Friday, May 15, 2015
Re-Release: The Memory Witch by Heather Topham Wood
My hands were shaking with anticipation. I set out a gold plated bowl in the middle of the three candles. The candles were bone white and were intended to attract those from the spirit world. I lit the candles and kneeled before the bowl. I removed a picture of my father from my pocket. I moistened the paper with manuka oil and concentrated on thoughts of my dad. I concocted fabricated memories in my head. My father lifting me into his arms. Pushing me on a swing. Reading me a story until I fell asleep.
I set the picture aflame with one of the spirit invoking candles. “Come forth Ronald Jacobs to me. I command thee.”
Nothing happened. The ashes scattered into the bowl. I called again. “Come forth Ronald Jacobs to me. I command thee.”
The wind picked up. The new fallen snow stirred at my feet. I watched my breath escape my mouth in billowing puffs. Still nothing. No sign of my father.
I clenched my fists together. I was angry. I had been so successful in the past. Each spell had come easy to me. Stella insisted this was proof I was meant to live out my life as a practicing witch.
I dug deep inside myself. I wanted to harness all of the magic that lived inside of my blood. I had avoided using magic for my own gain, but I was ready to make an exception. I needed a real memory of my father. I screamed into the wind, “Come forth Ronald Jacobs to me. I command thee.”
A gust of wind sent my hair flying in my face. Turning back, I cursed aloud since I was certain the breeze had blew out the candles. However, when I peered down, my altar was gone. I gasped and tried to make sense of what was going on. I shook my head in an attempt to clear my thoughts and establish whether I was dreaming or not. My movements stilled as I saw something in the corner of my peripheral vision. A figure was standing about ten feet away.
He looked like he had stepped out the photograph I had just burned. He hadn’t aged a day.
I had prepared myself for several scenarios. I expected an apparition. I would be able to see through him and not be able to touch him. As fear took hold of my heart, another vision came into my head. My dad had been shot in the head. What if he appeared as a horrific zombie complete with blood and gore?
Hesitantly, I took a step towards him. His eyes were what struck me at first. They weren’t the laughing and kind eyes of my mother’s collection of pictures and videos. They were the eyes of a sad and tormented soul.
“Dad?” I asked.
His eyes filled with recognition. “Quinny?” My heart soared when I heard his voice. My father had a nickname for me. He was here and he was saying my name.
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