When Darkness Calls

As we drove through our new town, acquainting ourselves with the layout, I noticed my mother became quiet.

“How are you feeling, Mom?” I asked her.

“A bit nostalgic,” she admitted, “but I have no regrets. I need a fresh start.”

I reached over and clasped her hand. “I know you do.”

She was right, a fresh start was necessary—for her at least. Except for me and a few family friends, my mother had been left alone in the world after my father’s death.

Her parents were alive and well, but they had cut ties with her when she had defied them and married my father. Though my mother’s parents were third-generation immigrants, they still held to their convictions and traditions.

Though my maternal grandparents remained a mystery to me, I had been close with my paternal grandparents.

Grandma and Grandpa Dupree had been a warm and loving couple who doted on me. My grandfather had contracted an aggressive cancer that had progressed at a rapid rate. He’d passed shortly after his diagnosis.

After his death, my grandmother, who’d always been healthy and active, began to experience a decline in health. Then, one day, seemingly out of the blue, we were informed she had died in her sleep.

When I’d expressed my confusion over her swift departure to my father, he’d told me my grandmother had died from broken heart syndrome.

After my father’s death, I’d worried that my mother would succumb to the same fate. She’d seemed to always be lethargic and hadn’t made a full recovery until she’d discovered Virginia Cole’s home on the market.

The purchase had seemed to offer her a new lease on life.

Though I still secretly begrudged my mother for uprooting us, I sat up a little straighter when the town square came into view.

The buildings we passed were all so uniform, it was almost eerie. Each one was a neat rectangle with identical windows and doors, painted in the same shade of beige.

It felt like we were driving through a movie set, everything too perfect and orderly.

“Shall we take a look around?” my mother asked.

I glanced at her. “What about the groceries?”

“They will be fine for a few minutes.”

She found a parking spot easily—there weren’t many cars around—and we got out.

Not far away from where we stood, a storefront clashed with the aesthetic that the rest of the town had adopted. It was dark, with tinted windows. A white-and-purple sign read Maggie’s.”

I approached to read the services posted to the door.

“Ooo, we can get our palms read here!” I squealed.

My mother scoffed. “I’m not wasting my money on that nonsense.”

“Nothing is ever fiction, it is simply unknown and unproven,” I chided her by repeating one of my father’s favorite lines.

“Believing something without any evidence is an early sign of delusion,” she shot back before saying, “It seems as if they sell crystals. I could probably use some new ones.”

I refrained from pointing out my mother’s hypocrisy as I tried the door and was greeted with an array of pleasant aromas. “It looks like you may have some aromatherapy competition,” I whispered to her.

My mother’s jaw tightened slightly as she entered the store with me nipping at her heels.

The storefront was clean, and though there was plenty of space to browse, it seemed crowded. I supposed the low ceiling and overpowering scents were to blame.

“They may have ingredients I can use in my salves,” my mother commented as she began to study some pots on display.

“It seems that they offer a bit of everything,” I said, picking up a medallion and attempting to decipher the unusual engravings. Though I wasn’t sure I believed in the occult, my father had warned me to never dismiss a possibility.

“You and I consist of micro particles vibrating at such a rapid frequency that we appear solid,” he once told me. “Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

My father had been a physicist whose work required him to travel to Geneva, Switzerland several times a year. My mother had always been anxious about his flights, but each time he had returned home safely.

It was a shame the same couldn’t be said for his trip to the local supermarket.

Martin Dupree had been more than a brilliant scientist; he’d been an excellent father who was generous with his free time, always willing to organize science fairs and donate a percentage of ticket sales to a worthy cause.

The town loved him, and I suspected this was not only due to his generosity. He offered the little town some prestige; most of our neighbors loved bragging to outsiders that they lived next door to a scientist that worked on the Large Hadron Collider.

I think at first my mother had been grateful to have so many people to mourn his death with, but soon the constant reminder of her loss had begun to weigh on her.

“That’s Ogham,” a voice piped up from behind me.

Startled, I spun on my heel and found myself face to face with a woman that could only be described as eccentric.

She had long, curly auburn hair that was graying at the temples, eyes that were as green as my own, and pale skin that was smooth with slight signs of aging.

Her colorful skirt and large dangling earrings were an assurance that she would never be mistaken for anyone’s grandmother. This had to be Maggie.

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she apologized. “I just saw you studying that medallion and thought you would like to know that the inscription is written in Ogham.”

“What is Ogham?” my mother interjected, placing a jar she had been sampling back onto the shelf.

“An ancient Celtic language. It is also known as tree language, due to the writing resembling a tree.”

“What does it say?” I asked, displaying the medallion so she could view the markings.

Maggie wrestled with the beads that hung around her neck and produced a pair of reading glasses, which she held at eye level. “Victory.”

“Victory,” I repeated. “I like that. What do the others say?”

She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again as if she’d had an idea. “Wait here one moment,” she insisted and hurried behind the cashier’s counter, where several books were stored.

After a few moments of browsing, she made her selection and returned.

Inviting me to take the book, she said, “This book is written in Ogham. There is a guide in the front that will help you decipher the characters.”

“Thank you,” I said, accepting the book without opening it. I found myself more intrigued by the owner than I did the wares her store offered.

The feeling must have not been mutual, though, because she turned her attention to my mother. “Did I hear that you were interested in apothecary, Miss…?”

“Doctor Dupree,” my mother corrected her, sounding slightly haughty. “I am a licensed practitioner who specializes in holistic medicine.”

The woman viewed my mother with interest. “Not many people in this area are natural practitioners. It’s so refreshing to meet someone who practices the healing arts.”

My mother appeared sheepish. “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I’ve received a lot of flak from my former colleagues over the years.”

Maggie sniffed. “I personally think holistic medicine is a wise and noble career path. I don’t pretend to distribute cures, just potions that promote relaxation of the mind and spirit. I do, however, carry potions that eradicate constipation.”

The woman’s humbling demeanor must have won my mother over, because she extended her hand. “Deva Dupree.”

Maggie accepted my mother’s palm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Deva Dupree. My name is Maggie McGee. I’m the owner of this little establishment.” Finally, she looked at me again. “What brings you lovely young ladies to town?”

“We just moved here,” my mother replied. “Actually, we just bought a house that was once owned by Virginia Cole.”

“I knew her well,” Maggie said. “Virginia was a dear friend of mine. She was the one who loaned me the seed money I needed to start this little business.”

My mother looked impressed. “That was awfully generous of her. You two must have been close.”

“You would think so, but Virginia always held people at an arm’s length,” Maggie told her. “I suppose I could say that I was her closest acquaintance.”

Before my mother had a chance to bombard Maggie with questions about Virginia, her phone began to ring. She glanced down at it and sighed.

“It’s our finance planner,” she announced, then turned to Maggie and said, “Pardon me for a moment.”

Maggie nodded as my mother stepped back out of the door for some privacy.

I remained browsing through the jewelry and selected a charm that resembled the medallion I had shown interest in.

“This one says ‘Acceptance,’ which you may find helpful,” Maggie said from behind me.

I turned to look at her. “Why would you think that?”

“I sense that you and your mother are grieving, and acceptance is the final stage of grief,” Maggie revealed.

I gasped. How had she known that?

Before I had an opportunity to ask, my mother came barging back into the store.

“Dharma, we must go. The financial planner is asking for some documents, and I can’t for the life of me remember which box I packed them in.”

“Let me give you a housewarming gift before you go,” Maggie offered.

“Oh, Maggie, you don’t have to do that.” My mother shook her head in refusal, but her protest was ignored.

Maggie walked over to a candle display and selected two pillar candles that appeared to be joined together with a thin rope. To my surprise, she offered them to me instead of my mother.

“They are infused with honey for healing, and the rope burning away represents the severing of former ties. Burn at both ends,” she advised.

“What a lovely gift,” my mother remarked as she parted the door to leave. “And thank you for the warm welcome. I hope to return another time.”

“Yes, it is a lovely gift,” I said, repeating my mother’s sentiments as I began to obediently follow, but I hesitated at the threshold. “May I ask you a question?”

“Sure, kiddo. Shoot,” Maggie replied.

“Is the Johnsons’ house dangerous?” I queried. “I usually don’t believe in supernatural stuff, but bad things have happened there.”

Maggie cocked her head to the side and studied me. “Danger lurks everywhere, and most of the time you don’t find it unless you go looking for it,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “I just assumed you were the type of person that was used to odd questions.”

“When a gazelle senses danger, it gallops in the opposite direction. It doesn’t hesitate, and it never doubts its instincts. Always be a gazelle,” Maggie advised.

I understood the analogy, but I needed to know more. Was she telling me to run away from the house? Before I could ask her to elaborate, my mother called me.

“Dharma, we have to go!”

“Sorry, Mom,” I apologized, then turned to Maggie. “I’ll come back soon.”

“I look forward to it,” Maggie said, waving as I exited the shop and rushed to join my mother.