Part 14

      The historical society doesn't meet for two weeks, so I decide to check out a psychic next. Only one of them has a website, and it's a generic drab little thing, obviously put together by someone else at least five years ago, so it doesn't give me much to go on. But one of my coworkers has a friend whose sister had a session with one of the three whose ads I saw, and I suppose that's as good a recommendation as any. I called the number in the ad for Anna Temple, and made... an appointment? A reservation? I don't even know.
      Approaching the front door of the old, but well-kept and pretty, house in town, I'm still not sure just what kind of answers or advice I'm looking for here. I'm pretty certain I'm not seeing visions, but I suppose it could still be ghosts. This woman will know about ghosts, and spirits in general I guess. She did advertise that being a medium was one of her specialties, being able to speak with your dead relatives and whatever. And I'm sure she'll have heard any rumors of strange things that might have happened on the Mason estate.
      On the doorstep, I take a deep breath, still pretty nervous about this whole thing. My closest contact with a psychic has been through a television screen. But I ring the bell, and am ushered inside by a girl no more than sixteen or seventeen. She's a bit pretty, but looking so bored that it instantly stops you from considering any good qualities.
      She flops back down behind a desk in the front entryway. “Name.”
      I suppress a grin and a giggle, at the ridiculously cliché teenage behavior.
      “Kimberly Bennett?”
      The girl nods, making a little note in the record book in front of her. “Half-hour reading. Sixty dollars please.”
      I have to wonder what kind of sketchy customers walk in this woman's door, I'm sure there's a reason she asks for payment up-front.
      Taking my money, the girl shoves it into a metal box in a desk drawer (which I can't see, but the rattling sound of a cash box is clear enough), makes another mark in the book.
      “Third door on the left,” she mumbles, waving vaguely behind her as she pulls her cell phone out of her pocket and starts text messaging a mile a minute.
      “Why, thank you so much,” I reply, with as much saccharine as I possibly can, just to antagonize her. I laugh silently as I make my way down the wood-paneled hallway. God I hope I wasn't that bad at that age...

      Approaching the third door, I hear a sound that fills me with dread.
      Really, really bad new age music. Sound effects of running water and birds, some kind of flute playing an “exotic” melody, and really cheesy electronically produced synth washes of overtones in the background. I struggle to keep my expression serious, but really, this does not at all bode well. Nor does the spicy scent of patchouli filtering through the heavy wood door.
      But, I've already put the money down... and it'll be an experience, any which way it all turns out. Taking another slow breath, I raise my hand to knock at the door.
      “Come iii-iiin!” a voice trills, just before my fist makes contact with the wood. I can barely hold back the giggles, what a childish way to try to impress someone. But I open the door, and step inside, fearing the worst.
      The place absolutely reeks of incense. The dense spicy smoke clings to the heavy curtains and deeply embroidered pillows that are strewn all over the floor and chairs. I can't even begin to count the number of candles that are lit around the room, arranged on shelves set at all different heights. There are old crocheted afghans (oh, you charming old gold and orange and brown zigzag patterns!), at least two cats, and lots and lots of plants. A freaking hippie-dippy haven. I'm a little terrified of meeting the actual person behind such a place.
      And there is Miss? Mrs? Ms? Anna Temple, seated in a rocking chair beside a vine-covered window, a pampered-looking cat curled in her lap. She smiles warmly at me, and I have to admit, it's a genuinely friendly smile. She's old enough that the hippie trappings may actually be legitimate, not just a pretension, which makes me feel a little better. Her hair is very long, nearly to her waist, straight and gray. She is not in tie-dye, or an Indian-style dress, but a loose blouse with a bright floral print, and the loose, thin-fabric pants my grandma always calls “slacks”. This woman feels like a grandmother, I'm put pretty much instantly at ease.
      “Here, dear, sit in the chair there. Don't mind the cats, they won't bother you, Susie will be feeding them soon and they'll all go running off.”
      I bite back another cackle, knowing instinctively how much the sulky teenager – undoubtedly a granddaughter – must utterly despise being called “Susie”. I sit in the indicated chair, which is comfy, despite a bit of cat hair. The woman turns down the music, so it's at a low enough volume to (almost) be inoffensive.
      “Now, your name was Kimberly. Do you go by Kim, or...”
      “Kimber, mostly.”
      “Alright, Kimber. Do just call me Anna, I'm not much for formality. So what brings you here today? Are you facing a difficult period in your life, or do you have questions about your future?”
      I grin wryly, knowing that I do, but that I'm not here about that. “Not really... I mean, I have questions, but no more than anyone my age does I guess. What I really came here about was...” I hesitate, not quite sure how to sum it all up.
      She nods reassuringly. “Go right ahead, dear, I've heard it all over the years. I may be a little old lady, but you won't shock me.”
      I have to giggle a bit at that, and she chuckles too. “Well, I've been seeing some things that... well, I don't want to say they're not really there, I see them in such vivid detail, they have to be really there... but things that don't belong quite in this time, I guess.”
      She nods sagely. “This is an old town, my dear, and for all the people that are here now, there are so many that were here before us... Not all of them have moved on. Where were you, and what exactly did you see?”
      I briefly summarize the scenes of the boy, the woman, and the young couple, telling her they all happened on or near the old Mason property, outside of town. She was familiar with the location, and apparently the general story of the place. “It's a very active location, I hear of things happening there quite often. Be sure you're never there at night, or on the anniversary of the fire – people have seen some terrible things. Mr. Mason may have been reclusive, but there are a lot of stories, even now, about his temper, and that he may have had some strange powers that showed in his worst moments.”
      I perk up a bit at this new angle to his character. Is that why Cora looked so sad the day I saw her?