“Festival getting you down, dear?” An unexpected voice breaks through my thoughts. I look around, setting my eyes on an elderly woman a few feet ahead. She’s dressed in a beautiful, ornately designed plum skirt with swirls of gold streaked across it. Her top is a black thick-strapped tank top paired with a shawl that appears to be made from the same material as her skirt.
“Oh, just ready to call it a day,” I respond politely, making my way past her.
“Olive, you can tell me what’s bothering you. I’ve wanted to meet you since the minute you arrived in town.” The woman’s voice is sterner this time.
Turning around cautiously to face her, I ask, “H-how d-do you know my name?” Fear wraps around my belly like a fist.
Her face transforms into a calming smile. The kind that your grandmother would give you when you finally come to visit. “My dear, I’ve been in this town for a long time. Everyone knows Beau’s new beauty.” I don’t know what I was afraid of. Thiswoman is beautiful. Rosy cheeks, long, flowing silver hair, bright eyes, and perfectly manicured fingers.Gosh, I’m losing it.
“Of course, I apologize. I’m not from such a small town, so sometimes I forget how obvious it is that I’m the new girl.” I return her smile, hoping to cover my rudeness.
“It’s okay, dear. But do tell me, what’s bothering you?”
Why does she want to know so bad?
“I only ask because this is the best night of the whole year, and you look positively forlorn.”Did she read my mind? I need to lay off the true crime podcasts.
“Well, I guess I could share . . . Maybe you have some advice for me.” The words come out as if compelled from my lips. As if I have no choice in the matter, at all. Or maybe I’m just desperate for a bystander’s opinion.
“Oh, yes. I would love that. Do come and join me in my shop for some tea.” Her bony hand wraps around my bicep, pulling me toward what looks to be a basement apartment. I notice a purple flashing sign that readsTarot—Enter Here,with a neon finger pointing down.
The shop is creepy with its haphazardly hung sign blinking at an inconsistent pace, like it can’t decide on any one rhythm. Cobwebs line the cobbled steps. It feels like we’re walking into one of those rooms you desperately hope the victim in a horror movie will avoid. It’s bone-chilling, but I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t skip a beat a little at the thought of what she might tell me. How bad could it be?
The door comes ajar with a loud creaking noise, without her touching the knob. Soft light leaks out, like the room is welcoming her. She pushes into the dimly lit space as I follow closely behind. It’s shockingly empty, with only a cream-and-purple Persian rug, a single standing lamp, an ornate black desk, and a cat.
“Welcome to my shop.” She ushers me further into the room, encouraging me to sit . . . Wait, where did this stately armchair come from?
“Actually, I think I’m going to go,” I say, the words nervously tumbling from my lips. My gut is commanding me to leave this place at once. There’s an air about it that feels life altering, like if I don’t leave now, I may never make it out.
“I will hear of no such thing, Olivia. Be a dear and sit.” Her voice is strong, self-assured, not craggy as it was when she first spoke.
I muster my courage, taking my seat as instructed. With a snap of her fingers, a cauldron ignites in flames behind her as she digs in her desk and pulls out a stack of cards. The cat pounces on a mouse in the far corner, and still, she says nothing.
I watch intently as she shuffles her cards with an occasionalhmmoraha. Seconds feel like minutes as the time passes in my anticipation of what may happen next. Just when I begin to think I’ve been roofied by the bartender and will wake up from this nightmare soon, she speaks.
“Tell me, Olive, what seems to be the problem?” she asks, her face bemused.
“I-I mean nothing really. I have a good job, great friends, it’s just . . . I should go, you don’t want to hear this,” I stammer.
“Your heart has been locked away for far too long, my dear. If you want the life you deserve, you must claim it.”
“I don’t know how.” Admitting this to anyone, let alone some old lady that reads tarot for kicks at the local carnival, is a first.
“Yes, you do, Olive. You know why you keep it locked away. Tell me, let me help you.” Her words are demanding, almost angry at my inability to open up.Welcome to the club, lady, you aren’t the first. I sit silently, staring at the wall behind her, searching for a lifeline in the flames beneath her bubbling pot.
“Olive, I can’t help you if you don’t ask for it,” she persists.
“What’s your name?” I ask, fervently.
Flipping her hair in annoyance, she pins me with a sharp glance. “Irina.”
I gasp. “Irina? LiketheIrina we’ve been celebrating all day?” This cannot be happening, there’s no way.
Disbelief settles into my brow. Their names are the same. She’s clearly a witch of some sort. Her house isn’t one I’ve ever noticed before, not that I have been here long enough to make that argument. I tick the coincidences off in my head. “You’re her, aren’t you? Why’d you leave the judge? Why are you . . . How are you here?”
My questions go unanswered as the tension radiating off of her intensifies. “Olive, do I need to tell you why you can’t open up, or are we going to keep doing this song and dance all night?”
I have to make a choice: I either tell her, or I try to escape, which probably won’t work and I’ll die like one of those dumb girls in all the horror movies. I mean, what was I thinking, coming to a strange old woman’s shop?
