I closed my eyes tighter and focused on the rumble of the bus and my breath.
I woke with a start twenty minutes later when the bus jolted to a stop on the side of the road.
Claude threw it in park and turned to look at me. “I can’t bring you in ’ter town—no station there. This is as far as I go,” he said, with a dark look in his eyes.
“All right,” I said as I started to gather my things. “Can you get my suitcase from under the bus?”
He pulled himself out of his chair and made his way down the steps, and I followed. He handed me my bag, but when I went to grab the handle he pulled it and me closer to him. I looked up into his cold eyes, feeling a sense of unease wash over me.
“Do you have anyone coming to pick you up?” he asked me quickly.
I swallowed and nodded. “My grandmother is supposed to be picking me up. I’m sure she’s on her way.”
He nodded in return. “Be careful, girl,” he said, his breath stale on my face.
I ripped my bag from his grasp and thanked him.
He grunted and climbed back on to the bus.
Claude turned the bus around and left me on the side of the road.
I sat on the top of my suitcase and looked around at the empty road. My grandmother should have been here. I checked my phone, and there was a text from my mom.
Grandma said she’d be late. She said 6.
I looked at my clock: 5:03 p.m. I sighed and threw my bag over my shoulder and started my walk toward the town. I figured that walking there would take around thirty minutes, so I could get there sooner than waiting for Grandma.
I could see a sign on the side of the street. As I approached it, I saw that it read: Beaconfield, two miles.
“Great,” I said under my breath. I took off my jacket and threw it over my shoulder.
My suitcase dragged on the pavement behind me. I squinted ahead at the sunbaked road. It was nearly sundown and the light was hitting the bleached concrete at just the right angle.
I took in a deep breath of the clean, fresh air with just a hint of manure. To my right was a leaning barn and an open field filled with harvested hay bales.
I started to think about my grandmother and what it would be like to see her again after all these years.
When I was younger, I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to see my grandparents, but I also didn’t question it. As the years went by, my skepticism grew. My mom insisted that they wouldn’t let me go back because of what had happened the last time I was there, but I didn’t know if I believed that. It hadn’t been severe enough to warrant being completely separated from people we both loved. At least I didn’t think that it had been, though I didn’t really remember much of what had happened.
Then there was another theory. My grandmother was something of a Wiccan. She didn’t practice often, but she did embrace their way of life. She practiced harmonizing with the natural world and the other forces like the moon phases and the seasons. She also recognized the idea of the existence of other worlds: the physical world and the spiritual world. She wasn’t a witch, per se, but my mom never appreciated Grandma teaching me about her lifestyle.
I remembered one particularly heated fight that they’d had when I was young. My parents had come to visit and Mom caught Grandma giving me a tarot card reading. I’d been about ten years old and I’d liked the pictures on the cards, so I asked her to tell me what would happen in my life.
My grandma had obliged me by lighting a few candles and setting the cards in front of us. She had me split the deck, which I did while swinging my feet excitedly at the dinner table. When I was done, Grandma took the deck in her hands and held them to her forehead, then she whispered something under her breath.
She then laid three cards out in front of us and set the rest aside. She pointed to the first card and told me that it represented the past, the next was present, and the last was future. She flipped the first card, and I craned my neck to see the picture: Ten of Cups.
I looked up at her expectantly. She’d told me that it meant I’d been born into a close family with unconditional love for each other. She’d smiled at me, then flipped the next card: The Fool.
This card represented my unlimited potential, ready for adventure and excitement. Then she flipped the last card: Death.
It was at that moment that Mom decided to come into the room.
I’d placed my hand over my mouth and looked to my grandmother. She grimaced up at Mom, whose fists were clenched at her sides. They fought for hours after that and I wasn’t allowed to use or even talk about tarot cards.
As a child, I didn’t really know what made someone a Wiccan. Grandma mostly just spent a lot of time in her garden and staring out at the ocean. I didn’t know that most people didn’t live that way until I was older and Mom explained it to me.
People thought my grandmother was a witch because of her religion, and sometimes even Mom thought she was one, too. But according to Grandma, not all Wiccans were witches. I’d only ever experienced her potion making and for all I knew, that was the only magic she dabbled with.
She always made the best cream with aloe vera and chamomile—it would cure the harshest of sunburns. After spending the whole day walking the beach and searching the forests, I’d always have a burn on my neck and the backs of my arms and legs. My skin had always been so pale and sensitive.
I’d come home, wincing in pain, and my grandmother would rub her salve on my back while we sat in the fading sun on the front porch. There we’d reflect on our day. She’d tell me about her time downtown, shopping, and her time in the garden. I’d tell her about going to the library in the morning or the beach in the afternoon.
I felt my legs moving faster, knowing that I would get to see my grandmother soon. I felt a smile grow on my face.
I thought more about my grandmother as I continued my long walk into town. I walked along the dandelion-bordered road and passed pine tree after pine tree as the sun sank past the horizon.
As it grew dark, I felt that monster deep in my stomach again. It made me nauseous. I tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and took deep breaths to push it down. I watched twilight rest on the horizon. The birds began to chirp quieter and the crickets came out, starting their nighttime symphony. I picked up my pace, not wanting to get stuck walking on the street in the dark. I could see the ocean to my left and the scent of salt grew stronger with each step.
As I got closer to the town, I grew uneasy. There was an odd sense of being upset for no reason. It was that monster of dread that’d been there before, but now it was so much more severe. I stopped for a moment and adjusted my bags on my shoulders and then continued on my way.
Maybe I was nervous to see my grandmother, or maybe I was just upset about Grandad.
Or maybe the bus driver was right about Beaconfield.
I saw the Beaconfield sign in the distance and approached quickly. The sign said: Home of Lavender Point Light. I smiled a bit and felt my heartbeat pick up. I was grateful to be here, even if it was for an upsetting reason.
I approached the town line and stepped over it. When I did, I felt a breeze blow past my face and the breath catch in my throat. The world behind me seemed to dissolve and the sky grew darker. I felt for a moment that I was spinning, and my bags slipped out of my arms. A feeling of nausea washed over me, making me double over. My face felt warm and my body was cold.
“What the hell?” I mumbled as my head began to pulse. I looked behind me in confusion. The road behind me was dark where it had just been light. I tried to take a step backward, back over the town line. I looked down but my feet weren’t moving. I tried to will my body to move, but nothing happened. I took a step forward, and my body complied easily.
Keep walking.
I jumped and looked around. The voice had come from over my shoulder, soft but menacing, directly in my ear.
“Who’s there?” I called out into the darkness. There was no response, not
even a noise. It was completely silent. I shivered again and pulled my jacket back on, wrapping the leather around me. I stared ahead at the grass and clumps of dandelions growing on the side of the pavement.
A breeze blew only at my face, and tears sprang to my eyes. I gathered my things and started walking toward Beaconfield’s downtown. I needed to get inside and around other people.
I pulled out my phone and glanced at the time: 5:30 p.m. It shouldn’t have been this dark, but there were already stars in the sky. I looked back at my phone and noticed the “No Service” in the corner of the screen.
Great. I shoved the device into my back pocket and took a deep breath to center myself. I decided I’d go into town and call my grandmother at one of the local businesses there; maybe at the market or the diner.
Suddenly, there was breeze rushing by me. I screamed and spun around.
There was no one.
I kept walking, and the farther I went, the quieter the sound behind me got until it stopped.
My heart was beating way too fast in my chest and I rocked back and forth on my toes, ready to run at any moment.
I looked over my shoulder, half expecting to see someone standing there. Again, there was no one.
Looking ahead, the first few buildings of downtown came into view. I pushed on, making sure to stay ahead of any noises that may have been lurking behind me. As I walked down the cobblestone sidewalks, I knew there was something missing. It took me a couple minutes to realize that there wasn’t anyone on the streets. I stopped and looked around. Everything was the same, the way I’d left it, but it was . . . off.
The streetlights were on but the lights inside the buildings were all off. Across the street, the bookstore that I knew was open until after ten o’clock was closed up tight. I did, however, see the curtain flutter behind the window like someone had been looking at me.
Outside each business sat Halloween decorations: witches, werewolves, ghosts, and even some jack-o’-lanterns. I shivered—the faces in the pumpkins seemed to be shifting, no longer smiling, but growling at me.
I saw the tall spires on the church standing on a bit of a hill behind Main Street. The normally gleaming white building seemed a dark gray. If I looked hard enough, I thought I could see a figure in the bell tower. That’s where the funeral was going to be. I swallowed the knot in my throat.
Even the sound of the ocean, past the wharf to my right, seemed to be dulled. It was in that moment that I realized how much I just wanted to see my grandmother. This place was giving me the creeps. The only building with a light on was the local diner. Though, the lights were dimmer than usual. I’d go in there and call my grandma.
As I approached the diner, the old wooden sign that hung above the door swung in a dry breeze.
The Salty Harvest est. 1987
The sign had a ship on it with plants growing behind it. The “Open” neon light in the window flickered.
“I’ll take that as an invitation,” I whispered to myself. I pulled open the door to the diner.
When the door opened, every patron in the restaurant turned to look at me. The large dining room had gone silent and everyone stopped eating, silverware clanking to plates. A cool breeze blew through the door, and I couldn’t tell if it was the air conditioning or . . . something else.
I took a step inside and everyone continued to stare. I glanced around, and the room was dark and almost foggy. It was a far cry from the jovial and bright Salty Harvest that I remembered from my childhood.
From across the entryway, the tall body of Shay Abbott walked toward me. I smiled ear to ear and waved, excited to see the woman who’d housed and fed me for so many years as my grandparents’ next-door neighbor.
“Mrs. Abbott, how are you?” I asked, nearly bouncing on my toes at the sight of her.
“Hello,” she said in a monotonous voice, and I frowned. This wasn’t the Shay Abbott I remembered. Sure, she looked just like her: long brown hair, freckles on her cheeks, and deep green eyes. But the Shay I knew was kind and warm, the opposite of the woman who was standing in front of me. She was slouched over, nothing like the tall and confident woman I remembered. Her hair fell limp around her face and her eyes were sunken.
“It’s Marigold,” I said, pointing to my chest. “I’m Ellis and Cecil’s granddaughter, of course, you remember me . . .” I trailed off, and Shay continued to stare and said nothing. I spoke again. “Mrs. Abbott, are you all right?” I placed a hand on Shay’s arm. I felt a tinge of cold shoot up my arm and pulled my hand back quickly. Shay slowly glanced down at my hand and then backed away.
“Let me show you to your table,” she said.
I watched her curiously as she walked away. I gripped my bags tighter and followed her.
“Actually,” I said to her, “can I use your phone?”
Shay turned back to me slowly and blinked twice. She opened her mouth as if to say something and then closed it.
I waited for her to speak, but after a few moments I repeated the question. “Can I use your phone to call my grandmother?”
Shay stared at me, but this time she answered. “Yes . . . of course.” She led me to a table behind the hostess stand, which I found strange because I used to come to The Salty Harvest nearly every day as a child—I knew where the phone was.
I gave her a slight smile before turning my back to her as I picked up the phone. I put it to my ear and my stomach sank. The line was dead. I pressed the switch a few times but it was still silent. I turned back to Shay.
“Your phone is dead.” I raised it in her direction.
She simply blinked at me before saying, “Can I show you to your table?”
“I really would like to call my grandmother,” I pleaded with her.
She still only stared.
The silence of the restaurant made my chest seize in panic.
“Please, let me show you to your table?” Shay smiled at me, and the memory of her washed over me. She looked like herself, for a moment.
I nodded and returned the phone to the receiver.
What was going on?
Shay led me to a table in the back corner of the restaurant. The lighting was so dim, I was practically squinting trying to follow her.
As we walked, all the eyes in the restaurant followed us, heads turning as we weaved in and out of the tables. I glanced at my sneakers and avoided looking at anyone.
Shay motioned me into a booth in the back corner of the restaurant. I chose the seat that faced out into the rest of the crowd so I didn’t have my back to anyone. When I took my seat, the restaurant turned back their meals. A shiver went up my spine. Beaconfield was different than I remembered it.
“My name is Shay. Please let me know if you need anything,” she said slowly and then walked away.
I watched her return to the hostess stand and stare at nothing in particular. I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened a text to my grandmother.
Hey, Grandma. I’m in Beaconfield. Mom said you were going to be late so I walked to the diner. I’ll be here for a bit if you want to come meet me.
Message Send Failure
I groaned and slammed my phone on the table. I sat quietly staring at the salt and pepper shakers. The tabletop had scratches and chips, and I’m sure gum was stuck to the underside. I saw the initials M and R carved into the table. A smirk spread across my face.
Before long, Shay came back to the table. “Welcome to The Salty Harvest,” she said in the same monotonous voice. “What can I get you?”
“Shay?” I asked. She’d just seated me here—had she forgotten already? Was she sick? “Mrs. Abbott? It’s Mari Wilder. We just spoke when I came in.”
She continued to stare, unblinking. It unnerved me. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you,” she said as she placed her pen on her pad of paper and waited for my order.
I stared at her for a moment longer and then looked back to my laminated menu. I ordered my usual lobster roll and coleslaw with a cup of fish chowder. H
opefully the food would warm me up. Today’s strange encounters had chilled me to the bone.
Shay wrote down the order and then walked away without another word, scuffing her feet as she went.
Shay placed my order with their cook. She was moving slowly, like simple movements were difficult for her. I hoped she was okay—maybe she was having a bad day. But for some reason, I couldn’t completely believe that. The monster of dread in my stomach was roiling and writhing, making me feel sick.
At that moment, I realized I had to use the bathroom. A few minutes of alone time would be good for me.
I stood up from the table and wandered to the back of the diner and into the bathroom. I placed my hands on either side of the sink and stared down the drain. I took a deep breath and held it when my lungs were full.
“Okay,” I said to myself. “This is fine, everything is fine.” I rolled my shoulders back and looked at myself in the mirror. The light above me flickered, giving my face an eerie glow. I ran my fingers through my hair.
After using the bathroom and washing my hands, I pulled open the bathroom door and stepped out. Before I could take another step, I slammed into someone. I heard them grunt and the thunk of what sounded like a phone hitting the hardwood under our feet. I bent down to pick it up.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasped as I handed the phone back. The hand that grabbed it was a man’s. I looked up and saw someone that I’d hoped to see again.
“Ridge?”
“Mari?”
He pulled me into a tight hug, then took a step back and held me at arm’s length. We both looked each other up and down. I hadn’t seen him in six years, and man, did time treat him well.
I remembered the sweet little boy, who was a year older than me, that I was best friends with and realized that he was not so little anymore. He towered over me now, at least six foot, but his thick, light brown hair was the same, as well as the light freckles decorating the bridge of his nose.
“God, it is you. Mari Wilder,” he said in awe.
Beaconfield Page 5