The Wicked Garden (3 page)

It was too late. A gorgeous redhead floating above the crowd was hard to miss, and the men surrounding Gretchel had definitely taken notice. They began chanting, urging her to show a little more skin. Instead of flipping up her shirt like so many of the young women around her, Gretchel flipped the boys a double bird. This only made the chanting more insistent, angry instead of playful.

“Gretchel, stop antagonizing them,” Teddy chided, “You’re going to get us killed.”

Suddenly an ambulance siren went off in the distance, and Gretchel screamed.

“You’ve got to get down!” Teddy called. He watched as she held her hands to her head, and wobbled on her perch. Teddy was terrified. He knew that the ambulance sirens had triggered a flashback—a bad one. Teddy got on tiptoe, and looked for a way out of the seething crowd.

He felt someone tap him on the shoulder, and a voice with a Scottish burr said, “You’d best keep your eye on that one.” Teddy turned and saw a beautiful young woman with raven hair and tulle fairy wings.

He followed her pointing finger across the street, and saw a young man watching Gretchel quietly and intently. This dark-haired man-boy exuded an eerie calmness in the middle of pandemonium, but Teddy didn’t feel reassured. He felt as if he were looking at the devil himself. Teddy turned back to the girl in the fairy costume, but she was gone.

Gretchel was screaming, ducking her head, trying to protect herself from invisible assailants. The crowd of men thought she was just being coy with them, and chanted even louder. They grabbed at her legs, trying to pull her to the ground.

“Hold still! I’m about to drop you!” the guy holding her yelled.

Gretchel couldn’t hear him. She was somewhere else, and it wasn’t a happy place.

Teddy laid a steadying hand on her leg and said, “Gretchel, it’s okay. Just get down. I’ll help you.”

“They won’t be quiet,” she cried. Teddy knew she wasn’t hearing the sirens anymore. She wasn’t talking about the deafening sound of the riot. Gretchel was hearing voices in her head. “Make them stop,” she pleaded.

She squeezed her eyes closed, and grimaced as if she were in pain. It was rare for her to hear the voices when she was intoxicated. Something was terribly wrong. She kept bending down like she was ducking from something, and holding her head with her hands.

“Dude, please let her down. I have to get her out of here,” Teddy begged the man holding her.

The crowd was still chanting for her to show herself, the sirens blared, and then Teddy watched—like he was seeing it in slow motion—as the quiet guy across the street looked directly at Gretchel and launched an empty beer bottle. It struck her in the forehead, knocking her backward into the mob. The crowd roared, cheering the fall of the bitchy redhead who wouldn’t show her tits.

As she lay on the ground, blood gushing from her head, a few kind people gathered around to help her. Teddy ripped off his jacket and pressed it against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

After a couple of minutes that seemed like hours, Teddy and the others were able to get Gretchel on her feet. Teddy was trying to guide her out of the chaos when a voice beside them said, “Come on. Let’s get you out of this mess. I’ll take you to my place.” Gretchel stopped as someone grabbed her arm.

Teddy turned around and a chill ran down his spine. “She needs to go to the hospital,” Teddy asserted, slapping at the hand fastened on Gretchel’s arm.

“Back off, faggot.”

Teddy gasped. He was terrified. He knew that this guy was pure evil, and he knew that he was no match for him.

“No one talks to my friend like that, asshole,” Gretchel growled as she shoved her captor in the chest.

He just laughed. “Chill out, Red. You’re coming with me. I’ll get you cleaned up,” he said, beginning to maneuver through the crowd.

“I’m not leaving Teddy.”

“I’ve got a warm bed and more booze.”

Gretchel hesitated, and that was all the opportunity the guy needed. He tightened his hold and started pushing Gretchel through the legion of students before Teddy could tell Gretchel what this man had done to her—before he could even protest. He tried to chase after them, but he was carried off in the riot. He felt the pepper spray before he saw any cops, and he hit the ground writhing.

Teddy never found Gretchel that night. He struggled for hours through streets crowded with people, just trying to get back to her dorm. She wasn’t there, of course, so he slept a few hours in the bushes. Later that morning, he was pacing and waiting when a red convertible pulled up. Gretchel stumbled out, looking like Alice had missed Wonderland and taken a tour of Hell instead. Teddy glared at Troy behind the wheel, but he just grinned and roared off.

Gretchel’s head was haphazardly bandaged, and Teddy was silently praying that she didn’t have a concussion. He was worried, relieved, and furious.

“You had sex with him,” he accused.

“He saved me,” she said.

“Saved you? Saved you? He was the one that threw the beer bottle, Gretchel. He looked right at you and aimed.”

She stared at him for a moment, as if she understood the implications, but was more than willing to ignore the truth. “Well, he made up for it. He took me to breakfast at Mary Lou’s, and gave me a hundred bucks for a new outfit."

“So, you’re a hooker now?” Teddy fumed.

“Don’t you ever call me that!” Gretchel’s eyes blazed, and Teddy steeled himself for a slap. He had crossed a line, and he knew it. He was able to stammer out an apology while Gretchel was deciding whether or not to hit him.

“What about the voices you heard last night? They were trying to warn you right before he threw the bottle, weren’t they? You were ducking and holding your head. They knew something was going to happen. You
knew
something was going to happen.”

“What voices?”

“You started hearing the voices when the ambulance siren went off.”

“I don’t remember a siren, Teddy, and I didn’t hear any voices,” she said, but he knew she was lying through her pretty white teeth. “I barely remember getting hit with the bottle. Just let it go. So I got another wound that will turn into another scar, and a nice guy helped me out. I slept with him. Big deal. Can this fight be over?” she asked.

But the fight wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He had fought with her the rest of the weekend, and for a good part of the next seventeen years.

CHAPTER FOUR

Irvine, 2010s

Gretchel left the salon with her long hair trimmed and styled differently enough to please her husband. Her phone rang just as she got into her car. It was her mother. After a brief conversation, Gretchel set out for Snyder Farms. The infamous property on the outskirts of Irvine was comprised of three houses, a lake, and two thousand acres of fertile farmland. It was where she was raised, the place she still thought of as home.

“Mama, I’m here,” Gretchel announced as she walked through the kitchen door of the old farmhouse on the hill.

She was welcomed by Suzy-Q, a beautiful white Saluki. There had been a dog of this breed on the property for nearly a hundred years. They were a family tradition and Southern Illinois University’s mascot. Gretchel got down on her knees to give the hound a tight squeeze. Suzy-Q licked her face and nuzzled her shoulder, almost knocking her over. Gretchel glanced up at her mother.

“She’s never this happy to see me. In fact, she usually ignores me.”

Ella Bloome eyed her daughter strangely. “Suzy-Q’s very sensitive to change. Baby Girl, something’s afoot, and I think you should take heed, just like the rest of us.”

“Mama, what’s wrong?”

“Holly had a vision last night.”

Gretchel dismissed her niece’s precognitive gift. “Her visions don’t always come to pass, Mama.”

The sound of a bone-shaking, crackling cough came from the living room. Ella scowled, distracted. “Miss Poni’s cold isn’t passing. I’m off to get some fresh ginger and fennel. She’s refusing to see a doctor, but if it persists another day, I may need you, Marcus, and Cindy to help me force her.”

“I can’t force her, Mama. She never forced me when I was sick,” Gretchel sighed and let Suzy-Q nuzzle her again.

Ella knelt down to her daughter and the hound. “Holly saw a funeral in her vision.”

Gretchel felt the color drain from her face as a chill ran down her spine. “No,” she whispered. Then more loudly, “No. Holly’s visions are wrong as often as they’re right, and Miss Poni would know if she was dying.”

“Miss Poni doesn’t tell all of what she sees.” Ella shook her head, and wiped away a tear from the corner of her eye. She rose and pulled on a heavy winter coat. “I won’t take too long; just a few errands.”

“Take your time.”

Her mother stopped, and took a closer look at Gretchel. “Baby Girl, are you okay? Have you been crying?”

“No. No. I’m just sick of this weather. You know how I get in the winter,” she mumbled.

“I can't see how it’s different from the other seasons. You haven't turned with the wheel in years.” Ella gave her daughter an appraising look. “You should see a doctor, too. You’re skin and bones.”

“I’m fine, Mama. Just go,” she said as she shooed her mother out the door.

Ella eyed Gretchel suspiciously, and then she motioned toward the living room. “The over-the-counter cold medicine I’ve gotten Miss Poni to take is making her all kinds of loopy. Be patient, Gretchel. I won’t be long.” And with that she was out the door.

Gretchel peeked around the corner, and saw her ninety-seven-year-old grandmother sitting in a cushioned rocking chair, an old book across her lap. She wasn’t moving. Gretchel panicked.

“Grand Mama, are you okay?” she asked. She felt her grandmother’s pulse and shook her gently.

“Aurora? Is that you, honey?” the old woman asked.

Gretchel stared at her in disbelief. She hadn’t heard that name spoken in decades. She put her hands to her mouth. She pushed back a sob and an overwhelming urge to lose consciousness. Her eyes fluttered, her head swam, but she slowly brought herself back to reality. The crone was staring at her, waiting for an answer.

“Grand Mama, it’s me, Gretchel. Mama went to do her running, so I’m going sit with you for a while. Would you like a cup of tea or something to eat?”

Miss Poni stared blankly. The old woman was confused, and Gretchel didn’t think she had the courage to deal with it. Not today.

A familiar light came back into Miss Poni’s eyes. “No, Baby Girl. I’m just fine, but it sure is nice of you to come sit with me. I’ve had a terrible cold. I’ll be sound in a few days, and you won’t have to worry ‘bout coming ‘round so much. Your mama shouldn’t have to be watching me like a hawk, either,” she said as she pushed her ancient cane against the floor to start the chair rocking. Gretchel stared awkwardly at her grandmother. She was being abnormally sweet. It must have been the medicine.

“Mama’s fine. I’m sure you took good care of your mama when she got older. It’s just something daughters do,” Gretchel said.

She took a seat on the sofa, and her sense of panic subsided. She thought about how glad she was that she wasn’t taking care of her own mother, who was seventy-two and still a force to be reckoned with.

She was also grateful to her older brother, who had taken control of the family farm when he was just twenty-three. Marcus had graduated from SIU, and was preparing to start a masters program in agricultural sciences when he left it all to run Snyder Farms.

He had worked hard to save his family’s livelihood, and within a few years he pulled the farm out of the red, only to be slammed back down during the flood of ‘93. He rose to that challenge, too, and, now, the farm was not just surviving but thriving under his management. The third house on the property was the one that he had built a few years after he got married. Marcus was committed to the farm in a way that Gretchel never had been and never could be, and, for that, she was thankful.

“The women in my family died young," Miss Poni said, almost to herself. Then the old woman lifted her head and raised her voice. “I’ve never told you this, but my mama, she died young. She was very sick, Baby Girl. The spirits made her sick, and I don’t just mean the Scotch. She drowned in a pool of guilt and shame long before she ended her life in the cottage lake. You know that lake’s haunted, and now you know who was calling you when you tried to do yourself in all those years ago.”

Gretchel was barely listening. She was busy dreading the evening ahead.

“How much do you know about our ancestors, child?” Miss Poni asked.

Gretchel snapped back to the present. “Just bits and pieces, Grand Mama. I know that the cottage has been in our family for a long time, and that you were born and raised there. I know it was built for your mama, Miss Mary Catherine Miller. I know a neighbor willed Snyder Farms to you. Of course, I've heard plenty of stories about the ghosts in the Wicked Garden, and you know I've seen them.”
And don’t you dare bring up the ones I put there Grand Mama
, Gretchel thought.

“You don't know a goddamn thing about those ghosts," Miss Poni rasped, a sneer contorting her face. Gretchel was used to her grandmother’s cantankerousness, but this took her aback.

“I would welcome the chance to be educated, Grand Mama,” Gretchel replied with all the poise she could muster. “But you don’t know what I know. You have no idea.”

The ancient woman wasn’t fazed by her granddaughter’s sass, only surprised; she just shook her head. “Yes, well, it would be good to get the truth out. There are stories we need to tell. Yours is one of them, Baby Girl. It’s time. I can feel the north wind blowing changes our way.”

It’ll be a cold day in hell before I tell
my
story
, Gretchel thought. And then she thought about Holly’s vision. She knew she should hear what Miss Poni had to say before it was too late, but she wasn’t ready to think about life without her Grand Mama. She pushed the thought of the woman’s passing to the back of her mind.

“I think it’s time for your stories on TV, isn’t it?”

“Gretchel, I want you to do something for me.”

“What do you need, Grand Mama. Do you want another blanket?”

“No, no, no. I want you to go down to the cottage after your mama gets back and fetch me the painting of the poppies. I need something pretty to look at.”

Gretchel couldn’t stop the tears from reaching her eyes. “Can Mama do that for you? I’m kind of on a tight schedule.”

“In a rush to get back to your prison cell, are you now? Does the warden know you’ve come to fraternize with the Witches of Snyder Farms? Should I expect torches and pitchforks within the hour? Do I need to load the shotgun so I can take care of that abusive son of a bitch once and for all?”

“Enough!” Gretchel yelled.

Miss Poni eyed the girl with interest. She hadn’t fought back in many years. The old woman noticed what was missing from her granddaughter’s neck, and nodded to herself. “I’d really like to see that painting, Baby Girl. I
need
to see it. Something’s stirring in this cold winter wind, and I want those pretty poppies to keep the shadows at bay.”

“Okay. I’ll get you
the painting. Just please watch your stories, Grand Mama,” Gretchel replied. She walked into the kitchen, and burst into tears.

∞

“Can you come back for dinner tonight—bring the kids, maybe? I know it’s your anniversary, but it’s not as though you care,” her mother asked as she put groceries away.

Gretchel let the jab roll. “We’re going out with the Browns.” Gretchel felt her mother’s loneliness in the pit of her stomach.
“Mama, why don’t you have Thomas over for dinner? I haven’t heard you talk about him for a while now.”

“I’m just fine with the way things are. Now you run along, and make sure you tell Troy how much I despise him.”

“I can’t leave just yet. Grand Mama wants me to run down to the cottage to get the poppy painting.”

Ella stopped unpacking her bags, and turned to her daughter. She began to cry. “The poppies. She’s going to leave us soon,” she muttered. “I can get the painting, Baby Girl, you don’t need to trouble yourself.”

“It’s not a big deal, Mama. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said.

“It’s a blue moon. Do be careful.”

Gretchel drove toward the cottage. It was less than a mile away. As soon as it came into view, she felt a bittersweet ache spread across her chest. The cottage at Snyder Farms was her real home. She had lived there twice in her life: once as a teenager and once as a young married mother. Both times she was barely getting by, financially and mentally. The house was technically hers, but only on the condition that Troy never set foot on the property again. Miss Poni had made it clear that she would cut Gretchel out of her will if she had good reason to believe that Troy had been there.

Troy had pushed the matriarch too far. When he sent Marcus to jail, Miss Poni had been angry. When she saw the bruises on Gretchel’s body that had provoked Marcus to violence, she had been outraged. Her initial response had been to terrorize Troy with the old family shotgun and promise to bury him in the Wicked Garden. The threat of disinheritance had been a welcome de-escalation.

Gretchel shook the horrid memory from her head, only to be struck with yet another. As she pulled into the gravel driveway, her eyes were pulled toward a burnt-out pickup truck sitting phantomlike in the snow, surrounded by dead vegetation. The Wicked Garden had claimed the vehicle many years before. Gretchel touched her waist, and had to fight to catch her breath.

She pulled her attention away from the desolation and toward the cottage. Kinder memories fell softly in her mind. The cottage was a breathtaking piece of architecture in the middle of nowhere—even in the dead of winter. With its crooked chimney, sloping roof, and arched doorway, the cottage looked like something right out of a fairy tale. For the first time in her life, Gretchel wondered if maybe this fairy tale didn’t have a happy ending. A shiver ran through her as she put the key into the lock.

She flipped on the lights. No one had lived there since she and Troy had moved out. She didn’t like to remember that time.

The interior was beautiful, exactly the home Gretchel had always dreamed of. Miss Poni had had it completely renovated three years before. For a little while, Gretchel assumed that her grand mama was softening in her old age, willing to lift her ban on Troy. But she soon learned that Miss Poni was just trying to lure her granddaughter away from her husband.

It was cold inside the cottage. She pulled her coat tight, and looked toward the pictures on the mantelpiece. On one side she saw her great great grand mama and her great grand mama. On the other side were Miss Poni and Ella. She wondered when her picture would be added to the display. Was she even worthy of being added? She had shamed the family. They tried to deny it, acting like nothing had happened for the sake of her sanity.

In the middle of the pictures sat an old bottle of Scotch. Whiskey had been a mainstay in the house, but this bottle had been untouched for decades. Without thinking, Gretchel reached for the amethyst that was no longer there. She would have to find strength from within, her first real test.

She took a deep breath and moved her gaze from the bottle to the antique Remington shotgun that hung above the photos. It was said to have belonged to her great-grandmother, and there were stories aplenty of the times it had been fired.

Above the shotgun was a huge mounted buck that Gretchel had prayed to as a teenager. It was her Horned God. She had shot the buck herself, bow hunting, when she was only twelve. There was a time when the beast had offered her guidance, when she was still able to hear the knowing inner voice, before she felt nothing.