Don't Banish The Messenger
Rather than vocally acknowledge the valid point that Merle had made and risk making his ego larger than it already was, Beth chose to remain motionless in bed for several more minutes. Until the dead Dixon was sighing and growing uninterested. She didn't offer any more arguments or accusations.
But after a while of lying in silence and resisting the urge to press him for more answers that she subconsciously knew she'd never get, she decided it was time to start being as proactive as possible. Especially if it meant avoiding another unwanted confrontation with Papa Legba or his Hellhounds. There was no way she'd be able to peacefully fall asleep if she was wrestling with the fear of where she might be sent during her unconscious state.
Because what if Merle was right? What if it really was all about "getting back?" She'd visited some… dangerous places recently. And she knew they were dangerous because she could feel it. They were real. Too real. She shouldn't have been dipping her toes that far in. She shouldn't have been taking such long steps past The Veil in her unconscious state. What if Papa Legba intended to play on her weaknesses, knowing she had no control over her Gift, and drag her soul down right along with Daryl's? What if he was just waiting for the perfect opportunity to ambush her and use her Gift against her?
She hadn't even thought to ask Morgan for advice on this subject. And now she was wishing she had. Did she really believe she could figure this out on her own? She didn't have Florence Newton to explain it all to her like Maggie had. She didn't even have a way to communicate with the Swamp Witch without making a five-hour drive.
This sucks, she thought.
Beth rolled over in begrudging resignation, avoiding Merle's gaze as she reached over and snatched up her phone from the nightstand. She could feel his eyes on her the whole time, but she made a point of keeping her attention on the phone screen in front of her face. He remained silent while she unlocked it, as though he were expecting her to acknowledge that he was right or something. But she was determined not to give him the pleasure. His head was already too big.
She was surprised to find a new text message waiting for her, especially when she'd only been intending to unlock the screen and go straight to Google. However, she'd received a new message shortly after plugging her phone in and setting it aside for the night. And it was from Daryl.
Forgot to ask if you got family stuff planned tomorrow. I can go to the insurance company with Rick alone if you're busy. Just lmk.
She couldn't help but smile as she texted back: "Nothing planned. No worries, I wanna go with you guys and be as much help as possible."
Once she'd pressed Send and watched the text message solidify itself in their phone conversation, she thought about the curious little side-eyes Shawn had been giving her all night. The knowing winks her dad had shot her way. Even the discreet smirks Glenn had been flashing whenever relationships or marriage was mentioned. The fact that they all thought she was "seeing" Daryl. While only Maggie knew the real truth.
How much longer would Beth have to lie to her family? Because she really hated being so dishonest with her own father. And her brother's presumptions were already starting to get on her nerves. Plus, she didn't want to give them some kind of false hope. She didn't want them to start thinking she was "spreading her wings" or "following after her sister's footsteps" or something.
But how could she possibly explain that no, she didn't have a new boyfriend, she was just helping a guy whose dead brother had bargained his soul to a demon? That yeah, she might've made a new friend, but she'd also discovered she was a Witch and that she had a sorta God-given duty to help this random pair of brothers she'd never met before?
She simply couldn't. There was no way to explain this situation to them. They just wouldn't get it. Her daddy would probably think she'd become some kind of devil worshipper. Shawn would think she'd lost her damn mind. And she was pretty sure that even Maggie wouldn't be able to convince them otherwise.
Beth was basically on her own with this challenge. Which meant Merle was right—she needed to figure out what she was working with, figure out how to control it, and make sure she was using it to her advantage. While keeping Papa Legba and all his minions at a safe distance.
She opened Google and stared down at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Where was she supposed to start?
Irish Witch Gift
She scrolled through results, growing more disappointed by the second. She hadn't expected much, but it appeared that search term wasn't even close to what she was looking for.
The Gift of Sight
Nothing supernatural until page 3 of results, and even then, not what she was looking for.
Seeing past the veil
Another 3 or 4 pages of results, one or two links that appeared promising. But they didn't provide the answers she needed. Just lots of speculation from obviously unGifted people.
How to control visiting the other side and keep demons out
Once again, a lot of speculation and superstitious nonsense. But then, to her surprise, she clicked on a link on page 5 of the results and found something that kept her reading longer than any of the other pages she'd visited.
"...the first step to channeling and controlling your Third Eye and preventing your Astral Self from projecting past The Veil is, of course, meditation. Those with the Gift must remember that mindfulness and connectivity with your Astral Self (sometimes referred to as one's "Visiting Self") is the foundation upon which your power will be built. In order to maintain control and prevent invasion from malevolent forces, one must look inward and become well-acquainted with both their Third Eye and their Astral Self. So well-acquainted that you can, eventually, maintain control with a fully conscious mind, even while the physical body is unconscious…"
Okay, that was pretty interesting. And it seemed to line up with the way Morgan had talked about meditating, and how Florence had warned against wandering towards places unknown.
Beth kept reading, and though the rest of the article seemed to have been written by someone who did not have any personal experience with possessing a Gift, the advice it offered was helpful regardless. Perhaps this author had known someone who was Gifted, or maybe they were a slightly ignorant Seer like Lady Jadis. Beth reckoned that actual Witches like Florence and Morgan weren't spending their time writing how-to guides on the internet. But maybe this was the next best thing.
"...and during the Full Moon, those who possess the Gift may find themselves more capable—and more vulnerable—than any other time of the lunar cycle. With the exception of All Hallow's Eve, during which The Veil is at its thinnest and the border between Here and The Other Side is more accessible, the Full Moon may bring about abilities and offer Sights that would otherwise be unattainable for even the most experienced Seer. It is important to remember, as with any Gift, that the key to safety and control is intent. The Gifted must be self-assured, confident in their choices, and certain of where they want to go, who they wish to speak to, and/or what they wish to See. The most common mistake made by untrained Seers? Allowing their emotions to determine the destination. Those with the Gift must remain vigilant at all times, as their powers stem from their emotional energy, both consciously and subconsciously. The old adage "be careful what you wish for" could be applied to such circumstances, albeit crassly…"
"What'cha readin'?" Merle piped up, still sitting in the desk chair and watching Beth curiously.
She ignored him and kept her eyes glued to the screen of her phone, taking mental notes on the things the article was explaining that lined up with what she'd already learned. A plan was starting to form in her head: maybe she could take advantage of being asleep tonight. Maybe she could use it as practice for whatever was to come tomorrow, because surely visiting The Governor's old workplace would spark some kind of vision. She didn't want to be caught off-guard again.
"Did you actually Google it?" Merle asked. Her silence seemed to be the only response he needed. He snorted and teased, "I was just kiddin', ya know. I'on't think the internet's gonna have any real advice fer a baby Witch."
At that, her eyes snapped up and met his, and she quipped back, "Well you'd be wrong, 'cause I found an article that's pretty damn helpful so far." She went back to reading, but not before adding, "And I'm not a baby Witch. If I'm smart about this, I could be just as powerful as Morgan."
Merle hmphed and leaned back in his seat with a frown. "Then why don't you ask him for help? Ain't nothin' Google's gonna teach ya that he couldn't."
Beth raised her head and looked over at the dead Dixon with piqued interest. "That's a… good point."
He furrowed his brow. "It is?"
She smirked, a lightbulb going off in her head. How had she not thought of this before? "You can like, teleport—right?"
Merle appeared a bit confused and, still frowning, responded slowly, "I… s'pose. 'F that's what ya wanna call it. Why?"
She set her phone down for a moment and sat up, then she explained, "Because, Morgan is nearly six hours away and it's not like he's got an email or a phone. But you're a ghost, you can teleport, he can see you—so you could take my questions to him an' bring me back the answers. Like long-distance training."
His frown deepened and he grunted in disagreement. "Now why the hell would I do that?"
"Because it would help me solve your murder, obviously."
"After you said you's gonna banish me anyway? Nah, fuck that. You want ol' Merle's help now, but las' time you got it, ya said it wasn't good enough."
Beth sighed. But she'd already been prepared for backlash. She kept her voice calm and steady, quiet enough that the rest of her family wouldn't hear her from down the hall. "You said I need to learn how to control this Gift—that I need to take the reins. And I'm agreeing with you, Merle. I do need to learn more about it, I need guidance. But how am I supposed to get that if you're gonna fight me the whole way?"
He narrowed his eyes, though he wasn't glaring at her with contempt just yet. In fact, he appeared to be listening and measuring her words. Telling him that he was right was sure to catch his attention, she knew.
"I'ono. Reckon you'll really be on yer own once ya banish me away, though. You made yer bed, blondie. Now lie in it."
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, maintaining her cool and collected attitude. She really had to turn on the persuasion tactics if she wanted to get any kind of cooperation from Merle. Which meant she'd have to go back on the promise she'd made during the peak of her anger.
"I'm not gonna banish you. I was just… frustrated. I wouldn't do that, though."
He scoffed. "Sure sounded like you was gonna do it."
"Well, I wasn't and I'm still not," Beth insisted.
"Then admit it."
"What? I just did."
"Nah, I wanna hear you say it. Say you aren't gonna banish me, an' that you were wrong. Admit that ya need my help just as much as I need yours."
Beth pursed her lips and gave him an incredulous look. "…Really?"
Merle leaned forward in his seat, both hands on his knees, and spat, "Yeah, really! An' you gotta mean it, too."
Well, unless she wanted to make a six-hour drive every time she needed Morgan's guidance, this was her only choice. As much as she despised how it felt to practically beg Merle Dixon for anything.
She swallowed her pride with a tight throat and spoke as plainly as she could, "Okay, Merle. I was wrong. I need your help just as much as you need mine, and I'm not gonna banish you."
He flashed a smile of satisfaction. "Now that's more like it. Good ta hear you talkin' some sense for once." Then his mouth quickly curled downwards again and he said, "But you think I'mma just be yer li'l messenger boy 'cause you got some ugly Voodoo statue to hold over my head? Think again, princess."
She sighed quietly and retained composure, pushing back the frustration that wanted to escape through her tone of voice. "Okay. Fine. Then let's make a deal."
He quirked a brow and sneered. "Real fuckin' funny."
"No, I'm serious," she said. "I'll make a deal with you: if you agree to help me communicate with Morgan, I promise not to banish you."
He paused, contemplating her offer and sucking on his teeth. Then he asked, "Till when? Till I spout off an' hurt yer feelings again? Or jus' till you get what ya want outta me an' decide I ain't convenient to have around no more?"
"Never. Not until you cross over. Not even if you get on my nerves," Beth insisted. "If we can cooperate with each other, I won't want to banish you. I'll put the Djab Idol in the back of my closet, I won't even think about it. I promise."
Merle's distrust wasn't fading. "Yer promises don't mean shit to me."
She was about to give up on biting her tongue and start telling him what she really thought, but he quickly added:
"I want you ta swear it. On yer mama's grave."
Asshole.
Could she really be upset though, when Daryl had asked the same of her just a few days ago?
Before she had a chance to overthink it or doubt the reliability of Merle Dixon—dead or alive—Beth was meeting his glare with a determined look of her own.
"If you help me, I swear I won't banish you… I swear it on my mother's grave."
Merle clucked his tongue and crossed his arms over his chest, letting the moment draw out. Then he let out a low and malicious chuckle.
"I'll think about it."
She opened her mouth to retaliate when he suddenly disappeared. She waited a few seconds, looking around suspiciously, but he didn't reappear. She couldn't even feel his presence anymore.
She scowled and muttered aloud, "Bastard."
Dixons sure as hell ain't turnips, she remembered. Considering I'm the one being bled dry.
Beth spent the next fifteen or twenty minutes skimming every article she could find that related to the one she'd just read. But there didn't seem to be any more information available, at least not pertaining to her specific Gift. There was one constant throughout every piece of text: meditation and "control." Apparently, Merle was far more correct than he could've possibly guessed—either that, or he'd learned a valuable lesson from visiting The Crossroads. Because the biggest problem being addressed in all the articles she read was "maintaining control of the destination" and "returning." And the solution was consistently said to be intent, purpose, confidence, and mindfulness.
That was a lot to juggle at once. When she thought about the brief visits she'd made to… other places… she couldn't help but recall how scared she'd been, how weak and aimless she'd felt. Like she could be dragged back and forth without resistance because she wasn't even aware that she was supposed to resist the tugs at her soul. Hell, she wasn't aware that she was capable of resisting those tugs. She didn't know how to push when they pulled, and vise versa.
Which meant she had a lot to learn. Where to start?
She grabbed her earbuds from the nightstand drawer and opened YouTube on her phone. And a few minutes later, in the darkness of her bedroom, she was intently watching a video about how to meditate.
When the first video ended, she found another for a second opinion. Then she skimmed through a handful more, gathering the most important information and committing it to memory. She revisited the first video and double-checked the offered tips and tricks. Finally, once she felt mostly confident enough, she pulled out her earbuds and set her phone aside.
Sitting up in bed, Beth pushed the blankets aside and sat atop the sheets with her legs criss-crossed in front of her. She rested her hands on her knees, shut her eyes, and began to breathe. And she counted. And breathed. One. In. Two. Out. Three. In. Four. Out.
She focused on feeling her arms, every last muscle and nerve, then her legs, then the deepest innards of her chest and stomach. She breathed steady and even, relaxing her body until it felt nearly weightless. She remembered the instructions and tips she'd just absorbed, trying to put them all to work.
She listened to her heart beating in her ears. The oxygen entering her body, circulating through her veins, and exiting her barely parted lips. The feather-light sensation that was beginning to turn her bones to dust and lift her body off the bed entirely.
Intent, she remembered, mechanically reciting it to herself inside her mind. Mindfulness. I'm Beth Greene. I am Gifted. I will control this. I am the one steering this vessel. Allow me to drift along.
The combination of the articles she'd read and the videos she'd watched was a lot to remember, but she wasn't allowing doubt to creep in and ruin her attempt. She was adamant about being confident and remaining confident. It was her mind. She would only let it take her where she wanted to go. No farther.
And then, it just kind of… happened.
She wasn't sure if it was the breathing or the mantra inside her head, or maybe a combination of both, but she finally relaxed to the point that she did it. While still fully conscious, she floated off her bed and away entirely.
Well, kind of.
When she opened her eyes, she was still sitting on her bed, surrounded by the same four walls she'd grown up in. But there were differences.
The first she noticed was the strange heaviness that weighed in her gut, like some sort of lead weight keeping her feet planted, while the rest of her body felt light-as-air and almost nonexistent. And then, of course, the absence of the soft buzz of energy and life that usually hummed in her ears. It wasn't complete silence, though. Not like her previous visits to places unknown.
Next, she noticed the bare walls and sparse furniture that occupied the room, none of which she could recognize. There was also daylight pouring in through the windows, even though the white curtains were too thick to see past and she knew it was nighttime right now.
Her heart was still beating, but only faintly. She could hear it like a slowed-down drumbeat in her ears. Her breathing remained deep and steady all on its own.
Before she could look around and take in her surroundings, she was distracted by an incessant and painful itching sensation across her chest, down her arms, and all the way up her back. She reminded herself to remain calm, to remain present and in control, and braced herself for whatever she might find when she looked down.
And it was a good thing she did, because she was horrified to see that her entire torso was covered in angry, buzzing wasps. They were writhing and squirming against her skin, desperately trying to jab their stingers into her flesh. Their buzzing grew louder and angrier, filling her ears and nearly drowning out the sound of her own heartbeat.
But then she took a deep breath and listened harder: there was a voice somewhere behind the buzzing. Someone was trying to speak to her over the noise of the wasps. She focused on the voice and pushed the buzzing away, exhaling long and slow.
It finally broke through, vague yet familiar: "Bethy, that sweater is made of wasps. Take that thing off, you don't need to be wearing clothes like that."
Beth spoke quietly on her next exhale, "Mama?"
"Of course it's your mama. Now change your sweater, baby. It's not even your size."
"Yes, ma'am."
How silly was she to have been wearing this thing in the first place? Of course it wasn't her size. These wasps wanted to kill her.
She continued her rhythmic breathing as she lifted her hands and carefully pulled the sweater off without disturbing the agitated wasps. Then she held it aside and dropped it to the floor. The sweater disintegrated as the wasps hit the ground and burst upward in a buzzing swarm. But instead of flying towards her, they flew across the room and straight out the window, disappearing behind the white curtains. The buzzing faded away in the distance until the only sound Beth could hear was her own heart and lungs.
She looked down at her torso, expecting to find the damage left by a thousand sharp stingers. But there was none to be seen. She was wearing a plain white T-shirt, hands and arms unblemished, tiny gold cross hanging from around her throat and glistening where it rested on her chest.
Her mother's voice filled her ears again, seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time: "Sweetheart, your wrist. Why did you open that back up?"
Beth looked down and saw her wrist—oh, that's right, her scar. It was opened up, fresh as the day she'd run the razor across her skin. It didn't hurt, though. It was just bleeding. Warm crimson liquid seeped from the cut, leaking down her arm and dribbling onto her blue jeans.
What a hassle.
Why had she done that to herself? Had she been dripping blood and making a mess this whole time?
"Whoops."
"Over there," her mom's voice instructed. "It's already healed, you just gotta keep it closed, honey."
She looked to her left and saw a cardboard box sitting on the floor, open and unlabelled. She couldn't really see what was inside, but there was a roll of gauze unraveled and spilling out over the top. She reached over and grabbed it.
"That's it," Annette's disembodied voice coaxed.
As Beth carefully wrapped the gauze around her bleeding wrist, words scrawled in black marker appeared on the stark white fabric, fading away just as quickly as they showed up. Layer after layer, words upon words upon words that had been spoken to her, that had been burned into her memory. Their voices rang clear as day in the depths of her mind as the black ink appeared and disappeared:
You're gonna be okay… We love you… Do you think this is what Mama would want for you?… I'd be lost without you… How am I supposed to go on knowing you're not here?... How can you give up like this? On yourself? On us? On me?… I won't be the brother of a dead girl… I'd lose my mind if I had to bury you… If I'd known how bad this had gotten, I never would've left your side… You're not in this alone… So many people love you, Bethy… You really think taking the easy way out will give you peace? What about our peace?... Daddy needs you. I need you… You didn't really wanna die, right?… I would always blame myself… Should I keep praying, Doodlebug? Or should I let the Good Lord take me right along with you? If that's what you want, then what kind of father would I be to deny you?... I'd be right behind you, baby sister… You tried to kill yourself?... You were very much meant to be here—exactly as you are, exactly where you are, and exactly as you'll ever be… Here's not here… You have a Gift, Beth Greene.
But she read them all, wrapping and securing the gauze. And the weight in her gut got a little heavier each time the print disappeared, each time she wrapped another layer around her open wrist; her wound seeped a little less blood, and her mama's voice became a little more comforting.
"Now doesn't that feel better?"
"It does," Beth agreed softly. There were no more black marker words.
"It healed," Annette said. "But you keep openin' it up. Let the scar take its place, Bethy. Let old wounds be old wounds."
"Okay."
The bleeding stopped. The blood disappeared from Beth's arm and her pants.
And finally, she raised her head and looked around. She observed her bedroom and the unfamiliar objects that filled it. The only piece of furniture she recognized was her bed, because everything else was gone. Her desk had been replaced with a large maroon suitcase, filled to bursting and tightly zipped. The place where her dresser normally resided was now occupied by a stack of cardboard boxes, all of them sealed up and unlabelled, towering higher than Beth was tall. The open box that held the gauze was sitting where her nightstand should've been. Her closet door was no longer there, replaced by a bare expanse of wall. And where her vanity usually sat was another suitcase—larger and all black, the kind of suitcase that people checked into baggage at the airport when they flew across the country. It was zipped up tight with a small combination lock securing it shut.
The words poured from Beth's mouth uninhibited, "I don't think I'm gonna try to unpack those just yet."
Her mother's voice responded, "That's probably a good idea. There's a time and place for everything, dear."
Beth glanced around, her eyes landing on the closed bedroom door. It looked the same, but there was a long, translucent, curtain-like piece of fabric hanging over it. Like a veil. The ends rustled against the wood floor, disturbed by the same unseen breeze that blew through the curtains of the windows.
"There's not much space in here to unpack anyhow, is there?" Annette mused.
"No, not yet," Beth replied simply. Confidently. "You're not really my mama, are you?"
"Of course not, Bethany. Don't be silly." It was her mother's tone, the exact way Annette would correct her daughter—sharp and quick, but gentle all the same.
Beth already knew it wasn't her, though. And that was okay.
"You're just a figment of my imagination," Beth said.
"In the simplest terms, yes," her mama's voice agreed. "Isn't it funny?"
"Finding out what I'm really capable of when I actually put my mind to it?" Beth smiled to herself. "Yeah. It is pretty funny. Who knew it'd be this easy."
"Don't get ahead of yourself, now. You've got a long road ahead, and you've only just begun. Remember?"
"Right. I remember. I have to be confident—"
"—but you can't get cocky."
"Yeah."
She breathed in deep and slow, looking around curiously. Her eyes drifted across the veiled door once more. She stood up from the bed, unable to feel the hard wood beneath her bare feet, and willed herself to take a step forward. Her legs obeyed. She paused, waiting for her mama's voice to pipe up again. But it didn't.
"I need guidance, I think," she said aloud.
"You think?" Annette's voice asked.
"No, I know," Beth reiterated. "I know I need guidance. From someone who can teach me how to control my Gift and become as powerful as I'm supposed to be. But what I don't know is how to communicate like that."
"Intent, honey. Purpose. You wanna talk to someone specific… right?"
"Yes. Florence Newton. I want to talk to her like Maggie got to talk to her."
"Sweetie… Maggie never wanted to talk to her. That was all Florence's idea. That was the Witch of Youghal's doing. If she could visit you like that today, I'm sure she would've already done so."
"I know. But that's what I want. She spoke to me once already—in a dream. When I couldn't control it. I have to speak to her again, when I can control it."
"No need to explain to me, Bethy," Annette's voice assured. "I already know everythin' you know. And I only know what you know."
"Right. I knew that."
"So, where are you gonna start? No use puttin' off for tomorrow what can be done today."
The weight in Beth's gut grew warm at the sound of one of her mama's favorite and often-used phrases. She took in a slow, deep breath, staring at the veiled door with unblinking eyes.
A soft growling sound caught her attention and she whipped her head around to look at the window across from the door. Sitting on the windowsill with thick white curtains billowing around it was a large brown barn owl. Its yellow eyes met hers with curiosity and it lazily flapped its wings, feathers ruffling all the way up its head. But instead of the usual owl sounds—like hooting or beak-clicking or quiet chirrups—it was growling from somewhere deep in its gullet.
Beth turned her body and approached the owl, stopping about a foot away and staring at the creature. Its soft growling turned to hissing, growing quieter as she leaned in and smiled.
She'd never seen this owl before in her life, but it felt familiar. She recognized it beneath the bright amber eyes and the brown feathers and the tiny golden beak. It growled again and her smile widened.
"Oh, look who came to visit," Annette's voice cooed.
"Hi, Tabitha," Beth greeted, reaching out a hand and running the back of her knuckles over the owl's downy-soft head.
Tabitha leaned into Beth's hand and her big amber eyes closed, the growling from her gullet morphing into a deep and content purr. She snapped her beak and emitted a sound that seemed to be a mixture of hooting and hissing, and when Beth pulled her hand back, Tabitha spread her wings and leapt backwards off the windowsill. The curtains fluttered back into place and Beth stepped away, still smiling.
"You're never as alone as you think," her mama's voice said. "There are so many good souls on your side, sweetheart. Can't you see that now?"
"I always saw it," Beth said. "I just never bothered to stop and appreciate it."
"Like your daddy always said: better late than never."
"Yeah. No kiddin'."
"What else is it your daddy likes to say?"
"'Don't shoot the messenger'?"
"That's the one." Annette's chuckle filled Beth's ears. "Never quite to the extreme that you're dealing with, but he certainly meant it. He was always playin' referee between you kids."
Beth wanted to smile, but it had faded. "This is a lot more serious than playin' referee, though."
"Because you're not playing referee at all. You're choosing to do the right thing… like we taught you."
"At the cost of my own pride."
"That's a cheap price to pay in this situation, though. He's not so awful as he makes himself out to be. You know that. You also know that you're still the one making the choice. And he's still getting the short end of the stick. Like he always has."
Beth frowned and an odd sensation filled her chest. "That's not fair."
Annette's voice made a sound of sympathy and said, "Life's not fair, Bethy. We've been over this time and time again."
Beth sighed. "I know."
She turned away from the window and a change in the environment immediately caught her eye. Where her closet door normally was had been a blank wall, but now it was replaced with a door. Not her closet door, though. This door was taller, wider, painted navy blue and padlocked shut. Its wood was thicker and more sturdy, aged but impenetrable.
"What's in there?" She asked.
"We can't open that yet," her mama's voice replied. "Remember what you read? About the difference between meditating and sleeping?"
"Oh," Beth said. "Right. I remember."
"You have another busy day ahead of you. Maybe you oughta call it a night and focus on gettin' some rest, honey."
She exhaled a deep, measured breath. "Yeah. Maybe."
But something was tugging at the weight in her gut, pulling her towards the veiled door of her bedroom. She focused on keeping her feet planted to the floor as she slowly turned and faced the door.
Knock knock knock.
She remained calm. Breathed in. Breathed out. Kept her lips tightly shut. Her mama's voice had gone silent.
Knock knock. Knock knock. Knock.
Another deep breath in. And out again. A shadow flickered across the floor, silhouetted by the deep red light leaking in through the crack between the door and the floor. She kept breathing.
Mindfulness. Intent. Purpose. Control.
Knock knock.
"Doodlebug, open up! It's yer daddy."
Beth froze. It sounded exactly like Hershel. She inhaled sharply, nearly losing control for the briefest flash of a second.
But she quickly reminded herself to focus on her breathing, to keep it steady, to listen to the incessant pounding of her own heart.
Thu-ump. Thu-ump. Thu-ump.
"Don't lock me out, Sunshine Girl. Listen to your father."
Daddy?
Her mama's voice rang in her ears, "That's not your daddy. You know how dangerous your Gift can be. You're not a naive little girl anymore. Don't open the door, Beth."
Of course. She knew that.
She knew that. Dammit.
Knock knock knock knock.
"Bethany, you'd better open this damn door—"
"Go away!" Beth cried out. "I know it's you, Papa Legba. You can't fool me. You're not welcome here and you'll never get in."
Her father's voice was replaced with laughter, high and cold. Then the sound of long fingernails tapping against the outside of the door, clicking out a taunting rhythm that sent chills up her spine.
"You can't keep me out forever, Visitor," Papa Legba threatened through the door. "There's nothing I hate more than tourists. And the rest of Hell agrees with me."
Annette's voice spoke up, steady and reassuring, "He's full of it, Bethy. He's a demon. The only thing he hates is the idea of a woman havin' the upper hand."
"How predictable," Beth remarked. She turned around and headed back to her bed. "I think it's time to go back now. If I can figure out how."
"You figured out how to get here, didn't you? Gettin' back will be a breeze. You've always been a quick learner, babygirl. Just like your mama."
Beth smiled as she climbed back onto her bed and returned to the place she'd been sitting. "Yeah."
Daryl's face flitted across her vision—fleeting and surprising, yet reassuring in a way. She remembered his bike. The cemetery. His calloused hand. The breeze in her hair. The look in his eyes. The scent of the wildflowers. The tone of his voice. "You're a good woman…"
Another reason to get back. Another kind of purpose.
"Just like my mama."
The knocking ceased. Papa Legba had gone silent. And Beth closed her eyes peacefully.
to be continued…
