Chapter 2
Rami's POV
My stomach growls loud enough to draw several people’s attention in the otherwise silent library. I suppose that protein bar I had last night wasn’t enough.
I learned the hard way to always keep a stash around.
Let’s just say that last night wasn’t my first time being denied a meal.
Though I could have sworn I was down to only two more bars, and there were six in the box.
Thankfully, I won’t have to buy anymore quite yet, but I can’t keep too much food in my room or else she’ll notice.
Plus, I already don’t have much of an allowance, so I can’t afford a lot of snacks.
Deborah, the librarian—a.k.a. The Crypt Keeper.
That’s what I call her, ‘cause she’s so old—narrows her eyes at me.
She’s one of Grandma Julia’s friends. Honestly, the only reason I’m allowed to do schoolwork here is because her little spy can keep an eye on me.
Well, it’s that and the fact that here I’m out of her way.
Ignoring the hunger forcing knots in my stomach, I focus back on my schoolwork. After moving to this shit hole, I had to transfer to online classes. Grandma Julia refused to approve me returning to in-person classes because she insisted I needed a firmer hand.
Let’s ignore the fact that I’m twenty-two and have taken care of myself for as long as I can remember. One little freak accident and here I am under lock and key, heavily scrutinized by everyone. It was enough for them to force me here, stuck in holy-spirit-up-your-ass-ville. Where I’m a pariah.
I miss my friends.
After the accident, they abandoned me, just like everyone else in my life.
It’s because you’re not worth the headache.
Fuck.
I run my hand down my face at the dark turn of my thoughts and decide I’ve had enough.
The gesture accidentally tugs on my split lip, and I press the back of my hand against it to get it to stop throbbing.
When I pull my hand away, there’s a small dab of blood there.
I lick the offending spot and try to control my breathing, and reassure myself that I’m not worthless.
I already have all A’s and a killer GPA; I’m on track to demand my freedom. To prove to everyone else that I am not an invalid.
Throwing all of my shit into my canvas messenger bag, I lift the few library books I was reading and carry them back to the shelves.
Putting them away gives less opportunity for the Crypt Keeper to spy on what I’m reading “for school”.
Not like she can’t see the spines of the books while I’m sitting at the table, but hopefully this gives her less ammo to feed Grandma Julia.
Sliding the last book where it belongs, my eyes catch on what looks like a card sitting on the floor. Something compels me to inspect it further, like a whispered voice drawing me in. But there’s nothing and no one around.
So, I squat in front of it, making my sore knees pop. Groaning, I silently curse that damned prayer stool which I had to sit at for four hours last night. I tried to be sneaky, and skip a few parts, which she caught of course. Then she made me repeat the whole damn thing three more times!
I pick up the heavy cardstock and run my fingers along the smooth images. The side that was facing up looks well-worn. The navy blue card has a series of moon phases lined up the center in gold foil.
I’m half tempted to drop it and leave it where I found it, just in case its owner returns.
But that sensation from earlier compels me to flip it over.
I hold my breath, terrified of what awaits.
Which is absurd. It’s just a card. However, the power emanating from the card tickles my fingers and sends shivers up my spine.
In a neat script, it says Yasmine and an address.
What in the actual fuck?
Pocketing the weird as fuck card, I zoom out of the library like my heels are on fire, ignoring the glare from Grandma Julia’s spy. The space suddenly feels too claustrophobic. I don’t breathe until I’m outside and at least a block away.
Pausing, I stare up at the clear blue sky and breathe deeply.
My lungs fill, and I feel my body relax with the much-needed fresh air.
I walk through the small town aimlessly, more at ease than I’ve been in at least twenty-four hours.
I know Grandma Julia has plenty of others watching me throughout the town, but I haven’t been able to pinpoint exactly who.
However, it’s hard to deny it when she asks questions or nitpicks my whereabouts throughout the day that she wouldn’t know otherwise.
Right now, though, I can’t bring myself to give a shit.
I stop randomly to pull the card out of my back pocket. Inspecting the script closely, I run my fingers over the words. The pull is magnetic, as if I’m too dense to understand what it’s trying to tell me.
When I glance up to make sure no one sees me acting like a total weirdo—not that they would notice much of a difference—my heart leaps into my throat as I realize where I’ve stopped. My eyes bounce from the card to the address over the door, back and forth, while my heart thunders in my ears.
This is it. The address on the card.
I turn this way and that, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.
The derelict businesses and overgrown lots prove how abandoned this side of town has become.
Honestly, now that I’m here, there’s sort of a beauty in this hidden side that’s been more or less left to nature.
It’s not a section I’ve ever ventured through, sticking primarily to the main streets.
Suddenly I’m heavily torn between seeing what all of this means and running in the opposite direction. Before I can think better of it, I’m moving up the front steps; not really sure if this is losing or winning my inner battle yet.
My eyes never stop scanning my surroundings, waiting for someone to jump out and call me out on their prank.
But so far, there’s nothing. Though the hair along both arms stands up straight as if the air is charged.
Leaving me to wonder if the power I felt holding the card is only amplified in this space, emanating around me.
The deep porch at first glance is just like any other porch I’ve seen in the South.
Tinkling wind chimes of various sizes are sprinkled around the porch creating a symphony of notes that somehow are pleasing to the ear without being dissonant.
The ceiling is painted a soft blue color, resembling closely to the color of the sky on a clear day, like today.
The superstitious call it “Haint Blue” due to its supposed ability to repel ghosts.
The windows on either side of the porch have large dreamcatchers hanging in them, with a variety of crystals dangling around it refracting rainbows of color around the space.
On the door is a wooden sign with a neat script that says ‘Open’, implying the card has led me to a business of some sort.
Below the sign is a bundle of dried plants.
I lean in closer to sniff the plants to guess it’s a mix of garden sage and lavender.
Reaching for the doorknob, my feet crunch against something.
Glancing down, I see a line of salt spread across the threshold of the door.
My heart thumps heavily against my ribs, urging me forward in hopes of finding a like-minded person inside. Because whoever is inside is not from around here, since there is no cross in their collection of knickknacks. The rest of this would be considered devil worship.
So, I don’t fight my feet as they carry me over the threshold. Even though, I hold my breath as I push open the door.
Inside the spartan space are a series of candles, salt lamps, and sage burning to create an almost cloying presence. On the far side of the open space is a wooden counter. Behind it is a series of shelves looking almost like an apothecary with the mix of glass jars and baubles spread out.
In the center of the hardwood floor is a chalk circle filled with a large star and symbols I don’t recognize.
Gripping the card tighter into my hand, I walk over the marking on the floor.
A chill runs through my body until I pass through and suddenly feel stronger than I have in a long time.
As if there had been a literal weight sitting on my shoulders and it’s no longer there.
“Hello?” I call out when no one greets me.
I pass through a beaded doorway into another portion of the shop with large crystals lining shelves. But still no one.
“Hello?” I try again.
Pushing open a swinging door on the far end of the room, the most delectable smell of food fills my nose. My stomach twists into knots and my knees nearly buckle. I’m about to turn around and leave before I pass out when a voice calls out to me.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.”
I turn to see a middle-aged woman with tightly curled white hair pulled up into a mess on her head. A purple silk scarf is tied around her head to help tame the wild mass of hair.
“I was just about to sit down for an early lunch,” she says, a slight accent I can’t pinpoint creating a seductive lilt to her voice. Her steps falter almost imperceptibly as her eyes rake over my battered form.
I want to shirk away from her scrutiny and judgment. “I’m sorry, I can come back later,” I respond quickly, turning toward the door, hoping to distract her from my many injuries.
“Nonsense. As per usual, I made way too much. Would you care to join me? I really do hate eating alone.”
I stare at the woman, shocked by her hospitality. Which shouldn’t be shocking since I live in the South, but whoever said southerners were hospitable were liars.
Her smile is curled up, crinkling around her eyes and making the deep brown color glisten in the artificial light. Her warm golden skin, covered in sunspots and freckles, shows a life well lived, drawing me in and setting my nerves.
I want to turn away from the stranger, but my subconscious assures me that she’s safe. So, I dip my chin, and her grin grows even more to the point it causes her eyes to squint.
She gestures to a chair at the table and flits into the kitchen, leaving a flurry of pale green fabric and the waft of patchouli in her wake.
The uncommon scent makes my shoulders lower from my ears.
Perhaps it’s more of the air of purity surrounding her than the hint of her free spirit that draws me in, but I don’t fight my original assessment.
Especially not when she returns a few moments later with two bowls of chili sprinkled with cheese and corn chips.
She then places sparkling water in front of both of us.
Part of me is curious how she knows what I like, but that’s not what comes from my lips. “Thank you,” I mutter.
“You’re very welcome. Thank you for eating with me. I find company helps food digest more effectively. Don’t you think?”
I shrug noncommittally and take a big bite of food. The spices explode across my tongue, and it takes all of my will not to moan sinfully. “Depends on the company,” I mumble into my bowl.
Her head is thrown back as a raucous laugh comes from her. She eventually places a hand on her chest, trying to pull herself together. A smile curls up my face, unable to help myself. Her joy is contagious.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, trying to make conversation. Also curious how the Bible-thumpers haven’t run her off.
“Not long. I move frequently. Always going wherever I’m needed.”
“How do you know where you’re needed?” I inquire.
“The wind tells me,” she says with a shrug, as if it's the most common thing in the world.
“The wind talks to you?” Even I can hear the condescension in my voice and I cringe, feeling terrible for treating her exactly like everyone treats me.
If the smile on her face is any consolation, she doesn’t take it personally.
“Tell me, have you ever felt a sensation that directs you? Perhaps you’re walking down a street and you just know you need to speed up or turn around.
Or maybe there’s a strong urge to shut your mouth and not say what just popped into your head. ”
“Well, yeah,” I admit. Not wanting to admit just how often that occurs to me. “Though, usually I've learned the hard way about not listening to it.”
That earns me another chuckle from her. “Stubborn, yet astute. A dangerous combination for sure.”
“What makes you say that?” Being stubborn has only brought on more pain for me. Or at least since I moved here.
“It means you’re strong.”
I scoff, though it comes out more of a choked sound as I’m shoveling in more food.
“You disagree?” she counters, refilling my bowl.
“I’m not strong. It’s why I’m stuck here,” I mumble. The words taste like acid on my tongue.
“What makes you think you’re stuck?” The question is painful, but her tone belies her sympathy.
“You need money to get away, but I’m only given enough of an allowance to barely afford any essentials I need. So, it takes time to save up.” And at this rate, I’ll be able to escape in fifty years.
“You’re a little old for an allowance, are you not?”
And there it is, folks. I must be worthless if I need an allowance. Why don’t I just get a job? I see it in everyone’s eyes.
Dropping my spoon back into the bowl, I push back from the table to stand. The chair makes a horrendous scuffing noise against the hardwood floor. “Thank you for your hospitality. What do I owe you for the delicious meal so I can be on my way?”
Emotions claw at my throat as they burn my nose and eyes, threatening to overwhelm me.
“Please sit. I didn’t mean to insult. I was merely curious.”
I shake my head.
“You don’t owe me anything. I wished to do a kindness, your presence was all the payment I desired.”
Turning on my heels, I try to quickly move through the shop before I allow the dam to break on my emotions.
“Wait!” I pause in the main room at her voice. “What brought you to my shop?”
It’s a valid question. I can’t imagine she gets many visitors in this town.
Reaching into my back pocket, I hand her the card I found in the library. “I found it. Someone must have dropped it.”
She shakes her head, jingling the chains around her neck. “I don’t pass these out. They are spelled to find those who need me. Drawing my shop to them.”
“I don’t understand,” I admit, feeling like a prized idiot.
“I travel a lot for work. But when the need is desperate enough, my entire shop will appear. This lot must have been empty, so when my cards discovered you needed me. Whoosh.”
“And here you are?”
“Here I am. For you.” She reaches out her hand, allowing enough space for me to make a conscious decision.
Close the distance or run away screaming?