Sleep Stalker (Ghosts Beyond the Grove Book 1) (7 page)

     The receipt from my trip to the grocery store was still lying on the kitchen counter so I snatched it up and flipped it over to the blank side.  On it, I wrote down the only words I really cared to share with him at the moment.

     “Don’t forget we need to go home this weekend to get my car.”  I placed his car keys on top of my message then left for the bus stop.

      Work was a pleasant distraction for the first few hours.  Poe’s Corner was packed with patrons so I didn’t have time to stew over my problems at home.  Addie and I slung latte after latte with barely any conversation.  It was afternoon before I knew it.  When the flood of customers turned into a mere trickle, Addie was ecstatic.  I, however, was not. 

     My mind had barely begun its slow spiral down into things I didn’t want to think about when it got a rough shove into the abyss.  It all started with a text from Rita.

     “No matches to any known entities.  Even consulted with colleagues.  Nothing in O’Hare history relevant either.  I don’t think Zach’s being haunted.  Ask your dad for medical advice.  Sorry.”

     Exactly the words I
didn’t
want to hear.  Was I jumping to conclusions or was she suggesting that something was incredibly wrong with Zach?  And by that, I meant mentally.  His behavior was abnormal for sure but that didn’t mean he was going crazy, did it? 
Did it?
  No, there had to be a ghost involved.  I felt crazy myself for hoping that the answer lay somewhere in the supernatural realm.  Ghosts I could deal with.  Psychological breakdowns, not so much. 

     Addie asked me what was wrong but I refused to tell her.  I chalked it up to being tired and changed the subject.  So for the next hour we talked about things less personal and controversial.  We entered a particularly interesting conversation about her grandmother.

     “Granny runs a couture jewelry store in the French Quarter—Elva’s Armoire.  She makes a fair amount of money sellin’ those baubles to tourists but what she has for sale in the backroom is what brings in the real moolah,” Addie proudly announced to anyone within earshot.

     I was afraid to ask what she sold in her infamous backroom.  And by the looks on the few customers’ faces, I wasn’t alone in my thoughts.  Even Miss Mabel, the resident ghost, bore a look of Victorian shame before disappearing into the bookshelf altogether.  So apparently I wasn’t the only one picturing a lady in her early sixties wearing tassels and very little else.  I wanted to stop worrying about Zach but this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.  But before my overactive imagination filled in any more of the salacious blanks, Addie explained exactly what was in the backroom of Elva’s Armoire. 

     “That’s where Granny keeps the good stuff—voodoo charms, amulets, potions, etc.  She also gives tarot readings, too.  But all of that stuff is strictly off limits to tourists.  Ya have to know somebody who knows somebody to get access to powerful things like that.  I mean, she won’t even give
me
the combination to the safe back there!”

     That was only slightly better than what I
had
been picturing.  Now instead of gold tassels and sturdy stripper poles, I had visions of headless chickens, necklaces made from freshly stripped bone, and zombie bouncers guarding the door.  And I thought
my
life was weird!  I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be the granddaughter of a voodoo queen.  But then again, I couldn’t actually imagine being
anyone’s
granddaughter.  And there it was—the second thing that I didn’t want to think about.

     My dad’s parents died before I was born.  My mom’s parents were more elusive than she was.  Were they even still alive?  Grrr!  The more I thought about it the sadder I felt because finding them seemed impossible.  At the moment, everything seemed impossible. 

     Addie halted all talk of voodoo when she saw that I was near tears.  “What’s wrong, girl?  And don’t try tellin’ me that you’re only tired.  Tired don’t bring tears.”

     Knowing that Addie lost both of her parents at a relatively young age made me realize that she would probably understand why I was thinking about my mother so much lately.  So I told her the truth—at least the part about my family. 

     “My mother died when I was four.  I don’t even remember her.  Not one single thing.  But I got to see her briefly on prom night.  Ever since then, I’ve been trying to find out more about her—more about the grandparents who disowned her when she was pregnant with me.”

     With no new customers waiting to be served, Addie plopped down at the table nearest to the counter and motioned for me to join her. 

     “So what about your dad?  Can’t he fill in the blanks for you?”

     When I meet someone new, it usually takes me awhile to decide whether or not to open up to them—and I mean
really
open up to them.  There’s typically a defining moment—something they’ve said or done that makes me realize whether or not telling them the whole truth is a good idea.  This was Addie’s moment.  It was the fact that she listened to me say that I saw my dead mother’s ghost on prom night yet didn’t see that as the most important piece of information.  I decided there was definitely room for one more person in my loop of weirdness. 

     “Not really.  He didn’t know a lot about her himself.  He said that she was mysterious and that he liked her that way.  Zach and I visited the dance company in Philadelphia where she used to work, but she was there so long ago.  No one knew who she was.  I’m starting to wonder if she had some seriously messed up skeletons in her closet.  Jail time maybe?  I don’t know.  I tried searching the internet for information but all I found were a few archive photos of her and her fellow dancers.  I don’t even know where she was from.”

     Addie’s eyes flashed with what appeared to be a spark of genius.  “Hold that thought!” she said as she leapt from her chair and disappeared behind the counter. 

     She was only gone a moment then returned carrying her purse, a leopard print nylon bag with pink skull-shaped studs gracing the handles.  Seeing her bag alone would have been enough to convince me to see that we were kindred spirits at least fashion-wise.  However, what she pulled out of that freakishly delightful accessory frightened me.  And scaring
me
wasn’t a job for amateurs.

     “Pick one, then we will consume its contents,” she instructed as she placed several small clay pots onto the table in front of me. 

     The pots were all brightly painted in a kaleidoscope of earth tone colors, each bearing a different symbol on its lid.  For some reason, I found them all to be creepy.  Under normal circumstances, they would be bad enough as it was.  But the fact that they were being offered to me by the granddaughter of a voodoo queen, the possibilities for what they contained were downright grim.  And
consuming
what was inside?  I think not.

     As I protested her offer, she laughed.  “I know what you’re thinkin’, Ruby.  You’re thinkin’ there’s some weird voodoo powders in them—powdered goat livers or somethin’ stereotypical that like.  But you’re wrong.  Tea.  Normal, mundane tea is all that’s inside them.  Pick one and we’ll drink it.”

     If she had known the situation I was in when I was last offered tea, she would have understood that in retrospect, powdered goat livers may have been a better choice for me.  I hated tea to begin with but I found that my aversion to it grew exponentially after a serial killer force fed it to me while holding me captive.  I shook my head no again with the explanation that I hated tea but she still insisted.

     “Just pick one!  These aren’t the bland tea bags ya find down at the Piggly Wiggly.  One sip and I promise that I will change your mind about tea forever.”

     “Okay,” I consented begrudgingly, “one sip.  But I have no idea what a Piggly Wiggly is and I probably don’t want to, either.”  I took a second to contemplate my choice before pointing to the pot with what looked like a turtle lying on its shell.  “That one.”

     “You ain’t never heard of the Piggly Wiggly?  It’s only the best grocery store in the whole wide world.  I keep forgettin’ that I’m livin’ above the Mason Dixon Line.”  She gathered up the other pots and tossed them back into her bag.  “The hipster at table four is gatherin’ to leave.  Buss his table while I brew us up your selection.”

     As I wiped down his table, my phone gave a buzz from my back pocket.  Normally, I wouldn’t have whipped my phone out at work but I figured that Addie wouldn’t mind.  It was a text from Zach.  Not so long ago, I was excited to read every word he sent to me.  But with his recent strange behavior, I opened the message with trepidation.

     “Let me take you to dinner tonight.”

     His words seemed harmless enough but I knew better than to take them at face value—or more precisely,
him
at face value.  Not after the last few days anyway.  The shopping trip he wanted to take me on fell by the wayside because of our hellacious argument.  I sent a one word reply.  “Okay.”  If dinner happened, it happened.  If it didn’t, oh well.  At least we would be avoiding the possibility of a public fight if we stayed home.  There was no way I was going to let us become one of
those
couples, the ones who freely ripped each others’ throats out in front of strangers.  No, I was going to keep our dysfunction hidden as much as possible.

     I finished cleaning the table at the same time Addie was finished making the tea.  I sat back down and she slid a steaming cup of blood red liquid my direction.  Yeah, I was seriously considering taking back my guarantee that I would at least take a taste of it.  Wrinkling my nose with disgust, I asked her exactly what was in my cup.

     “Moroccan Rooibos Red,” she announced as though she expected me to know exactly what that was.  “I’m a teomancer.  I can even tell things about someone based solely on which pot of tea they pick.  Your choice tells me that you’re unique yet strong in your own weird way.”

     Her description of me was pretty much dead on.  “What’s a teomancer?” I asked, now more intrigued than skeptical. 

     “It’s a word I made up,” she said matter-of-factly while blowing lightly on the surface of her drink to cool it off.

     Once again, I felt like I was at the Mad Hatter’s tea party.  At least this time I knew that Addie wasn’t a psycho like Jonas was.  She wasn’t going to drug me and try to make me her bride.  I don’t think.

     “Okay, so what does this made up word of yours mean?” 

     “Teomancy is the technical term for tea leaf readin’ which makes me a teomancer.  I’m gonna tell your fortune based on what I see inside your cup once the tea’s gone.  So drink up.”

     I blew on it until the steam subsided then took a mouthful.  Instantly, I regretted it.  It tasted like dirt.  Dirt with a hint of vanilla followed by the aftertaste of more dirt. 

     “Eww!  It’s gross!  Do I really have to drink it to get my leaves read?  Or can I just pour it down the drain now so we can get to the important stuff?”

     “If you want an accurate readin’, you’ll drink it.  If you want me to look in that cup and see the sink’s fortune, you’ll pour it out.  It’s up to you.  For real, though—the cup gathers your energy as ya drink it.  Your readin’ will be more potent if ya actually consume it.  And think about any pressin’ issues in your life while you’re doin’ it.”

     Sigh.  Of course I wanted to know
my
fortune—not that I expected it to be positive or anything.  Things with Zach weren’t going the way I’d hoped and planned.  My life was as unpalatable as that Moroccan Rooibos right about now.  I pulled a fresh roll of mints out of my pocket, slit it open with my thumbnail, and placed them on the table beside my cup.  As soon as that tea was gone, I was popping half of them into my mouth to keep the vanilla dirt from lingering.

     “Bottoms up!” I exclaimed sarcastically then took yet another mouthful.  I kept alternating between drinking and pausing for a brief gag session until the cup was nearly empty.

     “Stop, that’s enough.  Now swirl that little bit around—counterclockwise, please.  Then when you’re ready, place your cup on the saucer, upside down.”

     I probably should have concentrated on one aspect of my life that was troubling me.  But me being me, I thought about two things equally—Zach and my mom.  When I got tired of swirling, I flipped the cup over and slid the saucer across the table to Addie. 

     She waited a moment for the tea to drain out, then turned it right side up.  Silently, she turned the cup around, looking at it from all directions.  After a moment, I heard her whisper one word under her breath.

     “Weird.”

     “Yeah, everything about me is weird.  I’m kind of used to it by now.  What do you see?”

     She slid her chair closer to mine and allowed me to peek at the tea leaf patterns myself.  “Before I say anythin’, what do
you
see?”    

     I expected to find a scattering of leaves spread evenly around the surface of the cup.  Instead, there were two distinct clumps near the handle that were instantly recognizable shapes to me.

     “This,” I said, pointing to the one near the top, “looks like a feather.  And the one at the bottom is in the shape of a footprint.”