Page 4 of Wicked William

I’m skeptical, but I never told anyone that I scratched the first table as a gift and kept it for myself

There’s something about this woman that’s unsettling, yet intriguing. “That’s...interesting,” I say, unsure what else to say.

She smiles, and I swear I can feel the heat from her gaze. Where her eyes touch me, it’s like sunlight. “I’m glad you think so.”

We eat in silence for a few moments, the only sounds being the clinking of silverware against plates.

“You’re... different,” I say, searching for the right word. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

Maisy chuckles. “I get that a lot.”

I study her for a moment, taking in her red hair and the colorful beads that hang from her neck. Despite her eccentricities, there’s a warmth to her that’s hard to ignore.

She’s earthy.

“You’re not going to try and convert me to anything, are you?” I ask, only half-joking.

Maisy raises an eyebrow. “Convert you? To what?”

“I don’t know. Some kind of new age religion or something.”

She laughs. “No, I’m not trying to convert you to anything. I know what it’s like when people try to change who you are. It’s not something I would ever do to someone else.”

I nod, still unsure of what to think. But there’s something about her that draws me in, something that makes me want to know more.

“Tell me more about these visions you have,” I say, leaning forward.

Maisy’s expression turns serious. “It started when I was a kid. I would touch something and know things I shouldn’t. Sometimes I see it like a movie, but most of the time, it’s just aknowing. Then, when I hit adolescence, I would see things even when I wasn’t touching something, like flashes of the future. At first, I thought I was just imagining things. But then they started coming true.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Her features go very soft and her throaty voice gets quiet. “Like my mom getting in a car accident. I saw it happen before it did. And then it happened exactly as I saw it.”

“That’s... intense,” I say, not sure what else to say.

Maisy nods and then twists one of her rings. Three times, I count. “It can be. But it’s not always bad things. Sometimes I see good things too.” She leans in closer, her expression serious. “But there’s something else I want to show you.”

My curiosity piqued, I follow her to the living room where she pulls out a notebook from her huge bag. Flipping through the pages, she stops at a detailed sketch of a house—my house.

“I drew this from memory,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “From my vision. This is your house, William. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I’m not lying to you. I’m supposed to find you. I’m supposed to be here.”

I stare at the sketch, trying to make sense of it all. Maisy’s words, her vision, her cooking—it’s all too much to process. But there’s something in her eyes, a glint of determination and sincerity, that makes me want to believe her.

“Okay,” I say finally, setting the notebook aside. “Let’s say I believe you. What do you want from me?”

“Show me to my room?”

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