She is pure beauty.
When she touches my tomb, the stirrings of life become stronger. Could she be the one to free me?
I must get closer, yet I’m trapped inside this damned glass confinement. If only I could get her attention. She speaks the name of a warlock, the devil who imprisoned me.
Francois Beaumont.
Renewed anger swirls around my prison.
The glass rattles but doesn’t make a sound. Suddenly the world tilts and the stopper keeping me from my freedom falls out.
Brows drawn, Ophelia stood and cautiously approached the bottle. After picking up the cork, she placed it back in the top, sealing it once more. The glass warmed under her touch and sensations of…something she’d never felt filled her. It was like a low hum of electricity that sent tingles up her arms.
She set the bottle upright on the counter, then turned to her gramma, noting she had finished her finger sandwich and tea. Gramma was also eyeing the bottle like she expected it to jump up and bite someone. Or a demon to pop out and destroy them all.
Ophelia shook her head and sat in her seat to finish her sandwiches.
“I don’t think the bottle needs to stay in the house.” Gramma’s voice was soft, yet stern. Ophelia swore she picked up on a hint of fear in the tone.
Come on. It was a bottle. Nothing more. Ophelia didn’t believe in magick or ghosts. “It’s an old bottle. I think it’s pretty.”
“Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. If there were ever a time you needed to open your eyes to magick and the world around you, now is it.” Gramma met Ophelia’s stare. An odd flash rippled through her gramma’s green eyes.
Impossible. I’m tired. That’s all.
“I think we’re both tired.” When her gramma yawned, Ophelia nodded. “See? Off to bed with you.”
She wheeled Gramma to her room. “Tomorrow we can bundle up and eat breakfast on the porch.”
It was one of the things Ophelia missed. Sitting on the porch in the crisp fall mornings with a cup of hot cocoa in her hands. And Gramma beside her.
A pang hit her heart. This was the last fall she’d get to spend with Gramma.
Her grandmother sighed a little too dramatically. “Fine, ignore my warning. Ignore your fate.”
Fate? What was she talking about?
After helping her gramma into bed, Ophelia tucked her in and kissed her cheek. “Night, Gramma.”
“Night, dear.”
Ophelia hovered by the door. A nagging feeling pitched at her insides. Something she couldn’t ignore, yet she had no idea what it was. “Gramma, you did know Francois Beaumont, didn’t you?”
Gramma dropped her shoulders, then patted the bed beside her. “Come, sit.”
When Ophelia sat on the bed next to her gramma, she took her thin, frail hand in hers. Gramma covered their linked fingers, giving a gentle squeeze. “Francois was a disturbed and power-hungry man. It wasn’t enough that he was the most powerful warlock on the eastern coast of the US. He wanted immortality. Little did the coven know that he’d already lived hundreds of years. Our best guess was he was at least five centuries old when he died.”
Ophelia suppressed her groan of frustration. Would Gramma ever stop with the witch and magick stories? Yet, Ophelia did ask, so she had to play along with Gramma’s storytelling. “How did he live so long?”
Gramma stared into the distance as if remembering something. Something terrible. Her hand grew cold and Ophelia rubbed it. Whatever Gramma was remembering, whether true or a false memory, affected her deeply.
After a pause, Gramma turned to Ophelia. “Francois collected souls…in glass bottles and jars, sealing them with magick. When the coven discovered what he was doing, they kicked him out and banned him from performing magick. He grew angry and the number of missing tourists escalated, even as young as teenagers. As it turned out, he was killing people to harvest their souls to not only extend his life, but to grow his power. His was into dark magick.”
Gramma was holding onto Ophelia’s hand so tightly, it began to tingle from the lack of blood flow. The earlier fear she saw in her grandmother’s eyes when she spotted the bottle had manifested in a swirling string of emotion around them. The air in the room cooled at least ten degrees.
Ridiculous.
Gramma continued. “The coven had no choice but to step in and stop him. We gathered outside Francois’s house while he slept and performed a ritual to trap him inside. Then we burned the house down.”
Wow. Her grandmother just admitted to burning a man to death. What the hell? First, Gramma said he was a dark magick warlock, then she spoke of killing him like it was expected, or normal. Why hadn’t the police gotten involved?
After a long moment, Ophelia took a deep breath and released it slowly. “So, if he’s dead then he’s no threat. Why all the crazy ghost stories?”
“Oh, honey, please focus. Look inside yourself and find that magick you were born with. Believe.” Gramma brought their hands to her heart. “That bottle you brought home is one that was in that fire. It survived when the others didn’t. I believe it means something. And if you felt a need to have it, then you are connected to it. It called to your magick and you responded. You have to look inside and find out what it all means.”
Ophelia shook her head. Gramma’s pleas touched a deep part of her, yet her mind couldn’t wrap around the idea that any of this was real. Magick didn’t exist. “Francois is dead. You and your so-called coven killed him.” She eased off the bed and kissed her gramma on the forehead. “He can’t kill or hurt anyone else again. Not that I believe he was evil to begin with.”
“Dark magick never truly dies.”
With another sigh, Ophelia said, “Goodnight, Gramma.”
With a heavy heart, Ophelia returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning. As she passed the bottle, a chill slid up her spine. She studied the bottle for several long moments before shaking her head.
No, she didn’t believe in magick and she never would. That wasn’t the real world. Gramma was living a fantasy.
Once the dishes were washed and the house locked up for the night, Ophelia carried the bottle to her room. Setting it on top of her dresser, she hovered her hands around the glass. It seemed to have lost some of the glow—for lack of a better word—it had when she bought it.
Odd.
Just then a chill passed over her neck and left arm. The sensation of fingers brushing her skin made her jump and twist around. Her heart hammered. Nothing was there.
The room was empty.
Scaredy-cat. Ugh. All the talk about ghosts, spirits, and dark warlocks had made her jumpy.
As she pulled her dresser drawer open to take out her white cotton nightgown, the sounds of thunder rumbled outside, shaking the old windowpanes. Great. A storm.
After changing, she crawled into bed and picked up the book she started the night before. She hated thunderstorms. They always sat on the side of creepy to her.
Reading calmed her. It always helped take her mind off the storm.
Lightning flashed outside her window followed by a crack of thunder so loud, she squeaked and damn near jumped out of her skin. Her hands shook as she reached for her sleeping pills on the nightstand. When she picked up the bottle, the bulb blew out in her lamp, throwing the room into darkness.
Another flash of lightning lit up the space for a second. But in that second, she swore she saw a figure standing in her doorway.
Fear froze her to her spot in bed. After a few moments, she snatched her cell phone and turned on the flashlight app. When she shined the light in the direction of the man, or whatever it was, she sighed in relief. Nothing.
Her mind was playing tricks on her because of the creepy storm and Gramma’s ghost stories.
Nothing more.
Ophelia popped a couple sleeping pills, because, yeah, she wasn’t sleeping without them tonight. Then she sunk farther under her blanket and closed her eyes. Tomorrow was another day of work helping Gramma, and hopefully, no more talk of ghosts and goblins.