The Memory Witch (17 page)

“Dammit!” I slammed down another spell book. I had found the original spell Stella had done on me, but had yet to find something to counteract the effects. Each day that passed, the more anxious I became over getting my memory back. I hated the control my mother and Stella had over me. They had no right to hold my memories hostage for ten years. I wanted to know what happened to me and I wished to remember my father again.

I looked out of the window and saw a few flurries of snow falling to the ground. A snowstorm with possibly a foot of snow would be arriving any minute. Stella had gone to visit a sick friend in town and I hoped Mason picked her up before the storm. She was a terrible driver and relied on Mason to chauffeur her around in the sedan. I rose up from my chair, but stopped short when I noticed the spell that the book had opened to when I slammed it down. It was a spell to communicate with a spirit.

My chest ached.
My father.
Even though he’d been dead and buried for years, there was a way to reach him. I wouldn’t need to recover my memories if I was able to talk to him. He could tell me the truth about what was so horrible that my mother felt the need to sign a year of my life over to a witch.

With frenzied movements, I began to gather up all of the items required for the spell. I had a gut feeling Stella would disapprove of the spell, which meant I had to perform it somewhere she wouldn’t find me.

The woods. My insides twisted at the idea of heading to the one place I most feared. My need to see my father outweighed my hesitation. I had a chance to have a real memory of him and not only know him from photographs.

I grabbed my messenger bag and stashed everything I needed inside of it. I also pulled on my parka and hat. I didn’t want to freeze to death while summoning the dead.

The walk into the woods was eerily quiet. The frigid weather had chased all of the living things into hibernation. The only noise was the occasional crow that cawed overhead. I was pleased when the snow tapered off. If the storm were slow moving, I would maybe have more time until Stella returned home.

My hands began to tremble with fear. My nightmares had been flush with the horrors that could happen to a girl alone with the woods and I didn’t want to tempt fate. “Don’t think about it,” I whispered to myself.

I didn’t travel deeply into the woods. I had no desire to get lost during a snowstorm and the tree line afforded enough privacy. In a small clearing, I set out a black blanket and the three candles required for the spell. I set the candles a good distance from the trees.

My hands were shaking with anticipation. I set out a gold plated bowl in the middle of the three candles. The candles were bone white and were intended to attract those from the spirit world. I lit the candles and kneeled before the bowl. I removed a picture of my father from my pocket. I moistened the paper with manuka oil and concentrated on thoughts of my dad. I concocted fabricated memories in my head. My father lifting me into his arms. Pushing me on a swing. Reading me a story until I fell asleep.

I set the picture aflame with one of the spirit invoking candles. “Come forth Ronald Jacobs to me. I command thee.”

Nothing happened. The ashes scattered into the bowl. I called again. “Come forth Ronald Jacobs to me. I command thee.”

The wind picked up. The new fallen snow stirred at my feet. I watched my breath escape my mouth in billowing puffs. Still nothing. No sign of my father.

I clenched my fists together. I was angry. I had been so successful in the past. Each spell had come easy to me. Stella insisted this was proof I was meant to live out my life as a practicing witch.

I dug deep inside of myself. I wanted to harness all of the magic that lived inside of my blood. I had avoided using magic for my own gain, but I was ready to make an exception. I needed a real memory of my father. I screamed into the wind, “Come forth Ronald Jacobs to me. I command thee.”

A gust of wind sent my hair flying in my face. Turning back, I cursed aloud since I was certain the breeze had blew out the candles. However, when I peered down, my altar was gone. I gasped and tried to make sense of what was going on. I shook my head in an attempt to clear my thoughts and establish whether I was dreaming or not. My movements stilled as I saw something in the corner of my peripheral vision. A figure was standing about ten feet away.

He looked like he had stepped out the photograph I had just burned. He hadn’t aged a day.

I had prepared myself for several scenarios. I expected an apparition. I would be able to see through him and not be able to touch him. As fear took hold of my heart, another vision came into my head. My dad had been shot in the head. What if he appeared as a horrific zombie complete with blood and gore?

Hesitantly, I took a step towards him. His eyes were what struck me at first. They weren’t the laughing and kind eyes of my mother’s collection of pictures and videos. They were the eyes of a sad and tormented soul.

“Dad?” I asked.

His eyes filled with recognition. “Quinny?” My heart soared when I heard his voice. My father had a nickname for me. He was here and he was saying my name.

In seconds, I tried to memorize everything about him. His face was young. He was trapped in the age of his death at thirty-one. His hair was brown and longish, hanging past his ears. He was dressed simply with a Boston University t-shirt he wore paired with a pair of jeans. He looked so real that I put my hand out without a second thought. I was shocked when I felt flesh.

“How?” I stuttered.

He looked concerned at my ability to touch him as well. After a long pause, he said, “I think you may be on the spiritual plane with me.”

I was about to disagree, but I began to take notice how deathly quiet it was. The noisy birds had silenced their angry caws. The weather was different too. I was no longer chilled to the bone. The temperature was completely neutral, which explained how my father could be wearing a t-shirt in lieu of an impending snowstorm.

“Quinn, what happened? Were you in an accident?”

Oh, I thought, he guessed I was dead like him. I didn’t know how much time I had with him and tried to think of the shortest explanation possible. “I’m not dead…I don’t know how much you know about witchcraft…”

He stopped me. “Oh, your mother’s family helped you get here.”

I didn’t contradict him. I had more pressing issues to discuss. “Dad, are you okay?”

His dark eyes looked past me. “Let’s not talk about me. Tell me about you.”

What kind of summary could I give my dead father to let him know about me? A hundred thousand memories flooded my consciousness, but I tried to keep to the basics. “I’m eighteen and graduated with honors. I have plans to attend Lehigh after taking a year off…” my voice trailed off. I questioned, “You’re not watching over me?”

My dad looked at me sadly. “It doesn’t work like that…what I did…it keeps me here,” he confessed.

“What did you do? What happened when I was eight?”

“Quinny, why are you asking me these questions? Don’t you know?”

My need to self-edit the truth appeared once again. “I blocked everything out and Mom won’t tell me. Dad, what happened?” I heard the plea in my voice.

He dropped my hand and turned away from me. “I’m so ashamed…”

“Dad, whatever it is, I can deal with it. I’m an adult now and I feel like…I can’t move on without knowing the truth.” A thought struck. “It could be the reason you’re stuck here. Maybe you need some sort of closure. Does it have to do with the person who killed you?”

He spun around. “What’s going on here? Are you really my daughter?”

I was thunderstruck by his response. “Of course I am. We have the same hair color and eyes. I know it’s been a long time…but I just figured you would know it was me on sight.” Tears pricked my eyes. Was I not what he expected? What was wrong with me that he didn’t instantly feel a bond?

“But your questions…they don’t make any sense. No one murdered me,” he claimed.

“What?” I choked out.

“Quinn!”

I stilled. A distant voice interrupted the quiet of the forest. My eyes darted around, but I couldn’t find the source. I ignored the call and stared back at my father. “But Mom said…”

“I don’t know what Bridget told you, but no one killed me Quinn. I killed myself,” he confessed.

“You did what? Why?”

“Quinn! Jesus Christ! You have to stop the spell!”

The voice was getting closer. My father made no acknowledgment of the interloper. Even if I wanted to leave this place, I had no idea how. I resolved to ignore the warning. My world was crashing around me and I had so many more questions for my dad.

“I’m so sorry, Quinn. It wasn’t your fault. But can you tell me why? Why would you go into the woods when we told you not to?”

“Dad,” I cried, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The guilt and the shame…it was too crushing. I couldn’t bear it…I felt sick every time I looked at you. Every time I looked in the mirror.” He was now talking more to himself than to me.

Before I could reply, I felt a pulling sensation. I was being taken away from this place against my will. “No!” I cried out. “Dad, I don’t have much time left here. You have to tell me. What was so awful that you couldn’t live any longer?”

He was fading before my eyes. His hands reached out and I grasped wildly at it. It was no use. The pull was too strong. I was falling away from him, the truth once again being stolen from me.

Arms were laid upon my shoulders and I was being shaken wildly. I lashed out and tried to punch whoever was gripping me. “Let me go!” I screamed.

“Quinn, what the hell is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Mason’s voice was pleading.

Mason was staring at me with a mixture of horror and revulsion. I tried to focus on his face, but I still felt my body convulsing. It took a moment to realize Mason’s hands were now at his sides. I slipped onto all fours in front of him. My stomach revolted and I launched into a fit of dry heaves. Something was very wrong.

“Quinn, what spell did you do? What was your offering?” Mason demanded urgently.

“I didn’t,” I croaked.

“Jesus Christ Quinn!” he admonished. “Haven’t you learned anything from my aunt?”

I watched him out of the corner of my eye and he was looking around in a pure panic. I heard him mumble, “This is bad, really bad.”

Since he wasn’t looking at me, I deduced he might not be referring to my sorry state. I forced my head up and let out a horrified gasp.

At least two-dozen crows were felled before me. The altar had reappeared and they lay in grotesque formations around it. Their dark bodies were a startling contrast to the freshly fallen snow. Their bodies were broken in unnatural ways. Their dead eyes stared lifeless into mine.

“Oh God…” I moaned.

“I was outside. Figured I get a jump on shoveling. I looked into the woods and I saw every bird that flew over, drop to the ground,” Mason said in a rush.

I tried to move, but I couldn’t. The tightness in my belly was worsening with every passing second. I thought I was shaking from the cold and fear, but it wasn’t the case. Something was physically happening to me. Nature was taking its payment for my spell.

“Mason…something’s wrong,” I spat out.

Mason kneeled before me without hesitation. “Oh Quinn.” He lifted me into his arms. I leaned into him to help control the way my body was shivering. As black spots danced before my eyes, I was sickened over the idea that I may be dying. I was going to die because of my sheer stupidity and my unwavering quest to find out the truth.

“Mason, am I dying?” I whispered.