlin—whom I’d put out of my mind since learning of Josephine’s death. Maybe she really was feeling some sort of ghostly e
nergy in her house. Still, I couldn’t help thinking it seemed far-fetched to attribute knocking sounds to residual energies.

  “What about poltergeists?” I asked. “Or the idea that ghosts are trying to communicate with the living? How does that fit in with this idea of psychic imprints?”

  “Remember what happened at the winery yesterday? The wind rushed over us at the exact moment we were talking about spirits in the air. It is absolutely possible to manifest on the physical plane that which has been imagined on the spiritual plane. You know this. You practice magic.”

  “You’re saying we caused the wind to kick up? It wasn’t spirits, separate and apart from us?”

  Mila hesitated, as if selecting her words carefully. “I think it’s a little bit of both. In most cases, strange, seemingly unexplainable occurrences are probably caused by our own influences. Shattered lightbulbs, electronic equipment going haywire, objects falling off shelves—people cause these things with their own invisible, strong vibrations, both positive and negative.”

  “I get that. As the ancient saying goes, ‘As above, so below.’”

  Mila nodded. “Exactly. But that doesn’t mean intelligent apparitions don’t also manifest from time to time. Whether they have yet to cross over, or they’ve come back to deliver a message, why not believe spirits could be among us?”

  I groaned and smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know why I have such a hard time relating my magical experiences with the idea of ghosts. I mean, I have no trouble feeling the presence of the Divine in nature. But the concept of what happens after death is more ineffable, like a larger mystery I’m not ready to grasp.”

  “Or, maybe, you just haven’t had the need,” suggested Mila. “Here’s another thought: The experience of ghosts is highly personal. Perhaps it’s not the dead who have unfinished business. It’s the living. It is the living who have the need to understand, the need for closure. We wish to lay spirits to rest—or set them free—not for them, but for us.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “That makes sense.”

  My phone buzzed, and I dug it out of my purse to silence it. When I saw the number on the display, I had to laugh. It was Mrs. Hammerlin.

  “Mystical forces are converging again,” I said. “Or maybe it’s the universe’s sense of humor. How would you feel about going on a ghost hunt with me?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I waited while Mila took care of a couple things in her store and made sure Catrina had everything under control. Then she filled a basket with an assortment of energy-clearing supplies, from basic salt to bundles of dried sage. I returned Mrs. Hammerlin’s call to let her know we were on our way. She met us at her front door, as giddy as a schoolgirl.

  “Thank you for coming!” she gushed. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. I’m at my wits’ end. The whistling happened again last night. I think it was coming from the cemetery. Who knows how many ghosts haunt this property? It might be teeming with spirits!”

  Mila set down her basket, so she could shake Mrs. Hammerlin’s hand while touching her opposite arm. I knew she was sending calming vibrations to the older woman. “It’s lovely to meet you,” said Mila. “Why don’t we chat for a bit before getting started? I brought some chamomile tea, if you don’t mind putting on the kettle.”

  Mila does love her tea, I thought with a smile, as I followed the women to the kitchen. This time I accepted a cup and warmed my hands over the steam, while Mrs. Hammerlin went over everything she’d been experiencing in the house.

  “You must be a keenly intuitive person,” said Mila. “Not everyone is. Tell me, Mrs. Hammerlin, have you always had the ability to feel psychic energies?”

  “Please, call me Grace,” said Mrs. Hammerlin, patting her silver hair. I was happy to see the sparkle in her eyes. Mila had succeeded in putting her at ease. “And, yes, you know what? I do believe I have been able to feel things that others haven’t. I easily pick up on people’s moods and even the mood of a room. For example, if there’s negativity in a place, say if two people have been arguing, I feel a sort of heaviness in the air.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Mila, nodding her head. “You’re a clairsentient.”

  “I am?” Mrs. Hammerlin looked pleased, but then her face fell. “Then why didn’t I feel anything when I first walked through this house?”

  Good question. I looked at Mila and waited for her answer.

  “I’m guessing your own positivity outweighed any negative vibes,” she offered. “Or perhaps the stagnant energy, and possibly old spirits, weren’t stirred up until you moved in. Either way, there are lots of steps we can take to cleanse the energy in here—ghostly or otherwise.”

  Mrs. Hammerlin looked on eagerly as Mila pulled out her bag of tricks. “We’ll go through the house room by room, top to bottom, with a smudging stick,” said Mila, “paying special attention to corners, cubbyholes, and anyplace you’ve heard or felt anything unusual. We’ll open all the windows to release the old energies. We’ll also use sound to clear the space and salt for protection. Oh, and we’ll talk to the spirits as we go. It’s very important to use your voice with authority to let the spirits know they are not welcome here.”

  “Oh, my,” said Mrs. Hammerlin, slightly breathless. “I must say, I’m very glad you’re here.”

  “I am, too,” I said, standing up. “Mila is the best. While you two are smudging the house, I think I’ll take a look outside.”

  Mrs. Hammerlin directed me through a small solarium off the dining room to the back door, which led to a pleasant little porch with a rocker and a swing. I stepped carefully down the concrete steps and into the lush backyard, replete with late-blooming flowers, aromatic herbs, and kitschy garden ornaments. I wandered to the side of the house, where an old cellar door caught my eye. The padlock was old and rusty, but when I gave it a tug, it didn’t budge.

  When I returned to the backyard, the sound of tinkling bells drifted down from an upper-story window. At the same moment, I heard a scuffling sound under the back porch. I went over to investigate, bending down to peer in a hole where the latticework was broken. As soon as I brought my face to the opening, a dark shape bounded out, causing me to lose my balance and land on my bottom. I swiveled my head in time to see a black cat leap onto the low brick wall separating the yard from the cemetery.

  “Well, there’s a pretty sight,” I said, admiring the cat. It was a beautiful creature, perched on the wall like a sentinel, guarding the tombstones behind it.

  On a hunch, I peeked in the hole under the porch. Sure enough, there was a foundation window that presumably led to the basement. It was missing a glass pane.

  I turned back around and spoke to the cat. “Are you the one who’s been causing all the trouble, scratching and knocking things about? Well, I guess we’ll find out if a little window repair puts an end to the Haunting of Hammerlin House.”

  The cat stared at me with big, yellow eyes, and I felt my heart melt a little. “Only, then what will happen to you? Do you have someplace else to go?”

  I took a step closer to see if the cat wore a collar. It didn’t. As I moved near, the cat took one step away, still eyeing me closely. It seemed thin, I thought, though its coat was shiny and full. “You’re on your own, aren’t you? Are you a stray? A wild child?”

  Again, the cat backed up one step, with every step I took toward it. We continued this dance until we reached the end of the wall, where the cat suddenly jumped down onto the cemetery grounds. I realized there was an opening in the wall there, so I slipped inside. The cat seemed to be waiting for me.

  “Really?” I said. “Okay, then. Lead on.”

  By this time, I believed the cat was a she, and that she must be one smart kitty. Maybe she hoped I’d feed her, though she didn’t show any indication of approaching me. She kept looking over her shoulder as she zigged and zagged between the tombstones.

  Oak Grove Cemetery was larger than I’d realized. It was situated on hilly terrain, with a new s
ection some distance away from the older graves near Mrs. Hammerlin’s house. As I followed the cat, I looked around, taking in the beauty of the evening. The sun was low in the sky, painting purple, pink, and orange swaths across the horizon. Trees and monuments cast long shadows that would soon disappear into the darkness.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re toying with me? This better not be a setup.” I laughed softly and glanced at my watch. It had been about forty minutes since Mila and Grace began the house clearing. “Well, Kitty, as fun as this has been—”

  I stopped short as the cat suddenly jumped to the top of an old, tablet-shaped tombstone. She gave me her inscrutable look as I drew near.

  “What’s this?” I peered at the stone, which was crumbling and worn. When I reached out to brush off some dirt, the cat jumped down and ran away, disappearing into the gloom.

  “Well, good-bye to you, too.” Turning back to the headstone, I wiped it off with my hand and read the names of the deceased. The family name was Joseph, and beneath that were two names, Ricky N. and Ina Mae, probably husband and wife. They had lived and died in the 1800s.

  I scratched my head as I stared at the inscription. The name Joseph naturally put me in mind of Josephine—especially with the name Ina so close by. And the name Ricky reminded me of the note found in Josephine’s pocket. What had it said? See Ricki.

  “How odd,” I muttered. “What does this mean?”

  I looked around at all the nearby headstones, silent and unhelpful in the growing dusk. The black cat was nowhere to be seen. I thought about what Mrs. Hammerlin had said about feeling invisible energies. Would she sense a heaviness in the air here? Should I?

  As I headed back to the house, I couldn’t say I felt the presence of any ghosts in the graveyard. But the more I thought about my experience with the mysterious cat, the more certain I was that I had been given a sign. Now, among all my other questions, the one I most wanted answered was this: Who was Ricki?

  * * *

  It was nearly 8:00 p.m. when I finally trudged up the steps of my town house. My stomach rumbled with hunger and my head was beginning to ache. As I fumbled with my key ring under the soft glow of the porch light, the door swung open and Wes stood aside to let me in.