Page 8 of Wallflower Witch

He calls a farewell to the workers in the back before leading me out of the diner and back to his truck.

We bounce our way back up to the road. It’s quiet. My mind is spinning with all that Patrick has told me. I don’t want to believe it, but the longer his words circle in my brain, the more right they feel. If what he said is true, that would explain the weird dreams. And all the times I was talking to another kid as a child, but no one else could see them. Those were hard days. All the kids in my class stopped talking to me and started calling me weird. I learned to escape into books and found my passion for history.

The lack of movement brought me back to the present. Blinking, I shake my head, clearing my past away.

Patrick opens his door and steps out. I follow, letting my eyes drift around the circle. The houses stand in various states of disrepair. Some look almost livable, while others look like a strong breeze will blow them down.

“Do you know which house belonged to whom?” I ask as Quoth lands on my shoulder.

“Some are easier to tell than others,” Patrick answers. “The crypts behind the houses have some names. Those have been the most helpful, but we haven’t gone inside many houses. It seemed almost disrespectful of the families.”

I nod. “I get it. Some of my work feels like you’re invading someone’s personal thoughts. Especially with the diaries and journals, but that’s also where we get some of the best information.”

“If I had to guess, I would say the O’Byrne house is”—he spins, then points across the space—“that one.”

“What makes you think that?” I ask.

“There’s a large O formed by the door handles, but I could be wrong.” He shrugs.

“Guess there’s one way to find out,” I say, walking toward the green space.

I shudder, remembering the lady being burned from the last time I stepped onto the grass, then change my path to follow the road around.

We pick our way up to a large stone house. Wading through waist-high weeds, we pass through what looked to be a fence once upon a time, although most of the planks are scattered on the ground, like a big storm came through.

Reaching the front door, I can’t help but be impressed. The door is taller than eight feet and towers above us. The knob is as Patrick described: a black stone carved into an O. The front of the house has two floors of windows, and a massive chimney sticks out of the roof.

I take a deep breath. I have this deep-seated feeling that no matter what is behind this door, my life will change after this moment. Reaching out, I grab the knob. The stone is warm in my hand, which is odd, since the sun hasn’t made it to the front of the house yet. The knob sticks when I first twist it but gives in after a few firm twists, then the door swings open with a screech that startles Quoth off my shoulder. He flies over the house toward the back to explore while we investigate inside.

The inside is too dark to see anything. I scramble into my pocket and pull out my phone, turning on the flashlight as Patrick does the same.

“This place feels haunted,” he whispers. “It’s like something heavy is sitting on me.”

“Hmmm… I don’t get that feeling at all. It’s almost like something is drawing me inside. Like it wants me here.”

I walk forward, leaving footprints in the thick layer of dust. Patrick follows me, shivering slightly. Swinging my phone from side to side, I see a fireplace off to the right. Turning, I make my way into the room, and my light catches on several candles sitting on the mantle. Picking one up, I search for a lighter, with no luck.

“Do you happen to have a lighter?” I ask Patrick.

“Out in the truck, but there should be something around here,” he says, shining his light up and down the mantle. “Ah, here.” He picks up a piece of metal that looks similar to a horseshoe and a large, round stone.

He walks over to the candle and strikes the objects together, creating a spark. After a few times, the candle catches.

We light another long-tapered candle and put our phones back in our pockets. Best to save the batteries if we can.

“Now maybe we will find something that tells us who lived here,” I say, turning to explore the space further. “Houses this nice should have a library or office somewhere in it.”

We cross the room to a back door, passing a piano and a few dusty couches on our way. We enter a large dining room with a long table surrounded by benches. I could almost picture the dinners for the family and friends around this table, celebrating good news or just spending time together.

A woman in a plain brown dress enters the room, head down and hands clasped. She walks quickly to the corner before turning and facing into the room.

“Hello?” I say quietly, not wanting to startle her. She doesn’t react. “Miss?”

Patrick gently touches my arm. “Who are you talking to?”

I turn to look at him. “The lady who just walked in.” I look down at the floor and notice the lack of footprints from the door she came through. “Oh God, you can’t see her, can you?”

“No,” he answers. “It’s just us in here. Why? Who do you see?”

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