Page 2 of Ghosted
My Aunt Clarissa wasn’t born with the Gift, as my family likes to call it, but even so, she is obsessed with all things mystical. When she was in her twenties, she opened The Veil and began selling various oddities and items for the modern witch or spiritualist. Everything from herbal tinctures and full-moon water to tarot card decks and divining rods. Despite not having the Gift, she’s a pretty good tarot reader, which boosted her business as well.
Ever since my aunt decided to take a step back fromrunning things, she’s left the shop (mostly) in my hands. She’s the owner, but I do most of the managing. She still offers tarot readings by appointment only—and when she’s in the mood. We do surprisingly okay, considering how much of a niche interest our shop is. I started up the online section of our store years ago, and it’s really improved our profit margin. You’d be surprised how many people want a “witchy mystery box” and will pay to watch you pull the items live. It also helps that I’m the only employee for most of the year. We’re not rolling in the dough by any means, but we have yet to borrow money in the decade I’ve worked here.
I’m going through our online orders when the door opens with a melodic chime to announce the presence of a new customer. Or in this case, my best friend and little sister, Wren. Her shift just ended after the afternoon rush at Brewed Awakening, the coffee shop across the street.
Her pin-straight, chestnut hair is pulled back in a thick braid, showing off her high cheekbones and electric blue eyes. She looks like Rory Gilmore, if the youngest Gilmore decided to have an alternative rebellion and get a nose piercing and tattoos. She and I are a study in opposites. Where she’s willowy and delicate, I am curvaceous and soft. Besides our hair color, the one thing we share is our intense-blue eyes.
She crosses the store with practiced ease, avoiding the upturned corner of the antique rug and ducking under the massive black chandelier that hangs just a little too low for anyone over five-foot-eight.
She plops down on the antique fainting couch in the library corner of the shop and groans, closing her eyes.
“So you came to rest and bitch, but you didn’t even bring me a latte?” I ask, tossing a paperclip at her.
She glares at me and snarks, “I’ve pulled enough espresso for the day, thank you very much.”
“Ah, so you just came to loiter?” I ask, shutting down the computer. One of the perks of being the manager is that I can close the store whenever I want. On a Wednesday afternoon, when the last customer came through four hours ago, I think it’s safe to shut down for the day. I’ll go live later tonight to do “potion pulls,” where I draw mystery items for the boxes customers buy.
“Yes. And to see if you want to have dinner together,” she says, eyes still closed. I wander closer, and the rich scent of coffee wafts off her. “Stop sniffing me,” she gripes. While Wren doesn’t have the same Gift as me, she is incredibly perceptive and has an uncanny ability to sense the world around her. Many women in our family line have had extrasensory gifts, ranging from seeing ghosts and auras, to communicating with animals and seeing the future. There’s even an old family story about a necromancer, but I have my doubts about that one.
I pick her legs up, sit down, and lay her feet over my lap on the end of the couch. “Sure. I have a thing to do first.”
“A ghost thing?” she asks, cracking one eye open to peer at me.
I look around furtively, even though I know no one else is in the store. The whole seeing ghosts schtick isn’t one I like to advertise. Which is why when I help spirits, I try to do it as anonymously as possible. I’d rather not be known as the local ghost girl. Working in The Veil is already plenty strange for most in the small town of Ravenwood.
“Yes. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to do this one in person. I think I’m going to forge a letter from the guy because he wants me to tell his son where he has some gold buried.”
“Is he a pirate or something?” Wren asks with a raised eyebrow.
“I wish,” I say morosely, remembering my dream pirate and the unfortunate ghostly interruption. “But no. He’s just a regular old guy who invested in gold and died before he told anyone where he hid it.”
“Want some company?” Wren asks. She likes to go with me on my so-called “cold calls” because she has a better sense of the vibes and can spot danger a mile away.
“Please.” I’m grateful for her offered company. She’s always been much more at ease with herself, embracing the way people view her. She has no problem being the odd, spooky duck. I, on the other hand, try my absolute best to blend in. To be fair, reading auras and the general vibe of a room is much more socially acceptable. Plenty of people claim to be extra perceptive.
Seeing ghosts and communicating with them though? That’s way too much for most to accept. So, as often as I can, I come up with elaborate ways to help spirits that don't oust me as the local medium. I don’t do the whole “grab people by the arm and tell them their grandma loves them” thing. No, I’d much rather forge a letter from said grandma (with her blessing), rough it up a bit to make it look like it got lost in postal purgatory, and then send it off. If ghost-grandma leaves me alone after that, I’ve done my job successfully.
Since Leonard’s son lives a couple of minutes down the road, I’m just going to hand-deliver the letter and claim I happened upon it while at an estate sale. Most people accept the stories I spin because it’s easier to digest than believing their dead loved one has made contact from beyond the grave.
Wren watches me as I pull out some aged-lookingstationery from behind the counter and a pen. I close my eyes and extend my senses, casting a net that slowly unspools until I feel his distinctive signature. I give a gentle tug and feel Leonard slip closer to me. The sensation is a little like touching an old TV after turning it off. As soon as he enters the room, there’s a distinctivepop!along my skin, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Hey, Leonard. You and I are going to write a letter to your son together, okay? I’m going to have you step into me and take control of my arm and hand so we can write it in your handwriting.”
“Are you nuts!? I can’t do that,” he states, backing away from me and into the counter, leaving the upper half of him exposed like a magician's assistant who’s been magically cut in half.
Wren rubs her arms and says, “Okay, I’m going to let you two do your thing. I’ll be over there.” Her boot-clad feet take off in the direction of the apothecary section of the shop. She’s never been the biggest fan of being in the direct presence of a spirit because it sends her extra-sensory abilities haywire.
“I know it sounds wild, but so is talking to me, right? So, you just have to step close to me, cover my hand with your own, and then write as if you are the one holding the pen. It’s easier than it seems, I promise.”
“Isn’t that like possession?” he asks hesitantly.
I tilt my head side to side and reply, “Sort of, but you aren’t taking over my mind, just a specific part of my body. As soon as you’re done, you’ll step away from me and the connection will be broken. The trick is to truly visualize my hand as your own.” I shake said hand out, grip the pen, and try to relax into it. Having a part of your body snatched is a bizarre feeling.
“If you’re sure,” Leonard says, stepping towards me with trepidation. I nod once to confirm, and feel his presence slip into me. I fight against the instinct to push him out, allowing him to take control of my arm. Within a few minutes, we have a letter scrawled out.
Abe,
Before I die, I have to tell you where I have hidden a sizable amount of gold bars. You know that I haven’t been doing well physically for the last few months, and I want you to know where they are. I’m not sure how much time I have left to tell you.
