Bernice held my gaze, looking deeper into me than she’d ever had before. Then she released my hand, sat back and shivered.
The ball of light reappeared, hovered briefly, and then faded away.
Bernie immediately reached for her drink.
“Did he lose his car keys?” she asked again.
“You already asked that,” I said, still shaken.
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“Weird, yeah, I do remember asking that a few minutes ago. Sheesh, this mangorita is hitting me hard.”
“That’s probably it,” I said, and chewed on my lip—a bad habit—and thought about the missing dog, the murdered girl and my goofy friend being briefly possessed.
My life was weird.
Chapter Nine
I was sitting in my Spirit Chair, as I called it.
It was a big, comfy recliner with padded arms, padded headrest, and well, padded everything. I read here. I meditated here. I tuned into the spirit world here. This was my spot, my place, my escape from the world. No one sat here but me. My phone was turned off. Hell, even my bedroom door was locked symbolically, even though I was the only one who lived in my apartment.
Next to the chair were my favorite spiritual books piled on a small table. Behind the table was a short bookcase filled with even more books. Also on the table was a CD player for meditation CDs, a dowsing amulet tucked away in a black velvet pouch, and a pen and pad of paper for random notes to myself. Yes, I love my dowsing amulet...my direct link into the spirit world.
Then again, I could just be crazy as a bat. If anyone asked my mom, she would vote for crazy. My mom was quite religious and thought anything that “tuned in” to the spirit world was a device intended to confuse us, and allowed the Devil’s minions access to our thoughts and world.
I thought my mom was cute, and appreciated her concern.
But I had other ideas.
Now, I wasn’t meditating or dowsing or reading. I was sitting here in my overstuffed chair with the watercolor painting of Sparky spread over my lap, my legs crossed beneath me, wearing my biggest, fluffiest socks.
So far, I wasn’t getting anything. Not even a tingling. I hated it when that happened. Nothing.
Wherever little Penny was, she wasn’t with me now. And how to access her, or the energy within this painting or who the devil killed her, was still beyond me.
Maybe Bernie was right. Maybe I was doing more harm than good. And hadn’t Bernie also said, “Find the dog, and you will find your answers.”
Except, of course, I was fairly certain that wasn’t Bernie speaking.
I sighed, set the painting aside, and reached for the book on Wicca...
Chapter Ten
Three hours later, I closed the book.
Okay, that was an experience. That was also fairly life-changing, although I still wasn’t sure what to make of what I had just read.
Pagans and spells and rituals and sex—sweet mama, all the sex!
Wicca was an Earth-based religion...and one that did not seek out converts. You found your way to Wicca, one way or another.
I thought of the book appearing in the hallway, and snorted. It may not seek out converts, but it sure as hell had a funny way of finding me.
I drummed my fingers on the hardback book.
Seriously, what had I just read?
And was it something I was willing to look deeper into?
I had been raised Catholic. Witches were considered evil, Satan’s spawn. I never believed they were, of course, although I was certainly aware that some of us could tap into darker energies...that, in fact, dark energies had tapped into some of us.
I shuddered again at my own recent experience with demonic possession. And to think that my good friend, Samantha Moon, lived with such a possession daily.
Jesus.
It was getting on midnight. The witching hour? I nearly laughed. Did I want a glass of wine? I thought so.
I got up from the Spirit Chair, stretched, and headed into the kitchen, carrying the book with me. As I poured myself a healthy finger or three of wine, my mind was on witches and festivals and Mother Earth, and wondering what the hell was happening to me.
My mind sure as hell wasn’t on ghosts.
Except that’s what I’m pretty sure just appeared before me, right there in my kitchen.
Chapter Eleven
I dropped the wine.
The glass promptly shattered, splashing wine everywhere, and sending glittering shards of glass everywhere. Alcohol abuse, as my friends in college would say. Anyway, I was pretty sure a shard had lodged into my toe, and I wasn’t sure if the red liquid pooling around my bare feet was blood or wine. Probably a little of both.
I continued looking at my feet...yes, there was a sparkly shard right there, lodged into my little toe. Poor piggie, I thought, and nearly laughed. I wondered if Samantha Moon would find my bloody toe appealing.
I laughed, because I was sure I was going nuts.
Still, I looked down, unable to look up, to confront what might still be in my kitchen. Correction, what I was certain was still in my kitchen.
Whoever it was, or whatever it was, I could feel it. No, not an it. The same woman from Peter Laurie’s house. The same woman who had appeared behind him. She was here, in my kitchen, standing over me. I could feel her compassion, her warmth, her love, her curiosity. Mostly, though, I could feel her determination. Her resolve. For what, I did not know.
I was going to have to eventually look up. I was going to have to eventually confront what, exactly, was in my kitchen. Damn, now the pain in my toe was setting in, too.
I had to do something. I couldn’t ignore the blood or the pain...or the ghost.
So, I raised my head slowly, very slowly, afraid to look, afraid of seeing what I knew was still standing there, watching me.
Correction, not standing.
Hovering...as in a few inches off the ground.
As in, I wasn’t even entirely sure she had feet.
As in, I was sure I was about to faint, and it certainly wasn’t because of the loss of blood. It wasn’t that much blood, after all.
It was because I was looking at my very first ghost.
* * *
As I braced myself on the kitchen counter, as I forced myself not to stagger and ultimately fall across the floor covered in broken glass, the woman in front of me spoke.
Yes, spoke.
Real words, in real time, for anyone within earshot to hear. “Breathe, dear. You’ve seen worse.”
She was right, of course. I had seen worse. I had felt worse, too. I had seen and lived through what many would consider a nightmare—and just recently, too. That I was still in one piece and not possessed by a demon was more a credit to my friend Samantha Moon keeping her cool than anything I had done. Hell, I had made things worse. But, again, that was another story for another time.