The earth crumbled, falling on her face. Her mouth
closed to avoid swallowing any. Blinded, her hands scrambled
against the sides. Dirt rapidly filled the hole, blotting
out the sun.
"Chance!" a panicked voice howled. She opened
her mouth to respond, but soil threatened suffocation on all
sides.
Quiet.
She must remain quiet.
Buried alive and silent.
Dread curdled my stomach. A shiver raced up my spine. One
hand on the doorknob, I breathed deeply. The taste of loam
and clay lingered on my tongue. The scents clogged my
nostrils and sweat made my palms slippery. Slowly exhaling
and inhaling, I counted my breaths, an exercise in serenity.
Pack the dream away.
Pack it away and deal with
the here and the now.
The
here consisted of a two hundred-year-old
farmhouse on the edge of Loudoun County. The
now
was a few minutes after one in the afternoon. The
problem was uniforms getting up and walking away of
their own accord. My client, Mr. Adams, requested me-via a
mutual friend-to put his house back in order. I'm Chance
Monroe. My family has lived in the Leesburg area for
generations. I am a hereditary hedge witch with the
prerequisite wild, untamable curls to match and my
grandmother's grey eyes.
Gathering my composure, I stared at a closed, slender door
to what was once servants' quarters, tucked away in the back
of the pantry, discreet, with easy access to the kitchen. It
was warm to the touch. The old Victorian style house, built
in the early eighteen hundreds, featured narrow doorframes
and solid construction.
I released the doorknob long enough to dry my sweaty palms
on my jeans. I finger combed the russet hair back from my
face and took a moment to wrap the length into a ponytail.
Like the earlier exercise at breathing, the simple action
allowed me to focus. It told the rest of me to get it
together because it was time to work. The duffel bag
containing my supplies provided a comforting weight on my
left shoulder. I opened the door, a snort of inappropriate
laughter escaped before I could stop it.
I stayed on the kitchen side of the doorway, better to spot
potential trouble while I was still secure enough to shut
the door on that self-same trouble should it rear its ugly
head. This assumed it had a head to rear. Hope for the best,
but expect the worst. Gran had drummed that advice into me
for years. Flexing long, slender fingers, I focused on
stiffening my shields, blocking any latent energy in the
room from interfering with my observations. Pins and needles
raced up my arm from the doorknob, warning of fluctuating
energy fields in the room beyond.
I wanted the information my five senses provided first. The
mind and the heart perceive threats differently. I wanted to
know what my mind thought before I got my heart and soul
involved. I'd ask the Earth for her opinion momentarily.
I let my gaze roam over the contents of the room. The
military uniforms stood at attention, literally. Mr. Adams
mentioned his collection had walked off, and apparently,
he'd meant it. The uniforms were in perfect formation, five
wide and two deep, as though being worn by unseen bodies.
Where their "feet" should be, men's dress shoes were lined
up in formation. Save for the last. A single pair of red
strappy heels at the end of the formation definitely did not
match the formal blues. But they were just my size, a four
narrow, and I imagined how the three inches of extra height
would give me a sultry walk if they didn't break my ankles.
I couldn't help the snicker that escaped. I bet the red,
strappy shoes were a bigger affront to Mr. Adams than the
uniforms loitering in the room.
The room suggested classic fashion reserved for past
generations where you went to your room to rest or to read.
No radio, television or other electronic device to distract.
Gran had liked to keep her rooms as simple. No need to fuss
with a bunch of clutter where you went to bathe, dress or
sleep.
A twin bed occupied one corner, with a writing desk in the
opposite corner. There was a small divan, probably used for
reading, along with a pair of dressers with an ironing board
propped between them. The dresser top was barren, empty, and
one drawer partially pulled out. An ordinary room, sad and
abandoned. It smelled faintly of patchouli mixed with wood
soap and furniture polish. The scent suggested cleanliness
with the barest touch of femininity.
Testing the empty space in the doorway with my hand, I
waited for the tingling to become more electric or painful.
The sensation gained no more strength than normal pins and
needles. Closing my eyes, I relaxed my tight shields. Cool
energy flowed over me like the promise of a breeze on a
still day, but no hum of power eddied out to smack at me.
It was a positive sign promising a lack of maliciousness, I
hoped. Maliciousness and moving clothing could be the work
of a spirit or spiritual remnant. Those were tough to get
rid of, and I'd need Pastor Tom to help me bless the house.
That would cut into my fee and take twice the time.
I don't do angry spirits if I can help it. Exorcisms are
hell on peace of mind, not to mention a manicure.
Cautiously, I stepped one soft, leather booted foot firmly
into the room and kept the other foot firmly out, gnawing at
my lower lip and wishing I'd worn sneakers instead. Keeping
one foot out of the room anchored me in case my senses were
lying to me and this was a trap.
A trap by what, well, I don't know, but it's far better
to be safe than sorry.
I gave the unknown a few more seconds to reach out and bite
me in the ass. When nothing happened, I held onto the
doorframe and stepped fully into the room. Thankfully, my
anxiety was for nothing. I ignored the mild sensation of
letdown that nothing jumped up and said "
hi," but I
preferred the relief to an adrenaline martini.
I set my duffel bag on the floor. I inched my way into the
room, sliding along to a clear space. I slid down the wall
and sat on the floor. The uniforms remained exactly as they
were when I came into the room.
Empty, posed...waiting?
The military uniforms weren't identical. They each bore
piping and stripes indicating different levels of rank, and
some possessed medals. If I were a smartass, I'd just call
the culprits gremlins, but the likely culprits were imps.
Imps were lively little spirits that earned their name from
their Puck-like behavior. Pranks were the thing with imps.
Stolen jewelry hanging from trees, wood furniture sprouting
leaves, wool coats that
baa'd or leather coats that
moo'd. Their behavior was annoying and troublesome
but completely unrelated to demonic imps. Personally, I
prefer the former because demonic imps are reputedly mean
for mean's sake. Like poltergeists and remnant spirits, you
need an ordained priest to get rid of them as mentioned
before. I really didn't want to involve Pastor Tom. I
seriously needed the money to cover this month's bills and
upon occasion, my sardonic sense of humor has been known to
irritate the ordained man.
I didn't do it on purpose. I'm just not big on organized
religion. I prefer my Sundays spent sprawled in a hammock
with a good book or working in the garden at home.
One of the first lessons I can remember my hedge witch
grandmother giving me was to relax into my breathing,
imagining my shape on the inside, meshing it with the shape
of my skin and balancing it all. In an ideal world,
centering kept me steady while grounding gave me the anchor
I needed to handle the metaphysical energies that eddied
through the world. Correct breathing helped me ground and
center. Closing my eyes, relaxing my muscles, I concentrated
on breathing. My body relaxed and my thoughts slowed. Random
observations silenced as I reached outside of myself, beyond
the room, beyond the house, into the land below the building.
The Earth welcomed my contact. Existential thoughts
flickered by too swiftly to grasp and comprehend. Every time
it was different. Every time it was the same. The sensation
was hard to describe, I've tried. I likened it to being snug
in the womb, aware of the world beyond but sheltered from it.
The connection was thick, heavy and it smothered me. I am
not the tree. I'm the thick roots that stretched out beneath
the tree. I am the ant that made its home there. I am the
foundation of the house, planted securely. All of these
thoughts flickered through my consciousness. Discipline
maintained my sense of self against the onslaught of awareness.
When I opened my eyes this time, I saw not only the room,
but the layers of the room. I saw the construction. I saw
the Earth as it was before the room existed. I saw the
potential of the room as it might exist again. The memory in
the wood was a bare whisper compared to the trombone of the
land around it, but I listened to the whispers.
Imps.
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