Chapter 8: Ezra - Entities to Lovers

Ye Olde Spirit Shop looks different late at night.

It’s nearly eleven by the time we waltz up the cobblestones to the entrance. The large front windows are darkened, turning ordinary antiques into ominous set dressings for a terrifying tale. This time of year, with the fake cobwebs lining the windowsills, the dim orange and purple Halloween lights dangling from the tops of the frames, and our most macabre relics on display, it’s Halloween embodied. I always loved the look of old Boston storefronts, but Ye Olde Spirit Shop is special. The transoms above, dusky wooden bulkheads, engraved columns flanking each side of the door. It’s a place that defies time. A little bit modern, a little bit old.

Tonight, it feels haunted.

It might be the concussion I may have sustained earlier, but I swear a shadow dashes somewhere inside. Is that what Clementine does when no one’s around? Actually, I don’t want to know. I would love to keep finding her charming.

Rory peers up at the apartment windows above the shop. The lights are on, which means Delia might still be awake. She scowls.

“Okay, we’re going to have to be quiet.”

“How much can she hear up there?” I ask.

“A little, but around this time of night, she’s probably relaxing and watching TV, so she’s distracted. I…can’t tell her about this,” Rory frets.

“Yeah, me either.”

Ye Olde Spirit Shop is the first workplace I’ve ever had where I’m thrilled to be here every single day. Some days I’m more worn out than others, but even after rough days of class, hearing those skeleton keys jingle above my head as I enter, and getting the first breath full of earthy incense and antique wood, feels like entering a sanctuary.

Delia’s also the first boss who’s really embraced me as I am, who has never reprimanded me for some stupid reason, who never pitches a fit when I need to shift around schedules. I’m good at everything I do here, when I never measure up anywhere else. At Ye Olde Spirit Shop, I matter.

I’m not down with getting fired, so we need to find out what’s happened to us.

Rory’s pattern analysis seems to check out so far. Since we’ve been together, everything’s gone well. Maybe too well. On the walk over, we had perfect timing at Every. Single. Crosswalk. It was like we were supposed to be there. I even found another rare coin on the street.

Rory nervously unlocks the door. She opens it slowly to keep the keys from jingling too loud. I’m shocked by how dark it really is in here, and how quiet it is without Delia playing something on the record player, the gentle bustle of customers, or Rory’s hushed voice readings. Rory navigates the store with memorized precision until she reaches the lamp on the front counter. She yanks it with a sharp tug, and it illuminates the store.

I’m sort of expecting to catch Clementine in the act of thieving these items she gives all of us, but no, she’s seated in her usual rocking chair. I ignore the part when her head might turn my way.

I join Rory at the counter, where Temperance’s brooch is on display. Or…where it should be.

“What the fuck,” I gasp. “Rory, it isn’t here.”

She turns to Clementine. Sure enough, Clementine is holding the brooch that should be locked in a cabinet. How on…? You know, I’m not going to ask.

“Clementine strikes again,” she says triumphantly.

We kneel in front of Clementine and hesitate on who should reach for it. I know Rory’s gifts are always flowers or herbs, Delia’s are things she’s lost. For me, it’s coins. Part of me fears taking it and unleashing a curse on my entire bloodline because it wasn’t meant for me.

“Can I use this?” I ask.

Clementine’s chair rocks forward once. Short and subtle.

“Thank you, Clementine.”

It’s a beautiful piece of history. The edges are jeweled with purple gems, with a deep green stone as the body and a carved cameo of a woman in a pearly white stone placed on top. I pass it to Rory.

When Rory touches it, she hesitates. It’s a side of her I only started seeing yesterday. A side that betrays the strong, independent woman who fears nothing facade she plays around me. It’s the first time, though, I’m thinking she’s putting on a role when she comes to work, too. Maybe here we both get to be someone we wish we were.

Rory leads us to the alcove, pushing the scarlet velvet curtains out of the way. I’ve never fully come in here. It’s the same purple damask wallpaper as the rest of the store, but most of it’s covered with old paintings, mirrors, and wall hangings. Each painting looks like it was hand-selected from an estate sale or thrift store, carrying decades of history through the warped wooden frames and scratches on the glass.

There’s a level of character and care to this space that’s distinctly Rory. She takes a seat at the head of the table like it’s her throne and prepares. There’s a bureau beside her table with incense holders, jars of herbs, and a spread of crystals glimmering under the small chandelier above us. Rory hums nervously as she smooths over the red and purple tablecloth.

Everything she does is a ritual. She makes sure the cloth is flat and even, pulled perfectly over the center of the table. As she lights candles, she does so in height order. She places Temperance’s brooch directly in the middle of the table. She closes her eyes and breathes deep, grounding herself in the moment. When she finally opens them again, everything about her is direct and determined.

“Sit,” she commands. With the curtain closed, it feels like we’re stuck in here together. I sit across from her and catch a quick glance in the mirror, where a dark shadow floats behind me.

“Do we have to…” I begin.

I’ve seen enough movies and read enough about the spiritualist movement that I have an idea, but with the way Rory’s glaring at me—perhaps it’s better if I’m quiet.

“What?”

“Do we have to chant?”

“No,” she objects with a scoff. “Let me lead. Close your eyes. I need you to believe we can speak to Temperance Talbot. Séance circles were typically precarious matters, like wedding seating charts. The medium would arrange everybody in a particular order—sometimes based off gender, temperament, beliefs.”

“But it’s just us this time.”

“They also said bringing individuals with ill character might be a detriment to the séance, but I suppose you’ll do.”

“Ha ha,” I fake laugh. “Joke’s on you. Temperance Talbot wants me here, even if you don’t.”

Rory holds both of her hands out in front of her, open palmed. Rory’s hands are delicate, thin, and precise. Her nails are often painted an earthy tone—but tonight they’re dark purple and chipped—and her movements are fluttery but magnetic. It’s like she’s always searching for a sign of where she should focus her energy next. Which card to pull, which spirit to listen to, what letter a planchette might choose.

Tonight, she chooses my hands. She just doesn’t seem certain of it.

Our rings clink together, and I assess hers closely. It’s a silver band with engraved suns and moons, well taken care of, but worn and loved. Her touch sends a shock wave through me. At first, her grip is firm and guiding, but after a few seconds, it softens. Her fingers wrap around mine and her skin is so smooth and warm.

I can’t help but think about what her hands would look like unbuttoning my shirt or undoing my belt. She’d be precise, intuitive, and direct with all of me. When Rory finds my gaze across the table, I feel like I’ve been caught in my dirty thoughts.

“Are you ready?”

“Um…as I’ll ever be?”

While I know the basics of a séance, I’ve never participated in one before. There’s something about the pitch-black store around us, burning candles, and ominous brooch between us that makes me fearful. I’m hoping we don’t welcome something that will make my hilariously brutal death something remembered as only a footnote in a future history book.

It’s rumored he died after vomiting black goo everywhere, and his eyeballs melted inside his skull. No earthly explanation for Mr. Blackwell’s death was ever confirmed.

I need to place all my trust in Rory to not get possessed. Can I be possessed on top of cursed? God, I hope not.

Rory takes a deep breath and I follow her lead. “We give thanks to those who we are inviting here. We come to visit with those who have passed on and declare this a safe channel for spirits to speak. We’re seeking answers and to right a wrong—we come as humble servants to bring peace to a space we’ve disrupted.”

I analyze Rory’s body language. I don’t feel anything, but it’s clear she does. The hairs on her arms stand on end. Her head tilts to the side, like someone’s tickling a sensitive spot, and her full lips drop open in an O shape. Her eyes flutter shut and her breathing grows heavier. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s made a connection.

“I sense your presence,” Rory says. Her voice is low and hypnotic, different from her usual warm, melodic tone. “Can you tell me who I’m convening with?”

Still I feel nothing. I look around the room and try to spot anything moving, or if there’s some kind of orb or apparition in the room. Then the dangling crystals on the chandelier jingle. Holy shit.

“Do you remember us?” Rory inquires. Her voice is careful, yet confident, like taking slow steps on a frozen lake, checking to be sure and then proceeding with conviction.

Paper rubs together on the table. Rory’s eyes snap open. One of the tarot cards spread between us has slipped out of place. It’s only a hair, but that’s all Rory needs to notice it and pull it out.

The Lovers.

“No, no,” she rebuffs. “We’re coworkers. We don’t even like each other. At all.”

I don’t hate Rory. I never have. I don’t understand her and no amount of digging has gotten me closer to figuring her out. I enjoy puzzles and mysteries, and she’s another one I’m determined to figure out eventually. I genuinely have no clue what I’m going to find beneath all of her shields and glamours. I have been wildly attracted to her since day one, but that’s beside the point. I’m attracted to plenty of women, but I’m drawn to her.

I’m drawn to her in inexplicable ways that make me angry, that make me question my own sanity. Why do I hunger to be close to this woman who would rather I piss off?

“That’s a little harsh.”

“Needless to say, the rumors about Temperance Talbot having a sense of humor are clearly true.”

“Yeah, only a true comedian would ship us together—”

“Or someone completely delusional.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m out of your league. I get it.”

“Temperance,” Rory says, ignoring my joke and steering us back to the spirits, “if it’s you we’re speaking to, we both come bearing apologies—”

“Like, genuinely really sorry,” I butt in.

Rory grimaces. I’m just being nice. I can’t let her do all the talking. I am genuinely sorry we knocked Temperance Talbot’s table over because I sincerely do not have the time, patience, or general constitution to be cursed right now.

“It was our mistake to quarrel and tamper with your space. It was an accident. Did you…Did you do something to us?”

The stutter in Rory’s voice sends fear into the pit of my stomach as I wait for her response.

“She says yes,” Rory confirms, and her shoulders sink for a moment. She lets her guard down and shakes her head in frustration. Her fingers tighten around mine. It’s instinctual and natural, so I clasp them back and hold her steady.

“Then what can we do to make it right?”

One of the bulbs on the chandelier flickers and Rory tenses up. Her tiny body grows taut and her grip on my hands squeezes now. Something is happening. I shut my eyes, too, and take in everything about this moment. There’ve been so many stories over the years about frauds and liars, but as the room around me changes, like electricity running through the air, I know Rory Woods is the real deal.

Rory’s neck scrunches in tension and she shivers hard enough that it ripples through to my hands. She lets out another sigh, somewhere between pain and accomplishment, like a tough blow at the end of an intense fight but you know you’re going to win.

“I’m listening,” Rory tells her, clear and determined. “Temperance, if you’re with us, can you please help us make amends? We understand we disrupted your space, but we’d like to make it right. I even brought the one who caused the problem.”

“What?” I interrupt. “Me? You and your petticoat are an OSHA hazard.”

“It’s not a petticoat. You know that.”

“I don’t really think Temperance gives a shit.”

“Oh, shut up. Petticoat or not, you could have looked where you were going. And refrained from insulting my bird.”

“Right. The Eastern Tufted—”

“Fuck You,” she finishes.

“Ah,” I mutter, “I walked into that one.”

The tension in the air sizzles, like sticking metal in a light socket: a faint flip in my stomach and a creeping tingle up my spine. The flames on Rory’s candles burn taller and larger, warming the room. The apothecary bottles on her bureau rattle.

“Okay,” Rory breathes. “We’re getting somewhere.”

“Are we?”

“If you would shut up and let me do this—” Rory stops suddenly. Temperance must be speaking to her. “How can we make this right?”

Rory listens carefully.

“What?” I demand. “What’s she saying?”

“Temperance, please. We didn’t mean to make you angry. Give us a hint. Anything.”

Rory grips my hand harder to keep us connected, but she’s clearly somewhere else. Eyes closed, body reacting in sharp twitches, jerks, and discomforts all over her. The energy around us wanes, pulsing, like last breaths. More rattling. More flickering. More undeniable proof we’ve awoken something.

“Please,” she begs. “Be afraid? Of what?”

Rory’s plea comes out as a frustrated cry. There’s one final burst of energy, one last long, violent flicker of the lights and candles. The picture frames clatter against the walls, and then the room goes still. A sharp pain shoots to my head. I keep hold of Rory’s hand. I don’t want to be the one to break the channel.

Then silence.

“She’s gone,” Rory says. It’s permission for us both to breathe. Her pupils are blown out wide and her movements are unsteady, like she’s recovering from being shocked. Her face is beaded with sweat at her hairline. I’m not ashamed to admit another vision of Rory—one that feels forbidden—comes to mind.

I’m shaken out of my dirty thoughts by the smell of singed metal. Between us, the brooch is inexplicably burned. Not just a flash in the pan, but fully charred.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Rory sucks in a deep breath and nods. “I think so.”

“What did she say?”

“Be afraid.”

It makes my stomach knot and my heart race. We are cursed, and Temperance Talbot has it out for us. The look on Rory’s face tells me I should be afraid. She clearly is.

But another jolt of pain hits me, and this time, something warm runs down the side of my face. Rory gasps.

“Shit. Ezra, you’re bleeding again.”