The closer we get to Psychic Square, the more nervous I feel. On the outside, we’re just another batch of tourists. On the inside, I know this is more than just a fun afternoon road trip.
“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Jay says once we find parking near the town center where the shops and businesses cluster. “It’s kind of cool, I guess. It reminds me of Main Street in Haunting.”
“But more specialized,” I add. “Main Street only has one metaphysical shop. This is like Main Street times a thousand.”
“Do you really need more than one metaphysical shop?” Jay glances around at the shop signs and window displays. Crystal healings, tarot readings, Reiki healings, angel cards, hand-crafted spiritual jewelry, Akashic records, psychic medium, hypnotherapy. You name it, someone at Psychic Square specializes in it. “Even if I believed in psychic powers, it seems a little tacky to be pimping yourself out as a medium.”
“Maybe they feel the need to share their gift.” Nathan looks over at me as if to say, “Your secret is safe with me.” He won’t tell Jay or anyone else that my “I see dead people” ability makes me a medium—the very thing Jay just called tacky. “Having a connection to the other side is a talent like anything else. Did you ever stop to think that if you turned pro after graduation, you’d be ‘pimping yourself out’ to companies for endorsement deals?”
“That’s different!” Jay protests. “Endorsement deals are how pro athletes make most of their money.”
“And charging for readings is how mediums make theirs,” Nathan says.
“You’re just as whack-a-doo as Meredith for believing in all this new-age mumbo jumbo crap,” Jay says. “For all you know, your all-knowing, all-seeing medium could’ve stolen your wallet and gone through it for information. Remind me again why I even bothered to come along?”
“You’re welcome to stay in the car.” Nathan heads toward the cluster of shops, and I follow.
“And leave you alone with Meredith?” Jay hurries to catch up. “Not a chance.”
“How will we know we pick the right person to help us?” I turn around in a circle to get a good look at all the names on the shops. “There’re so many signs and names and doors. How will we know which one is the right one?”
“Oh, believe me, we’ll know.” Nathan sounds a lot more confident than I feel. “Sometimes, you have to trust fate instead of fact.”
A door creaks open to our right, and we all turn to look. A little old lady, with dyed bright red-orange hair and wearing more eyeshadow and smeared red lipstick than any one person has any business putting on at once, steps out of the shop door. She takes one look at the three of us, and her red-smeared mouth breaks into a grin.
“I knew you’d come,” she says as if welcoming three wayward grandchildren home for cookies and milk. “Just this morning I was talking to Mercy and Nate, and they said you’d come. They said the time was now and to expect you this afternoon—12:01 sharp.” She taps the gold watch hanging off her boney wrist. “12:01 sharp.”
“Whack-a-doo,” Jay whispers close to my ear while Nathan looks around like he expects her to be talking to someone else on the deserted street, but Granny Lady has already said the magic words to make me take an involuntary step forward.
Mercy and Nate.
“May I ask how you know about Mercy and Nate?” I ask.
“Oh, honey, I know everything about Mercy and Nate,” Little Old Psychic Granny Lady says. “You look every bit like her. I knew you would. If I didn’t know any better, I would say Mercy Stone was standing before me now instead of a scared, uncertain school girl.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard Mercy’s last name. “Can you help us?” I take another step closer as if afraid she’ll disappear and leave us with even more questions than we came with. “I’m Meredith. This is Nathan and Jay. We’re looking for answers, but I think you already know that. Please, can you help us?”
Little Old Psychic Granny Lady grins at me before turning the wattage toward Nathan. “Oh, children, I’m so happy you came. I knew you would because Mercy and Nate never lie to me. I have so much to tell you. There’s so much to share.”
“We’ve been having strange dreams.” Nathan’s voice is halting like he suddenly thinks she of all people will think he’s strange. “They’ve moved over into when we’re awake now. We can’t shake them. I don’t think we’re meant to. There’s something we’re missing in them. Some lesson we forgot to learn. Can you help us find answers?”
Little Old Psychic Granny Lady nods before opening her door and motioning us all inside. I glance at the sign above as we pass into the threshold—Myrtle Stone King: Medium and Tarot. She catches me reading the sign and nods.
“Isn’t it funny how Fate and the Universe deal us such hands? We can correct even one-hundred-twenty-year-old mistakes if we know the workings of the soul.”
“Mistakes?” I ask. “What kind of mistakes?”
Mrs. King pats my hand. “Oh, child, you’ll find that out in time.”
Jay is the last to enter the shop. A little bell jingles as Mrs. King shuts the door behind us. Mrs. King has decorated her shop with various vintage paintings and furniture. Lavender and sandalwood incense is burning while soothing meditation-style music plays.
“It smells.” Jay looks around the cluttered, incense-heavy shop.
Mrs. King laughs. “Oh, James was always such a skeptic too. Even in a town and time where the occult was all the rage, he only cared about money and social appearances. It seems some things never change.”
“Yeah, whatever, lady,” Jay mutters under his breath, which only makes her smile all the more.
“I dusted off all my old albums today.” Mrs. King sits down at a round table and motions for us to take seats opposite her. “I knew you’d come, so I wanted to prepare.” She turns the heavy, yellowed photo album so that it faces us before she opens it. The first sepia-toned picture is of a girl about my age, wearing one of those fancy dresses with a bustle that debutants made their society debuts in. She piled her hair up on her head, but a few curls escaped down her neck for effect. I hear Nathan’s breath hiss through his teeth beside me, and I know he sees it too.
Her face.
Her face is my face.
“Where did you get this?” My throat is so constricted I’m surprised I can even speak above a croak.
“This is Mercy Stone.” Mrs. King taps the picture with one long red fingernail. “My great-aunt.”
I search Mrs. King’s wrinkled face, looking for any resemblance to the girl in the picture—the girl with my face. I think it must be a little sad and more than a little frustrating to grow older and watch your body break down while your mind and spirit stay young. Mom always said that the eyes are the window to the soul. Mrs. King’s eyes are bright blue, like two sparkling sapphires, but, more than that, they’re kind. I can trust her. I know I can.
“Great-aunt?” I say. “I don’t understand.”