Page 7 of Wallflower Witch

It takes me a few minutes to realize that the screaming is coming from me.

***

We’re sitting at a booth in the diner by the highway turnoff that I’d passed this morning, though it feels like a lifetime ago.

I still can’t wrap my head around how empty this place is. I had felt that pull to keep going when GPS told me to exit the highway when I was driving by, otherwise it would’ve just been a blip in the road that passed by without notice. There’s a couple cars gassing up before hitting the road again, but otherwise I can count on one hand how many people I’ve seen since starting my travels.

After the incident, Patrick bundled me and Quoth into his truck, getting us back to the highway on the little dirt trail in about half the time I’d driven it.

Now, with a warm coffee cradled in my palms and the relaxing atmosphere of the diner at my back, the shakes are finally beginning to subside.

“Are you feeling any better?” Patrick asks. He’s halfway through a thick stack of blueberry pancakes drowned in syrup while feeding the occasional bite to Quoth, kindly leaving me to my own thoughts until I’ve settled. “I’m not exactly sure what happened back there, but you were pretty upset.”

My eyes stay on the coffee, swirling it around in a gentle circle. “I think so?” At least, I’m not watching someone get murdered in front of my eyes right now. “I’ve never seen anything like that before. It was… awful.”

“Do you want to talk about it? I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but my sister always says I’m a great listener.” He leans forward and smiles softly at me. “You’re not from around here, so you don’t know the area or its history. Everyone always avoids Spells Hollow because of the curse. Strange things always seem to happen there. I’m glad I followed my instincts and found you, I usually avoid it as much as the next guy.” His warm palm nudges the side of my knee, grounding me amidst the turmoil bubbling just under the surface.

“I don’t even know how to explain it,” I confess. “There were people yelling ‘witch’ with the whole torch and pitchfork show, and this woman…” My voice wavers. It feels like her eyes are still boring into my soul, even though that accursed field is a few miles away. “She was dressed like a pilgrim, and they lit her on fire. It felt like they were having a fucking celebration after she died, like murdering her was a happy occasion.”

My fingers sting and I release my white-knuckled grip on the coffee cup, forcing my hands to pick at lint on my jeans instead. Unless I’m carefully restoring an old book, my hands are always picking at things. Stress makes it twice as bad as usual.

Patrick is silent for a moment, his forehead creasing while he worries his lip between his teeth. Since he’s not running for the hills, I can only guess he doesn’t think I’m insane. “I hate to bring this up, after everything that’s happened, but… Has this ever happened to you before? Seeing people die or anything like that, I mean.” He catches my hand as he speaks, rubbing gentle circles across the top of it.

“Yes.”

It comes out barely more than a whisper, but he hears it if the sudden tightening of his grip is anything to go by.

Nothing compares to the horror of watching the pilgrim woman burn to death, but when I was a girl, I often saw people dying in my dreams. Strange people, people I’d never seen before, would fall over from heart attacks or slowly drift away, surrounded by loved ones.

I was in my late teens before the first bloody death happened, this one a young man who had been mugged and beaten. After that, the dreams became more frequent. That’s when my love of gemstones began, especially in regards to the healing powers of azurite, which had kept such nightmares away until a few months ago.

Patrick sighs, leaning forward onto his elbows. His blue eyes bore into mine, and the calmness in them keeps me from completely freaking out. An impressive feat, considering the next words out of his mouth.

“Well, there’s no easy way to tell you this, but I think you’re a witch, Morrigan.”

“Awitch?!” I laugh. “There’s no way. That stuff isn’t real.” I shake my head, then meet Patrick’s gaze. His eyes hold mine, no hint of amusement in them. I blanch. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious,” he answers, looking around the empty diner. “And yes, it seems like fantasy because we do a good job hiding our existence. You know how well it worked out for our kind back in the 1600s.” He shrugs. “But I don’t think we have to worry about being overheard here.

“My family is from a line of warlocks. Our magic is passed through the men instead of the women. The two covens used to be aware of each other, helping when needed, but we mostly just stayed out of each other’s way. They were hoping to stay undetected.

“One day my great-, great-, great-, however many greats uncle came to ask a favor of the high priestess. As he approached, he felt tingles rush down his spine like he didn’t belong there, but it made no sense. He’d been here before and that hadn’t happened in the past. He pushed through and found the town a lot like you saw it today. Destroyed. Deserted. Dead.

“He could sense dark magic lingering, so he made it our family’s mission to stay close enough to help keep an eye on the area. Make sure the darkness doesn’t spread and infect anywhere else.

“It used to be a growing town, full of life and energy, but since that day, few have come back. I’m sure you felt the shivers when you got here. Everyone I talk to says the same thing. It’s a gut instinct that you don’t belong and need to get out as quick as you can. Few care enough to fight the feeling.”

I shake my head slowly. “This can’t be happening,” I mutter. “I must be having a mental breakdown. Maybe I just need more sleep.” Louder, I add, “Nope. I felt drawn to explore this place, not run from it, so see, you can’t be right.”

“That’s part of what makes me so sure that you are descended from one of the founding families. That and the fact that the houses are still standing. There’s no other reason for why you would want to be here.” He reaches out to pat my hand, but I draw back.

“Or I just like history,” I answer. “And this place hasn’t been thoroughly examined yet to learn what we can from the past.”

“Hmmm, well either way, if you want, we can go look at the house that I believe the O’Byrnes lived in. Maybe you can find something about your family’s past there, or worst case, you can learn more about the town,” Patrick suggests.

“I did come all the way out here…” I start. “And it would be a waste to go home empty-handed… And I could find some more journals or diaries to add to the archives… Okay. I guess it won’t hurt anything to go back up there and do some exploring.” I turn, searching for my wallet to pay for my drink. “Shit! I think I left my wallet in my car.”

Patrick pulls his wallet from his pocket and drops some money on the table. “No worries. I’ve got it.”

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