The Witch and the Englishman

“Then don’t ask,” I said.

“You know a lot more than you’re telling, don’t you?” He held the phone loosely against his ear. He was smiling now, having pushed past the weirdness of the situation.

“Maybe a little more,” I said.

“I wasn’t expecting a phone call like this.”

“I don’t suppose you were.”

“What else might you know about me?” he asked.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes. I think.” He laughed lightly at that, but I sensed his growing discomfort. He shrugged his shoulder and rolled his head around his neck. Classic manliness.

I said, “Okay. Here goes…you’re standing in your living room, looking out your sliding glass door.”

He didn’t move or speak for perhaps twenty seconds. Then he did what most people did when I laid the “I-can-see-you” card on the table. He turned and looked over his shoulder and, for good measure, he shuddered.

“You can see me now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So, you really are psychic?”

“As psychic as they come…and then some.”

“What am I doing now?”

“You’re waving at me. Now you’re pinching your nose.”

“Holy sweet mother of God.”

“Welcome to my life,” I said.

“And welcome to my life,” he said, and winked at me.

“So,” I said, “how can I help you?”

“I have questions about my daughter.”

“What kind of questions?”

“I think…” he paused, started again, and I knew immediately that he was withholding information from me. “I think she might be in a spot of trouble.”

“A ‘spot’ of trouble? What kind of trouble?”

“Is this being recorded?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any chance we could meet, say, in person? That is, of course, if you are local.”

“It’s against company policy. And, I’m not that far from you.”

“So, you’ll meet me?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Where?”

“Your house.”

“Do you need the address?”

“No,” I said.

“I thought you might say that.”

“Maybe I’m not the only psychic one. See you in a few.”

I disconnected the call, but not before I got one last psychic hit.

And it was a big one.

Chapter Two

Yes, I could get fired over this.

No, I didn’t give a shit if they fired me over this, although I would miss the steady paycheck and the interesting characters.

Millicent thought, however, that I should start my own practice, where clients came in to see me. I reminded her that she was just a ghost and what did she know, although that didn’t sit very well with her.

Now, as I dashed through my apartment, slipping on my Asics and light jacket, the partial outline of a thirty-something woman appeared in my kitchen. I hadn’t quite gotten used to Millicent’s sudden appearances, and I was certainly not used to the way the hair at the back of my neck stood on end, as it did now.

As usual, she watched me quietly, hands folded before her, wearing the kind of dress my grandmother might have worn decades ago. Her outfit made sense, since Millicent had been my grandmother’s age when she had died. Her face seemed younger, though, of late.

“You saw?” she asked. When Millicent spoke, sometimes her lips moved, sometimes they didn’t. Either way, her words appeared directly in my head, just behind my inner ear. Same with Samantha Moon, that was, when we decided to communicate telepathically. It sounded weirder than it actually was.

“I saw,” I said. I was looking for my keys. They weren’t on the hook where they belonged, and that irked me to no end. Sure, I could telepathically fly around the houses of other people, remote viewing the hell out of them, but I couldn’t find my own damn keys.

“They’re in the bathroom. You were in a rush this morning, remember?” Millicent said.

“Oh, yes.” Just like every morning, I had been rushing to the local Coffee Bean to get my decaf sugar-free mocha and rushing to get back. Yes, decaf…and sugar-free.

Sadly, caffeine and sugar hampered my psychic sensitivity.

Yes, it was a bummer, but I had convinced myself that sugar-free mocha tasted just as good, and just getting out of my apartment was a nice way to start the morning. Of course, getting back to my apartment on time, before my shift started, was always a challenge. Hence, the mad dash to the bathroom where I had left the keys.

I grabbed them now, and crossed back through the living room and headed for the front door. Millicent watched me calmly from my kitchen. Then again, everything she did was calm. No, she wasn’t quite a ghost. She was a spirit. There was a difference, apparently. Ghosts were bound to a location. Millicent? Not so much. As a spirit, she could come and go as she pleased. And she pleased to come and go often enough. Not to mention, she could appear and reappear anywhere else, too.

“He’s going to die, Allison,” said Millicent as I approached the front door.

I paused and took in a lot of air. Without turning, I said, “I know.”

“Allison?”

I continued not looking at her, although I sensed her approaching me from behind, sliding up next to me. I knew this because the hair on my neck and arms and most of my scalp were all standing on end.

“Yes?”

“You can’t help him.”

“Who said I was going to help him?”

“I know you, child. Perhaps better than most.”

“That, and you have direct access to my thoughts.”

I couldn’t recall Millicent’s personality in our past lives. But in this life—or, rather, in her current spiritual state—she was as serious as hell. Then again, maybe that was the nature of spirits: a complete lack of humor.

“Not a complete lack, Allison, but I didn’t come here to joke or humor you. I came here to educate you. To train you. To remind you of who you really are.”

She appeared suddenly before me, blocking my path to the front door. I gasped at the sudden sight of her, now denser and more defined. One would think I was used to the woman—or spirit—appearing and disappearing before me. But not yet. Maybe someday. And, yes, it was as if a fully formed woman was standing in front of me. Correction: not quite fully formed. She was missing her feet and most of her hands.