"You sure this is what you wanna' do?" Daryl asked Beth as they pulled up to a house that looked similar to the Addams family's house, just a bit smaller and more run down. Only a few cars remained in the circular driveway. The crowd was winding down as it was later in the evening and people were gearing up for trick-or-treating hours.
The house had been rumored to be haunted as far back as Daryl could remember. He and his friends and probably every other kid in town dared each other to sneak in. No one seemed brave enough to actually go through with it. Himself included.
"Yes! It'll be fun," Beth exclaimed from the passenger side of his truck, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. Looking fine in tight black jeans and a form-fitting t-shirt and a leather jacket thrown over the top, though it really wasn't cold out. She jumped out of the truck and stood at the hood, looking up at the house, a big smile on her face.
He'd been wanting to ask her out for months and finally got up the courage to do it last week. When she suggested they go out on Halloween night, he wasn't going to argue. Instead, he readily agreed. Probably too readily.
Recently someone had purchased the house and instead of fixing it up, or more appropriately tearing it down, decided to play into its decrepit facade and turn it into a Halloween attraction. Boasting haunted tours, ouija board, and seance sessions as well as physic readings.
Haunted houses weren't really his thing but he'd do just about anything to spend time with Beth. If going to a reputed haunted house on Halloween was what she wanted to do, then that's what they'd do.
"You ain't scared are ya'?" She jeered when he joined her.
He grumbled out a laugh. "Take a little bit more than a spooky ol' house to scare me. You should see the house I grew up in." He was only partly joking. The house wasn't even a house. It was a trailer and pretty run down. It was the people living there that were scarier than any ghost that might inhabit this place.
"Don't worry, I'll hold your hand," she said with a warm smile, lacing their fingers together. Pulling him along the path to the front door.
A man dressed in a dust-covered, moth-eaten three-piece suit greeted them. "Welcome to The Ivywood Mansion," he said with exaggerated emphasis.
In the reduced light, Daryl peered at the man behind the layer of thick white costume makeup that gave his skin a pale glow and dark-circled eyes.
"Dale? Is that you?" He asked. Dale owned the hardware store and was a proud citizen of their town. Always volunteering and serving on any committee that would take him. It made sense he'd volunteer to work the door at the town's latest enterprise.
He chuckled briefly before slipping back into character. "Dale? Who is this Dale you speak of? I am the first footman to the gentlemen of the house!" He said with a gesture of a hand, a slight bow at the waist. "Ten dollars each, please."
"Okay, sure," Daryl laughed, handing over the cash.
Dale guided them through the foyer and into a massive parlor. Ceilings of ten feet and a fireplace tucked into the opposite wall that was so large Daryl could probably stand in it without dunking. Its fire was blazing hot, and the iron grate surrounding it was patinaed with rust. It looked like you could catch tetanus just by standing next to it. The room was lit with what must have been a hundred candles of different sizes and heights spread out on every flat surface available.
In front of the fireplace were an antique sofa and two upright chairs waiting for its ghostly occupants to return. Once burgundy upholstery was now faded and worn. A low table, also covered with candles, stood in between the chairs. A huge armoire with mirrored doors was placed against the back wall. A curved marble staircase wound its way to the upper levels.
The walls were covered with peeling wallpaper. One wall was painted with a chipped nautical-themed mural in deep greens, blues, and black and grey. Ghostly ships floated through angry waters adding to the sullen mood of the candle-lit room.
"Whoa," Beth whispered. "This is beautiful."
He pulled her closer, his arm around her back, his hand grasping her opposite hip, their shoulders touching. Her description of beauty surprised him. Most people would probably think the room ugly and in need of a total gut job. "It definitely has character," he agreed.
She smiled shyly at him and paced the room stopping in front of the armoire that stood floor to ceiling. Lifting a hand she traced a crack mirrored in the reflection of her face.
"Do you know this house was built by a textile tycoon for his young bride?" She asked quietly, the fire crackling, breaking up the dense quietude of the room.
"Na', I didn't know that," he said as he came up behind her, their eyes meeting in the dusty mirror.
"She lived overseas and was betrothed to her husband by her father. She sailed here as the house was being built. She was much younger than the man she was marrying but, according to her diary, she was anxious to get away from her overbearing father. She wanted to start a new life in a new country in a beautiful new home. Her name was Ivy." Beth said, the sadness of the story echoing in her voice.
Beth spun slowly on the heel of her boot to face him. She smiled and ran her hands up and over his shoulders, the sadness of seconds before dissipating.
"How do you know all that?" He asked, unable to keep his hands off of her as they circled her waist.
"Google. Plus I'm kinda' a history nerd. Shh… don't tell anyone," she answered with a sly smile. and a wink.
She is the life of the party at the bar where she waitressed. Where they met. Always laughing and joking, handling the old drunks and young cocky lightweights with ease. It surprised him just how much he liked the idea of her being a history nerd.
"You're secret is safe with me," he said, brushing his thumb over the tiny strip of skin that peeked out in between the hem of her shirt and her belt. He leaned down as she stood up on her toes and their lips met. He hadn't expected their first kiss to happen so quickly, but they'd been flirting for months. On one hand, it almost felt too soon, on the other hand, it was about damn time.
She almost purred. Pressing herself against him as he pulled her flush against his body, forgetting where they were. His hand slid under her shirt, planting his palm against her warm, bare skin. Her fingers threaded through his shaggy hair, pulling lightly.
A loud bang sent them flying from each other like opposite ends of a magnet. A group of young girls came through a door on the opposite end of the room laughing and talking loudly paying no attention to the two people in the corner.
"Next," a woman with a bad wig and a victorian black dress said from the doorway of the room as the girls just exited. The woman beckoned with long pointed black nails and disappeared into the room, essentially a black hole. They followed, Beth's hand tucked into his.
"Only two?" She questioned. The woman in the bad wig was Carol, the town's librarian, but they'd play along. Daryl didn't want to blow her cover as he did Dale's.
Beth answered, "Yes ma'am."
"This house was built in 1880 by a textile tycoon," Carol began and he and Beth shared a knowing glance. "This was his office. It was called the drawing room back then."
Sure enough, as their eyes adjusted to the candle-lit room, dark wall paneling and masculine furniture came into view. A massive desk was set between two oversized windows, a large built-in bookcase was stacked with impressive looking hardcover books, their spines cracked and beautifully aged. It must have been one of the candles because Daryl smelled the distinct scent of a pipe.
"His name was Edmund Cornelious Fredrikson the Third."
"That's a heavy name," Daryl commented. Both Carol and Beth looked at him. "I just mean for a little kid. Can you imagine your name being Edmond Cornelious Fredrikson the Third?"
Carol stared him down, her face apathetic to his commentary. "Okay, never mind," he said with an exhaled breath. Beth giggled, squeezing his hand.
"After meager beginnings growing up on a cotton farm, he ended up owning and operating the largest textile mill in Georgia. After the Civil War when cotton once again became an important part of the economy, his factories were the largest disruptor of cotton in the United States. Many families, from Grandpa down to granddaughter, were able to find work in his mills making as much as $1.50 per week. Children as young as thirteen, some say younger, were also employed due to their small stature. Their tiny hands were able to easily operate the smaller machinery. Obviously, they were paid much less."
Beth let out a sound of disapproval or disgust. Maybe both, he wasn't sure.
"His bride came from a well-off family also in the textile industry. Rumor was that she was a part of a business deal between Edmond and her father. When she arrived after months-long travel by boat, she wasn't in the best of health, the long trip having weakened her lungs. A month after the wedding, a lavish affair held here in the house," Carol eyed Daryl and Beth, holding off for dramatic effect. "She died," she finished impassively.
"Aww. That's so sad." Beth mumbled, though she already knew the ending of the story. Her mouth downturned into a frown. Daryl put an arm around her shoulders. He had wanted to take her out to have a good time. Not depress her.
"Some say," Carol went on in a ghostly voice, "you can still hear the lost and lonely footsteps of Edmond pacing back and forth from his desk to the door. Heartbroken and despondent over his young bride's death."
"Of course, you can," Daryl remarked under his breath. Beth elbowed him lightly in the ribs but she smiled up at him. "I just mean, it's a little predictable. The heartbroken millionaire husband, doomed for eternity to roam the halls of his mansion."
Carol ignored him, though a shadow of a smile parted her lips before she turned away. "She was quite a beauty," she remarked as they came to a small table with a heavy gilded frame ringed by candles. A photo of a young woman with white hair and eyes so light they were almost translucent stared at them through the smudged glass.
"Her coughs can also still be heard. Sharp and laborious," Carol looked directly at Daryl, daring him to say more. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut. "Echoing through the halls."
Next, Carol directed them up the stairs. Daryl followed behind Beth, the sound of their footfalls on the marble steps bounced off the walls. Not that he wasn't enjoying the view, but he couldn't help himself. He yelled, "Boo!" And poked her ribs from behind.
"Daryl!" She squealed and swirled around, shoving him lightly, then skipping over the remaining three steps in one long lunge.
He caught her on the landing, pulling her to him. "Scared yet?"
She was laughing and breathless. "Nope!" She placed a quick kiss on his lips before squirming out of his arms. It threw him off, how free with affection she was. "It's sadder than anything. Ivy didn't even get to enjoy this big beautiful house that was built especially for her. Didn't get to be a wife, not one for long anyway. Didn't get to have children. Didn't get to plant roses in the garden."
"You wanna' leave? Go find some other trouble to get into," he asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. It was a small miracle she got Halloween night off. He wanted to be sure she had a good time.
"Emm, that's tempting." Her lips found his yet again. Maybe it was a good thing she chose to come here. If she picked a more secluded activity he was almost sure they'd be half-naked by now.
There was something between them, something more than the desire to get her naked. Beth wasn't that kind of girl. He didn't want to be that way. He wanted to get to know her first. Whatever the hell that meant. He questioned this newfound virtuousness as her hands splayed over his chest and she moaned into the kiss.
His hand slid down her long hair. He was glad she left it down just on the off chance he'd have the opportunity to run his fingers through it. Just as it appeared to be, it was as soft as silk. His hands continued to travel down to her lower back, just above her ass.
Unfortunately, or fortunately - depending on the way you wanted to look at it - she pulled away just as things were starting to heat up. She smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Taking his hand as they walked further down the landing, the walls were lined with old paintings and cobwebs and dust fell on every surface. She stopped at a large photograph of a couple on their wedding day.
The man was dressed in a suit and tails and the woman was in a long white gown with a veil that went to the floor. He recognized the bride as Ivy. The man must have been Fredrikson. Instead of looking toward the camera, they were looking at each other and Daryl thought maybe he saw affection in their gazes. Was that possible? They had just met, after all.
Then he remembered how Beth made him feel the first time he ever laid eyes on her. His heart sped up, he couldn't stop sneaking a look at her as she floated around the bar, taking people's orders. His tongue was tied and he was unable to talk to her until alcohol loosened him up. Whatever it was he felt for her (not love, there was no way he believed in love at first sight, right?) was instant and swift, only growing as time went on.
Beth walked up to the photograph and studied it intently. "I find it all fascinating. I love this house. I feel a presence here, don't you?"
"You believe in all that? Ghosts and shit?" He asked, hanging back against the railing that overlooked the parlor below. Carol and Dale were talking quietly in front of the fireplace waiting for their next guests.
Beth shrugged her shoulders and looked back at him. "Sure. Why not? I believe in energy. Does the energy just disappear when you die? Does it fade away? Can it get stuck between the living world and the dead? Especially if they weren't ready to go."
He nodded at her optimism. Not wanting to shit on her somewhat naïve ideas about death, he kept his thoughts to himself. He wasn't sure what he believed. He used to think if he couldn't see it, then it didn't exist.
But then, you couldn't exactly see love, could you?
They followed the hallway to a bedroom. Like the other rooms, it was large and dark, lit by candles giving the room a yellow hazy glow. The walls were covered with dark crushed velvet. At first glance the fabric appeared black, on closer inspection, it was a deep purple. A massive bed was centered against the far wall with four pillars and gauzy fabric draped and tied to each post.
A small round table was situated at the foot of the bed just beyond the door. Seated there was a woman dressed fully in black, blending in with the surroundings. The whites of her eyes glowed. "Come in. Don't be shy," she said in a smoky tone.
A spark of a match flashed as she lit a single candle, setting it in the middle of the table. She removed her hood to reveal long dreaded hair that flowed past the top of the table, disappearing into the cloak she wore.
"Take a seat," she directed. "I'm Michonne." She placed her palms flat on the table in front of her.
Daryl bit his tongue. Just Michonne? Not Madame Luna? Or Psychic Medium Aura? Her smile was bright. Friendly even. She was actually quite beautiful. Not a wart to be seen. On the opposite side of the table, he pulled a chair out for Beth and then sat in the one next to her.
"I'm Beth," she greeted. Always friendly, she drew everyone in. Even him. Grumpy, moody Daryl.
He had thought there was no way she was interested in him. She was nice to him, but then again, she was nice to everyone. One night, halfway to being shitfaced drunk he thought what the hell? Ask her out. The worst she can say is no. (And he'd be crushed and embarrassed, to say the least.) Much to his surprise, she said yes. And seemed happy about it. Not at all reluctant. And here they were. Talking with a psychic named Michonne on Halloween.
Life's a trip.
"Very nice to meet you, Beth. And who is the skeptic?" She asked with a kind smile, looking toward Daryl. He felt uncomfortable under her intent gaze, her pupil's endless pools of black ink.
Beth laughed, a sound he was sure he'd never tire of. "This is Daryl."
"Well," she shifted in her seat, settling in. "Beth and Daryl." She looked from one to the other, clasping her hands under her chin. "Your children will be beautiful."
Beth's head snapped over to Daryl, smiling broadly. "That's an easy one. They'll look like you," he told Beth. The words escaped his mouth before he had a chance to even think them through. He averted his eyes to his hands now grasping the thighs of his jeans, embarrassed.
Beth reached over and took his hand in hers, communicating comfort wordlessly through her skin.
"How long have you been dating?" Michone asked.
Shouldn't you know the answer to that? Daryl snidely thought to himself.
Beth beamed. "This is our first date."
She leaned forward and whispered to Beth conspiratorily, loud enough for Daryl to hear. "Well. You'll have many more dates before you're married." She and Beth smiled at one another. Then Michonne sat back in her chair again. "Do you have any questions for me?" She asked next.
"Umm, not really. I'm not sure how this is supposed to work," Beth confessed.
"That's completely fine. Just try to relax. May I see your hand?"
Beth willingly gave her hand over. Daryl only watched. There was no way he was letting this woman touch him.
Michonne traced a long line in the center of Beth's hand. With a smile, she said, "Nice long lifeline." She then ran her fingernail lightly across her palm from her pinky finger to her thumb. "You're very sentinel. When you feel something for someone, you feel it totally and completely. No holding back."
Beth glanced a Daryl, her cheeks pink in the pale candlelight. Warmth coursed through his veins, pooling in his chest.
"I'm sorry," Michonne said then, her forehead creasing.
Beth's spine straightened. "You see something bad?"
"I see you lost someone very close to you. There's a notch in your heartline here," she said pointing to her upper palm. Daryl didn't see anything. And who hasn't lost someone anyway?
Beth only nodded, her face solemn and serious.
Michonne then turned her hand to the side, bending her pinky finger down lightly. Three deep divots appeared. "Looks like you'll have three children."
"Really?" Beth asked, excited once again. It boggled Daryl's mind how her emotions came and went so easily, so fluidly.
"But… nothing is written in stone, of course," Michonne told her, patting the back of her hand, and setting it down on the table. "Palm reading is more of a general guide, a study of the lines and features of the hand. Anyone can do it if they wanted to."
"Oh, okay," Beth sighed, sounding a bit disappointed.
"Is that all?" Daryl asked. If anyone could do it, as she claimed, then what was the big deal about being a psychic?
"No. That's not all." Michonne sat back, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. After a few seconds, her eyelids began to flutter. When she reopened them they were glazed over. Perceiving but not seeing.
"Your Mama is so proud of you." She directed the words to Beth. Her voice sounded different, huskier. Detached. The hair on the back of Daryl's neck stood on end.
"Really?" Beth asked, hopeful - a slight quiver of thick emotion.
A flicker of annoyance pitted in Daryl's chest. Naturally, she wanted to think her mother was proud of her. Who wouldn't? He didn't know the circumstances, he only knew her mother had died when Beth was a teen. It didn't take a genius to know it must have left a gaping hole in her heart.
Michonne couldn't possibly know Beth's mother had passed, could she? It was a small town, but neither of them knew her and he didn't think she knew them.
"I mean, I'm a waitress at a bar," Beth said critically. "I don't do anything important."
"Don't do that," Daryl interjected. "Ain't no shame in what you do. It's a solid living."
Michonne asked, "Is there something else you'd like to be doing? I see children. Babies, actually. They aren't all yours, though you call them yours. Take care of them as you would your own."
"I always thought I'd be a nurse when I was younger. My Daddy said I was born a caregiver. Sounds stupid saying it out loud now. Immature."
"It's not stupid at all," Michone said, beating Daryl to it.
He watched quietly as Beth listened intently to Michonne. She spoke of Beth's dad and knew he still ran their farm at almost seventy years old. About her sister. She's expecting her first child. Michonne says it will be a boy.
So caught up with Beth and the way she spoke about her family and friends with warmth and love, he didn't notice when Michonne turned her attention to him. "And what about you, Daryl?" She asked
"What about me?" He asked rhetorically, caught off guard.
They sat in silence a moment before Michonne closed her eyes, lids flickering again. "There's a man here," she said, fixing her gaze on Daryl. Not really seeing him. Seeing through him.
"Blue eyes, much like yours." She laughed then. "He's funny, if not a bit… crass. Says his name is Merle."
The annoyance he felt earlier began to grow. He dropped Beth's hand, scooted back from the table. Beth looked at him quizzically, confused by his sudden change in demeanor.
"Who is Merle?" Beth questioned.
He stood, shoving the chair back. "Listen, I don't know how you're doing this. It ain't right messin' with people's heads, trying to trick 'em."
"I assure you, I am not tricking anyone," Michonne said calmly, not bothered, or surprised, by his indignation.
"He says he misses you. That he's happy and to stop worrying about him. He says `don't let this one slip through your fingers.'" She gestured to Beth with the jut of her chin.
"Stop it," Daryl demanded. He glanced at Beth. Her eyes were round with concern. He shook his head to clear it, and said to Michonne, "I'm sorry." He used to be a hothead. He would have told anyone off without a care, including this lady. He wasn't that guy anymore. Didn't want to be that guy anymore.
He took a breath. "I'm sorry," he said again. "This ain't for me. Beth, take your time. I'll meet you at the truck."
He was on his second cigarette when Beth emerged from the house. Leaning against the hood of his truck in the almost empty driveway-turned-parking lot. He inhaled one last drag before he flicked the butt to the ground, crushing it under his boot.
"Sorry 'bout that." Apology number three? Or was it four? "I don't care much for people stomping around my psyche."
"I'm sorry," she said, standing in front of him. "I shouldn't have forced you to come here."
"You didn't force me to do anything. I wanted to." He grasped her wrist, feeling the solid beat of her heart under his fore and middle fingers. "I just wanted to spend time with you."
She smiled like she liked that. Then frowned again. "You okay?" She asked.
"I'm fine. Other than humiliated, I'm fine." He would never tell her his hands were shaking when he lit his first cigarette after running down the stairs like the coward he wasn't aware he was.
She leaned next to him against the front end of the truck, both peering up at the house. It was dark except for the flicker of candlelight reflecting against the windows. He wasn't sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him when he saw a shadow brush past a top-floor window. He stifled a full-body tremor. Carol and Dale could be seen through the front window in the parlor. Michonne was on the second floor, not the third. What the hell is going on?
"So, who's Merle?" Beth asked, still eyeing the house. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she quickly amended.
He considered not answering. Or just flat out lying, telling her he didn't know any Merle. The wind kicked up, cold and sharp. He didn't believe in this sort of thing but if Merle was somehow there watching from the afterlife, he'd sure be pissed if Daryl claimed to not know him.
"He's my brother… was my brother. He died a year ago."
When Michonne told him to stop worrying about Merle, it struck a cord buried deep within him. After Merle died, he thought he wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. That didn't prove to be true. Now he worried about his soul, which was strange because he wasn't a religious person and never gave much thought to the afterlife before Merel's death. Supposedly, now, he was happy if Michonne was to be believed.
Beth opened her mouth to speak. Before she had the chance he held up a hand. "Don't say you're sorry. I hate that. Don't want no one feelin' sorry for me."
"Okay," she agreed. "I won't say I'm sorry. I'd like to hear about your brother sometime though."
This surprised him. Why? Why would she want to know about Merle? It gave him that uncomfortable warm feeling again. He turned toward her and wrapped his arms around her waist, taking in her scent that carried on the breeze. Her soft skin.
"So, what else did Psychic Michonne have to say?" He asked, actually kind of curious.
"Stuff," she answered vaguely.
"Stuff, huh?"
"Things." She smiled as she pulled back to face him. "How about next time we won't go to a psychic."
"Next time?" He asked. He wouldn't blame her if she never wants to see him again after tonight.
"Yeah, next time. But for now, let's see if we can find some of that trouble you were talking about earlier."
"Hell yeah," he said, pulling her to the cab of the truck, her laughter echoing into the night.