The Witch Is Dead

  SHIRLEY DAMSGAARD

  THE WITCH IS DEAD

  To Sheba.

  May your spirit run with the wolves,

  my old friend.

  Contents

  Prologue

  A hot, summer wind tossed the clouds across the night…

  One

  Tink stood with her nose pressed to the large plate-glass…

  Two

  Before I reached the front steps, the screen door slammed…

  Three

  Oh, Lord, even my eyelids hurt, I thought, as I…

  Four

  A quick look at my watch told me that I…

  Five

  I noticed my hands were shaking, and I felt icy…

  Six

  Since Darci’s classes started in two weeks, I struggled to…

  Seven

  “Ophelia,” Darci said, “this is Gertrude Duncan.”

  Eight

  The light on the base of the cordless phone glowed…

  Nine

  Friday night Darci had arrived as early as promised. As…

  Ten

  “Tink, I think the pole goes in that pocket,” I…

  Eleven

  Tink and I were up at dawn to break camp…

  Twelve

  As I walked into the viewing room at the funeral…

  Thirteen

  As I walked into the library Tuesday morning, Darci hurried…

  Fourteen

  I examined my face in the mirror on my vanity…

  Fifteen

  “How was your date?” I heard Tink ask through the…

  Sixteen

  Confused, I followed close on Abby’s heels as we walked…

  Seventeen

  “Kevin’s nice, isn’t he?” Tink commented when we arrived home…

  Eighteen

  “Quit pacing, Ophelia. It won’t bring Tink home any sooner,”…

  Nineteen

  The scenery flew by the car window, but my unseeing…

  Twenty

  The phone began ringing at 7:00 A.M. Throwing off the…

  Twenty-One

  We escorted Aunt Dot across the yard to the summerhouse.

  Twenty-Two

  We removed our robes for Abby to wash later and…

  Twenty-Three

  “Here, are these okay?” Darci asked, handing me a stack…

  Twenty-Four

  The Muzak version of the Beatles’ “Paperback Writer” sounded softly…

  Twenty-Five

  We killed the hours between Aunt Dot’s appointment and noon…

  Twenty-Six

  It wouldn’t do to leave Darci’s car along the gravel…

  Twenty-Seven

  I woke up to a silent house. Abby and Aunt…

  Twenty-Eight

  “Where are we going?”

  Twenty-Nine

  I sat on the passenger side of Ethan’s car with…

  Thirty

  The need to wash away the scent of death I…

  Thirty-One

  When we pulled into the driveway twenty minutes later, Ethan…

  Thirty-Two

  We waited until the patrol car arrived at Christopher’s.

  Thirty-Three

  The tears wouldn’t stop.

  Thirty-Four

  I wandered the dark, silent house. I’d tried to sleep,…

  Thirty-Five

  I tore through the library, passing a startled Darci and…

  Thirty-Six

  I couldn’t let go of Tink’s hand as Bill took…

  About the Author

  Others Books by Shirley Damsgaard

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  A hot, summer wind tossed the clouds across the night sky and tugged at the girl’s nightgown as she walked down the path. Above her, leaves whispered, calling her deeper and deeper into the woods. From a distance came the hoot of a solitary owl.

  The girl lifted her head, sniffing the humid air. The smell of damp vegetation tickled her nose. She paused. Another scent rode the night breeze, swirling around her like a fog. She took a deep breath and her stomach twisted. Rotten meat. Did a carcass of a dead animal lie spoiling past the trees on her right? Violet eyes searched the darkness but saw nothing.

  A trickle of dread shot up her spine. Should she turn and run, back to the safety of the Victorian cottage she shared with Ophelia, her guardian? But something pulled her forward. She took another step, and the smell intensified. Again her stomach threatened to revolt. She struggled to swallow the rising bile. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her dread changed to fear.

  What waited in the woods?

  She turned and swiftly retraced her steps along the path. Sanctuary waited for her beyond the trees that lay ahead. A soft bed with cool sheets, her room with her familiar things, her pets.

  Her steps quickened.

  Suddenly she froze. Behind her she heard the low moan of someone in pain. Lowering her head, she felt a current of panic travel through her nerve endings like electricity. She willed her feet to move, but they wouldn’t. The moan, closer now, was more like a hiss.

  Slowly, she turned.

  Chalky gray faces with dark hollow eyes peered at her from the shadows, moving in noiseless unison from behind the trees. As if a silent signal had been given, they gathered in a group at the end of the path. Their clothes hung in tatters from their decaying bodies. Bony hands stretched out in supplication, while their bloated lips moved in wordless pleas.

  She recoiled in horror.

  The corpses moved toward her, and their pain washed over her in waves. Her throat tightened. A scream rose from deep inside her. She wanted to run but couldn’t. Helpless, she watched the horrible sight drift closer and closer.

  She tried to jerk her body free, but seemed glued to the pathway. What was wrong with her legs? Why couldn’t she flee?

  Ophelia, she cried in her mind, Ophelia, help me! Help me, please!

  They were nearly upon her, and she felt their foul breath surround her.

  Her mind cried out again for rescue, but silence was the only reply.

  Resigned to her fate, she clenched her eyes shut and waited for the skeletal hands to grab her. Any second now the horror would touch her.

  The seconds stretched into minutes. She sniffed the air. The stench that had enveloped her was gone. Slowly, she peeked from scrunched up lids. Nothing. Cautiously she opened her eyes wide.

  The vision was gone.

  The woods were gone.

  The ghouls were gone.

  She was safe in her own bed, in her own room. Relief flooded her. Her body began to relax.

  Abruptly, the relief she felt fled. She knew what the dream meant.

  With heavy hands she threw off the sheet covering her and rose stiffly. Silently, she walked out of her room, down the hall, and into the next bedroom. Approaching the bed, she reached out and shook the sleeping figure.

  “What?” Ophelia bolted up and scanned the room, disoriented. Spotting Tink standing over her, she lay back against her pillows with a sigh. “Tink.”

  “I’m scared, Ophelia,” the girl whispered.

  “Here,” Ophelia said, patting the mattress and scooting over.

  Without a word, Tink sank down next to her.

  “Did you have a bad dream?” Ophelia asked, softly stroking Tink’s blond hair.

  Silently, Tink shook her head.

  Alarmed, Ophelia sat upright. “What’s wrong, Tink?”

  Tink wrapped her thin arms around herself. “Ophelia, the shadows are back.”

  One

  Tink stood with her nose pressed to the large plate-glass window, then whirled around, her thin f
ace a picture of excitement. “Look,” she said. “Do you think that’s Aunt Dot’s plane?”

  From where I sat next to Abby, I searched Tink’s face to see any lingering signs of last night’s vision. Her eyes seemed clear, not shadowed as they had been. Her smile seemed real, not forced. Relieved, I smiled back. “It should be landing soon.” I glanced at my watch, then up at the large monitor showing the arrival times of flights. “It’s three-thirty now, and the flight from Raleigh is supposed to arrive at 4:05.”

  Tink turned away and went back to her vigil. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Abby studying me, her face mirroring the consternation my face had worn when watching Tink.

  “What?” I said defensively.

  My grandmother lifted an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Her voice carried the soft lilt of the mountains in Appalachia where she was born.

  Scrunching my eyes shut and rubbing my forehead, I thought about how to answer her.

  Do I tell her about Tink’s nightmare? I didn’t want to upset her. Abby hadn’t seen her mother’s sister, Dot, since her visit three years ago to her girlhood home. My grandmother had anticipated Aunt Dot’s visit to Iowa for months. I didn’t want anything to mar it.

  Opening my eyes, I slid a look at Abby sitting there, the picture of calm. Her silver hair was done in a neat twist at the back of her head. She wore a floral skirt and ivory shell with a matching scarf. An understated amethyst broach, one that my grandfather had given her many years ago, held the scarf in place on her shoulder. She was elegant and charming.

  Unfortunately, it’s hard to hide things from your grandmother when she’s a psychic witch. Even if you’re one yourself.

  I blew out a breath. “Okay,” I replied reluctantly. “Tink had a dream last night—”

  “A dream or a dream?” Abby asked, breaking in.

  “A vision. Rotten corpses walking toward her in the woods.”

  “How awful for Tink.” Abby’s lips tightened. “What did they want?”

  “I don’t know. Tink said they definitely wanted something. They were approaching her with their hands outstretched, as if they were pleading, but they never spoke.”

  Abby tapped her chin. “Hmm, whether we like it or not, evidently some sort of connection with Tink has been made.” Her eyes wandered over to where Tink stood at the window. “That girl is a strong medium. Her energy must be a beacon to restless souls.”

  “Any way we can tamp that energy down?”

  Abby shook her head. “No, she and I have tried. She’s gaining more control over her talent, but as she grows older, the talent is growing stronger.” She paused. “Did you say ‘corpses,’ not ‘corpse’?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “So it’s more than one spirit trying to reach her?”

  “I guess. Is that important?”

  She gave me a knowing look. “Ophelia, as a psychic, by now you should know every little detail can have meaning.”

  I glanced back at Tink. “It’s significant that there was more than one?”

  “Yes.” Abby’s face lightened. “She hasn’t been by a cemetery recently, has she?”

  “I don’t think so. She doesn’t like them, you know. She says there are too many voices to overcome. A few always manage to break through her guard.”

  “Well, another explanation might be a mass death somewhere.”

  “You mean like a plane crash, or train wreck?”

  She nodded again. “Yes. The combined energy of the spirits is breaking through her resistance.”

  “I haven’t heard of any recent tragedies, have you?”

  “No, but Tink’s vision doesn’t have to be about something that happened recently. It could be out of the past.”

  “How ‘past’?” I asked with a frown.

  Abby lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe once Aunt Dot arrives, she can shed some light on what’s happening to Tink. After all, she’s lived all these years with Aunt Mary, and Mary’s the most powerful medium that I’ve ever known.”

  I shuddered at the mention of Great-Aunt Mary’s name. I’d met her as a child when Abby took me to the mountains. Great-Aunt Mary had struck fear in my adolescent heart. Towering over me, she had a way of drilling me with her green eyes that made me want to confess every childhood misdemeanor I’d ever committed.

  Abby picked up on my reaction and patted my knee. “Don’t worry, dear. Aunt Dot is nothing like Mary.”

  “I know. She’s the exact opposite, if I remember correctly.”

  She smiled. “Yes, she is. She’s still as wide as she is tall. Whenever I think of her, I see her standing in the kitchen, in her cotton dress and orthopedic shoes, with both hands in some bowl, mixing away. And she always smelled like cinnamon.”

  Abby’s memories of Aunt Dot matched mine. I grinned as I let my gaze fall on the book Tink had brought to read. Picking it up, I thumbed through it.

  “That kid!” I exclaimed.

  “What is it, dear?”

  Holding out the book, I showed it to Abby. “Tink marks her place by turning down the corner of the page. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her not to do it.”

  “Isn’t that one of the paperbacks she bought last week at the bookstore in Aiken?” Abby asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s her book. She can do what she wants,” she said with a lift of her shoulder.

  “But it’s disrespectful.”

  She gave me a playful nudge with her elbow. “Quit being such a librarian, Ophelia.”

  “I suppose,” I responded reluctantly, and put the book back on the seat next to me.

  To kill time, my eyes traveled around the room, looking at the others who were waiting.

  My gaze halted as I noticed someone sitting on the other side of the room who seemed familiar.

  His eyes, behind horn-rimmed glasses, were downcast as he studied the papers he held in his hand. He wore black pants and a pale pink oxford shirt open at the throat. His expensive loafers were polished until they gleamed, and his dark blond hair was streaked and artfully tousled. A successful businessman waiting for his flight.

  But something about the way he held himself struck a chord in my memory. He lifted his head. To my chagrin, he caught me staring at him.

  Sleet-gray eyes dared me to respond.

  It was Cobra! The biker I’d threatened not only with my Louisville Slugger, but also with a hex.

  At the time, I wanted nothing more than to see him thrown in jail. That’s what he and the rest of his biker gang deserved for trying to take over our town of Summerset.

  That is, until I found out he was an undercover DEA agent.

  I cringed, recalling my behavior, and felt my face grow warm. The hex and the bat weren’t my most shining moments. But it wasn’t all my fault—I really had thought he was one of the bad guys. And he’d played along.

  Here was my chance to redeem myself.

  He looked away, engrossing himself again in his papers.

  How had he signed that note he’d passed to me? The one I was given as he loaded the last of the bikers into the police van? Oh yeah. “Ethan.” That was it.

  Mumbling a quick “Pardon me” to Abby, I crossed the room.

  “Hi, Cobra,” I said, taking the seat next to him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Or should I say ‘Ethan’?” I asked, trying to sound confident.

  He acted confused. “Ethan?”

  Crap, had I made a mistake? I decided to brazen it out. “Yeah, Ethan. That’s your real name, isn’t it? It’s how you signed the note you gave me. You know, the one that said, ‘Until we meet again, keep your head down, and don’t fall off your broom.’”

  “Broom?” He shifted in his seat and gave me a wary look. “Some guy thinks you’re a witch?”

  “Ah, well…” I studied his face more intently. Nope, he was Cobra—I’d know those gray eyes anywhere. I nudged him in the arm. “Come on, Co—er, Ethan, you know
I’m the librarian in Summerset.” I wiped my suddenly sweaty palms on my denim skirt. “And about this witch thing…I’d like to apologize for my remarks. You see—”

  “You’re a librarian who’s a witch?” His voice carried a note of alarm as he shrank farther away from me.

  I felt the heat creep up my neck and into my face. “You’re not Ethan?” I asked with a squeak in my voice.

  “No,” he replied, shuffling the papers in his hand. “You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone else.”

  Peachy. I’d just convinced a complete stranger that I was a psycho. Good one, Jensen.

  Dropping my head, I stared at my hands clutched tightly in my lap and tried to think of some witty response.

  Finally I peeked over at him. “Sorry,” I muttered through clenched teeth.

  With a rapid shuffle of his papers, he shoved them into his briefcase and stood.

  Sensing him staring down at me, I raised my head and watched as he hooked his glasses in his front pocket. Again I was struck by his gray eyes.

  Only now they weren’t cold.

  Instead, they sparkled with humor.

  He hoisted his carryon to his shoulder and grinned. “Give my regards to Sheriff Wilson, Ophelia,” he said with a wink. He spoke so quietly only I could hear him.

  Before I could close my gaping mouth and utter a scathing reply, he turned on his heel and walked swiftly to the escalators. He gave me one last look over his shoulder, accompanied by a salute, before he disappeared up the escalator.

  Dang, Cobra had tricked me again.

  Twenty minutes later we were standing near the metal detectors watching the passengers disembark the plane from Raleigh. Tink shifted from one foot to the next as she craned her neck, trying to be the first one to spot Aunt Dot.