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Sighing, I rise to my feet, releasing every curse word and depraved, nasty thing I can think of as I make my way to the door—a vain attempt to get it out of my system before I’m subjected to being in the vicinity of children. A choice between sniveling little brats or giant brats who think they’re better than everyone is no choice at all.
I remember being fifteen. Spoiler alert: I was a scrappy little asshole.
Lara stomps ahead of me, her layered skirts brushing against the faux flagstone floors as she leads me to the mouth of hell—or, you know, a classroom full of small, snotty humans. A single jerk of the head is all the encouragement she gives me.
I’m more than capable of giving a tour; I know the museum well and I’ve got a history degree to boot. My people skills, though? Terrible. As evidenced by the fact that I wasn’t able to maintain a single friendship from college, and I wrecked my relationship with the one person who knew me inside and out—darkness, depravity, and all.
Twenty pairs of eyes swivel to me as soon as I enter the room, and I swear to fucking god I can feel my own eyes twitching in response. I have an overwhelming urge to run, but like the fake-ass bitch I am, I plaster on a toothy smile and give them my best I love it here voice.
“Alright, who’s ready to see some dead stuff?”
Only three of them start crying.
Chapter Two
Bellamy
Ididn’t expect to be married at twenty-six, let alone divorced.
Four months ago, I left the papers and my wedding band on the kitchen counter while my then-husband was on a “business” trip. It took me some time to find a new job, and a brief interlude living back with my foster mom made me more than ready to have a place of my own again.
Now here I am, trying to turn my new home with its boring white walls into something less mind-numbingly dull.
Most people probably unpack pots and pans, maybe even bedding, as a priority. Instead, my attention is fixed on the large wooden table that will become my altar, an essential piece of me and my spirituality.
A tendril of excitement wends through the grim cocktail of anxiety and grief as I start laying out some items—antique keys, small vials of dried herbs, and a fresh bundle of garden sage. I pepper an abundance of tumblestones throughout, enjoying the myriad of colors and shapes.
I wrangle a selenite tower out of its bubble wrap, the clear crystal heavy in my hand. The opposite comes next, a sleek black tourmaline tower with fissures of white running through it, cool against the heat of my palm. The last piece is one that always makes my heart twinge—a large chunk of druzy amethyst, glittering and heavy.
I spend the rest of the evening trying to make the apartment feel like mine. A bit of a challenge, considering I’ve spent the last seven years of my life trying to shrink myself into something smaller, more easily digestible for others.
I push the thought aside, busying myself with draping the walls in tapestries and fabrics that pool to the floor in cozy puddles, and throwing the assortment of pillows I recently nabbed from Goodwill on the secondhand couch. Mismatched, but in a way that looks intentional and artsy.
Once most of the apartment is set up, I loose a breath and take a moment for it to sink in.
This is my fresh start. Tomorrow I begin my new job as an educator at Salem Natural History Museum.
The memory of my interview still makes me smile—they asked if I had much knowledge of occult history for their new exhibition. I nodded and said I knew a bit, which was an understatement. In addition to my previous teaching job, I also performed tarot readings and dealt in precious stones.
Oh. And I can see dead people.
My stomach grumbles, but I’m not done protecting my space from said dead people. I can’t feel anything right now, but that’s not to say something won’t crawl out of the woodwork later. According to the owner, this apartment has a long history of people moving in, freaking out, and leaving, all within a few weeks. They were unable to lease it out and ended up listing it for peanuts.
Dropping to my knees in front of the door, I pull a pocketknife from my denim shorts and start working up the carpet and padding to reveal the wood underneath. It doesn’t take long for me to carve out the protective sigils, so I pull over a wobbly chair and score one into the top of the doorframe too. Although the space is feeling more me now, I can’t settle the incessant hunger gnawing in my gut until I’ve meditated.
Candles are a necessity, obviously. After they’re lit, I place a wilted bundle of lavender in a moon-shaped bowl on my altar. A small offering to Hekate, asking for guidance in this time of transition.
Although I give offerings to gods—messages from the other side can come in many forms. Sometimes it can be small things: feelings, images, scents. And sometimes, if you’re incredibly lucky and are born a spirit witch, you’ll be blessed with a spirit guide.
I, however, have a spirit nuisance.
She is much more likely to give me inappropriate suggestions than anything helpful. Regardless, it’s time to invite her back to me.
I try to empty my mind of the last few months, sitting cross-legged on the couch, one palm facing the sky, one facing the ground. It’s a habit to roll my neck a few times, something that helps me prepare for connecting to the spirit realm and listening with an open mind. Sucking in a breath, I hold it for a few seconds before releasing it into the space around me, tuning my vibrations to align with—
There.
Even with my eyes closed, light flashes across my eyelids, flaring in an arc. Then comes warmth, a tingling heat that spreads across my whole body and pushes another breath from my lungs. I feel energy swell in the space next to me, alongside a feminine exhale. A smile tugs at the edge of my mouth.
