Cordelia encountered the ghost of Chad Warwick late that same night—he appeared to be a man in his late twenties with short black hair, rough stubble on his face, and deep brown eyes that had an intensity beyond all comparison. He was dressed quite well for a man, wearing a dress shirt made of fine fabric with a pair of good slacks and brown leather loafers. The witch had been choosing her outfit for the following morning when she heard an effeminate, but deep-sounding voice in the master bedroom.
"Oh my god, do not match that heather gray with dark fuschia," the voice said. "You'll look like an old church marm."
"Huh?" Cordelia turned around, and there he was standing there with a friendly expression on his face.
"Hello," he said. "I'm Chad."
"Uh…I'm Cordelia," she said. "Are you—"
"Yes, yes, I am dead," he said, "and I've been doomed to spend forever with a man who doesn't love me."
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said. "Is he also in this house?"
"Yeah," he said. "I tell him to go away all the time. He was never committed to me. We renovated this house to sell it."
"Well…" The witch looked around her master bedroom, analyzing the perfect paint on the walls as he smiled. "You sure did a good job."
"Why, thank you," he smiled.
"So you mentioned that you tried to sell it?" Cordelia asked, flipping through the clothes hangers after putting the fuchsia top back into the closet. "I assume you didn't get to do that.
"No," Chad replied. "Tate killed us."
She turned sharply, keeping her bare feet planted on the carpet as her chocolate-colored eyes analyzed his stoic facial expression.
"What?" she asked.
"Yeah, but before that, me and my boyfriend were on eggshells," he explained. "He wasn't interested in me anymore. He was online with some bondage master with the email address JungleJim4322 . In a desperate attempt to recapture his interest, I totally bought a rubber latex suit."
"Oh my god," Cordelia said. "So…then what happened?"
"It didn't work. We gave up our plans to adopt a baby," Chad said sadly. "I even found out he was screwing that twink gym trainer of his. He admitted it. Did he really think that some crass admission would hurt me?"
"Well, did he mean to hurt your feelings?" the witch asked.
"I guess I'll never find out. I eavesdropped once," Chad said. "And he said he didn't love me. So I'm stuck spending forever with a man who doesn't love me."
"I'm very sorry to hear that, uh…Chad?" she said sadly. "Let me know if you ever need to talk. My adopted daughters are also welcoming. They'd be happy to meet you."
"Well, thank you," he said smiling, pointing his finger at the closet. "I'd match that gray with a white blouse, hun."
"Uh, I already wore white today," she said.
"Hun, wear it. You'll look fabulous," Chad smiled, disappearing from sight before her eyes. A smile came to her lips, taking the white blouse he was pointing at and laying it out with her other clothes for the morning.
Clara had left early for classes at the university that morning—as she walked along the path to the building of the first lecture of the day, she looked to her left and saw the main entrance of the library standing in its glory as it towered above the sparse amount of students passing by. Its sepia, Gothic architecture looked monumental as it was haunting, and the young, black-haired witch seemed so tempted to go in not so much for her love of books but by a force driving her there.
She betrayed her conscience for being compelled into the library, stepping up the front, stone steps slowly as another student held open the door for her. Upon entering, her eyes wandered in awe of the grandiosity of the interior—the room was extraordinarily tall with circular chandeliers at the height of the room. Wooden tables with coordinating chairs and a separate wing for computers mottled the surface of the polished marble floor, and bookshelves formed cubicles housing groups of smaller tables. She felt a pull toward one of them, seeing a familiar young woman sitting down with her verdant eyes focused on the pages.
"B-Britta?" she asked.
The fair, freckled-faced blonde with mesmerizing green eyes took her eyes from the book and looked at the dark-haired witch and her ensemble. Her top was golden yellow and spotted with small white polka dots with a tie accent on the neckline, and she was wearing bell-bottom jeans with narrow, embroidered hems on each leg with slide-on wedge sandals. Her raven hair was braided and hung past her shoulder, and around her neck was a silver-tone dreamcatcher necklace with faux blue feathers hanging from the intricate, filigree circle.
"You came," the Swede said, turning the page of the book with her mind's power.
"What do you mean?" Clara asked, looking at her with fascination—then, she saw Britta turned the page by means of telekinesis. "Oh…uh…"
"I am not ashamed," the young woman said to her proudly. "I do not hide anymore."
"Y-You're a witch just like me," the raven-haired witch hesitated after a brief silence, walking closer with her cotton totebag hanging from her shoulder. "How did you discover your abilities?"
"I have known for years," Britta said, straightening her back with the palm of her hand flat on the open book. "I was a baby when I found out."
Clara was drawn into the conversation with the like-minded Swede, and she promptly took a seat directly diagonal from Britta, leaning in to hear more and engage in a deeper conversation. Their eyes met, and the Swede was more than willing to explain more about herself and the knowledge she secretly held of not only her, but her sister. She also had been wearing black, just as she had the day before.
"I was three when I found out I could grow things," Clara said.
"I know," the Swede said with a slight, serene smile.
"Okay, what's the deal?" the black-haired young woman said. "You keep saying you 'know' when I tell you things, but you've never met me before. I know, you look familiar to me, too, but you keep assuming that you know. How do you know?"
The book Britta had opened and read on the library table was entitled Freaks of Nature: Sideshow Exhibitions of the Twentieth Century, and Clara peered closely to notice the black and white image of a beautiful young woman strongly resembling her newfound friend. It was obvious that the woman's hair was blonde, styled in a crown braid and her face adorned with light makeup. Her lips looked soft, and on the bridge of her nose were faint freckles that were few in number. Her face shape was distinctive with a heart-shaped, feminine jawline and graceful cheekbones. Her eyebrows, plucked thin to perfection, were filled in to a perfect arch, and her eyes were magnificently mystifying and had a distinct sparkle to them. She appeared to be wearing a simple button-up blouse, but it was unclear about the bottom; her frame, however, was extremely slender with graceful collarbones, a small waist, and other unbelievably small proportions for a woman. Clara then looked at the top of the page—aside from the chapter reading Extraordinary Talents, it said the name 'Britta Nordlund' in bold print.
"I am an open book," Britta said. "Ask me anything."
Clara was in shock, and even more so when she looked and read the date of birth on the page aloud in a whisper.
"June third…nineteen thirty-five?" she asked with incredulity.
"Ja," Britta said, her eyes steady at the dark-haired young woman.
"Geez, when was this book published?" Clara asked, flipping to the front part of the book to look at the publication date. "1998?"
"I suppose so," the blonde said.
"But how did you…uh…does that mean you're over a century old?" Clara asked in a forceful whisper.
"Ja. One hundred one, to be frank," Britta told her. "It is a very long story."
"Please come to my house after classes today?" Clara begged, taking the cold, almost clammy hand of the Swede—it was smaller than her own, which frightened her. "You need to meet my sister."
"Ja, I will come," Britta smirked. "And the woman who helped you become women?"
"Cordelia's her name," Clara smiled; her smile faded and her eyes widened at the thought of Amy—fleeting through her mind once again, she gasped with worry. "Oh, crap! Amy! She was on a date! She never came home! Oh my god!"
"She is alright," the Swede said. "Oroa dig inte, barna."
"Huh?"
"We have class," Britta added. "I hear a bell. Vi måste gå."
Amy had arrived back home late that morning, and surprisingly enough, Constance had note noticed her presence in the house. Yet when Cordelia first saw her coming into the front door, she noticed that her makeup was messed up beyond repair with mascara fallout smudging the outer corners of her almond-shaped eyes. She gasped softly upon seeing her adopted daughter and approached her.
"Amy, where have you been?" the odler woman asked, moving a flaxen strand from her own face. Amy just stared back at her coldly and rolled her sapphire eyes back into her head with annoyance.
"Cordelia, I'm an adult. Stop treating me like I'm two," she retorted, beginning to move up the stairs. Appalled, Cordelia simply watched her ascend to the second floor with her fists to her hips.
"Damn it, Amy! I asked you a question, and I want an answer," the older witch stated authoritatively. "Answer me, please."
"I was on an all-night hot date," the young witch said, stopping at the top of the flight. "Do you have a problem?"
"No, but I'm concerned. Do you have a problem with me being concerned?" Cordelia asked.
"There isn't a need," Amy replied. "I'm fine."
"Amy."
Cordelia sprinted up the stairs to follow her adopted daughter into her bedroom, looking around as soon as she entered at the interior—compared to Clara's bedroom, Amy's color scheme was darker but vivid with hues of black and red. White lace curtains and valances adorned the windows, and on the walls were posters of Ariana Grande, Marilyn Monroe, and Iggy Azalea. Amy plopped herself down on her bed, staying seated as her adopted mother swung the desk chair to sit nearby.
"Amy, I adopted you and your sister," she said. "You are like my daughters, and especially after all you have been through, don't think for one second that just because you're grown adults, that I don't care about you anymore."
Amy did not answer as she took her cigarette holder out of her side table drawer, putting it between her lips before concentrating just enough on the other end that it lit without a lighter. She took a long, painful drag and looked at Cordelia.
"Amy, I worry about you a lot," she said calmly. "I've tried to have you make the right choices, but I know I can't control what you do with your life. I…I know you've spent the whole summer trying to find a job but I think you should start up again. Clara goes to school and she's graduating with a degree next year—"
"Yeah, yeah," the young witch with golden curls said dismissively, flicking her wrist side to side with the cigarette between her fingers; she took a short drag. "Clara's so amazing, isn't she?"
"Amy, I'm shocked at you that you would talk like this about your sister," Cordelia said, "when you two have grown up together and…Amy? Do you remember the house fire?"
At that moment, the young witch jerked her head to the side and her sapphire eyes became like daggers as she blew smoke from her lips briskly.
"Don't," she stated firmly, pointing the fuming cigarette out toward her adopted mother. "Don't."
"You had no control over that fire, and remember? Clara gave you life. She—"
"Stop!"
"Remember all the nights you came home drunk and delirious and your sister healed you?" Cordelia asked persistently.
"STOP!" Amy shouted.
"You've come home pregnant twice, Amy!" the older woman exclaimed with worry. "Clara healed you after each of your abortions."
"GET OUT!" Amy shouted between gritted teeth. "Geez! Don't you know English?"
Cordelia breathed heavily, shaking her head and walking out of the room silently with her hand over her forehead. Just as she left, Violet's spirit entered the room with her honey-brown eyes directed at Amy, who continued to smoke. Violet had been wearing a canary yellow cardigan over a knee-length blue floral dress with a brimmed hat and black hose.
"Hey, do you have another one of those?" she asked.
"Hm, here," Amy said, tossing the metal case at Violet to catch. "Knock yourself out. Need a lighter?"
"Uh…yeah?" Violet asked.
"Come here," the blonde witch said. As Violet approached her, she had a confused expression on her soft, morose face as Amy concentrated on the tip of her cigarette to light it, and once a flame appeared, Violet took a stunned drag and blew out.
"Wow," she said. "How did you do that?"
"I'm a witch," Amy confessed. "I've done it since I was five."
"Smoking?"
"No, stupid," the blonde answered cynically. "I meant controlling fire."
"Well, it worked," Violet said sadly, sitting next to Amy on her bed with a slight slouch on her back. "I was just walking by when I heard someone yelling."
"That was me. Cordelia likes to bust balls sometimes," Amy said with a long drag of her cigarette.
"Is it true?" Violet asked. "That you died?"
"I don't even know," Amy said wearily. "I…I was five when I discovered I could control fire but…I…oh my god, I don't remember much about it." She paused, taking a drag. "Our house in New Orleans caught fire. I thought of fire when playing with my dolls, and soon enough everything around me was on fire. It ripped through the house. I was trapped upstairs. Then…I was told that the ceiling caved in on me."
"Oh my god, so you did die," Violet said with surprise. "Were…you a ghost like me?"
"I don't know, I don't know," Amy said persistently. "All I remember is waking up and seeing Clara dead on the morgue floor. It was weird. Our mother had to bring her back to life again. Then our aunt healed me. My ribs were broken and I was in a lot of pain. That night scarred me for life. I…I don't remember much about what happened after I was caved in on, but I…I had never seen a dead body before at the time."
"I remember when I saw my own dead body," Violet said, beginning to describe a distant memory to the living witch as they smoked together.
2011
The only thing being illuminated by the flashlight as Tate held it in the basement was the corpse of a teenaged girl—the rigger mortis had fixed her hands in a permanent, contorted state. Her mouth was agape, her lips covered with dry, old vomit as maggots and small beetles crawled in and out between feedings on the weeks-old dead flesh. A black cardigan had been the living's last outfit, and skinny jeans smelling of decomposition hugged each stiff leg. Violet let out a wail as tears streamed down her face, disgusted as she looked down at her corpse with disbelief.
"NOO!" she cried out, sobbing heavily as she felt her ghostly heart cracking to form a million individual, sharp pieces. Tate turned to look at her, tears in his own eyes as he sniffled, his heart broken also by her reaction.
"Violet," he cried.
"I…died taking all those pills?" she asked with disbelief as she moved her light brown hair away from her face. Tate shook his head, looking down at the decaying body.
"I tried to save you," his voice cracked. "I really did. I…I tried to make your throw them up. You threw up a few, but not enough."
Violet whined steadily, her heart in her throat as she cried over her own loss—Tate took her into his arms, patting her back in an attempt to console her as he cried along with her.
"You took so many pills, Violet," he sobbed, feeling her teardrops saturate the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt; the girl shook her head, never stopping her cries from being let out. "You died crying. I held you. You were safe. You died…loved."
At that moment, Violet lost it—her cries became silent screams so loud her body became numb.
"I…can't feel anything," she whispered with her voice cracking.
"I didn't want you to see this, Violet," he said to her. "I didn't want you to feel like this, or your parents. They get this idea that if you chose to die, you would be with me. You wouldn't be so sad, Violet."
"He held me," Violet said, wiping a tear before it streamed full-stream down her face. Amy just looked at her, biting her lower to keep from crying herself—her story was genuinely touching.
"Pills," she muttered. "Terrible. I never feel bad for anyone, but you…you are…an exception. I am so sorry, Violet."
"Looking at myself during life was disgusting enough," the ghost said, "but seeing my body while dead was worse. I wish I could be alive again."
Later that day, Britta accompanied Clara to her house, as promised that morning in the library. As they entered the house, they found Amy descending the staircase without a ghost by her side. Britta, however, felt an uncomfortable chill moving through her body.
"Oh, hey Clara," Amy said slowly. "What took you so long?"
"Uh…meet my new friend," Clara said politely. "This is Britta."
"I'm Amy, hi," the blonde said.
"Hej," the Swede said.
Once Amy alighted from the staircase, she gasped as she got a good look at her face. It was strikingly familiar, as her green eyes shone intensely and the sheen of her golden hair caught her attention. Yet her style of dress was definitely different that she remembered. Do I remember? she asked herself. Do I? Have I seen her before? And that name…that too?
The Other Side...a distant memory beyond time and existence…
The child's chest pain had miraculously gone away, and she was no longer unconscious. As a matter of fact, she was no longer just a mere corpse placed strategically beneath a crisp white cloth in the morgue. In fact, she found herself wandering aimlessly in a great hall with mason stone walls and flaming torches attached to the sides for purposes of illumination. Her large, vividly intense blue eyes looked around as tears of worry flowed from them, and she noticed an approaching figure come down the way.
As it drew closer, the child looked and saw a young woman with shiny, golden hair tied back in a crown braid that circled her head. Her outfit consisted of a modest frock that looked to be a cross between beige and mauve with a collar and buttons going down the front. It was cinched at the waist, and the hem was a few inches below her hosed knees. Her simple shoes made noises with each step she took, and the little girl heard a gasp.
"Herregud!" the woman exclaimed breathily.
"Where's my mama? Daddy?" the little girl asked. "Where's Clara?"
"Detta är ingen plats för ett barna," the woman said, shaking her head as she stopped in front of the little girl, who just stared up at her teary-eyed.
"I want my mama!" the little girl cried out.
"Shh…shh," the woman with the golden crown braid said as she crouched down and wiped the girl's tears away. "Do not cry."
She took the little girl into her arms and held her, letting her cry on her shoulder as she ran her thin, frail fingers through the soft golden ringlets the little girl had for hair. However, the woman took her head away and looked out into space.
"I hear something," she said. "Oh my…"
Realizing it was the girl's signal to go back to earth, the woman looked down into the eyes of the young child before kissing her cheek.
"Go back to earth, min älskling," the woman said. "Live your life."
"It's…you," Amy said with incredulity, remembering the identity of the woman she had met on the Other Side after her death as a child.
"Ja," Britta said with a slight nod. "It is me. I met you long before your time."
"And…me, too?" Clara asked stepping forward. "Is that how you know us?"
"Nei," Britta said, "not only that."
"We both died that night, Britta," Clara explained. "Amy was crushed by the ceiling, and I died trying to resurrect her. That means you were dead, too."
"I was, ja," Britta said.
"Did someone use resurgence to bring you back?" the young witch with golden curls asked.
"I do not remember," Britta said, shaking her head. "I do not know why I was brought to life again."
"And you look so young, too," Clara asked. "How did you manage to get the maggots and gross stuff off you?"
"I…do not think…" the woman tried to remember, "I had any."
"How can you not?" Clara asked with confusion. "The dead decompose."
"I did not, and I do not know why," the Swede said. "I do not remember."
"Can you try?" Amy asked.
"Maybe," she said.
"Let's go in the living room," Clara offered.
A/N:
Thanks again to everyone who had left reviews and read this story! You are all working to make this a successful conclusion to a fan-series, so thanks! :3
I have gotten some messages that were positive reactions to Britta's return, and I am happy to see that you are all happy about her coming back. Also, many of your questions on how she was resurrected may be answered in the next chapter!
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