Page 18 of Graveyard Girl: Part 2

“What are those?” I asked.

“Selenite, black obsidian, and black tourmaline,” she said, pointing to each. “To ward off the witches.” She stared at me defiantly.

I crossed my arms. “I can live with that.”

August 23, Friday

WHEN THE sun rose, sending light slanting into my bedroom window, I stretched high and yawned. I’d stayed up all night reading Wayne’s manuscript. Surprisingly, after slogging through the first dozen or so terrible pages, it had turned into a very entertaining story of two local witch covens in a blood feud.

And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he’d based the story on the Benson family and the Whisper family.

One of my first pieces of advice would be to suggest he change the characters enough that he wouldn’t be sued.

But meanwhile, it was a wealth of information and insight into the family trees and the feud that had kept them apart before the ill-fated “Chip and Sandy” had defied their relatives and married, only to die tragically.

And to leave behind a daughter named Daisy, who would leave, then return and rise to the top of the coven, only to commit suicide at the graves of her parents.

There were a lot of logistical issues—there were so many characters, I’d lost track of them and how they were related to each other. And the history was a little fuzzy—I was going to suggest opening with a flashback to the Salem witch trials, which was where the two families had allegedly descended, then fled together to the nether regions of Alabama where no one would look for them or suspect them.

It was enough material for three books, but I wasn’t sure Wayne would have the patience or the talent to pull off a supernatural trilogy. But the paranormal market was hot, so an editor might take a chance if they liked the premise.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, then padded over to the window and stare out over the peaceful scenery that hid a boiling drama.

And there was one part that disturbed me and I wondered if it were fact or fiction.

Daisy, it seemed, had returned to Alabama not to rise to the rank of Grand High Witch, but because she had been wholly, utterly, and epically in love with a local stone mason.

August 24, Saturday

SAWYER WAS away at his reservist duties, so my inquiries into the truthfulness of Wayne’s book would have to wait.

I decided to take a break from re-creating the chapters I’d lost and work on Rose’s rocking chair. When I entered her workshop, I felt as if I knew her better from the descriptions of “Daisy” in Wayne’s book.

She had been sensitive, with so much empathy for others she maintained an aloofness so as not to absorb the energy of others. She’d had a unique connection to animals and seemed to communicate with them. She preferred dresses and sandals and light colors. She grieved bitterly for her parents. And she was head over heels in love.

I found a dusty radio and plugged it in. It was tuned to a public radio station that was playing classical music, which I let play. And I found suede gloves that must have been hers. They were stiff from disuse but I put them on, then sanded the slats of the rocking chair until my hands were tired. I could almost feel Rose in the room, humming along with the haunting music, focused on her task of restoring a piece of beloved furniture…

And pining for Sawyer?

While exploring the rest of the room, I found a small chest that sat on a table. At first I thought it was a piece meant for restoration, until I realized some of the drawers contained items.

Crystals. I recognized selenite, black obsidian, and black tourmaline, but there were others I couldn’t identify. Even to my untrained eye, the crystals were heavy and shaped with care, and appeared to be of good quality… perhaps even heirlooms.

Another drawer produced what looked like a hand mirror fashioned out of thick black glass, with no reflecting surface. I’d never seen anything like it, but it seemed more purposeful than a crafted item.

And another drawer produced a bag of blue-black crescent-shaped seeds. They were in a nice cloth bag, so I assumed they were of some value.

I had no idea what either of the items were.

But I knew someone who would.

August 25, Sunday

I WAS waiting for Muriel when she appeared with her sling bag and her walking stick.

“I see you’re still here,” the woman said with a cackle.

“That’s right,” I said, extending a basket of eggs. “I brought these for you.”

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