Not Quite Clear (A Lowcountry Mystery) (29 page)

“Now?”

“The sooner the better.”

“I’m about to go on a walk. Do you want to come?” She pauses, and the sound of ice tinkling in a tumbler brings back
some much-needed normalcy to my night.

Even so, I definitely do not want to chat up any more ghosts tonight. Two is more than enough, even if they are sort of one.
 

But I want to talk to Daria.

“I’ll go with you, but I’m not walking with you.” My voice trembles, unsure. Begging.

It could be what wins her over, or maybe she doesn’t care one way or another. “Sure. Do you want to meet me here
or at the place?”

“If you can wait fifteen minutes I’ll meet you at your place.” I let out a wet laugh. “I could use a drink.”

We hang up, and I force my muscles into action, putting the car in reverse to head back toward Heron Creek. Daria’s little psychic shack-slash-house is a welcome sight. It’s a little strange to realize how important she’s become, how often and how hard I’ve leaned on
her since she started helping me come to terms with my gift. Talent. Personal curse. Whatever.

She answers the buzzer with an anxious expression but doesn’t ask me a single question until I’ve downed half a gin and tonic. Not my typical fare, but it’s prepared and it’s booze, two things that are not to be discounted right now.

“I’m normally against using such turns of phrase, but you look like
you’ve seen a ghost. I want to hear what happened, but I really need to get going. Never know how long these things will take, and the homeowners want to be back by five a.m. to start their day.” She runs a hand through her hair and takes both of our glasses, heading toward the sink. “Who starts their day at five a.m.?”

“Normal people,” I mutter, backing up toward the door. “Can you drive?”

“Planning on it.”

We’re out the front door and in her car, which isn’t any newer or nicer than mine but doesn’t have quite the same smell, in a matter of minutes.
 

“Okay, spill.”

It takes the entire drive out to James Island to relay everything that happened since we last talked—how I gathered what Mama Lottie had asked for, where I left the jar, the appearance of the younger version of Mama
Lottie not once, but three times, and how none of them had been particularly positive experiences. I told her what happened tonight with Amelia, the threats against my cousin and Beau, how Mama Lottie freaked out because the amulet she made didn’t work.

“How can she be sure it didn’t work?” I ask, peering more closely at the morbid little bauble.

Daria shrugs, pulling off onto a short lane that
leads to a house set off the road. “I suppose she knows, somehow. She’s a crazy powerful witch. She’s not used to her spells not working on the first try, I’d guess.”

“What’s with the younger ghost version of herself?” I’m bursting with questions. There’s still so much I don’t understand.

“I don’t see it too often, where the dead can choose how they appear to the living. I’m going to sound like
a broken record, but she has enough power to pretty much do whatever she wants. Tear off pieces and send them around town. Project different exteriors so that people see what she wants them to see. Anything.”

“Then why does she even need me?” I wonder aloud, frustration oozing everywhere. “If she can wander as far as she wants and do whatever she wants, why not get the things she needs for the
curse herself?”

“That’s an excellent question. Especially since Anne and the other pirates collected some things on their own. We know it can be done.” Daria’s lips twist in thought. “Unless it’s not working because you’re not the one who got all the pieces?”

She puts the car in park and gets out, leaving me alone to ruminate on that possibility. The amulet is cold and hard between my fingers,
taunting me with question after question but not one single answer.

I roll down the window, already sweating in the stuffy car. Daria looks back, eyebrows raised. “Change your mind?”

“No. What’s going on in there?”

“You know I don’t like to talk about it until I’m done.” She starts to walk toward the old, slightly run-down farmhouse, then stops. “I think you should go ahead and open up with
me. Make sure the spirit guides are here and you’re grounded. You’re too close to be sure something won’t wander out here.”

The way she says
something
chills me, stalls all the protests on the back of my tongue. Or it could be the fact that I have negative amounts of energy left after the adrenaline rises and crashes of the past several hours. Or days, really.

I get out of the car and close
my eyes with Daria, making sure my feet are pressed into the ground. Meditate, talk to my still-invisible and possibly imaginary spirit guide, then watch my own personal guru shuffle off toward a haunted house. Nothing seems out of order or particularly spooky from my perspective out here, but the simple memory of the last walk we went on, the horrible things we witnessed, is enough to keep my eyes
unfocused and on the tree line.

Instead of wondering about what’s going on in that house or how long we’ll be here, I try to puzzle out what’s happened with Mama Lottie. Could Daria be right and the curse has something to do with me directly? That would explain both why she insists that I be the one to help—that maybe she even tricked me into it by planting one of her own snakes along the river
that night—and the reason the amulet’s not working. I didn’t do all the legwork myself.

Or it could have nothing to do with me. She could have picked me because I have the most reason to help her. She knew—somehow—about the curse on our family and used that to her advantage. Maybe there’s some dead witch network where they share tips and tricks for ruining the lives of the still-breathing and
she heard about the curse there and figured,
Hey! Leverage.

Frustration builds in my gut, swelling into a storm of impotence and anger. Any way I slice it, that bitch is using me to hurt my boyfriend’s family. The rage dissipates as fast as it burst out, because like it or not, she and I need each other. Mama Lottie might be using me. I’m using her. All I can do now is try my best to figure out
what went wrong so the ghost and I can get back to the business of helping each other.

Despite the late hour, I can’t wait any longer to dial Amelia. When she answers on the third ring, I almost burst into tears from the relief.
 

“Grace, why are you calling me in the middle of the night? Where
are
you?”

“I had to do something with Daria.” It’s not a lie, but the next part will be. “I just had
a bad feeling and needed to hear your voice, that’s all.”

“Well, aren’t I the lucky cousin! I get to be woken up because of your
feelings
.” She’s grumbling but that she’s lucid enough to grumble makes me smile.

“You can go back to sleep now. I’ll be home later and fill you in tomorrow morning.”

“
This
morning,” she snaps. “And who knows whether I’ll be able to go back to sleep.”

“Do you want
me to sing you a lullaby?” I tease, some of the tension unwinding from my shoulders and back.

“I said I want to go back to sleep, not that I want to go rigid with horror. Good night, Grace.”

“Good night.”

It’s about an hour before fatigue starts to creep in. My eyelids grow heavy, as though lead runs through my limbs instead of blood. There’s no sign of Daria as I roll my head toward the house.
The moon is still close to full and bathes the night in a cool, milky blanket. Dew glistens on the long grass. An owl hoots, a frog belches.
 

And in the trees around the house, figures draped in shadow hunker down on the lowest branches. They have no features, no distinct frames, but where there should be eyes are glowing orbs shaped like walnuts.

My body goes cold. I get out of the car and
check my door, remind my spirit guide we’re still in this thing together, and take a few steps toward the house. I’m not sure why going close to figures that resemble demons seems like the thing to do, but nevertheless, closer I go.

I can now see they have long fingers, tipped with claws. They’re curled around the tree branches as the creatures crouch there, watching me with eyes that flicker
between an amber light and a reddish one the nearer I get. They make no sound, no significant movement, yet a blackness that feels as though it is rolling off them clouds my mind. It makes me cold all over, flooding my veins as horrific images flash in my mind—dead animals, murdered children, atrocities of war, natural disasters.
 

As badly as I want to move, I can’t. It’s as if I’ve stepped inside
a magnetic field that’s tuned to my entire body and it’s impossible to back up.

“What are you doing over here?” Daria asks, then follows my gaze. “Oh.”

“Oh, what?” I mutter, even the act of moving my lips a struggle.
 

“I missed them, but it makes sense. Good catch.” She starts to walk away, unimpressed. “I knew you’d be useful, Graciela.”

Daria gets a half dozen steps away before realizing
I’m not following her. She snaps her fingers. “It’s your first time. Look away from them, even if you can’t move your head, and they’ll let you go. If your spirit guide hasn’t gone for coffee.”

I follow her advice and feel a pop in the air, like a suction cup unsticking from a hard surface. My feet move—quickly—and I rush to her side. We both hustle back to the car, where we pause by the hood
for a good ten minutes while we shut doors in our minds and disconnect from the spirits of this place. I make sure to pull my door super tight after another glimpse of whatever those dark things were in the trees.

Instinct says they’re not human, maybe never were, but my gut has no idea what to call them instead.

“Get in the car. You hungry?”

I’m surprised to find that I am, though I’m not
sure why. It’s been a long time since I ate anything, since the research snatched me up so tight earlier that I forgot to eat dinner. I hope Lindsay brought Leo something to eat that wasn’t Jell-O.

“I could eat. Is there a Waffle House around here?”

“I can always find a Waffle House.”
 

Once we pull onto the highway and the house with the creepers is safely behind us, I find the courage to ask
about them. “What were those things?”

She taps one finger on the steering wheel. “Depends on who you ask.”

“Dammit, today’s not the day to play Yoda with me.”

“You really are no fun. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No, actually. I’m an exceptional amount of fun when I haven’t spent the evening having my cousin body-snatched by an evil child ghost and being threatened by one of the scariest
beings I’ve ever encountered. I’m having an off night.”

“What you call them depends on your religious worldview. I’m not much for organized religion in everyday circumstances, so I would call them Tricksters. Catholics would call them demons, some might describe them as devils. Don’t know the Eastern term, but they have one.” She glances at me, maybe to make sure that at least some of this is
sinking in. “Everyone has a name for evil, Graciela.”

So I was right in sensing they weren’t human. Interesting. “What are they doing there?”

“The land, it’s… They’re attracted to it. If you really want to know everything I saw inside I’ll fill you in, but I thought
not
wanting to know was the point of staying outside.”

I sigh, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes and rubbing hard. We
pull off the highway after Daria sees a sign for Waffle House at the next exit. “You’re right. I don’t need to add other people’s problems to the mix, just…what do I do if I run across those creepy things in the future?”

“Call me. There’s no way to get rid of them, but there are ways to keep them out of a person’s house. It requires a priest.”

“I thought you weren’t much for organized religion?”

“I said in everyday circumstances. Belief is one of the most powerful things in the world. It can move mountains. Start wars. Bring people back from the dead or send them to their graves. In this case, banish those entities.”

I think about that as we park in the nearly empty lot and wander inside the brightly lit, inviting restaurant. The scent of syrup and bacon earns a growl from my stomach,
which has now decided it’s quite hungry, after all.

Once we’ve ordered—waffles for me, omelet for her—and the waitress leaves a pot of coffee on our table, Daria gets back to the reason I came to see her in the first place.

“What are you going to do about that busted amulet?”

“I don’t know. It’s all so…vague. How am I supposed to find out what makes curses fail or succeed?”

Daria sips her
coffee. “You just answered your own question.”

“I did?” Maybe my brain is foggy or maybe she’s not making sense. Hard to say. “How?”

“Graciela. You don’t know about voodoo curses, if that’s what it is, or about regular witchcraft. I know a little, given that I’ve been dealing with the occult my entire life and you’re just getting started, but this is way beyond my rudimentary understanding.
You need help from someone who knows the ins and outs. A Wiccan or a voodoo priestess.”

I stare at her, annoyed, as a different girl delivers our food. The smell drifts into my nose and I doctor the waffles while I answer. “I suppose I can find those in the yellow pages?’

“You already have a contact in the Gullah world, right? That woman in Charleston?”

“Odette?” I take a bite of waffles, so
delicious and sweet my eyes roll back in my head and ponder the option. “I’m not sure she’s got this depth of knowledge, and the more I know about Mama Lottie, the less I think she’s a product of the local culture.”

“Fair enough, but Odette’s part of the Gullah community. It’s still strong in these parts. I’m sure she can point you in the right direction. As far as a Wiccan, I’ve got connections.
I’ll ask around.” She cuts her omelet into bite-sized pieces, then dumps salsa over the whole thing before starting to eat. “I could go with you, if you want. To talk to Odette. In case you don’t know the right questions to ask—she seems to have fun with that.”