Page 6 of Wallflower Witch

The more I look around, the more I realize that most of the people are dressed like they are from the 1600s. I wonder if there is an event they are getting ready to host. A reenactment of some kind of what life was like when the town was founded. A handful of people are in more modern clothes ranging from the 1920s flapper dress, to some dressed like 70s flower children, to some in jeans and t-shirts.

The lady holds her hand out toward me like she wants to shake.

“Hi, I’m Morrigan.” I place my hand in hers. Well, I try to, but my hand seems to pass right through hers. Shivering, I tuck my hand under my arm, trying to warm it up from where it feels like I was holding ice for the afternoon.

When I blink again, I’m standing in the same square, but it’s filled with grass and people. Everyone is chatting loudly like a show is about to start. A man with a tall hat stands in front of the rope, a scroll in his hands. It’s dark. The full moon hangs high in the sky and casts just enough light for us to see by. I catch bits and pieces of the conversation around me. The words execution and witch are repeated by many. Horse hooves sound from behind us, and I turn to see who approaches.

Someone touches my arm, and I jerk. I’m back in the dead square in the middle of the day.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” a deep voice says from behind me. “I was passing through to check on the area and saw you standing here staring at nothing. I was worried you were having a medical episode.”

“Thanks for checking on me, but I’m fine,” I tell him, meeting his crystal blue eyes. “I just came to learn more about the town and must have gotten distracted. I’m Morrigan O’Byrne.”

“I’m Patrick. Nice to meet you, Morrigan.”

My pulse skyrockets as I take in the gorgeous hunk standing with me in the middle of the abandoned square. All thoughts of the strange things I just saw vanish when the warmth of his large palm encloses mine.

“O’Byrne, you say?” His eyes gleam with recognition.

Turning on his heel, Patrick slips my hand to the crook of his elbow and escorts me back towards my trusty ol’ hunk of junk sitting on the road by a shiny new pickup. How I hadn’t heard his approach is beyond me.

“I haven’t heard that name around these parts in decades,” he says.

“Decades?” I squeak, pleased to at least get that much out through the too-thick tongue now residing in my mouth. At work, I have no trouble talking to the patrons, but put me out in the world for five seconds, and I’m lucky to string a couple words together.

I probably only managed to introduce myself because of the shock his arrival gave me.

Why did my dreams make it seem like I would find family here if they haven’t been in this area for so long? Oh, right. Because it was a dream, and I was reading the journal and diary and made it all up.

“That’s right. If I remember the stories correctly, the last O’Byrne left and moved to Massachusetts or something after the curse hit. Not that my family knows exactly what happened; we weren’t witches in the coven. My relatives lived far enough away to not be affected by the curse and shared the stories with their grandchildren.”

He shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest as he studies me and my car. “The O’Byrnes were one of Spells Hollow’s founding families. In fact, you share a name with the goddess Morrigan, who is rumored to be where the O’Byrnes got their witch powers from.”

“Powers,” I repeat in disbelief.

Why, oh why, did I drive all this way for this insanity? And a goddess? Maybe the town is abandoned because spending too much time here makes you go crazy. That explains the people I keep seeing who are there and then gone again.

Shaking my head, I back away from Patrick, mind racing. I was just hallucinating. The things I kept dreaming about this place were just coincidences that were caused by sleep deprivation and transcribing the journal and diary from here. That’s all.

Patrick rubs the back of his neck, a sheepish smile filling his handsome face. “Aw shit, sorry. Here I’ve been yakking along about the town and you’re probably ready to get exploring. I just swung through ‘cause I thought I saw some smoke, but it must’ve just been dust from your car bouncing through those ruts. My family’s always kinda taken it upon ourselves to look after the area, so I had to look in on it.”

He walks closer to the car and pats it on the hood, ducking slightly to look at the undercarriage. “I’m shocked you made it down here in this. This road isn’t really even an actual road, more of a dirt path that people traveled on enough to wear out a groove.”

“I noticed,” I say sharply.

My gaze catches on a strange teal shimmer before I’m once again in a time that feels different from my own. One second, Partick and the vehicles are in front of me; then the next, they’re gone, replaced by a jeering crowd carrying… pitchforks and torches? They’re surrounding a bundle of wood in the middle of the clearing, and I find myself walking closer, trying to see what they’re doing.

When I reach a gap in the jostling group, I gasp.

The woman I saw earlier, who was dressed like a pilgrim, is there. She’s tied to a wood post with a defiant glare on her face. Blood runs in rivulets from where she’s been jabbed with the pitchforks even as flames lick along the edges of the pyre.

“Witch! Witch! Witch!” The yelling chant gets louder with every second, and soon she’s enveloped entirely in the fire.

But somehow her eyes are burning through me, making me feel as if I am the one in her place. Her lips move, and in that moment, everything else becomes deathly silent.

“Find your home, Morrigan. Take claim of your heritage and magic. Do not let the evil win!”

With a long, wailing scream, she’s gone, and I’m kneeling weakly in the middle of the dead field. Patrick’s arms are holding me as I rock back and forth, and calming words flow from his mouth, a low murmur beneath the high-pitched screams.

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