Moon White: Color Me Enchanted with Bonus Content (17 page)

“Come in,” I call out, closing my book and looking up.

A short and slightly stout redheaded woman comes in and dumps several bags onto the floor with a loud thud. “Good grief, someone should’ve warned me there were three flights of stairs to my room.”

“With an exceptional view,” I point out.

She glances over this way, then flops down on her bed and exhales loudly. “I’m dying for a cigarette,” she says, suddenly sitting back up. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Actually I do mind, but I hate making a fuss. So I just shake my head and watch as she fumbles through her purse until she locates a pack and her lighter.

“I’ll try to keep the smoke over here,” she says.

“Maybe I can open the window,” I suggest. But after a couple of tries, it’s obvious that it’s been painted shut.

“It took nearly four hours to get here,” she says, fanning her smoke away from me with a magazine. Like it’s really going to make
a difference in this small room anyway.

“Willow said you’re from Vancouver,” I say. “I assume she meant Washington State and not BC.”

“Definitely Washington. BC would be a really long drive. Just the same, I’m beat.” She’s using a paper coffee cup as an ashtray, and I’m starting to worry she might burn this whole place down. I wonder if smoking is even allowed, although I don’t recall seeing any signs. Still, you’d think she might set off a smoke alarm.

“Well, dinner’s not until seven,” I say, standing. “Maybe you can have a rest. I think I’ll go down and see what they have to snack on.”

“I think I will catch a little catnap,” she says, blowing out a long puff of smoke.

I want to warn her to be careful and not to burn down our room, not to mention this entire historical house. But instead I just slip out and go downstairs. There I meet several women and, to my surprise, a man named Dylan who lives up the coast. For some reason I didn’t expect there would be any men attending. But I suppose that’s rather prejudicial on my part. It’s obvious that I’m the youngest one here, but I don’t actually confess my age. I’m afraid they won’t take me seriously if I do. Even Willow doesn’t know that I’m only sixteen. Perhaps age is gauged differently in this particular circle. Maybe I’ll be accepted simply because I’m one of them. And when I’m offered a glass of wine at dinner, I don’t refuse. Maybe it will make me appear older.

I’
M TRYING TO KEEP AN OPEN MIND
,
BUT THE TRUTH IS
,
A PART OF ME THINKS A
lot of this is just a little bit weird. I mean, simply because a person wants to tap into the energies and power of the universe, does that mean she needs to act like a freak? Okay, to be fair, not everyone here is acting freaky, but some are. And, although I try to hide it, their behavior aggravates me. This is the kind of stuff that gives us a bad name. For instance, there’s Sylvia from Salem. This middle-aged woman seems to delight in shocking people. Her language is very coarse and graphic, and although I hear stuff like that at school a lot, it’s particularly skanky when you hear it coming from someone my dad’s age. Sylvia has informed everyone here that she’s been a witch for nearly thirty years. “Back when witchcraft wasn’t in vogue,” she’s pointed out several times. Like it’s in vogue now? But I can tell she’s very proud of her history. And, really, that’s fine. What bugs me is that this woman stinks.

It figures that I’m the one who gets to sit next to her at dinner. She’s wearing this long black crushed-velvet gown with tangled fringe around the sleeves and hem, and it honestly smells as if she’s worn this garment for years without ever having it cleaned. Seriously. It reeks of foul-smelling body odor. It doesn’t help that I have a fairly sensitive sense of smell. A week or so ago, Willow told me that’s
a good thing, that it will help me to identify and understand the elements of various herbs and their powers. She said it’s important to tune all your senses into the world — that’s what makes you good at your craft. But at the moment, all I can smell is Sylvia’s body odor. I wonder how she’s managed to utilize all her senses for so many years while smelling worse than the guys’ locker room.

After dinner, which is sadly unappealing due to the aroma next to me, Willow gives us a welcome speech and then we do some “get acquainted” exercises, which are actually kind of interesting.

“This place has great vibes for a weekend like this,” Caroline says to me during a break. I went outside for some fresh air, and she came out for a quick cigarette. Now, I don’t want to be rude and walk away from her, so instead of inhaling the clean sea air, I’m breathing secondhand smoke.

“I can’t wait to hear the speaker tonight,” I say.

“Yes, I’ve read about Marie Van Horn. She’s a renowned expert on channeling,” says Caroline. “I’m into it myself. I have a definite gift, but I’m still something of a novice. It’ll be so exciting to hear from someone who has a real handle on it.”

“Do you think she’ll actually attempt to channel someone tonight?” I ask, shivering in the cool sea breeze.

“I hope so. They say this place is haunted, so I’d think someone like Marie would have no problem. I know I’ve been getting plenty of vibes already.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Just walking up the stairs this afternoon, I definitely felt the spirit of a young woman. I think she was crying.”

“Oh.”

“Guess we should go in now. It’s almost time for the speaker.” Caroline snuffs out her cigarette and we go back in through the
French doors. The group is just gathering in the meeting/dining room. I make sure to find a seat that’s well away from stinky Sylvia. Although someone has lit some scented candles and incense, and that seems to help. I’m not sure if they did this for the atmosphere or to help eradicate the smell, but it’s working for me. Caroline and I take seats on the left side of the room, waiting for the speaker to make her appearance.

Then the lights are turned down, a woman steps up to the front of the room, and everyone gets quiet, expectant, waiting. This woman stands at the wood podium, near the flickering candles, just waiting for a long moment, gazing across the small group as if she’s taking us all in, perhaps evaluating us. I wonder what she sees, how far beneath the surface. I sit up straighter.

Marie Van Horn is a dramatic-looking woman. Not so much in a weird way, like Sylvia, but in an artsy way. She has on black pants and a sweater accented with a colorful silk scarf and stone jewelry, and her gray hair is neatly pulled into a French twist. She wears tortoise-shell half-glasses, and her voice is slightly theatrical as she tells us a bit about herself, how she first discovered her divining gifts at an early age, and how she’s spent most of her life honing them and trying to use them to help others. She’s written several books, which are for sale this weekend, and she has a popular website. All in all, impressive.

“As you know, I’m from the East Coast. I’ve never been in this part of the country before. But already I’ve experienced a number of spirits in this house as well as in the lighthouse.” She says this in a quiet tone, which makes everyone seem to lean forward and listen more intently. “One spirit in particular seems to be speaking to me — a young woman whom I believe has been trapped here against her will. Even now she’s crying out for understanding.”

Caroline gently nudges me with her elbow, giving me a little nod, which I’m guessing is to acknowledge that this is the same spirit she experienced earlier today.

Marie closes her eyes now and tilts her head back. There is a long pause, and the room is so quiet I’m sure you could literally hear a pin drop. And a shiver goes straight down my spine and I’m actually sitting on the edge of my seat, almost afraid to breathe.

“My name is Annabel,” says Marie in a voice that’s higher pitched and younger sounding. “Please, help me. Help me . . .” Marie takes in a slow deep breath and waits. “I came here with my friends one night . . . long, long ago. Henry said the lighthouse was haunted . . . we only came to explore . . . we were playing a hiding game . . . and I went into a closet and I became — I was — ” And now Marie is sobbing. Actually sobbing. But not like a woman of her appearance. She reminds me more of someone my age, someone who’s falling apart and nearly hysterical. I almost can’t look at her because this seems too private, too personal, like we shouldn’t be gawking at something like this. But, like everyone here, I keep watching.

“Someone pushed me!”
says Marie suddenly and we all jump. “Two hands placed firmly on my shoulders, pushed me from behind . . . and I went forward and then down, down, down . . . and then it was black and quiet and no one was here . . . no one but me. They left me alone and I cannot get out of this house. I need help. Please . . . where are my friends? Why am I here? Why is it so cold?”

Suddenly a breeze passes through the room and one of the candles goes out. Everyone seems to take in a sharp breath at the same moment. And then the lights are turned back on, and Marie returns to her normal self. Another woman I haven’t met, but I’m guessing may be Marie’s assistant, rushes to her side, puts an arm around her, and helps her to the closest door.

“Thank you, Marie,” says Willow as she hurries to the podium. “It takes a lot of energy out of Marie to channel a spirit like that. What you’ve just seen is a real treat. Not every group gets to experience something of that magnitude. Hopefully Marie will be able to communicate with Annabel some more before she leaves tomorrow. I know that I, for one, want to hear the rest of this story.”

Now the woman who helped Marie returns to the room and steps up to the podium and Willow introduces her as Fiona, Marie’s partner.

“I will be selling Marie’s books in the parlor tonight and in the morning,” she tells the group. “Marie will be available to sign them for you tomorrow. But for tonight, you must excuse her. This was a very emotional connection, very draining. Marie must rest and regain her energy. But she asked me to tell you that you were a very responsive audience. She believes that’s why Annabel felt comfortable enough to reveal herself to us. Thank you!”

Then we clap and Fiona leaves. Willow makes a few announcements and then we’re dismissed.

“I’ve got to get some of those books,” says Caroline. “That was so amazing.”

I nod. “I think I’ll wait until tomorrow,” I say. “Right now I’m just plain tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

“I’ll try to be quiet when I come in,” says Caroline.

I really am tired, but more than that I’m ready for a break. Being around all these strange people and trying to soak all this in, well, I think I can understand why Marie feels so drained. Oh, sure, I wasn’t channeling, but I did feel extremely involved. And I’m sure that I could feel Annabel’s spirit too. Still, it’s a little overwhelming. I feel like I need some time to myself.

I get ready for bed, but before I do, I decide to write in my Book
of Shadows. I turn on the light next to my bed and begin to write. And the strangest thing happens as I write. It’s as if someone else is writing for me. At first I think it’s Annabel, but then I’m not so sure. It seems more like a guy’s voice. But I allow it to continue, barely noticing the words that are flowing from my pen, and finally I’m done and I feel totally exhausted, like I cannot keep my eyes open. So I set the book on the bedside table, turn off the light, and go to sleep.

I wake up to the sound of someone desperately crying. It’s dark in the room, and for a moment I can’t remember where I am. I fumble for the light and finally manage to get it on. Then I see that it’s Caroline. She’s in the bed next to me and she seems to be having some horrible dream. I don’t know whether to wake her up or just let her keep crying. Perhaps she’s channeling.

“Caroline?” I say quietly as I stand over her bed, unsure of what to do.

Still, she thrashes and cries out words that I can’t quite make out.

I reach down and touch her shoulder. “Caroline?” I say again. “Are you okay?”

And now she sits up and opens her eyes, but it really doesn’t look like her. I mean, she still has red hair and everything, but her eyes look wild and sort of vacant and she screams obscenities at me and looks as if she’d like to kill me and I am so scared that I’m shaking. I’ve never been this scared in my life. She keeps on screaming and I go for the door, ready to run for my life!

In the hall, I nearly collide with another guest. “What’s going on in there?” asks a quiet young woman I met earlier tonight, I can’t remember her name. She’s in a pale blue flannel nightgown and looks nearly as frightened as I feel.

“It’s my roommate, Caroline,” I say breathlessly, nodding back to my room. “She’s kinda freaking. I don’t know what to do.” Then this woman’s roommate, an older woman named Averil, comes out blinking in the hallway light, and we explain what’s going on.

“She’s probably talking to a spirit,” says Averil. “That can happen in your sleep, you know.”

“What do I do?” I ask.

She considers this. We can still hear Caroline yelling in there. It’s a good thing there are only two rooms up here, or she might awaken the whole house.

“I don’t know if we should wake her,” says Averil.