Page 3 of Burn for the Devil

He swung around on me, halfway across the room. “Sure. Where’s the police then? Why didn’t you call me if you were so traumatized? This is pathetic.” He turned back around and sauntered into the ensuite bathroom.

Shoving the covers off my lap I stood up. I rubbed my forehead where the masked man had hovered his finger and chanted under his breath. Did I dream it all? It might’ve—but that didn’t explain the gash in the wall of our new home. The shower turned on in the background. Maybe Timothy was right, and I was losing my mind, making things up.

While I waited for him to finish up in the bathroom, I gathered my clothes and thought about what I wanted to do tonight. If he really wanted to take me out, I’d let him. There was no one I really wanted to hang out with in this city, and I wasn’t excited to be here. I wanted to go home. Home where it was warm and friendly, green and fragrant. Not this sterile, noisy, gray world full of superficial people.

3

Samantha

The restaurant Timothy brought us to was normally only available after a six-month waitlist. Whoever he’d met up with the night before pulled some strings and got us a reservation. I could’ve asked my parents for assistance, but I didn’t. I sat across from him at our table, tucked away in a private corner while he examined the wine list.

“White or red? Do you know what you’re ordering?”

“White is fine,” I answered, sipping on my water. I couldn’t focus long enough to decide on a plate; anxiety forcing me to seek my surroundings for a cloak-donning figure. “Would you order for me, please? I can’t make up my mind.”

Timothy dragged my menu across the table, placing it on top of his own before tucking it to the side. “Okay,” he responded, huffing as if I’d requested he gift me a priceless artifact. He wouldn’t know a valuable artifact if it gave him a concussion.

He liked it when I gave him control, turned the reins over to his supposed superior decision making. As time went on, I found myself doing so more often. It was easier, letting someone else make the choices sometimes. I had other thingsto do. Especially since I was in the process of transferring my business from Savannah to Boston. The whole transition was more complicated and stressful than I’d anticipated, and under my parents’ insistence I shouldn’t be so hands-on. The business was my baby, my dream. It came with me.

Timothy ordered food for us and shortly thereafter, our wine was poured. I sat back, enjoying the taste of the Chardonnay across my tongue. I had to fly back to Savannah one more time, but then we’d permanently be in the city. I would just have to get used to it. While my “approved” friends weren’t here, at least my parents were. I already knew I’d eventually lose touch with the couple friends I had in Georgia once I was engulfed in Boston’s society life, my little shop, and subject to the combination of my parents’ and Timothy’s machinations.

“What’s wrong?” Timothy snapped me out of my reverie.

Sighing, I took his outstretched hand, clasping my fingers around his. “I was just thinking about everything I have to do.” I paused. “And last night really shook me, I was so scared.”

Letting go of my hand, he scooted back in his seat, arms falling to his lap. “We went over this. Nothing happened.” He rubbed his forehead and brushed his fingers through his hair. “I know you didn’t want to leave Georgia, but this is no way to handle it. Have you considered therapy?”

Blinking, I gazed down at the place setting while the gloved waiter arranged our meal. Therapy? No, I hadn’t considered it. After the server left, I said, “I wasn’t lying. Why would I lie about something like this?”

My fiancé's irritation was increasing. His lips narrowed and he stabbed a fork into a sliver of steak. “I don’t know, Samantha, but this ends now.”

“Tim—”

“No,” he snarled, “when we get home you will call your parents. Let them deal with this.”

“Okay, I’ll do that,” I responded, meeker than I felt. If I didn’t stop, it would create a scene here in public neither of us wanted.

The ride home was silent and peaceful, other than my nervous anticipation of the phone call I’d have to make. The second we walked in the door, he had me call my mom. Relaying the events of the night had her gasping in disbelief. But they were right, there was no sign of forced entry, no neighbors had heard or seen a thing, I was physically unharmed, nothing was stolen or amiss, and the dent in the wall very likely occurred when the movers brought our furniture in. My mother ended the call with a schedule of events I “must” attend to help me acclimate.

I dropped it. Why would a figure in a face mask and cloak break into a home to donothing? It was a stress-induced hallucination, and my parents didn’t need any more trauma. I couldn’t let them down.

It took a few weeks to get the rest of our items shipped to Boston, including my business’s stock. I’d only flown back down south one more time as I’d planned, and the movers and a couple of my employees took care of everything else. Packing the remaining items from my shop had been accomplished beautifully, with no damage to the oils, tinctures, glass, herbs, or other curiosities. The books and manuals were tucked into the cardboard with care, as well as all the other valuables. My friends had helped me, though the atmosphere was thick with the knowledge I’d likely never be back. It’d turned awkward and uncomfortable as I severed the connections I’d had with half-hearted promises to be in touch. It’d felt wrong, but I hadn’t known what else to do. I’d said goodbye to my employees, afterleaving them generous severance packages, and then hugged my friends before they got in their vehicles to leave.

I’d stood on the curb, taking deep breaths of the fragrant, floral air, watching the double-decker buses roll down the cobblestone street, eyeing the tourists, and marveling over the way northerners could stand the heat with the way they dressed. One man, whose face I couldn’t see, was clad head to toe in black as he sauntered down the other side of the road before disappearing behind one of the trolley cars. Finally, I’d stopped my vigil and headed for the airport.

Now here I was. My witchy shop would open in about a month’s time if everything continued to go smoothly.

I was no witch, but I loved the freedom I observed in the others who practiced. They didn’t care what others thought. Plus, the accessories all smelled good, were beautiful, useful in some other way, and encouraged creativity.

My business also sold the work of some local artists—primarily paintings—and with the collection of smoking implements, I did quite well. I loved my job. Timothy wasn’t a fan, nor were my parents, but I wasn’t about to give it up to earn their approval.

I gave up many things for him, such as wearing what I liked, but drew the line when it came to this. My shop was my own small act of rebellion in a society where image and certain standards were everything—they could make or break you, and I didn’t want to be on the outside looking in. I loved my parents, they were amazing, even if they were set in their ways.

While it was exciting getting everything organized, my sleep was suffering. Night after night, I found myself trapped in the cottage in my dreams. The barrier remained at the door, blocking me from leaving, and I was unable to sleep well in the foreign house. A small bedroom was inside, with a perfectlysuitable and comfortable bed, however rest eluded me, and I couldn’t bring myself to climb under the blankets.

Instead, I spent the nights sitting in the rocking chair, listening, dozing occasionally. Once in a while, someone would approach the door to drop off groceries, and as time went on, a strange pain began to fill my heart. A longing was growing, as if I missed something or someone, but I could not figure out where the unbearable sadness was coming from.

When I’d finally spoken up about the cottage, I was almost institutionalized. My parents contacted the police, I was dragged to a psychiatrist, and Timothy constantly threatened to break up with me. Having a fiancé with severe mental health problems while you’re trying to make partners with a prestigious law firm was quite simply, not a good look.

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