Chapter Six
Daphne
I’m well ahead of schedule as I’m exiting my favorite coffee shop.
For the first time, I think ever, there was no line when I arrived.
Now I have at least thirty minutes before I need to be back on the road.
Taking care not to spill any of my latte on my white dress, I use my free hand to dig through my purse.
I only dropped my keys in here five minutes ago, but already they’ve buried themselves beneath hair scrunchies, old granola and lord knows what else.
Shaking my hand free of hair and dirt, I notice a sign in the window of the new shop next to the café.
FORTUNES READ DAILY
It could be the lifetime of feeling haunted, or my doctors’ inability to provide adequate scientific diagnoses, and I don’t champion it to friends and family, but I’m obsessed with the occult.
If I’m at a fair or traveling abroad and find a tent or shack with a psychic or fortuneteller, I simply must hear what they have to say about me. And lucky me, I have time.
I chuck my keys back into the black hole slung over my shoulder and make for the entrance. The moment I pass through the doorway, a seismic ringing of bells nearly scares me out of my shoes. I don’t know how, but I avoid dumping my drink everywhere while eking out a sharp scream.
“Christ,” I mumble aloud. “I’m not returning from war.”
Annoyed but undeterred, I return my focus to my surroundings.
There's a desk with an antique cash register and a sign directing me to take a seat. Which would be easy enough to obey, if there were anywhere to sit. But there’s no chair.
No bench. Not so much as an end table. Nothing.
Behind the desk, dark-purple velvet drapes hang with such weight they may as well be suffocating what looks like a department store fitting room.
Water drips from a crack in the ceiling.
The wallpaper has clearly been peeling for years, stained yellow from countless billows of cigarette smoke.
What am I doing here?
A bassy guttural laugh echoes through the lobby. It sounds like it's coming through an intercom, but there are no speakers that I can see. I spin slowly in place, like a rotisserie chicken, searching for the source, but find nothing resembling a speaker in sight.
Someone's here.
Then she appears. Materializing out of nowhere without making a sound.
She can't be more than five feet tall, wrapped in a silk robe that swallows her stunted frame.
Her hair is a hybrid of dreadlocks and tattered mop.
Her face is smooth, save for two tiny moles on her right cheek, connected by a single white hair.
She introduces herself as Mistress P and asks for my name, which makes my stomach sink.
"Are you the fortune teller?" I ask, praying I haven't misread the sign and wondered into some sacrificial voodoo ritual center.
She takes her time looking me over. I can tell it's not often someone like me walks in wearing heels and a designer skirt.
Unless they're the ones selling something.
She smiles and bows, confirming both her role and my growing unease.
"I don't mean to be rude," I say, trying to keep the skepticism from my voice, "but, do you know who I am? Is that how this works? How you work?" She ignores my childish questions, instead staring through me without blinking.
I show her my ID, and she hands me a list of services with a no-refund policy prominently displayed. She’s a strip-mall psychic. Who is asking for their money back? I hand over twenty dollars before she leads me behind that stifling curtain.
Hollywood is such a dirty liar. There are no exotic candles.
No elaborate carpets. No gleaming crystal balls.
Instead, Mistress P has two shabby folding chairs, a stained coffee table that screams FLEA MARKET, and an overwhelming smell of mothballs and the natural decomposition of aging.
Sinking to a seat I understand why all sales are final.
The scene reminds me of when I was twelve.
My mom let me skip school to visit the Renaissance Fair.
That fortune teller was different—a gentle giant with a voice like thunder, but a Santa Claus smile.
His tent had mysterious fog and dancing colored lights.
He used worn Tarot cards and waved sandalwood incense while he spoke. Mistress P has none of that fanfare.
After a few basic bitch questions about my life, she grabs my wrists with wart-covered fingers, pulling my hands across the horribly scuffed table. My elbows drag through something wet.
Ugh. This better wash out.
She grunts and releases me after ten seconds.
I watch her, uncertain. She produces a small jewelry box from under the table, pulls out what looks like ordinary beach stones, then rolls them like dice.
As they bounce off the box and settle, Mistress P’s eyes roll back in her head and her face lurches to the ceiling before she begins mumbling in a language I don't recognize.
"Hold your hands out again," she snaps—her focus returning as she grabs my fingertips.
"Is everything okay?" My voice shakes.
"Silence!" Her body twitches violently with her command.
I sit still for half of forever. One minute. Two. Five. "This is stupid," I say, pulling my hands away. "I'm just going to grab my things and-"
"Aaah!" Her scream cuts me off. Her eyes burst open at an impossible speed, and she topples backward.
"Oh my God." I gasp, watch her convulsing on the floor. "Are you okay?" I ask, ignorant of how I can help.
"Get away," she hisses—terror blazing in her eyes. "You, get away from me now."
"What?"
"Just get away!" She scrambles to her feet, still shaking, pointing at my face. "You are a cursed woman, Ms. Brooks."
"I'm what?"
"Cursed," she spits the word. "You have a curse on you. I don't know how long you've had it, but it's there. I see it as clearly as I see you sitting there."
"I—" My throat tightens. "I don't understand. What do you mean I'm cursed?"
"Tell me, Ms. Brooks," she says, fighting to regain her composure. "Do you ever feel like you're being watched? Like you're never alone?"
I choke on my own spit. "How could you know?" I stop when she taps on the word 'Psychic' printed on a business card taped to the table. "Does that mean you know what it is?"
"Aye, I do." She waits, watching me squirm.
"Well, what is it?"
"Haha." Her laugh sends chills down my spine. "At least you're smart enough to be scared of it." She straightens her chair, sits down, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. "Do you have a light?"
"Huh? No, I don't smoke."
"That's okay." She grins, the expression making my skin crawl. "It's a little late to start now." She puts a cigarette between her lips. "So, you didn't answer my question. How long have you felt as though you're never alone?" She snaps her fingers, and the cigarette tip glows red.
My eyes widen with amazement. "How did you do that?"
"You're wasting time," she says through a cloud of smoke. "How long?"
"I don't know," I say, sinking back into my chair. "About ten years, I guess.”
Long enough that it's hard to remember.
"And today is your birthday, is it not?" That unsettling grin returns.
"It is.”