Evelyn Klebert's Blog: Evelyn's Thoughts

I am very excited to announce that A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains has been officially released. This collection of short stories is now available at Cornerstone Book Publishers, Amazon, Kindle, and most other online retail booksellers. And for the rest of this month two sample stories from the book are still posted under Halloween Month 2025 under the main menu. So, I do hope you take a little time to take a mystical diversion.

A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains

At the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains, into their ancient heart, and even perhaps into nearby unexplored dimensions, slip into a series of supernatural short stories.

A clash of shapeshifters on sacred grounds, a compromised witch desperately fleeing a witch hunter, and a ghost in search of his murderer are only a few of the tales that dot this paranormal landscape.

Take a mystical diversion that could very well land you in a realm, at the least unexpected and at the most horrifying. But what is clear is that no one, ever, will emerge as they were before.

With the holidays approaching, the end of 2025 is fast approaching. I’m sure there will be plenty to reflect on when we wrap this year up, but that is for another time. For now, I just wanted to mention a few projects that I have percolating on the horizon.

The first thing I wanted to mention is that A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains will be released later this month. This was a book that I started while I was still writing for Kindle Vella and wrapped up sometime later. If you never visited it, Kindle Vella was a short-lived platform that Amazon launched for episodic storytelling. I think it only lasted a few years.

My new book, A Murder in the Village, is the culmination of the time I’ve spent living in Arkansas with its somewhat peculiar and unique paranormal inspirations. I’m very happy with the way it turned out and actually still have two sample stories from it here on the website. Just go to the main menu and you’ll find a listing for Halloween 2025. The two stories still posted are “An Unexpected Danger” and “An Empath in the Woods.”

In addition, I am preparing to launch a project before the end of the year. I will be designing a series of gift items based on my books for Cornerstone Book Publishers. They will be available on the Cornerstone website, and I will post links to them here as well. Another endeavor, but all creative.

Beyond that, my plans include recording many audiobooks and working on a sequel to The Story of Enid. I still have a few projects from my Kindle Vella days that are unfinished. And I do hate dangling threads, so I am looking to wrap these up as well.

Well, a lot on my plate, but exciting as well. I hope everyone finds some time to enjoy the holidays, and I do wish everyone peace. That, I’ve found, is the most valuable possession we can have.

Take Care,

Evelyn

A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains

At the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains, into their ancient heart, and even perhaps into nearby unexplored dimensions, slip into a series of supernatural short stories.

A clash of shapeshifters on sacred grounds, a compromised witch desperately fleeing a witch hunter, and a ghost in search of his murderer are only a few of the tales that dot this paranormal landscape.

Take a mystical diversion that could very well land you in a realm, at the least unexpected and at the most horrifying. But what is clear is that no one, ever, will emerge as they were before.

Coming Soon!!

Later this month, I will be releasing a compilation of short stories entitled A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains. The short story form is one I am comfortable with and return to time and again. My very first book, Breaking Through the Pale, was a short story collection, followed by Dragonflies, The Left Palm, Appointment with the Unknown, Travels into the Breach, and White Harbor Road.

I’ve played with the structure of stories, their length, narration style, really so many aspects. I’ve always found short stories to be an excellent platform for experimentation. This new collection is a purposeful and eclectic arrangement of tales. Some are shorter, some more serious, some comedic, some dialogue-driven, and some more mood-oriented.

Two are still posted in the Halloween Month 2025 selection. Just click on the link in the main menu on the Home Page if you’re interested in a taste of this new book. I’ll also be posting a YouTube teaser below, which I hope you’ll check out.

Peace to All

A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains

At the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains, into their ancient heart, and even perhaps into nearby unexplored dimensions, slip into a series of supernatural short stories.

A clash of shapeshifters on sacred grounds, a compromised witch desperately fleeing a witch hunter, and a ghost in search of his murderer are only a few of the tales that dot this paranormal landscape.

Take a mystical diversion that could very well land you in a realm, at the least unexpected and at the most horrifying. But what is clear is that no one, ever, will emerge as they were before.

Coming Soon!

Well, I am wrapping up Halloween Month here at evelynklebert.com with part two of my short story, “An Empath in the Woods.” This tale was taken from a new collection of short stories, A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountain, which will be released next month. So, stay tuned. I do hope you’ve enjoyed my pre-Halloween celebration. I will leave the stories posted for a while in case you’ve missed any. I hope you can take a little time to enjoy the holiday, and as always I sincerely wish everyone peace.

Take Care,

Evelyn

An Empath in the Woods (part two)

“Don’t get too close.”

“I don’t want to lose her or It,” she grimaced. “Half the population around here owns a red sports car.” She was meandering down Desoto Road, pretty much the artery of the Village. It was the only road that really connected anything around here, at least one side to the other, the East and West gates.

“Just don’t go so fast, lay back a bit. I don’t want IT to mark your car.”

Her heart clutched painfully at his words. “Why would it mark my car?”

“Bright yellow, Allie, not too inconspicuous,” he nearly growled.

“Sorry, I didn’t know I would be doing surveillance when I purchased it. Why didn’t we take your car?”

“My car is back home,” he answered. She didn’t question, just vaguely wondering if that was snowed in as well.

“I can’t go too slow. Traffic backs up, and the retirees around here aren’t, well, very retiring.”

“A lot of impatience,” he grumbled.

“A lot of dissatisfaction,” she murmured. The truth was, she had nothing to back that up, just a feeling. And then two cars ahead, she noted the red car taking a turn. “That’s one of the apartment complexes here.”

“Yep, makes sense,” he murmured. “Lots of people around, go ahead and turn in, but don’t get too close.”

“I—” She opened her mouth to protest but then didn’t. What could she say? She had no idea what they were doing or why. Allie made a quick turn and then a curvy, well-forested bend right before the rows of condos appeared. She almost said she had no idea where the It had gone when she noticed the red car had indeed parked on a row that faced the descent down to the lake. And then, rather quickly, the door opened, and the blond stepped outside. Just the sight of her ran a quick chill of fear down her spine.

He put his hand on her. “Park somewhere as though you live here.” Frowning, she pulled her car directly in front of one of the side rows of condos, then turned off the engine.

Her chest hurt, and her breathing felt strangely labored. “What now?”

“Just wait.” His hand was still on hers, but she didn’t push it away. The contact of this, yes, total stranger, felt strangely calming amid this bizarreness. Her eyes lifted again as she saw the woman standing beside her car, seeming as though she was looking for something. “It feels us,” he murmured.

“I don’t understand.”

“Just be still and calm,” he whispered. She bent her head down and tried to center herself, mentally erecting barriers as Dr. Crispin had taught her. “That’s good,” he said softly. And then she glanced up to see the tall blond unlocking the door on the unit on the end and going inside. As the door closed behind her, he said softly. “It’s all right. I’ve marked her.”

“You’ve marked her? What does that mean?” It was closing in, too much, too much external stimuli.

“It means when it’s time. It will be easy to find her again.”

Breathing deeply while trying to get hold, she looked over at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Time for what exactly?”

“Time to send It on its way,” he said grimly.

*

She’d thought to tell him to get the hell out of her car, but she didn’t. He suggested they go back to her house to talk. “It’s my experience that when you say you want to talk, you don’t do much of it.”

“You’re very hostile, you know,” he said placidly.

“You think? I wonder why that could be?”

But that wasn’t all that was going on. She tried hard to focus on driving, driving, and not driving off the road.

“What do they feel like, these attacks?”

“I don’t know. I guess like someone else would think of a panic attack.”

Dr. Crispin had looked down at her, tilting her head with her dark glasses in such a way that reminded her of her second-grade teacher, Miss Spell. And she was a pistol. “You’re not like anyone else, Allison. And you shouldn’t keep trying to be so.”

“I thought that was why I was here.”

“Now describe them to me.”

It seemed to start with the breathing, quick, panicked breaths, and then that vice-like pressure in her chest. She was thoroughly checked out by a cardiologist, and, of course, the prognosis was nothing physical. It must be emotional, and her favorite, probably stress. Yes, yes, there was stress in being the way she was.

He’d put his hand on her again, pulling her out of the cage of her mind. “All right?”

“Not feeling well,” she muttered.

“Pull over, I’ll drive.”

That probably wasn’t a good idea. She didn’t know if he had a license. She didn’t know who or what he was. But her hands gripping the wheel were starting to tremble. So, crashing was indeed becoming a relevant possibility. “Maybe,” she said.

He hadn’t moved his hand from hers. Strange, but stranger yet that she hadn’t asked him to.

“It feels like fear.”

“Fear?” She’d repeated. And she wondered if a good chunk of your training at psychiatry school was just learning to echo your patients in order to eat up time.

“Yes, fear like a blanket of it covering you, a living blanket covering, then suffocating you.”

She’d turned off onto a road, then pulled to the side, turning off the jeep. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, just concentrated on getting air because now that fear had exploded out of control exponentially. Her vision was blotching with great black spots swirling around. “That thing drained your energy a great deal.”

His hand tightened over hers. “I just need, just a minute,” she managed to get out. Speaking was definitely a challenge when you were having trouble breathing.

“Close your eyes,” he said calmly.

“Look—”

“Do it,” he said firmly.

Without many options, she did, leaning back on the headrest. Colors, so many colors everywhere, and that fear, ugly fear, swallowing her up.

“How long have you had these attacks?” Dr. Crispin had asked.

“Always, always, and never predictable.”

“You know, you feel so much, Allison, from other people. It’s not surprising your system just rebels against it all sometimes.”

“Try to relax,” he said. “Don’t force the breathing. It will straighten out.”

How did he know? She stopped herself. How did he know so many things? She remembered him saying something about things being more permeable there, but that was somewhere else. Not here. “Try to let your mind quiet, not so much thinking.”

“I can’t help that,” she whispered. So strange, she felt so sleepy all of a sudden, overwhelming, like she could barely keep her eyes open. And then he moved his hand away and got out of the jeep, coming around to her side and opening her door.

“Come on, you need to rest,” he said. She opened her eyes, thinking about refusing, thinking about resisting, but the truth was she didn’t have it in her. Not at all.

*

He was making a pot of coffee, Ryland Gray that was, in her house. And she noted distractedly that she was drinking a lot of coffee around him.

“What’s a shell?” She called out in the direction of the galley kitchen.

“You should be resting,” he called back. It was kind of gruff, like he was used to people following his orders.

“I want to understand what’s going on.” She snapped back a little too hotly. What was it about this man’s demeanor that seemed to aggravate her so? Besides all the strangeness surrounding him, and there was plenty of that to go around — plenty, plenty.

He rounded the wall separating the den from the kitchen and strode up to where she was reclining on the sofa. “You really don’t like to listen, do you?”

“Not to strangers, generally.”

“I thought we’d spent enough time lately not to quite be strangers.”

She straightened up a bit, feeling generally vulnerable just lying here like this. “I know next to nothing about you. Except your name is Ryland Gray and you’re some sort of hunter.”

“Tracker,” he said flatly.

“Oh well, that clears it up. Let’s be besties.”

That frown, that strange, curious frown he had, like he was looking at a disobedient child. “You’re too tired to soak anything in right now, Allie Beckett.”

“Tired?”

“Drained.”

Her turn to frown. “Drained, yeah, you mentioned something about that.”

He nodded slowly, looking at her oddly like he was surveying a chunk of farmland. “It drained your energy, pretty thoroughly.”

She crossed her arms in front of her. “And you know that, how exactly?”

“Your aura, energy aura, is diminished. And there’s quite a bit of yellow mixed in with everything.”

“Yellow?” she repeated under her breath. “And that’s about as clear as mud. So, what, you can see all this looking at me?”

“Yeah, you could too if you had a bit more discipline.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve spent too much time treating the symptoms of your gift instead of working to understand it. You must let it run free enough so you can direct it to work for you.”

Let it run free, indeed. He must be out of his mind. All that would do would let everything swallow her whole. Ridiculous. And then suddenly there was drowsiness, so maybe she would rest. One piece of advice that was actually useful.

*

“What does it feel like?”

“Being suffocated by fear.”

“It’s not your fear, you know.”

“I know it in my mind but knowing it and feeling it are two different things.”

Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting and noting the ceiling fan casually spinning over the queen-sized bed. And then it slowly sank in. She didn’t have a queen-sized bed. Hers was a double. She closed them again. She must be dreaming now.

“Not exactly.” The voice came from the direction of the doorway that she’d noted just a few seconds before, on her last attempt at surfacing.

“This is your room,” she murmured without even opening her eyes.

“Yes, from yesterday when you were at my house.”

Without really wanting to, she allowed her eyes to flicker open again. There was a lot of light in here, streaming in from a sliding glass door on one wall of the room, leading out, well, somewhere.

“There’s a porch out there and then a walkway down to a lake.”

“Well, that sounds lovely,” she mumbled, “but I don’t remember this room from yesterday.”

He’d dragged over a straight-back chair from behind a small pine-colored desk. Sitting beside the bed, he looked at her with concern. “I think there’s much you don’t remember from yesterday.”

“So, you’re saying this is a memory.”

“An elaboration.”

“A what?”

“It’s complicated.”

“No shit,” she couldn’t help it. These sharp comments just sort of flew out of her mouth. “Sorry,” she murmured.

“As I mentioned before, things are more permeable here. Time isn’t what you think it is, Allie.”

She drew in a deep breath. And strangely, she felt better, lighter than she had at her house.

“That’s why I tapped in here.”

“Your words, Ryland, they have no meaning for me, permeable, tapped in. That doesn’t correlate to what I know. It’s nonsense.”

He was looking at her oddly but not frowning. Was this progress? “When I say permeable, it means thoughts, your thoughts, are not as separate as where you live. Thoughts are energy forms, and energy here travels without as many impediments.”

She sighed, “So, in a practical sense—”

“In a practical sense, it’s easier to send energy, not as easy to steal it, and thoughts that you think are in your head are quite accessible.”

“Oh,” it felt like a fluttering in her chest.

“You’re receiving energy, Allie.”

“From you?”

“Some, and others. I put out a call for help. The thing, it hurt you.”

She looked at him dubiously. “How could it do that? It didn’t even touch me.”

“It didn’t need to. It was in proximity, very strong, built to be a parasite.”

She straightened up on the pillows just a smidge. It was so comfortable here on this lovely bed with some kind of woven afghan spread over her. She could just drift off, so peaceful. “You called it a shell.”

And there it was, the frown. “I didn’t want to get into all this now.”

“Might as well, Ry, do you mind if I call you Ry?”

“Yes.” He said rather stoically.

“Okay then, Ryland, tell me about this shell.”

“To tell you about that, I’d have to first tell you how people lose their spirits.”

*

A screen porch, rustic, odd, a screen porch just outside of his bedroom, or at least she thought it was his bedroom.

“Yes,” he murmured from somewhere as of yet unseen.

Allie sipped the warm mug of mint tea that at some point had been placed in her hands. The crocheted white afghan that had not long ago been warming her on his bed was now neatly tucked around her, and she was sitting in a rocking chair watching the snow coming down outside. “These transitions are confounding,” she muttered.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said, sitting down in a similar chair right next to hers.

“Will I?” she asked.

“If you decide to spend any time in this place. Time moves differently, more connected to thought.”

“So, I’m to gather that all of this took place a day ago.”

“You’re thinking too linear, Allie. It’s difficult to understand unless you let go of some of your constructs.”

“Gibberish again,” she murmured. “Fine, you said something about people losing their spirits, or at least that is the last thing I remember.”

“Okay, let’s see. That is a spiritual matter.”

“Clearly.”

He smiled. She had no idea what had made him smile. “You’re mind, your thoughts. They’re muddled but quick, and I like the way they somersault about.”

She took in a deep breath, trying desperately to convert this conversation into something she could work with. “Okay, so the spirit thing.”

“Yes, well, in a nutshell, we all have a spirit.”

She waited. Was she really going to drag everything out of him? “And?”

“And the spirit incarnates wherever it is with a plan, or rather, a path charted to learn from.”

“What sort of path?”

“Things, events, relationships, illnesses, teachers along the way, ups, downs, all of it patterned for its evolution.”

She chewed on this for a moment, a rather huge morsel to take in. “So, what, you’re saying everyone has one of these paths?”

“Mostly, yes, but then there is free will.”

Huge sip of mint tea that nearly scorched her mouth. “Free will?” she asked, because again, no elaboration.

“Yes, essentially choice. We all have a choice, or how could we evolve?”

Outside Ryland Gray’s screen porch, the snow had stopped falling, and she just quietly looked at the blankets of white covering the forest around them. “So, what exactly does that have to do with—”

“With the thing you encountered in the grocery?”

“Yes, I guess,” she murmured, feeling strangely as though threads were coming together.

“Well, let’s say you were a teacher, a math teacher maybe, and your student completely ignored your lessons. And after a while, wouldn’t even open their textbook, wouldn’t even try to do a math problem, then stopped showing up to school.”

Confounded a bit at the real-world analogy. “I’d be pissed.”

“Yeah, you would, but you’d also begin feeling like you were wasting your time.”

“I suppose. But other than report his butt, I’m not sure how I could force them to learn.”

“Yes, well, a person, such as you, is composed of a spirit, a soul, and a body. If the soul and the body go too rogue for too long, the spirit gives up and just leaves.”

“Leaves the soul and the body?”

“The body is left, the soul torn asunder, sort of ripped so to speak, not really wholly functional.”

She straightened up, profoundly feeling disturbed by these images. “And if that happens, what happens to the person who’s left?”

“They wander, aimlessly, a shadow of their former selves, until it is their time to die. And then their body dies and they with it.”

“And that’s it? That sounds terrible.”

“It is. It is in extreme cases but does happen. But then, those it happens to, those living without that divine spark within, become a cavern.”

“A shell,” she whispered.

And then he put his hand over hers. “Yes, exactly. Allie, like a shell at the beach that has been abandoned by its living inhabitant, until something else crawls inside it and takes over.”

Something else crawls inside it and takes over. His words sent chills throughout her as the visage of that zombie-like man in the grocery lashed treacherously across her mind. Panicked, she had to get out, away from here. Following a sudden impulse, she closed her eyes and concentrated intently on her own bedroom. Breathing deeply, when she opened them again, she was miraculously lying in her own bed, but this time Ryland Gray was standing in the doorway.

“That’s good, Allie. You’re beginning to get the hang of things. Now it’s time to get down to business.”

*

Like a shell at the beach that has been abandoned by its living inhabitant, until something else crawls inside it and takes over.

Just turning over the words in her mind made a chill run down her spine. So, she didn’t ask the obvious question.

“What has crawled inside?”

“That’s not fair. I didn’t ask you that. We’re on my turf now, and you’re not supposed to be able to read my mind here.”

Ryland Gray didn’t frown, not exactly — just kind of looked at her like he was indeed reading her mind and less interested in what words were coming out of her mouth. “Yep, well, the more time I spend with you, the more accessible I find you.”

She stared back at him, “Great, so are we done with all this house-hopping business?”

“Sure,” he said, making himself comfortable on her dark blue and beige plaid couch.

“Good, it’s disorienting.” She snapped back, now sitting in her grandmother’s rocking chair that she had dragged around from rental to rental for probably too many years.

“You know, you were the one doing the hopping around for the last several.”

“I can’t do that,” she muttered.

“You’d be surprised what you can do, Allie Beckett.”

“You said we needed to get down to business. What does that mean exactly? You’re not going to murder someone, are you?”

“I guess that depends on what you mean by murder.”

“Can I get a straight answer out of you, Ryland?”

He shrugged. “Sure, if that’s what you want.” Silence again, she wanted to kick him right in his plaid shirt, sometimes right out of her house. “You don’t like plaid? But your couch is plaid.”

“Stop it. And I used to like it more than I do now.”

Then he stood up and moved right in front of her. And she had to admit, with him sort of standing over her like that and glowering, or maybe he wasn’t glowering, maybe this was just stoic, unruffled Ryland Gray. In any case, he wasn’t really bad looking, sort of sexy in a lumberjack kind of way. “This thing that has crawled in that girl’s spiritless shell is quite dangerous, quite old, and doesn’t belong on this plane.”

“Plane? What does that mean exactly, dimension? Is that what we’re doing, some kind of dimension hopping? Your house, where time is different, where things are more permeable, where it’s snowing? Are you telling me that’s another dimension?”

“It’s a bit of a simplistic explanation.”

“Well, maybe I’m a simplistic kind of girl.”

“I rather doubt that Allie Beckett.” She thought she detected the slightest sparkle in his dark eyes, but maybe again that was just wishful thinking.

And then she sighed, sighed heavily, sighed audibly in a way that seemed to come from her very soul. “What do you want from me, Ryland Gray. I mean, really, what do you want?”

“I want to finish this job, and I need your help.”

“Job? This is actually some kind of job?”

“I was hired to find this thing and send it on its merry way.”

“Who the hell would hire you to do that?”

“No one from around here,” he said flatly. “But everything’s connected, and its presence is having reverberations everywhere.”

She frowned. “Could I get you some dry ice so you could be a bit more vague?”

There was a hesitation as she realized how poorly that remark had landed. “Dry ice?” A dark, heavy eyebrow shot up.

“Whatever! Look, you know where it is. You marked it. What do you need me for?”

“You have skills, Allie. You may not realize it, but you do. Why don’t we take a ride in your Jeep?”

“A ride? Where?”

“To check out where that thing lives.”

*

They were driving silently down Desota Blvd. again, and Ryland Gray sincerely wished there was more time, more time to prepare the woman next to him for all the changes happening in her life, more time to prepare her for what was to come in the future.

*

“What are you doing?”

His younger sister pulled her long ash-blond hair up into a disheveled ponytail, then unzipped her traveling bag. “I’m leaving.”

“Leaving? Permanently?”

“Not sure,” she answered, shoving a pile of t-shirts into the large duffel bag on her bed.

“Allegra, stop for a minute.”

She did, looking at him strangely, but the way she usually did, as though she was peering. “I had a dream last night. It’s time for me to move on.”

It was not news to him that her dreams were not ordinary, but instead usually prophetic in some way. “Why? I need a diviner. I can’t do this alone.”

She nodded, “Well, other things are calling me now, and that girl will be here soon.”

Now he frowned. His sister was indeed a very talented seer. The divining thing was a bit of a sideline for her. “That girl?”

“Yes, dear brother, the one who will help you. She’ll be much better at it than I am. And you two, well, you won’t want me around when things get going.”

“Allegra, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, you do, Ryland, you just don’t want things to change. But whether you want it or not, change is coming.” And then she laughed softly, “And from what I saw, she’ll be a handful. But she’s definitely the one.”

“The one?”

“The one for you, Ryland.”

*

He was driving this time, and the woman beside him had fallen silent. He wanted to reassure her, but language skills had never been his strong suit. He could send energy, was very, very good at hitting his target with that, but at present, that wasn’t Allie Beckett’s problem. Her problem was inflexibility. As Allegra had said, “Whether you want it or not, change is coming.” That was the only constant in life.

“It’s not so bad.”

“What?” she said a little sharply.

“My life, the way I live. There’s always something new happening.”

“I don’t like new. I like things to be predictable.”

“Hmm,” he considered. “So, do you really like it that way, or do you think you need it that way?”

Her arms were crossed in front of her protectively, and she was a bit slumped in the seat, reminding him very much of a stubborn child. “Is there a difference?”

“Well, are you happy, Allie Beckett?”

There was silence, silence he could feel. Because, well, because she’d become much easier for him to see lately. He could see her aura, how the colors would fluctuate when she was upset. He could see images that flew through her mind at lightning speed, because she did have a quick and active mind. And he could see when his thoughts reached her, and she had no idea what to do with that. Like right now, he left her befuddled and confused. And to be honest, he kind of liked that.

“I don’t know, are you happy, Ryland Gray?”

He smiled, not so very surprised that she’d turned this around on him. So out of respect for who she was, he honestly thought about it. Lately, he’d felt content, content in his work, feeling as though he was contributing, being of service to the greater pool of humanity. But really happy? That was a consideration. Right now, right in this moment, driving down this long road with this particular woman at his side, filled with her inner conflicts, contradictions, the way she lashed out, the way she succumbed in her quieter moments. And he didn’t really understand why someone would want a banana-yellow Jeep, but he appreciated the fact that she did. Yeah, right now, for reasons other than those myriad ones he’d just articulated in his mind, he was kind of happy.

“Yeah, Allie, I’m happy.”

“You don’t look happy,” she smirked.

“Yep,” he said, turning the Jeep into the apartment complex. “That’s my resting face.”

As they pulled into the parking lot and he turned off the car, he reflected.

“She’s the one, you know,” Allegra had said. “But you won’t have an easy time of it.”

“I’ve never expected an easy time.”

Then, she patted his shoulder. “That’s what I like about you, Ryland. You always persevere.”

“So, how do we deal with this thing?” she asked, straightening up in the seat and peering forward toward the thing’s apartment.

“Well, Allie,” he said a bit methodically. “I have a plan, but it will take some trust on your part.”

“Trust, huh?”

“Yep, we’re going to have to travel to another place to get at this thing,” he said slowly.

“Another place?”

“One close, just a few fractions away, I think, but it won’t see us coming.”

She frowned, “Gibberish again, but okay, so then we’ll kill it?”

“I don’t think it can be killed, but if we’re lucky, maybe we can coax it to evolve.”

“Evolve?” she repeated, looking a bit confused.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s not a small thing, and it’s what it’s all about.”

It took a moment, but then, a slight smile flickered across her lips. She liked him. She really did. He could feel it. And that was no small thing. “What do we do?” she asked.

“Take my hand, Allie Beckett. Then I’ll show you.” It did take a second, but then she did.

Copyright © 2025 by Evelyn Klebert

Coming Soon!!

A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains

At the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains, into their ancient heart, and even perhaps into nearby unexplored dimensions, slip into a series of supernatural short stories. Take a mystical diversion that could very well land you into a realm at the least unexpected and at the most horrifying. But what is clear is that no one, ever, will emerge as they were before.

Well, this month has certainly flown by. Already, this is the last paranormal short story I’ll be posting for Halloween Month, and it will be in two parts. This tale is called “An Empath in the Woods” and is taken from my new collection, “A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains.” I am actually hard at work on the final edits for this book, which should be released within the next several weeks. This story is about a young woman whose formidable psychic gifts are challenged when she encounters a mystifying stranger in the forest. I will be releasing part two in a few days. I do hope you enjoy the story, and thanks for dropping by.

An Empath in the Woods

It helped, at least sometimes, walking the trails.

“It’s like being a bug born without its skin.”

She couldn’t help but glare at the analogy. “Really? So, I’m the bug in this scenario.”

Dr. Crispin frowned, a curious woman originally from Romania, with short, curly, very reddish-brown hair, just into her sixties. At least that was what Allie surmised. She’d mentioned she’d be retiring in a few years, which wasn’t good news.

Where exactly was Allie going to find another psychologist whose side specialty was paranormal phenomena? She doubted Health Grades would be helpful. With Crispin, she’d lucked out, a recommendation from a yoga teacher. Oh yes, she’d tried everything, from yoga to meditation, to the conventional routes of medication for depression, but nothing seemed to crack this puzzle. Her puzzle, her problems, that was.

But back to the point—

“Yes, I understand your reluctance to embrace the visual. But think about it. Our skin keeps us separate, separate from our environment, separate from one another. Without it, things are much more painful.”

She did enjoy listening to Dr. Crispin’s accent, even if she didn’t always care for what she was saying. In a peculiar way, she found it soothing to her ragged nerves. Oh yes, back to the bug with no skin. “Could be messy, I mean, having no skin and dangerous, at least for the bug.” Her voice sort of drifted off. Were they really discussing this?

She’d frowned at her, Dr. Crispin had, but then that might have been her resting face. She was actually a lovely woman, with her vibrant hair, trim figure, and just below-the-knee fitted pencil skirts.

It made Allie feel dumpy. She’d shown up at the appointment in jeans and a well-worn button-down. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have nicer clothes, but she was in a funk, a slump, worn out with all this. She hadn’t even cracked thirty yet — no excuses there, except —

“So, how is your life going, Allison?”

“Oh, other than being a bug without my skin, just dandy.” A reddish-brown eyebrow went up.

Too much sarcasm? Dr. Crispin was no-nonsense, for someone dealing with ghosts, goblins, and what was the terminology again?

“Don’t forget, Allison, you are an extreme empath!”

That was it. No meds prescribed to dull the pesky awarenesses around her that did not belong to her.

“So, living in the Village, does the isolation help?”

Deep sigh, deeper than deep, soul-wrenching, good question. That’s why Crispin got paid the big bucks, and she was scrambling to make ends meet. “I would have to say the jury is out, because there are always things to feel — and always people, people somewhere.”

*

The trails, the hiking trails around the Village, did seem to ease things, sometimes that is.

It was October, already late October, the Halloween season approaching. Her year here would be up come January. At that point, there was a decision to make, whether to spend another year virtually in isolation or back to the city, Little Rock, where at least she could see Dr. Crispin more often. That was until she retired, and one more column of support in her unstable existence just vanished.

“Bad thoughts don’t help.”

“Bad thoughts?” she’d questioned.

“Negative, negativity lowers your energy vibration. Someone like you, Allison, can’t afford that.”

Yep, she was right. She had to get hold, desperately trying to drive away these “bad thoughts.” Everything around her was beautiful. Many of the trees were changing to their lovely Autumn shades of gold, yellow, some orange, and the occasional red. But red was not one of her favorites – she’d seen it too often under other circumstances.

The fallen leaves crunched beneath her hiking shoes as she meandered down the winding pathway deeper into the woods.

She breathed in deeply. There was a scent, a curious scent of burning leaves. Foolish, everything was so dry right now, so foolish to be burning anything. She glanced around. This particular hiking trail she’d been on before. It was far away from any of the subdivisions, just woods and a creek a little further down the trail.

But she wondered if it would be dried up. It felt like it had been over a week since there had been any rain.

An unexpected dizziness swept through her so strongly that she had to stop for a moment. As she peered upward, she saw the tall trees all around her reaching toward a cloudy sky.

So strange, when she’d set out from the small parking lot near the dog park, it had been the clearest blue with a few puffy white clouds. But not like this.

Then, another substantial sweep of dizziness hit her, as if she were swirling while standing completely still. Maybe she shouldn’t look upward. Maybe just head back now, but she didn’t move, just rooted to the spot.

“A bug with no skin.”

Something was definitely amiss, not the usual form of anxiety or bouts of depression that would spring on her inexplicably.

What she was feeling was different. She bent over, bending her knees, sort of awkwardly crouching down to the ground. It seemed silly, but then again, she felt desperate. Dr. Crispin called it grounding, putting her palms flat on the earth.

“The earth is filled with powerful grounding energy. It seems odd, but this can help you stabilize.”

Yes, Allie agreed, it did seem odd. And if she wasn’t alone, she’d never consider it, but desperate times —

She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply, indeed feeling a stabilization of the dizziness, at least momentarily. Deep breaths, deep breaths, she coached herself. So absorbed, that was the danger, she didn’t even hear the crunching leaves behind her, but there was something — a shift, perceptible, and a heaviness accompanying it.

She opened her eyes, then slowly turned around, and a few yards away, she saw the figure — a man dressed in a windbreaker, a red one.

She straightened up, shakily standing, suddenly feeling the sweep of dizziness passing over her again. He wasn’t moving, just staring at her — tall, brown-hair, tanned skin, beard, and mustache.

“I was trying not to disturb you.” He finally spoke, kind of flat, unemotional, definitely no signature Arkansas accent, didn’t move an inch, hands in his pockets.

“Oh, I had just dropped something, trying to find it,” she murmured awkwardly.

“I thought you might be grounding yourself,” he said rather casually.

What? That was an unexpected punch. She really didn’t think this was a mainstream thing, “grounding oneself.”

“Um, oh, well,” she muttered in confusion.

“Did you find it?”

“Find it?”

“What you dropped.”

A swirl of confusion swept over her. How did she get herself into these situations? “I was grounding.”

Expressionless, “I know.”

She drew in another deep, uncomfortable, awkward breath. “Yeah, well, it’s late, I think I need to get back.”

“It’s only 10:00, 10:00 AM, here I mean.”

Was this a bizarre conversation, or was it just her? “Here? You mean instead of in China?”

A strange sort of smile drifted across his face as though he appreciated the sarcasm. “No, I meant from where I came from, it was afternoon, around three.”

Why did it feel acutely as though she was losing air out of her lungs? She really needed to shut up. “Where you came from? And where was that exactly?”

The smile was staying. Why was that? “Not far. You see, I was tracking.”

“I don’t think it’s hunting season around here.” She crossed her arms in front of her. Again, why was she still talking to him? He could very well be unhinged.

“No, no, I don’t hunt animals.”

And he was silent again, not elaborating. “Okay, well, as I said, regardless of the time. I need to get going. You have a nice day.” And then she realized it. To get back, she’d have to walk right past him, the bizarre fellow in the red jacket. And it bothered her, worried her, but there seemed no help for it. Either walk past or make a beeline through the woods, which she was not going to do.

And it was true, she did need to get back. She worked online, several jobs online, one of which was freelance editing, a stack of articles she’d been putting off.

Allie steeled herself. She bent her head down and tried to give him a wide berth as she started to pass. Then it happened, the unthinkable. At least something she didn’t see coming. His arm shot out, and he grabbed her forearm as she was passing.

Direct contact, not exactly direct because she was wearing a long-sleeved button-down, but close enough. Extreme, it felt sort of like a sizzling brand burning through her shirt. She twisted in reflex, trying to pull away, but it was like steel. He was immovable.

“Let me go,” she rasped, because it was painful. She was feeling too many things, hot acid all over her. “Christ, where have you been!” she muttered frantically.

“Ssshhh,” he said calmly. “Be still for a minute.”

She didn’t want to. She was outraged and horrified simultaneously. What the hell gave him the right?

And then she heard the words, loud and powerful in her mind. “Stop.”

That silenced her, made her stop pulling every which way to get loose. Shocking, stunning, “Quiet your mind.” Was the command on its heels.

Her vision began to blur, dizziness, such swirls of dizziness. “We need to talk,” he murmured softly, before it all tipped into a gray blanket of mist.

*

“Allie,” whispers floating around her mind. “Don’t be so emotional. There’s nothing to cry about.”

But there was, always, so much pain around her.

“Why can’t you be like everyone else?” Her father’s pleas.

It wasn’t always possible to pretend. Not always.

“Allie, wake up.”

She opened her eyes and felt a chill instantly travel down her spine. And on top of that, she smelled smoke. Still dizzy and with a headache, she gingerly sat up and looked around. It was a room, a den, big rustic, larger than the one at her house, with a huge stone fireplace that was lit. “You can use the throw on the chair,” a disembodied voice, though familiar masculine tones, floated in. She glanced around. Beside her was indeed a wooden rocking chair with a beige woven blanket draped over it. She snatched it quickly. It was cold, much colder than it had been when she left her house.

And then the man in question made an appearance, the one from the woods, the one who’d grabbed her arm and now evidently had— “You know this is kidnapping,” she voiced aloud, not sure if she should have thought that through more, given her unexplored predicament. But she did tend to be on the impulsive side.

“I made us some coffee, a teaspoon of sugar, and some milk, right?” He asked, bringing in two steaming mugs from around a corner, probably the kitchen, but who the hell knew.

She pulled the throw tightly around her that she’d wrapped up in seconds before. “I don’t know if I want any.”

He stopped in front of the sofa, then abruptly took a sip out of one mug and then the other. “See, not drugged.”

“But now I have to drink after you,” she spat out.

He nodded, unconcerned. “Okay, I’ll go wash it down the sink.”

“No,” dang it. “I’ll take it.” She loved coffee, one of her few indulgences. She took it out of his hands, carefully, not wanting any direct physical contact. But taking the mug, she could feel an agitation passing into her fingertips, though not nearly as pronounced as when he’d grabbed her arm.

“I took a shower.”

She looked up at him blankly. “Good for you.”

Frowning, “To get rid of some of the gunk.”

What a bizarre thing to say to a stranger, but then again, what about this wasn’t bizarre? “Okay, not sure why I need to know that.”

He frowned, “Energy, Allie, negative energy. That’s what upset you when I took your arm.”

“Took my arm? You mean when you grabbed my arm, and I couldn’t get away.”

“Yep, I can see why it would seem that way to you.”

“Look, it didn’t just seem that way—” then abruptly another disturbing thought filtered in. She straightened up further on the sofa. “Wait a minute, when did you have time to take a shower? How long have I been out?”

He sort of mumbled. “You didn’t make the trip well.”

Recoiling a bit, in fact backing up as much as physically possible into the corner of this rather large, overstuffed green sofa. “Trip? What trip? Did you put me in a car? Did you drug me?”

“No, this place is in the woods, the Village, just on a different plateau.”

“Plateau? What gibberish is that?”

He frowned again, taking a sip out of his coffee mug. “Drink some. I put cinnamon in it. It’s soothing.”

She shouldn’t just to spite him, but she did, take a huge sip, and it was good, strong with a fleeting taste of cinnamon. Well, her kidnapper makes a good cup of coffee. Wasn’t that good news. “Look, whoever you are.”

“My name is Ryland Gray.”

“Okay, fine, Mr. Gray, I don’t know who you are, but I really need to go home. I’m not like everyone else. I have complicated, um, medical issues.”

“Yes, Miss Beckett. I am aware.” Beckett, Beckett, she hadn’t given him her name. Oh God, how did he know— “You really need to calm down, Allie.”

She swallowed on a dry throat, even though she’d just had a mouthful of coffee. “How, how do you know my name?”

And then he looked down into his mug, “Yep.” No elaboration.

“You won’t find the answers in there,” she snapped.

And then he looked up again. He had brown eyes, sort of brownish green and suddenly they didn’t seem quite as hard and cold as they were a moment before. “It’s complicated.”

She swung her legs around, putting her feet solidly on the wooden floor. At least she was still wearing her hiking shoes. “Am I free to go?” She asked with feigned courage.

“Sure,” he mumbled. “Be my guest.”

Standing up while still feeling wobbly, she braced herself. She would simply walk out the front door, find her way back to the trail and her car, and put this insanity behind her.

He stepped back a bit, out of her way, and she noted for the first time he was wearing one of those heavy flannel button-downs, red and black like some kind of lumbar jack over jeans. Red, too much red, she detested that color.

As quickly as she could manage, she stalked across the den to the front door, turning a rather large bolt and then flinging it open. And then she just stood there on the threshold after a gasp. Distantly, she could hear him moving just behind her, “Yeah, it happened while you were asleep. We’re about two months ahead of you.”

“Ahead?” she whispered in shock because everywhere she looked outside was covered in a layer of freshly fallen snow.

“But the good news is it melts pretty quickly here. By the morning, we can get out again.”

She stood there transfixed. It was so cold, but she was numb. “Have I lost my mind?”

“No, Allie Beckett. You’ve just traveled a bit.”

*

She wandered aimlessly around the den of Ryland Gray’s house in the woods, though exactly which woods and where was a pesky detail her mind couldn’t seem to grasp just at the moment.

Had he somehow driven her — without her being aware, while she was unconscious — so far away from her Village rental that wherever they were now, it was actually snowing.

“No,” he said emphatically.

She glanced across the room. Way across, because he was on one side, looking out a front window whose blinds he had opened, and she was way on the other side, staring out a sliding glass door that led onto a screen porch. She stared back at him. He wasn’t even looking at her. “No, what?” She asked with irritation.

At that, he turned around, still holding a coffee cup in his hand. He couldn’t possibly be sipping on that first cup of coffee still. “This is my second,” he said out of the blue.

And then she got it. Allie might be slow to the race, but she did get there, well, eventually. “Are you—I mean are you really—”

“Reading your thoughts? Yeah, kind of. That’s how I knew how you wanted your coffee, teaspoon of sugar and all that.” He stated rather matter-of-factly.

Oh God, that was right. She hadn’t even thought of that. “Wait a minute. I wasn’t thinking about how I wanted my coffee fixed.”

He frowned. Ryland Gray had a strange frown that kind of looked less like he was disappointed and more like the world was confounding. And he was a bit ticked off by it. At least, that was her take. “Yep, got me there, Allie Beckett. Just when I was starting to think you might not be too sharp, you get me in the side with a pocketknife.”

“What the hell kind of analogy is that?”

“A serviceable one.”

“The coffee, Mr. Gray.”

Eyebrow went up a bit. They were kind of heavy dark eyebrows. Evidently, this face had a bit more malleability than she’d previously suspected. “You want another cup?”

“I want to know how you knew how I take my coffee,” she nearly hissed back at him.

“Don’t get so testy, Allie. It’s best to be more laid back here. Things can be reactive.”

She put her hands on her hips. She really felt like spitting at him, but spitting at a kidnapper might not be the best avenue to take just now. “I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what nonsense you’re babbling about. Are you on some kind of meds?”

That frown again, definitely the resting face. “It’s more permeable.”

She let her hands drop from her hips, waiting for elaboration. But as she’d expected, none was forthcoming. “Oh well, thanks. That explains a lot.”

“So,” he said slowly. And it was a challenge to say such a short one-syllable word slowly. “You want some breakfast?”

Oh, God, this man was going to drive her bananas. “No, Mr. Gray, what I want is to go home.”

He nodded, “Yeah, Miss Beckett. But as I explained, we’re snowed in until tomorrow.”

Hands instinctively flew back onto her hips. “Did you explain that? I don’t remember you explaining shit to me about anything!”

Now there was a flicker of a smile. What the hell was wrong with this guy? “I think I told you not to be so upset, Allie,” he said with a frustrating calmness.

“That’s not explaining,” she mumbled, because it suddenly felt as though she was losing breath, and on top of that, she was dizzy. “I feel funny.”

At some point, he’d moved, moved quickly across the den, and grabbed her arm. She thought to pull away, but everything was spinning, colors spinning everywhere. “Take some deep breaths,” he said with authority.

“I-I can’t. I can’t get my breath.”

“You’re acclimating. It will pass. That’s why I wanted you to stay calm.”

“Acclimating? What does that even mean?” She could barely get the words out. It was such a swirl, a swirl of colors all around her, then other things, things pulsating and writhing almost.

He took her other arm with his hand and began to shake her a bit. “Don’t go there, Allie. Stay focused.”

Vaguely, she wondered what he’d done with his coffee cup, then she could see it in her mind. So odd, like a freeze frame backup. She saw him on the other side of the room, talking to her just moments before. But it was different because now she could feel what he was feeling. He was talking to her, but also looking outside, and also seeing masses of colors slashing across the room. And he was elsewhere, inside her memories, standing next to her in her apartment, examining things, and in Dr. Crispin’s office, sitting there listening closely to their private sessions.

“What the hell is this?” she whispered as she felt him scoop under her legs and lift her in his arms. Contact, so much contact. Usually, she couldn’t bear it. But it was different, so different even from the first time he’d touched her.

“It’s all right, Allie. I’m trying to help,” he murmured. And then a drape of gray passed over her as she lost consciousness again.

*

“You might have prepared her a little better.”

“I didn’t think she’d fight it so much.”

“That’s why you picked her because she’s a fighter.”

Her eyes opened slowly to the dim light of her bedside table. They hurt, her eyes, but she forced them to take in her surroundings. A white corner desk, an ash-wood tall dresser against the wall, and a bed surrounded by her light, fluffy, pastel-colored pillows. She drew in a deep breath that permeated throughout her. But not dizzying. She straightened up and glanced behind her. Yes, it was her ironwork sleigh bed. She was home, home, and profoundly, profoundly confused.

All a dream? Is that what he was trying to sell her? She glanced around, somewhat gratefully but equally confounded.

So, Mr. Ryland Gray was playing games with her.

She pulled her white faux fur bed pillow against her chest. It did feel good to be with her things, stability. And she could just let it be, let it be, and forget the insanity of the other stuff. It was like a gift, a parting gift, whatever he was after, whatever he wanted from her, just didn’t work out.

She leaned back in the bed drowsily. Sure, path of least resistance. Sure, maybe, then she closed her eyes, feeling entirely too exhausted to figure any of this out.

*

When she did finally get out of bed and checked the clock by her nightstand, it was early morning, just shy of seven, a little later than she usually got up. But when she looked at her cellphone, she was stunned. Allie had found something utterly disturbing. She’d lost a day. She remembered clearly that it was Friday morning when she was walking the forest trail by the dog park. But this morning was Sunday. An entire day had just slipped away.

Her head was throbbing painfully, so she was determined to not deal with this until after coffee and something to eat. And then she noticed she was wearing the same clothes, blue jeans, and a sweater she’d been wearing when —

She shut her mind down emphatically. No, no, she would not deal with any of this insanity, coffee, food, then a shower. Exerting great control over her mind, the one that was literally bursting forth with fearsome questions and uncontrollable emotions, she began to move. She wouldn’t backslide. Dr. Crispin had taught her how to maintain a degree of control. No matter what was happening, she wouldn’t allow herself to slide back into that dark time again.

*

Late morning, shuffling with distraction through the largely empty aisles of the only grocery right outside the gates of the Village, and by right outside, she meant a good six or seven miles away from her home. That was the rub of living in the secluded Village. It was indeed secluded and took a bit of time and driving to get anywhere.

It was a fact of life that one had to be a good planner here. It wasn’t like you could just pop over to the grocery for something you’d forgotten. She yawned. A piece of toast, coffee, and a hot shower had not cleared the cobwebs. She usually did her shopping early Saturday morning, way before the crowds dribbled in. Sundays were more dicey. The churchgoing group liked to hit the store early before the 10:00 a.m. service. And oddly enough, while no groceries, the large expanse of the Village, over 26,000 acres of the Ouachita Mountains, at least that was what the travel brochures purported, was dotted with so very many houses of Worship — every denomination to pick from, and some she’d never heard of.

But Allie wasn’t a churchgoer. She’d had enough of that, a mother who’d brought her highly emotional child to a congregation that seemed only too happy to pray over her for exactly what she wasn’t sure, except that maybe her well-meaning mother thought she was possessed by some aberrant evil of some capacity.

Another yawn, yes, this was going to be tough going, shopping the specials and buying for the week. Maybe she should have waited, waited, and done this tomorrow. But how she hated her inflexible schedule being interrupted, particularly after all those odd dreams.

Quite assuredly, the pieces did not fit together, not one bit, but the alternative seemed to be more than she could deal with just now. She pulled the grey hoodie that she’d pulled on over her black sweater more tightly about her as she moved her icy basket down the largely empty aisles. It was so cool this morning, a sudden chill in the air that had seemed to creep out of nowhere.

And then, abruptly, she stopped, stopped driving her basket past the pasta shelves. She had planned to make her grandmother’s spaghetti sauce and portion it for four days, because after all, she was just one person. But then it happened again, like a stabbing pain darting up her spine, a pain that wasn’t exactly a pain.

“It’s an awareness.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have to accept the fact that you’re like a radar for things other people can’t feel.”

“What kind of things?”

“Unfortunately, with you, I would suspect difficult things.” Dr. Crispin had explained with the expected detachment of a professional.

Her eyes rose slowly, canvassing the aisles. She was situated at this point about in the middle. Forward, there was no one, and as she quickly glanced behind, she noted nothing there as well. She took in a quick breath. Well, either it would pass or, if it was too intense, she’d simply abandon the shopping cart and get out of there. Otherwise, as she’d found in the past, it could turn quite detrimental to her.

Allie steadied herself, drawing in a deep breath, closing her eyes, and attempting to center as she’d practiced during her sessions with Dr. Crispin. Once she felt steadier and had regained her mastery, she slowly opened her eyes and immediately saw a figure standing at the front of the aisle. It was jarring because, besides being positioned in the middle of what would be her exit and staring her down, there was the face. It was an old man with a bony, gaunt face — not one that looked naturally aged, but instead with pale, crinkled skin tightly stretched across his skull. His eyes were wide and unblinking, giving him a zombie-like expression, as if he’d walked out of The Walking Dead. Instinctively, she stepped back, then felt a decisive stab in her heart region.

“Remember to see what is actually there, Allie. Not representative.”

“Representative? What does that mean?”

“Your brain and your eyes adjust to what you feel is the truth.”

“Could you be more opaque?”

And then Dr. Crispin had frowned in her disgruntled/disapproving manner. “Tell your mind to see what everyone else sees.”

Okay, okay, fine, Dr. Crispin, she mentally acknowledged. Centering herself, she sent out a pure, crisp thought to her mind. See what everyone sees.

It was blurry for a moment, as though her eyes were actively refocusing, and then she began to see the change. The old man’s face sort of melted, molding into something else. It took her breath, for a moment, such a sharp, radical difference. Not only had the features softened, but they were no longer a man but instead a woman, a tall, statuesque blond, maybe early twenties, very pretty in a beachy sort of way. The woman was now smiling back at her in such a welcoming way. But Allie couldn’t help but feel a lurch in her stomach, a lurch of nausea as the pain in her heart area only deepened. She was losing energy, clearly a drainer, but something else, something worse, somehow.

Without a thought, she flipped the direction of her basket around in the aisle, quickly moving toward the opposite end of the store. Once she was out of that thing’s sight, she ditched the cart and rapidly headed out the front door.

Her breathing was shallow, panicked. It was so strong, the feeling of darkness, much more potent than she usually felt. When she reached the door of her yellow jeep that she’d beeped open with her keys only seconds before, she was startled. In her panic, she hadn’t noticed anyone approaching, and she actually jumped as a hand closed over her own. Her eyes jolted up, staring into a familiar bearded face, one she’d decided was a dream even though the pieces didn’t add up.

“What are—” she started, not at all sure how to finish that question.

“Get in the car,” Ryland Gray said with steel in his voice. “We need to talk.”

*

They were sitting in the front of her banana yellow Jeep in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly, she in the driver’s seat and her uninvited guest, one Ryland Gray, who it was clear was no figment of her imagination, in the passenger seat. And oh yeah, he was saying nothing.

“Look, what is—”

“Sssshhh,” he snapped impatiently.

“Hey, you were the one who said—”

“Be quiet, Allie. Don’t you understand, be quiet around here?”

“Around here?”

And then he gave her a glaring look that did indeed silence her. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, wondering if she should make a run for it because this guy was clearly a bit nuts.

“Look,” he snapped out. “Is that It?”

Her eyes rose back to the front entrance of the grocery where that Woman Thing, whatever it was, had just exited the store. “Is that what?” she whispered.

“It’s a shell.”

Her eyes widened. “A what? A shell?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the figure that had stopped a few rows over beside a bright red sports car. “Yep,” he said slowly. “Good work, Allie. You’re clearly raw at this, but excellent nonetheless.”

Her eyes watched dubiously as the woman/thing/shell, as he called it, climbed in and started her car. “Excellent at what?”

“Being a diviner.”

“A diviner, don’t they predict the future?” She muttered in confusion.

“No, not that kind. Like the stick that finds water, a divining rod.”

Now that image took a moment to soak in. “You’re comparing me to a stick.”

“Start the car,” he said abruptly.

“Why?”

“Because we’re going to follow it.”

Copyright © 2025 by Evelyn Klebert

Coming Soon!!

A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains

At the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains, into their ancient heart, and even perhaps into nearby unexplored dimensions, slip into a series of supernatural short stories. Take a mystical diversion that could very well land you into a realm at the least unexpected and at the most horrifying. But what is clear is that no one, ever, will emerge as they were before.

The third story that I’m posting this month is a short story called “Emma Fallon” which first appeared in a collection called The Left Palm and Other Halloween Tales of the Supernatural. Strangely, after I wrote this, the characters from this tale hung around in my mind for so long that their relationship evolved into a sort of prequel in The Alchemist’s Bride. I do hope you enjoy it and as always peace to all.

Emma Fallon

It bothered her how misunderstood she felt. How people, loved ones, friends, and yes, even fiancés didn’t get it, didn’t get her. She sat in the coffee shop just across the street from the high-walled cemetery. The day was overcast and cloudy — a perfect day for pictures. Her watch read just after ten. The office had been open for about an hour. She phoned in sick at work today. A weary sigh traveled up to somewhere around her throat. It was no secret that she had no business begging off work. She actually held several jobs, and it was her morning work as a receptionist in Dr. Clarence Marchand’s pediatrician office that she called in sick for. Later in the afternoon would bring her position at the department store at the Mall, which stretched into the evening. Then, on the weekends, there was the post at the circulation desk of the public library, and of course, there were also her classes. She took night classes several times a week, working toward a business degree — too much on her plate for a single woman of thirty-five with a bad marriage under her belt. Too much, particularly since her passion these days was photography.

She’d noted the gates of Lafayette Cemetery being unchained only moments before by a thin elderly man. Distracted, she wondered who worked in a cemetery and thought to herself cryptically, perhaps she should, given her pension for eclectic employment.

“Perhaps you should pick one track and stick with it.”

That would be Peter, Peter Reynolds, and her fiancé of just under two weeks now. He was a doctor that she’d met when he’d come to fill in for old Dr. Marchand one week. That was the first job, the one she was allegedly sick for today. Peter was younger than she was by nearly four years, which kept her from going out with him at first. It was one of those invisible lines she’d established at some indefinable point in her life. But then, he was particularly persistent, and after a while, another line was broken.

One of the things she liked most about him was that he was nothing like her first husband, except, of course, when he made statements like that.

“You sound just like Jack.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to.”

Peter was quick to be sorry. And that was helpful, but she questioned marrying him in the future. And she questioned picking one track for her life, and mostly she questioned the odd restlessness within her that lately seemed to have become a permanent fixture.

Finishing her cup of coffee, she pulled on the lightweight cotton shirt she’d brought to wear over her sleeveless sweater, just in case it turned out to be chilly this morning. It was late October, almost Halloween in New Orleans, so that made the weather wholly unpredictable.

The streets around the cemetery were largely unoccupied. It was a Thursday morning, and this was not her section of town. This was the Garden District, a lovely area of the city that drew her more often than she liked to admit. What made it distinctive was its texture, its antiquated feel, and its removed aura that tended to convince one it belonged in another place — perhaps another time, wholly separate from anything around it. She’d toyed with the idea of asking Peter if they could move here once they were married. After all, what he would make as a pediatrician would far eclipse what she was managing to live on now. Of course, that would mean she would have to go through with the marriage. She was many things but not a gold-digger, not a mercenary. Marriage would have to be real, for love, not convenience, if it happens at all.

Her black leather boots clicked hard on the cement pavement as she rounded the corner of the old cemetery.

A breeze blew lightly through her thick blonde hair just as she walked beyond the iron gates that led inside. It was as one would expect and yet not. High trees stretched over tall, granite mausoleums, some in perfect condition while others damaged, weather and time-worn as expected. Leaves crackled, and distantly she smelled the dying embers of a fire. Nervously touching the small camera case around her neck, she attempted to clear her mind and concentrate. Pictures, pictures, she thought if she could sell some to a local magazine then finally, she might be on the right track.

“Perhaps you should pick one track and stick with it.”

“You sound like Jack.”

“Was that his name? I thought you said, Thomas.”

She’d laughed, “No, no you must be mistaken. It was Jack.”

Then he looked at her with eyes that said he wasn’t so sure but still reassured. “Sorry, didn’t mean to.”

Her feet wandered through their own volition. She’d been here before but never inside. In her ten years in the city, she’d never wanted to come inside before, until now — until this morning after the dreams, dreams of smoke, bitterness in her throat, smells that burned her nostrils like acid. And then she’d awoken, knowing that she must see inside, not wanting, but needing.

The long blue jean skirt she wore was straight and now felt confining. She should have worn pants, but she hadn’t. The skirt stopped her from taking the long strides she was driven to. Surrounding her, the crypts were large — large, tall, rectangular slabs of stone. They were so similar in construction, but the epithets were different: the 1800s, early 1900s, children, families — a child struck down by yellow fever. She took out the camera and began to take shots, shots everywhere, scattered, trees, tombs, broken slabs of stone, just randomly shooting, her fingers quaking as she soaked it all in.

What was it?

She looked up from behind the lens. Elusive but powerful, a pull, it bothered her. Worse than that, it was pushing her, stalking her.

She began to move rapidly but randomly down the uneven pathways between the tombs, reading the inscriptions, looking, feeling, and needing frantically something, something that was here. Her hands reached out strangely, desperately, her fingertips brushing lightly across the etched words, forgotten names.

This pointless action stretched on and on for endless minutes. That was until a feeling of foolishness nearly compelled her to stop. But then lightly skimming across a name delicately engraved on a cold, hard slab of rock, she hesitated, then jolted once it was absorbed.

Impossible, she whispered to herself, staring dumbfounded at what she saw. Again and again, she scraped her fingers along the letters —again and again in disbelief, until her brain soaked in what she saw. It was a coincidence, of course, a name a common name, but hers, her name: “Emma Fallon, Died October 20, 1900.”

*

“Emma, you just called him Jack. His name was Thomas.”

She nodded, her mind, or rather her memory, hazy. Then she murmured, “Thomas Woolery.”

Peter was looking at her oddly as though she was making no sense, none whatsoever. “Woolery? But your name—”

“Of course,” the fog was beginning to clear now. It must be those pills he’d prescribed for her to help her sleep, to help her sleep dreamless sleep. “I went back to my maiden name. Why would I keep his?”

“Of course,” he cut her off. His flat expression told her that he was satisfied. He did have a pragmatic mind, a physician’s mind. Things had to make sense to him. “And Jack?”

She rubbed her temples, trying desperately to clear out the cobwebs. “It was his middle name, Jackson. Sometimes I called him Jack.” She didn’t know why she’d lied. It probably wasn’t at all necessary. But the truth, the truth, would have been less palatable to her young fiancé. She had to make allowances for him. He was young in so many ways. The world to him was what he could touch, see under a microscope, and could be explained. To her, it was something different, filled with half chances, mist, incomplete tasks, fractures — not so certain, not so tangible, and not at all as controllable as he would have liked to think. She didn’t know who Jack was. It wasn’t her ex-husband’s middle name. It wasn’t a name she was even particularly comfortable uttering. And she had no idea why for a few moments, she was convinced otherwise.

*

A breeze brushed by her, and it seemed to whistle, whistle directly into her ears, causing pain.

There was a distinctive tap, the tap of a boot on the partial cement walkway that ran along the front of the tombs. She closed her eyes, still feeling the pain in her ears, her head, fingertips still connecting to the tomb, the tomb of a woman who bore her name yet died so long ago. And the tapping, light tapping, was only getting closer. She willed her hand to move, to leave its position connecting with the cool granite, but it would not. So, instead, she willed the tapping to pass her by. No doubt it was close, as it had grown distinctly louder. But again, averse to her wishes, it did not. It simply stopped. Somewhere along the infrequently trodden pathway, it had simply stopped.

She forced her eyes open. Vision was blurry and distinctly out of focus — no doubt the breeze, the chapping wind that felt as though it had dropped in temperature, sometime during the last several moments. She breathed in deeply, extending her other hand and grasping the first, forcing it away from the inscription. There was no point now, no pictures today, she told herself. Something had gone awry and nothing more was possible now. She turned on her heel to leave but then stopped abruptly, jolted. Only a few yards away he stood, a figure, a man quietly watching her.

She didn’t intend it, but the suddenness, unexpected shock, sent her eyes into direct contact. A man, bearded, fair, her age, perhaps older, in a trench coat standing there. There was no mistake, just watching her directly. She pulled her light shirt around her more closely, dropping her eyes and readying for a quick departure, when his voice abruptly caused her to halt. “I must know before you leave here if you’re all right.”

Against her volition, the voice sent her eyes upward again meeting his. She realized he’d taken another few steps toward her, and her immediate response was to back away. But there was nowhere to go. Behind her was the cold, hard surface of Emma Fallon’s tomb. “I’m fine.” There was a perceptible tremor in her voice.

And then he stepped closer, with, she believed, an expression of kindness on his face. She noted for the first time he was wearing a turtleneck sweater and blue jeans beneath the open trench coat. Odd wardrobe, after all, it was only October. October in New Orleans was not especially cold weather by any means. “Are you sure? You look a bit distressed.”

“No,” and then she shrugged, “that’s not unusual. I usually look distressed.” Impulsively, she’d decided to diffuse the awkwardness by taking on a bit of a flip tone.

An amused smile spread across his face, and she thought of Peter and how he was much too literal to appreciate such peculiar moments. “Well, if that’s true, it is unfortunate. A lovely lady like yourself should not be so often upset.” She detected no particular accent, but he did have a specific way of phrasing words that suggested intelligence or perhaps culture.

“I didn’t say I was upset, just that I looked so.”

He nodded, “No, you didn’t say. But it is more than clear that you are.” She hadn’t realized when he’d taken that final step, the one that brought him directly in front of her. The one that enabled him to quietly reach up and graze her cheek with his fingertips, “So pale,” he murmured. “Have you had a fright?”

The sound was loud, loud enough, so perhaps he should have heard her heart hammering, hammering in fear, or hammering in surprise, of which she wasn’t at all certain. Details seemed to be becoming blurred. “No, why would you say such a thing?”

And then the smile, a slight smile that traveled up into blue-gray eyes. “Because it is clearly written all over you, all over your lovely face. That something terrible has brushed by you.”

She deliberately stepped to the side, since there was no place to escape backward. “I have to be going,” she managed to get out.

But the stranger’s eyes were no longer on her. They were focused on the tomb that now lay exposed. And to her complete bewilderment, he reached out his hand, almost tenderly brushing the inscription as she had done herself moments before. “Emma Fallon,” it came out in a heavy whisper, his deep voice wrapping around the name in an odd way. And then his eyes were on her, not so kind, not so soft, now remarkably piercing. “Have you heard about Emma Fallon?”

She stood there, struck dumb for a moment, staring at him with puzzlement, “Heard?”

And then he nodded, “Oh yes, so many stories about this young woman. As you can see, she died fairly young.”

For a split second, her heart slammed in her chest. She’d been so captivated by the name she hadn’t considered the dates. “Really?” was all she said, feeling in the moment a strange, inexplicable paralysis creeping into her flesh.

“Oh yes, young, but a busy life. Some say she was a mystic,” and then his eyes narrowed as he focused in on her again, “but others not. Others say she was a witch.”

She felt his bold stare and suddenly experienced an odd coursing of strength that seemed to gravitate up her spine. She straightened up and frowned at him explicitly, “Really? A witch? With a long nose and a black cauldron?”

And then the stranger smiled again, appreciating, she was quite sure, her sudden burst of spunk. “Well, perhaps not exactly that kind of witch because I have heard she was quite beautiful. No, I think more so the kind of witch that casts spells, charms, perhaps beguilements.”

“Sounds lovely,” her voice was dry. She wondered in this odd moment exactly what was going on here. Was this strange man trying to flirt with her or planning a mugging? At this bizarre instant, either scenario seemed plausible.

He dropped his hand from the tomb. “I see you’re not one for fancifulness.”

She folded her arms in front of her, feeling oddly more vulnerable in the wake of that observation. “Well, life doesn’t always leave you enough time for fancifulness.”

A thoughtful expression crossed his somewhat rugged face. It was odd. She couldn’t truly decide if he was handsome or not. There were sharp planes along his cheek bones that defied that description, but there was also an appeal, something dancing at times in his eyes that could only be interpreted as charming. “Pity,” he offered, “when life denies you such enjoyments.”

Again, she felt taken aback by his words. Truly, if it weren’t for his pleasant manner, she would have sworn he was criticizing her. “Well, as I said before, I have to be going.”

“Going where?” he asked softly but pointedly.

“Work, I’m late for work,” she lied. After all, she had the morning off. She’d called in sick. But the idea of lingering, continuing this very odd conversation, seemed completely intolerable and out of the question.

“I see,” he responded again softly. It was odd how the tone of his voice had become so quiet, soothing, almost wrapping around her when he spoke. “Did I tell you how Emma Fallon died?” Again, a breeze blew near them, the temperature dropping perceptively, or perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps it was simply all in her mind. She was now realizing, in this foreboding moment, that she shouldn’t be here. And that all of this was possibly a terrible mistake. She said nothing but took a step backward, feeling her booted leg brush up against the last resting place of Emma Fallon. “It was an unfortunate end, you see. But many said she deserved her fate. I don’t know if that’s true. What do you think? Does anyone really deserve to die, or to die the way she did?”

“I need to leave now,” she murmured, leaning against the tomb, the cold hard surface of the tomb.

“Yes, I know,” bending in so close to her, she could feel his warm breath. “But first, I’ll tell you how she died.” His eyes widened, and she could feel their glare like a tangible stab holding her in place. “You see, her husband murdered her.” He lifted his hands in the air in front of her, his strong, long, capable hands. And then he continued in a heavy whisper. “He killed her for betraying him with another man. Witch or not, sorceress or not, she couldn’t stop him.”

Her vision began to blur before her, a swirl, as she felt his hands go lightly around her throat. “As you can well imagine, Emma, he strangled her completely and without hesitation crushed the life out of her.” She didn’t know if he’d tightened his grip or what caused all reality to spin and then abruptly disappear into blackness.

*

“You don’t talk about him much.”

“Who?”

Peter frowned a bit, and again, she questioned the reasons that they were together. It was not the first time that she thought perhaps it was convenience, timing, or weakness. And as a person, she found him, well, to put it nicely, not formidable. Not like, “Your first husband, Thomas Woolery.”

It took a moment for her consciousness to absorb that name. It was there, certainly well-placed in her memory, attached to some face that now seemed to be fading with each passing instant. “It was so long ago.”

Again, confusion and then suspicion passed across his still-youthful features. “How long?”

She shrugged, “I don’t remember exactly, years. I’ve lived here in the city alone for years.”

His brown eyes narrowed, “But you’ve only been working with Dr. Marchand for a few months. What did you do before that?”

She’d smiled, trying to smooth things was her strength in this relationship. “Peter, why all these questions? If you had doubts about me, shouldn’t you have considered that before we got engaged?”

“Why are you so secretive?” he’d asked.

It bothered her, irritated her, actually, all the probing. She had answers, neat little answers tucked away in a file in her mind somewhere for such occasions, but now it seemed like such an effort to get to them. “Look, I’m just not feeling well, a headache. How about we do this another time?”

And then he nodded, said sorry, and dropped it. Like she knew he would. And a day passed and another with no more inquiries, and then there was this day.

*

She awoke to dimness, flickering shadows on a white brick wall, and a chill so powerful that it felt as though the season had changed. Her head throbbed as she sat up on the short pink satin settee. A heavy knitted, ecru-colored afghan was tightly wrapped around her.

She glanced about trying to somehow absorb what she was seeing — another chair, small table, bookshelf all light in color, and the fireplace across from her — the only light in the room.

For a moment, she wondered if she was dead. If, indeed, she had been murdered by the stranger in the cemetery, then she dismissed the possibility. It was a nice room, but there had to be more substance to heaven than a pleasant room. “What makes you think you’re bound for heaven?”

The voice behind her was startling. She pulled the cover more closely to her, briefly fearing that she’d been kidnapped and that there were more horrors to come. Then, as he rounded the small couch, he commented dryly, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Without glancing at her, he crossed to the fireplace, squatting in front of it, stoking the flames. He’d divested himself of the trench coat and pushed up the sleeves of his navy-colored turtleneck. It was a striking shade against his light-colored hair. He turned to her suddenly, shooting her a wry glance. “Are you reading my mind?” she murmured absently.

“Wouldn’t be the first time, love,” he shot back, returning his attention to the fireplace. Her head began to throb, and her vision swirled a bit. “Concentrate Emma, you must anchor yourself here.”

He was now standing in front of the fireplace, poker in his hand, staring at her with a palpable intensity. She straightened up with an unexpected burst of extreme irritation. “What the hell are you talking about?”

And then he smiled, dropping the dark silver poker down to the brick hearth. “That’s better. Use your anger. It will help you regain your place.”

She flung the blanket off her, standing up. “Are you out of your mind? What does that mean, my place? Who are you?”

He stood before her quietly, moving no closer, with no laughter in his eyes now. Charm all dropped away, rather perfectly unvarnished. “That’s a very good question, Emma. Who am I, who indeed?”

Again, the swirl in her head, voices, phantoms, images melting away in the dim firelight. “How do you know my name?”

A slight smile, “Emma? Emma Fallon, same as the woman on the tomb, same as the witch, the sorceress.”

She felt shaky again, losing ground as if the breath had just been knocked out of her. “She died young. Her husband murdered her,” she rambled, grasping, grasping for anything.

He shrugged, issuing a quick laugh, “Yes, well, I’m sure he would have liked to from time to time. But then again, it wasn’t an untroubled road for either of them. You see, they didn’t make it easy on each other.”

She breathed deeply, again feeling the swirl in her head but trying to ignore it. She picked up the woven afghan from the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders. “It’s cold in here.”

He nodded, “Yes, can’t be helped. But there is the fire.”

A trembling was going on inside her, her mind, her heart, and throughout the layers of memory peeling away. “I need to go home.”

“Yes, of course you do, Emma. But what you need to decide is where exactly home is.”

She looked up at him with confusion, feeling acutely, not for the first time, but for the first acknowledged time, the feeling of familiarity that accompanied this individual. “I have to go home to Peter.”

“Really?” he said with exaggerated emphasis. His face hardened perceptibly at the mention of her young fiancé’s name. “Really, Emma? And exactly what sort of life do you think you’ll have with young Peter?”

“Uncomplicated.” The answer slipped out before there was thought.

And he laughed in response, “Yes, well, that’s true enough.” And then he moved closer to her. “It would be uncomplicated, but for a woman like you, wouldn’t that be—” and then he brushed her cheek lightly with the back of his fingertips. “Dull?” he whispered.

She looked at him squarely, feeling an odd mix of being compelled and irritated at the same time. “Who are you?” she asked directly and with no hesitation this time.

“Time to remember, Emma,” he coaxed softly with that voice, that tone, that compelling, soothing intonation, “remember your first husband.”

“Thomas,” she murmured, feeling mesmerized, “Thomas Woolery.”

He sighed with a bit of exasperation. “Thomas Woolery was my tailor.” Then, with a steely voice, he commanded, “Remember Emma.”

And then, it came with almost an audible crack, although it was all in her mind. There was a deluge, a flood of color, sounds of music, laughter, dresses of satins, and muslins that cascaded across the floor. And him, his eyes, blue-gray colored. “Jack,” she expelled in a gasp.

“Good girl.”

Then she turned to him with a genuine anger that exploded like a volcano. “You bastard!”

He smiled broadly, laughing, “Ah huh, remembering too much, I see.”

She felt the power of who she was course through her body once more and felt more than inclined to slam him with anything she could put her hands on. “How dare you!”

“You said you wanted time apart.”

“I meant I wanted to go to the country, not to another century.”

“How is the future, my love? Is it a brave new world? Is it that much better without me around?”

She dropped the blanket on the floor and crossed to the fireplace, resting her hand on its walnut-colored mantle. “Simpler, Jack, so much simpler.”

He frowned. Evidently, she’d made a direct hit. “And that is so much better?”

She reveled in the freedom that was coursing through her now. How confining it was not to truly be oneself. “Did you miss me at all?” she asked, a little kinder than he deserved.

There was no smile, but the lights had returned, the dancing lights in his eyes. “If I hadn’t, I would have left you there. With your young baby doctor.”

She smiled, now beginning to feel the slightest degree of validation. “He’s a pediatrician, and you’re jealous.”

“I didn’t expect you to take up with the first silly bloke that approached you.”

She looked away, “It’s your own fault. You made me forget everything and planted all those silly, false memories. I should have known. Couldn’t you have made my past a bit more exciting?”

“Then you would have never wanted to come home,” he stated flatly.

And she crossed her arms, truly beginning to absorb the enormity of what her dear, loving alchemist of a husband had done. “I didn’t say I wanted to.” He moved in front of her, slowly placing his hands on either side of her face. “Trying to strangle me again?” she whispered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, dearest. Come home with me. I’m tired of all of this. I need you.”

“And?” she waited expectantly.

With emphasis, he capitulated, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sent you away. I just wanted or rather hoped it would help you appreciate more what we have.”

She looked away, but he gently tilted her face back to him, “That was a nasty touch, the tombstone, Jack,” she murmured.

He nodded, “Trying to jolt your memories. I suppose, in hindsight, it was a bit extreme. But be honest, Emma. Do you really prefer the future?”

She shook her head reluctantly, “No, not really. It’s a lot of work. But at least I had the vote there.”

He smiled with genuine appreciation, “Yes, well, give it time.”

Her husband pulled her closely into a warm embrace, and she knew that this time the wild swirl around them would be the one that took them home.

Copyright © 2009 by Evelyn Klebert

The Left Palm and Other Halloween Tales of the Supernatural

Halloween is the time of year when that veil between worlds is thinned, and you can just catch a quick glimpse into the realm of the unknowable. In this collection of short stories, Evelyn Klebert takes you to a place where ordinary life splinters into the sphere of the paranormal.

The journey begins with one woman’s unstoppable quest for vengeance against a supernatural creature in “Wolves” and continues in an old historical graveyard where a horrifying discovery is uncovered in “Emma Fallon.” In “The Soul Shredder,” a psychiatrist’s unusual patient opens his eyes to a disturbing new view of reality, while in “Wildflowers,” a woman strikes up a supernatural friendship with impossible implications. And in “The Left Palm,” a fortuneteller in the French Quarter receives a most unexpected and terrifying customer.

The Alchemist’s Bride

Enter the mystical world of 1883 historic New Orleans.

From a young age, Emmeline Lescale has been raised as an outsider by her aunt’s family on the lavish estate of Belle Coeur in Vacherie, Louisiana. Ostensibly an orphan, she is treated as an unpaid servant. But in her twenty-fifth year, with her eyes on a dismal future, something radically changes.

Her father, a renowned physician who has ignored her existence most of her life, suddenly insists that she come to live with him. And New Orleans in the 1880s seems like no place for a proper young lady, especially when her father is embroiled with a mysterious young doctor whose interests venture deeply and dangerously into the world of the supernatural.

Jack Fallon, the protege of Emmeline’s father, lives a life filled with secrets. His home, deep in the French Quarter on Bienville Street, is much more than meets the eye. And before too long, he draws Emma into the crosshairs of an existence that questions the nature of reality itself.

My next story for Halloween Month comes from a short story collection called Travels into the Breach: Accounts of a Reclusive Mystic. Travels follows the adventures of a 65 year-old widowed, esoteric author who secretly battles psychic attacks alongside a nineteenth-century, English gent who also happens to be his spirit guide. In this tale, Malachi and Simon strategize to keep a young man out of the clutches of a spiritual vampire. Hope you enjoy.

Obsession

“If I were a man, this wouldn’t be such an issue.”

Adele Blanchard struggled to hold onto her pleasant demeanor in the presence of the young woman in front of her. She was reading her tarot cards. She didn’t do palms. That was Annette’s job, but occasionally Adele did still read Tarot cards in addition to attending to the day-to-day operations of her esoteric bookstore, The Blue Pelican. It was as much for herself as anything. She enjoyed reading the Tarot for customers, playing off the vibes she received from them, digging deep into her intuitive gifts while using the symbolism of the cards as a bouncing-off point. Usually, she gained as much from the endeavor as those she read for, usually. But this one, Suzanne Evons, she couldn’t seem to get her to focus on what Adele was saying. Rather, she was purely focused on the one that got away.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Suzanne,” she murmured as jovially as she could manage. “Unrequited love, unfortunately, when taken to extremes, can turn into harassment — male or female in question.”

She bristled noticeably. In fact, she found that young Suzanne Evons tended to bristle whenever she didn’t readily agree with her. “Are you implying that I’m harassing Joe?”

She delivered in a stringent tone bordering on indignant.

Adele steeled herself inwardly, continuing to shuffle the oversized deck of Rider Waite cards. It was difficult keeping calm. Something about this woman had raised her hackles from the moment they met. This would be the second elaborating spread she was doing for Suzanne as the original and the one following didn’t seem to penetrate her rather tunnel vision perception.

“No, I didn’t say that. Joe, of course, would have to be the one to determine if he was feeling harassed or not.” And then she smiled to temper the sharp edges of her observation.

Suzanne’s face seemed to only harden at Adele’s remark. Her sharp cheekbones seemed to set as though carved in stone, and her well-sculpted eyebrows froze over her long almond-shaped eyes in an expression of determination. She was an attractive young woman, an ER nurse, no doubt a catch. So why was she so resolutely focused on a man who clearly wasn’t interested anymore?

“I’m sure you’re wrong, Ms. Blanchard. Once Joe remembers how good we were together, he’ll wake up. I’m sure he’ll value and appreciate the fact that I didn’t give up on us,” she stated rather flatly.

And invoking what Adele considered her minuscule repertoire of psychic gifts, she definitely sensed a wall here. There was a block in Suzanne’s thinking where reason, reality, and good common sense just did not seem to penetrate.

*

“I honestly can’t account for it, Malachi. Love, lust, obsession — whatever you might want to label it, that sort of nonsensical determination will lead to trouble, maybe even of the criminal sort.”

She was sitting out on Malachi McKellan’s screen porch with his lovely view of the Bayou St. John and sipping tea — something fruity, blueberry or raspberry, or something of the sort. He had said distinctly that she needed calming before they sat down to talk. He was very sensitive to those sorts of things. And it was true. She was extremely agitated. The problem was that this whole matter incensed her to no end. The why exactly she couldn’t say, except that she felt an instinctive dislike of Suzanne Evons.

“And how did the appointment end?”

“Well, I spread the cards again, which advised for the third time the same thing. Move on. Let the fellow do the same. But to no avail. It was absolutely as if I was talking to a brick wall, then she left.”

He shrugged, “Young love.”

“More like obsession.” He leaned back on the rattan sofa, smiling a bit. She amused him, though exactly why her frustration amused him was beyond her. “Are you taking this seriously, Malachi?”

“I always take you seriously, Adele. You have a powerful though admittedly, raw psychic radar. I find you quite infallible.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Do? Well, nothing at the moment, I’m afraid. Ms. Evons’ obsession, I’m afraid, is just that, her obsession.”

“But she could very well ruin her life over it.”

“Yes, she might. But it is her life to ruin.”

*

“Energy vampire?”

“Yes, no question, a young one, unconscious of it, but undeniably caught up in the thrall.”

Nuance sat perched on one end of the tan suede sofa in Malachi’s mountainside cabin. It was where he and Simon Tull, a nineteenth-century, twenty-something English gent and his spirit guide, met to hash things out, so to speak.

“You don’t seem inclined to do much, Malachi.”

He scratched Nuance’s head. She was nuzzled up against his leg. At sixty-five, he was beginning to wonder if his extracurricular activities of battling psychic attacks was best left to the young. “Do you know how high a percentage of the population are energy vampires, Simon?”

“Of course, it’s a significant rung in the ladder of spiritual evolution.”

“Yes, something no doubt both you and I experienced in some former life,” he said a bit distastefully.

“No doubt more than once, my friend. It’s a hard lesson to fully absorb. That you have power, and yet you must learn not to use it.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Malachi scoffed.

With a big smile, Simon tapped him on the shoulder. “And what’s another way, my old friend?”

“Learning not to be a parasite, sucking the energy out of your fellow human beings, and in effect compromising them and yourself.”

“Not everyone is vulnerable.”

“Yes, I know. Just the ones a little lost, searching for their next path.” Softly, he commented, “Yes, those in between, but they manage to sniff them out readily enough, exploit them, steal their energy.”

Simon frowned, “They’re not evil, you know. Mostly it’s unconscious.”

Malachi shrugged, “One can feel what’s positive or negative even if they choose to ignore it.”

“It’s all learning, my friend, no judgment, just learning.”

“Yes, as you say,” Malachi said a bit dubiously.

“So, are you going to help?”

“Help who, poor hapless Joe?”

“No, help Suzanne Evons.”

“Suzanne — the vampire?” Malachi said with a bit of surprise.

“Yes, before she destroys herself.”

*

In the evening, Malachi took a long walk down to the metal footbridge that connected Moss Street to its other half, crossing the tranquil waters of Bayou St. John. It bothered him, the feeling that whatever he did, however, he chose to help, was seemingly inconsequential in the vast scheme of things.

His hands rested on the metal railing of the footbridge as he stared out onto the darkening waters before him.

“It sounds like a dark night of the soul, Malachi.”

He didn’t look up. He knew the voice. He would have known her voice anywhere. She didn’t come around often, not often in his dreams or even in his imagination. He believed that if she did that, he might just cease living altogether and drown himself in those few precious moments when he was in her presence again.

“It must be pretty bad if you’re making an appearance.”

“Maybe you just need a jolt or a kick.” Her graceful hand softly took hold of the metal rail beside his.

“I’ve missed you, Josie.”

She laughed softly, “You keep busy enough trying to save the world, except when you won’t.”

He glanced up. She looked young, maybe into her thirties, not as she looked when he’d lost her nearly fifteen years before. Then she’d been ill. It had been a long-protracted illness before she finally let go, leaving him to find his way alone in the world.

He breathed in her presence. It was intoxicating. Yes, he remembered love, and he remembered loss as well. “Whatever I do doesn’t seem to make a difference.”

She smiled. “It makes a difference to those you help, even if you can’t help them all. It makes a difference to them.”

“I’m tired, Josie.”

Again, that incandescent smile, “I know my love. But there are still miles to go, so many miles.”

*

He decided to focus on Adele. He sat in his den, candles lit and put himself into a meditative state. He could see Adele clearly in his mind’s eye. Using her as a starting point, he allowed himself to be drawn with her into her meeting Wednesday at The Blue Pelican with Suzanne Evons. It took place in a room at the back of the store, a small room that Adele had furnished almost as an old-fashioned Victorian sitting room with a splash of New Age. Intricate esoteric tapestries hung on the wall, and several vintage-looking lamps that reminded him a bit of steampunk with ornate shades sat on small antique-looking tables. There was a short pink velvet, serpentine loveseat, and two rosewood parlor chairs covered in a deep burgundy striped satin facing the intricately carved mahogany card table. Adele had undeniably spent some time thoughtfully decorating the room, reaching for just the right atmosphere to conjure up the image of a Victorian séance.

But as he looked closely at Adele’s companion, he could see that all the ambiance seemed lost on her. She was, and he was trying to summon the proper word —

“Pragmatic,” Simon completed for him.

His companion was now standing just to the side of Adele’s chair. The women were silent, motionless, almost frozen in a tableau as he analyzed the situation. “I was wondering if you would make an appearance.”

“As did I, I thought to leave you to your own devices, but my curiosity won out.”

“She seems a bit cold.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, eyeing the tall brunette with expertly styled bangs fluttering across her forehead. “Certainly not terribly romantic, but undeniably a girl who knows what she wants.”

“And that’s Joe.”

He shrugged, “She thinks so in any case.”

“But not romantic?”

“I believe the word of the day is pragmatic. She feels she needs Joe for her life to progress as she envisions.”

“And that’s not cold?”

“Perhaps, but I don’t know. Some of us like our romance wrapped up in flowers, music, and pretty poems. And others in necessity, as things you must have like food, medicine, a car.”

Malachi sighed, “And that’s love?”

“Oh, I didn’t say anything about love.”

“You lost me.”

“All right, think about your wife, Josie.”

He frowned, “I’m not interested in discussing my wife, Simon.”

He held up his hands as if felling off an attack. “Yes, yes, old boy, nothing personal, but if you knew you were causing her upset, distress, would you continue?”

“Of course not. If she wanted me to or had wanted me to, I would have left her alone instead of trying to force what I wanted on her.”

“Yes, exactly, the difference, but Lady Suzanne here feels justified in pressing her expectations, her needs, her desires with no contemplation on how it might cause distress to poor Joe. In a nutshell, she wants what she wants, and everyone else be damned.”

“Not love.”

“No, not love, need perhaps, inexplicable determined need.”

Malachi murmured in fatigue. “Of course, but she calls it love.”

“Indeed, justification is a handy tool.”

“So, how to reach her?”

“Yes, that is the question. Perhaps make the cost too high.”

“Too high?”

“Yes, let’s start with Joe.”

*

Joseph Orusco worked for an insurance company — car insurance, health insurance, life insurance, whatever your pleasure might be. He was a young businessman just into his thirties who liked to spend his weekends playing tennis or racquetball.

“Doesn’t seem like a complicated fellow,” Simon commented dryly.

Malachi and Simon had traveled deep into the next evening and now stood in Joe Orusco’s bedroom, quietly pondering their next move.

“I see your thread. Why such a commotion from Suzanne? Yes, okay, of course, the draining. Addiction to the energy she’s gaining from him.” Malachi glanced across the bedroom to the set of sliding glass doors leading out onto the patio. Quite clearly, through the open blinds, they could see a familiar figure in a long black nightgown pacing the pavement. She just kept walking back and forth in front of the window, not looking up at them once.

“Relentless might be the word,” Simon muttered.

“I imagine if we weren’t here, her astral self would be inside draining Joe relentlessly, as you say.”

“Yes,” Simon murmured. “She is still draining through their bonds, but not as much as if she were closer and not nearly as much as if they were in actual contact.”

“Even more, of course, if it were intimate contact.”

“Quite so.”

Malachi stared at the sleeping figure of Joe Orusco, tossing around fitfully in the bed. With a bit more concentration, Malachi could actually see a faint flow of energy, looking a bit like a translucent beam of light-colored blue-green, moving from Joe’s heart area toward the outside wall where Suzanne’s astral self was holding its vigil. “The addiction goes both ways,” Simon murmured.

“Yes, I suppose he has a taste for it, addiction to the draining, even if he is trying to break away.”

“I wonder just how hard he is trying.”

Malachi stepped back from the king-sized bed. “Let’s find out, shall we.”

He put his hands together and sank himself into a focused concentration reaching out to the deeper, spiritual self of the man in the bed. Within moments, the astral self of Joe, still wearing the same sweat-soaked New Orleans Saints T-shirt, sat up and stood, entirely separating from his physical self that remained in the bed.

His short-cropped, brown hair seemed damp, and his eyes were somewhat unfocused when he finally acknowledged Malachi. “What are you doing here?”

Malachi tried to appear pleasing. “Mr. Orusco, my colleague and I have come to talk to you and hopefully be of aid.”

He looked around with confusion, then to Simon, who he eyed up and down a little warily in his vintage tweed suit. “Am I dreaming?”

Malachi responded a bit energetically as he suddenly felt anxious to be done with this business. “In a manner of speaking, Mr. Orusco, this conversation you will remember as a dream, but that does not make it in the least bit not real. In fact, perhaps very essential to your well-being, do you see right now who is pacing across your patio, Mr. Orusco?”

In the instant of a thought, the three of them were back in his den, standing in front of the sliding glass doors. Joe frowned, looking over Malachi’s shoulder at the woman now staring longingly through the glass. “Son of a bitch, that’s Suzy out there. I told her this was over.”

“Apparently, she didn’t get the memo,” Simon muttered under his breath.

“Why don’t we sit down, Mr. Orusco, and have a chat.”

“Yeah, well, okay, is she just going to stay out there all night?”

“Hard to say,” Malachi responded.

Joe Orusco had a small kitchen table in his condo, espresso colored, lighted by a low-hanging brass chandelier situated over the table. The three of them settled in for a discussion as Malachi debated the correct approach to the problem at hand.

“Mr. Orusco,” he began.

“Everyone calls me Joe,” he commented a bit obtusely, still appearing more than a bit disoriented.

“Joseph,” he began again. The old adage that everyone understands from their own level of perception kept ringing in Malachi’s ears. Joe, even for a white-collar working fellow, he could feel, was rough around the edges. He operated from a place of pragmatism, possibly more concerned with the comforts of the material world. This, more than anything, could have been his initial attraction to Suzanne Evons. “Tell me, are you in love with Suzanne?”

The tall, well-muscled fellow focused on him a little blankly. Perhaps it was the effects of being in an astral state, or perhaps it was his fallback demeanor, at the moment, hard to say. He shrugged. “Honestly, Suzanne is a great girl. We had a great run, but I’m looking to see what else is out there.”

He heard Simon beside him sigh deeply. And he wondered, for not the first time this evening, why he was even trying. “So, I take it you have fully severed the relationship.”

Joe leaned back in the chair, absently strumming his fingers on the espresso-colored tabletop. “For the most part.”

Malachi caught the explicit frown that placed itself on Simon’s face. “What the devil does that mean for the most part?” His speech had slurred a bit back into his cockney English accent, which tended to happen when Simon got irate.

“I mean, well, we’ve been together a few times since we broke up.”

Malachi pressed for clarification. “By together, you mean intimate?”

“Well, you know, yeah, sure, I guess so.”

Simon shook his head, saying nothing. So, it was clear Joe’s firm feet were undeniably feet of clay, which would mean mixed messages.

“Yes, well, Joseph, I’m going to tell you some things that you may or may not remember tomorrow morning. But you should remember your emotional reaction, if nothing else. Suzanne is what we call an energy vampire. She has been draining your spiritual energy. That is why you have been feeling tired, unfocused, excessively emotional, having problems concentrating, problems with sleep, perhaps inexplicable pains in your body, in your chest, and in generally poor health.”

Joe was looking a bit befuddled, but again perhaps a fallback expression. “I thought I’d just been pushing too hard at work.”

“The low energy will make it difficult to function in all areas of your life.”

“Why would she do that to me?”

“It’s not conscious on her part, just something that she does. But it’s up to you to cut her off.”

Joe seemed confused again, but Malachi could understand that this was a lot to take in. “Suzy, well, is persistent. She was very unhappy when I asked her to move out, angry and really upset. And I didn’t want to seem like a total jerk.”

“You were living together? That makes the draining much worse, much more chronic.” Then Simon directly lit into Joe with evident distaste. “You’ll have to be a jerk. It’s best for you and actually a kindness to her. So, she’ll hopefully fill her life with other pursuits.”

“Yes, in a nutshell, Joseph, no contact, particularly intimate contact,” Malachi continued to pound the point. “The closer you are to her, the stronger the energy bonds she has with you. It is best to sever all contact, even if that means a restraining order.”

“How could I do that?”

“You must. You must not equivocate. You must make it clear she is out of your life for good. No backtracking, Joseph, no communication, no phone calls, no emails, no texts, no contact at all. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Joseph, look at me,” Malachi said strongly.

It startled him. That was good. He wanted to scare him, so the impression was deeply embedded. “This is a dangerous matter. It will end badly if you do not heed me. Follow my instructions to the letter. No contact Joseph, even if you have to move, even if you change your phone number. No contact, Joseph.”

Joe Orusco nodded slowly, but Malachi wasn’t satisfied. He needed to drill it in so that the impression wasn’t pushed aside in the morning light. “Repeat what I said.”

“No contact.”

“With whom?”

“No contact with Suzy.”

“Again.”

“No contact with Suzy.” That night Joseph Orusco repeated the mantra one hundred times. Malachi suspected that Simon thought he was being excessive, but he said nothing.

As far as Malachi was concerned, Suzanne wouldn’t see reason, so Joe was the only hope. When Malachi finally returned to his body, he felt as though he’d expended all of his energy trying to leave Joe with enough concern in his heart that he might actually stay away from Suzanne. There was no guarantee, but he’d tried and tried his best. So, he slept, a heavy sleep devoid of any travels.

*

“I haven’t seen Suzanne Evons again. I thought about calling her to see how she is.”

“Best to let it go, Adele.” They were taking a late afternoon walk along the perimeter of Bayou St. John. She’d shown up at the house earlier, and he’d felt a remarkable draw to be outside, no doubt in need of the healing energy that nature could afford him.

“Do you think it will work out for her, Malachi?”

“Hard to say, my friend. We all have free will and ultimately are responsible for our destiny.”

“Yes, but we can’t anticipate everything that happens to us.”

“No, of course not, but how we navigate the waves that crash on our shore. Well, that is always our choice.”

Copyright © 2018 by Evelyn Klebert

Travels into the Breach: Accounts of a Reclusive Mystic

At first glance, his life seems quiet, serene, and uneventful. Malachi McKellan, a 65-five-year-old widower and author of esoteric books, lives largely as a recluse in a house situated just off the banks of Bayou St. John in New Orleans. But unbeknownst to most, he is also a bit of a detective, a specific kind of detective whose specialty is psychic attacks. Alongside his lifelong companion and spirit guide, Simon Tull, a nineteenth-century, twenty-something English gent, Malachi battles the unseen. He is an unacknowledged hero to the most vulnerable – most of the population who have no idea what is really happening beneath the surface of the world in which they live.

In this collection of adventures, Malachi McKellan and Simon Tull wage war against the most insidious elements of the paranormal. In “The Three,” Malachi and Simon come to the aid of a young woman being victimized by a group of dark witches. An old apartment building is the scene of an unimaginable battle against monstrous forces in “The Lost Soul.” Malachi and Simon find themselves strategizing against a psychic vampire in “Obsession,” and “The Hotel” turns back to the 1980s, when Malachi confronts a demonic spirit. In “Between,” a past life is revisited as Malachi attempts to rescue a beloved sister from committing her existence to vengeance, and “The Wedding” takes a personal turn when Malachi must confront painful truths while endeavoring to protect his niece from a potentially devastating union. Travel into the Breach with a pair of paranormal warriors who choose to confront overwhelming forces on a battlefield unsuspected by most.

My next story for Halloween Month comes from a short story collection called Travels into the Breach: Accounts of a Reclusive Mystic. Travels follows the adventures of a 65 year-old widowed, esoteric author who secretly battles psychic attacks alongside a nineteenth-century, English gent who also happens to be his spirit guide. In this tale, Malachi and Simon strategize to keep a young man out of the clutches of a spiritual vampire. Hope you enjoy.

Obsession

“If I were a man, this wouldn’t be such an issue.”

Adele Blanchard struggled to hold onto her pleasant demeanor in the presence of the young woman in front of her. She was reading her tarot cards. She didn’t do palms. That was Annette’s job, but occasionally Adele did still read Tarot cards in addition to attending to the day-to-day operations of her esoteric bookstore, The Blue Pelican. It was as much for herself as anything. She enjoyed reading the Tarot for customers, playing off the vibes she received from them, digging deep into her intuitive gifts while using the symbolism of the cards as a bouncing-off point. Usually, she gained as much from the endeavor as those she read for, usually. But this one, Suzanne Evons, she couldn’t seem to get her to focus on what Adele was saying. Rather, she was purely focused on the one that got away.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Suzanne,” she murmured as jovially as she could manage. “Unrequited love, unfortunately, when taken to extremes, can turn into harassment — male or female in question.”

She bristled noticeably. In fact, she found that young Suzanne Evons tended to bristle whenever she didn’t readily agree with her. “Are you implying that I’m harassing Joe?”

She delivered in a stringent tone bordering on indignant.

Adele steeled herself inwardly, continuing to shuffle the oversized deck of Rider Waite cards. It was difficult keeping calm. Something about this woman had raised her hackles from the moment they met. This would be the second elaborating spread she was doing for Suzanne as the original and the one following didn’t seem to penetrate her rather tunnel vision perception.

“No, I didn’t say that. Joe, of course, would have to be the one to determine if he was feeling harassed or not.” And then she smiled to temper the sharp edges of her observation.

Suzanne’s face seemed to only harden at Adele’s remark. Her sharp cheekbones seemed to set as though carved in stone, and her well-sculpted eyebrows froze over her long almond-shaped eyes in an expression of determination. She was an attractive young woman, an ER nurse, no doubt a catch. So why was she so resolutely focused on a man who clearly wasn’t interested anymore?

“I’m sure you’re wrong, Ms. Blanchard. Once Joe remembers how good we were together, he’ll wake up. I’m sure he’ll value and appreciate the fact that I didn’t give up on us,” she stated rather flatly.

And invoking what Adele considered her minuscule repertoire of psychic gifts, she definitely sensed a wall here. There was a block in Suzanne’s thinking where reason, reality, and good common sense just did not seem to penetrate.

*

“I honestly can’t account for it, Malachi. Love, lust, obsession — whatever you might want to label it, that sort of nonsensical determination will lead to trouble, maybe even of the criminal sort.”

She was sitting out on Malachi McKellan’s screen porch with his lovely view of the Bayou St. John and sipping tea — something fruity, blueberry or raspberry, or something of the sort. He had said distinctly that she needed calming before they sat down to talk. He was very sensitive to those sorts of things. And it was true. She was extremely agitated. The problem was that this whole matter incensed her to no end. The why exactly she couldn’t say, except that she felt an instinctive dislike of Suzanne Evons.

“And how did the appointment end?”

“Well, I spread the cards again, which advised for the third time the same thing. Move on. Let the fellow do the same. But to no avail. It was absolutely as if I was talking to a brick wall, then she left.”

He shrugged, “Young love.”

“More like obsession.” He leaned back on the rattan sofa, smiling a bit. She amused him, though exactly why her frustration amused him was beyond her. “Are you taking this seriously, Malachi?”

“I always take you seriously, Adele. You have a powerful though admittedly, raw psychic radar. I find you quite infallible.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Do? Well, nothing at the moment, I’m afraid. Ms. Evons’ obsession, I’m afraid, is just that, her obsession.”

“But she could very well ruin her life over it.”

“Yes, she might. But it is her life to ruin.”

*

“Energy vampire?”

“Yes, no question, a young one, unconscious of it, but undeniably caught up in the thrall.”

Nuance sat perched on one end of the tan suede sofa in Malachi’s mountainside cabin. It was where he and Simon Tull, a nineteenth-century, twenty-something English gent and his spirit guide, met to hash things out, so to speak.

“You don’t seem inclined to do much, Malachi.”

He scratched Nuance’s head. She was nuzzled up against his leg. At sixty-five, he was beginning to wonder if his extracurricular activities of battling psychic attacks was best left to the young. “Do you know how high a percentage of the population are energy vampires, Simon?”

“Of course, it’s a significant rung in the ladder of spiritual evolution.”

“Yes, something no doubt both you and I experienced in some former life,” he said a bit distastefully.

“No doubt more than once, my friend. It’s a hard lesson to fully absorb. That you have power, and yet you must learn not to use it.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Malachi scoffed.

With a big smile, Simon tapped him on the shoulder. “And what’s another way, my old friend?”

“Learning not to be a parasite, sucking the energy out of your fellow human beings, and in effect compromising them and yourself.”

“Not everyone is vulnerable.”

“Yes, I know. Just the ones a little lost, searching for their next path.” Softly, he commented, “Yes, those in between, but they manage to sniff them out readily enough, exploit them, steal their energy.”

Simon frowned, “They’re not evil, you know. Mostly it’s unconscious.”

Malachi shrugged, “One can feel what’s positive or negative even if they choose to ignore it.”

“It’s all learning, my friend, no judgment, just learning.”

“Yes, as you say,” Malachi said a bit dubiously.

“So, are you going to help?”

“Help who, poor hapless Joe?”

“No, help Suzanne Evons.”

“Suzanne — the vampire?” Malachi said with a bit of surprise.

“Yes, before she destroys herself.”

*

In the evening, Malachi took a long walk down to the metal footbridge that connected Moss Street to its other half, crossing the tranquil waters of Bayou St. John. It bothered him, the feeling that whatever he did, however, he chose to help, was seemingly inconsequential in the vast scheme of things.

His hands rested on the metal railing of the footbridge as he stared out onto the darkening waters before him.

“It sounds like a dark night of the soul, Malachi.”

He didn’t look up. He knew the voice. He would have known her voice anywhere. She didn’t come around often, not often in his dreams or even in his imagination. He believed that if she did that, he might just cease living altogether and drown himself in those few precious moments when he was in her presence again.

“It must be pretty bad if you’re making an appearance.”

“Maybe you just need a jolt or a kick.” Her graceful hand softly took hold of the metal rail beside his.

“I’ve missed you, Josie.”

She laughed softly, “You keep busy enough trying to save the world, except when you won’t.”

He glanced up. She looked young, maybe into her thirties, not as she looked when he’d lost her nearly fifteen years before. Then she’d been ill. It had been a long-protracted illness before she finally let go, leaving him to find his way alone in the world.

He breathed in her presence. It was intoxicating. Yes, he remembered love, and he remembered loss as well. “Whatever I do doesn’t seem to make a difference.”

She smiled. “It makes a difference to those you help, even if you can’t help them all. It makes a difference to them.”

“I’m tired, Josie.”

Again, that incandescent smile, “I know my love. But there are still miles to go, so many miles.”

*

He decided to focus on Adele. He sat in his den, candles lit and put himself into a meditative state. He could see Adele clearly in his mind’s eye. Using her as a starting point, he allowed himself to be drawn with her into her meeting Wednesday at The Blue Pelican with Suzanne Evons. It took place in a room at the back of the store, a small room that Adele had furnished almost as an old-fashioned Victorian sitting room with a splash of New Age. Intricate esoteric tapestries hung on the wall, and several vintage-looking lamps that reminded him a bit of steampunk with ornate shades sat on small antique-looking tables. There was a short pink velvet, serpentine loveseat, and two rosewood parlor chairs covered in a deep burgundy striped satin facing the intricately carved mahogany card table. Adele had undeniably spent some time thoughtfully decorating the room, reaching for just the right atmosphere to conjure up the image of a Victorian séance.

But as he looked closely at Adele’s companion, he could see that all the ambiance seemed lost on her. She was, and he was trying to summon the proper word —

“Pragmatic,” Simon completed for him.

His companion was now standing just to the side of Adele’s chair. The women were silent, motionless, almost frozen in a tableau as he analyzed the situation. “I was wondering if you would make an appearance.”

“As did I, I thought to leave you to your own devices, but my curiosity won out.”

“She seems a bit cold.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said, eyeing the tall brunette with expertly styled bangs fluttering across her forehead. “Certainly not terribly romantic, but undeniably a girl who knows what she wants.”

“And that’s Joe.”

He shrugged, “She thinks so in any case.”

“But not romantic?”

“I believe the word of the day is pragmatic. She feels she needs Joe for her life to progress as she envisions.”

“And that’s not cold?”

“Perhaps, but I don’t know. Some of us like our romance wrapped up in flowers, music, and pretty poems. And others in necessity, as things you must have like food, medicine, a car.”

Malachi sighed, “And that’s love?”

“Oh, I didn’t say anything about love.”

“You lost me.”

“All right, think about your wife, Josie.”

He frowned, “I’m not interested in discussing my wife, Simon.”

He held up his hands as if felling off an attack. “Yes, yes, old boy, nothing personal, but if you knew you were causing her upset, distress, would you continue?”

“Of course not. If she wanted me to or had wanted me to, I would have left her alone instead of trying to force what I wanted on her.”

“Yes, exactly, the difference, but Lady Suzanne here feels justified in pressing her expectations, her needs, her desires with no contemplation on how it might cause distress to poor Joe. In a nutshell, she wants what she wants, and everyone else be damned.”

“Not love.”

“No, not love, need perhaps, inexplicable determined need.”

Malachi murmured in fatigue. “Of course, but she calls it love.”

“Indeed, justification is a handy tool.”

“So, how to reach her?”

“Yes, that is the question. Perhaps make the cost too high.”

“Too high?”

“Yes, let’s start with Joe.”

*

Joseph Orusco worked for an insurance company — car insurance, health insurance, life insurance, whatever your pleasure might be. He was a young businessman just into his thirties who liked to spend his weekends playing tennis or racquetball.

“Doesn’t seem like a complicated fellow,” Simon commented dryly.

Malachi and Simon had traveled deep into the next evening and now stood in Joe Orusco’s bedroom, quietly pondering their next move.

“I see your thread. Why such a commotion from Suzanne? Yes, okay, of course, the draining. Addiction to the energy she’s gaining from him.” Malachi glanced across the bedroom to the set of sliding glass doors leading out onto the patio. Quite clearly, through the open blinds, they could see a familiar figure in a long black nightgown pacing the pavement. She just kept walking back and forth in front of the window, not looking up at them once.

“Relentless might be the word,” Simon muttered.

“I imagine if we weren’t here, her astral self would be inside draining Joe relentlessly, as you say.”

“Yes,” Simon murmured. “She is still draining through their bonds, but not as much as if she were closer and not nearly as much as if they were in actual contact.”

“Even more, of course, if it were intimate contact.”

“Quite so.”

Malachi stared at the sleeping figure of Joe Orusco, tossing around fitfully in the bed. With a bit more concentration, Malachi could actually see a faint flow of energy, looking a bit like a translucent beam of light-colored blue-green, moving from Joe’s heart area toward the outside wall where Suzanne’s astral self was holding its vigil. “The addiction goes both ways,” Simon murmured.

“Yes, I suppose he has a taste for it, addiction to the draining, even if he is trying to break away.”

“I wonder just how hard he is trying.”

Malachi stepped back from the king-sized bed. “Let’s find out, shall we.”

He put his hands together and sank himself into a focused concentration reaching out to the deeper, spiritual self of the man in the bed. Within moments, the astral self of Joe, still wearing the same sweat-soaked New Orleans Saints T-shirt, sat up and stood, entirely separating from his physical self that remained in the bed.

His short-cropped, brown hair seemed damp, and his eyes were somewhat unfocused when he finally acknowledged Malachi. “What are you doing here?”

Malachi tried to appear pleasing. “Mr. Orusco, my colleague and I have come to talk to you and hopefully be of aid.”

He looked around with confusion, then to Simon, who he eyed up and down a little warily in his vintage tweed suit. “Am I dreaming?”

Malachi responded a bit energetically as he suddenly felt anxious to be done with this business. “In a manner of speaking, Mr. Orusco, this conversation you will remember as a dream, but that does not make it in the least bit not real. In fact, perhaps very essential to your well-being, do you see right now who is pacing across your patio, Mr. Orusco?”

In the instant of a thought, the three of them were back in his den, standing in front of the sliding glass doors. Joe frowned, looking over Malachi’s shoulder at the woman now staring longingly through the glass. “Son of a bitch, that’s Suzy out there. I told her this was over.”

“Apparently, she didn’t get the memo,” Simon muttered under his breath.

“Why don’t we sit down, Mr. Orusco, and have a chat.”

“Yeah, well, okay, is she just going to stay out there all night?”

“Hard to say,” Malachi responded.

Joe Orusco had a small kitchen table in his condo, espresso colored, lighted by a low-hanging brass chandelier situated over the table. The three of them settled in for a discussion as Malachi debated the correct approach to the problem at hand.

“Mr. Orusco,” he began.

“Everyone calls me Joe,” he commented a bit obtusely, still appearing more than a bit disoriented.

“Joseph,” he began again. The old adage that everyone understands from their own level of perception kept ringing in Malachi’s ears. Joe, even for a white-collar working fellow, he could feel, was rough around the edges. He operated from a place of pragmatism, possibly more concerned with the comforts of the material world. This, more than anything, could have been his initial attraction to Suzanne Evons. “Tell me, are you in love with Suzanne?”

The tall, well-muscled fellow focused on him a little blankly. Perhaps it was the effects of being in an astral state, or perhaps it was his fallback demeanor, at the moment, hard to say. He shrugged. “Honestly, Suzanne is a great girl. We had a great run, but I’m looking to see what else is out there.”

He heard Simon beside him sigh deeply. And he wondered, for not the first time this evening, why he was even trying. “So, I take it you have fully severed the relationship.”

Joe leaned back in the chair, absently strumming his fingers on the espresso-colored tabletop. “For the most part.”

Malachi caught the explicit frown that placed itself on Simon’s face. “What the devil does that mean for the most part?” His speech had slurred a bit back into his cockney English accent, which tended to happen when Simon got irate.

“I mean, well, we’ve been together a few times since we broke up.”

Malachi pressed for clarification. “By together, you mean intimate?”

“Well, you know, yeah, sure, I guess so.”

Simon shook his head, saying nothing. So, it was clear Joe’s firm feet were undeniably feet of clay, which would mean mixed messages.

“Yes, well, Joseph, I’m going to tell you some things that you may or may not remember tomorrow morning. But you should remember your emotional reaction, if nothing else. Suzanne is what we call an energy vampire. She has been draining your spiritual energy. That is why you have been feeling tired, unfocused, excessively emotional, having problems concentrating, problems with sleep, perhaps inexplicable pains in your body, in your chest, and in generally poor health.”

Joe was looking a bit befuddled, but again perhaps a fallback expression. “I thought I’d just been pushing too hard at work.”

“The low energy will make it difficult to function in all areas of your life.”

“Why would she do that to me?”

“It’s not conscious on her part, just something that she does. But it’s up to you to cut her off.”

Joe seemed confused again, but Malachi could understand that this was a lot to take in. “Suzy, well, is persistent. She was very unhappy when I asked her to move out, angry and really upset. And I didn’t want to seem like a total jerk.”

“You were living together? That makes the draining much worse, much more chronic.” Then Simon directly lit into Joe with evident distaste. “You’ll have to be a jerk. It’s best for you and actually a kindness to her. So, she’ll hopefully fill her life with other pursuits.”

“Yes, in a nutshell, Joseph, no contact, particularly intimate contact,” Malachi continued to pound the point. “The closer you are to her, the stronger the energy bonds she has with you. It is best to sever all contact, even if that means a restraining order.”

“How could I do that?”

“You must. You must not equivocate. You must make it clear she is out of your life for good. No backtracking, Joseph, no communication, no phone calls, no emails, no texts, no contact at all. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Joseph, look at me,” Malachi said strongly.

It startled him. That was good. He wanted to scare him, so the impression was deeply embedded. “This is a dangerous matter. It will end badly if you do not heed me. Follow my instructions to the letter. No contact Joseph, even if you have to move, even if you change your phone number. No contact, Joseph.”

Joe Orusco nodded slowly, but Malachi wasn’t satisfied. He needed to drill it in so that the impression wasn’t pushed aside in the morning light. “Repeat what I said.”

“No contact.”

“With whom?”

“No contact with Suzy.”

“Again.”

“No contact with Suzy.” That night Joseph Orusco repeated the mantra one hundred times. Malachi suspected that Simon thought he was being excessive, but he said nothing.

As far as Malachi was concerned, Suzanne wouldn’t see reason, so Joe was the only hope. When Malachi finally returned to his body, he felt as though he’d expended all of his energy trying to leave Joe with enough concern in his heart that he might actually stay away from Suzanne. There was no guarantee, but he’d tried and tried his best. So, he slept, a heavy sleep devoid of any travels.

*

“I haven’t seen Suzanne Evons again. I thought about calling her to see how she is.”

“Best to let it go, Adele.” They were taking a late afternoon walk along the perimeter of Bayou St. John. She’d shown up at the house earlier, and he’d felt a remarkable draw to be outside, no doubt in need of the healing energy that nature could afford him.

“Do you think it will work out for her, Malachi?”

“Hard to say, my friend. We all have free will and ultimately are responsible for our destiny.”

“Yes, but we can’t anticipate everything that happens to us.”

“No, of course not, but how we navigate the waves that crash on our shore. Well, that is always our choice.”

Copyright © 2018 by Evelyn Klebert

Travels into the Breach: Accounts of a Reclusive Mystic

At first glance, his life seems quiet, serene, and uneventful. Malachi McKellan, a 65-five-year-old widower and author of esoteric books, lives largely as a recluse in a house situated just off the banks of Bayou St. John in New Orleans. But unbeknownst to most, he is also a bit of a detective, a specific kind of detective whose specialty is psychic attacks. Alongside his lifelong companion and spirit guide, Simon Tull, a nineteenth-century, twenty-something English gent, Malachi battles the unseen. He is an unacknowledged hero to the most vulnerable – most of the population who have no idea what is really happening beneath the surface of the world in which they live.

In this collection of adventures, Malachi McKellan and Simon Tull wage war against the most insidious elements of the paranormal. In “The Three,” Malachi and Simon come to the aid of a young woman being victimized by a group of dark witches. An old apartment building is the scene of an unimaginable battle against monstrous forces in “The Lost Soul.” Malachi and Simon find themselves strategizing against a psychic vampire in “Obsession,” and “The Hotel” turns back to the 1980s, when Malachi confronts a demonic spirit. In “Between,” a past life is revisited as Malachi attempts to rescue a beloved sister from committing her existence to vengeance, and “The Wedding” takes a personal turn when Malachi must confront painful truths while endeavoring to protect his niece from a potentially devastating union. Travel into the Breach with a pair of paranormal warriors who choose to confront overwhelming forces on a battlefield unsuspected by most.

Here is the conclusion to “An Unexpected Danger,” the first paranormal tale for Halloween Month 2025. Just as a side note, the character of Lapetus in this story was first introduced in my recent novel, The Story of Enid: Vol. 2 of the Clandestine Exploits of a Werewolf. Hope you enjoy and peace to all.

An Unexpected Danger (Part Two)

Abra opened her eyes slowly. The light was streaming into her bedroom, and the spot beside her was empty. She sat up, pulling the sheets up to her neck and glancing at the clock. It was already nine. If she had been working today, she would already be several hours late. Thankfully, it was her day off.

Her hand drifted to the spot beside her that not so very long ago had been occupied by a very handsome werewolf — one who also happened to be a passionate lover. The memories flooded in with an intensity she was overwhelmed by, but then again, she literally had nothing to compare it to.

She wondered if he was still in the house or if he’d left.

She wondered if she should look for a note or if she’d simply never see him again. Her hand drifted to the spot he had occupied on the bed. It was still warm, so he hadn’t left long ago. They hadn’t used birth control. She wondered if she should be worried. She wondered if she should stop wondering so much. There were so many things to consider, and she was still tired. Much went on the night before, but sleep hadn’t played a large part in that.

But as much as she would have liked to stay in bed and sleep the morning away, she was not one to dodge whatever was coming. So, Abra pulled on a pair of denim shorts and a pink t-shirt and brushed out her hair. By the time she entered the kitchen, she was more than convinced she was in the house alone. But sitting right at her tiny dinette table was the man in question, sipping what she assumed was a cup of coffee.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said softly. “You seemed very tired.”

“Yeah,” she smiled awkwardly because this morning-after thing was a first for her as well. “I thought you might have left.”

And he was looking at her intensely, or maybe she wasn’t awake enough to assess anything accurately. “That would have been rude.”

“And hunting down your prey in a wolf form isn’t?”

He took another sip from his cup and then asked smoothly, “Do you want some. I made a pot?” Evidently, not wanting to address her barbed observation. He was dressed as he had been the night before, in black jeans and a T-shirt, and looked remarkably unruffled considering what had gone on last night.

“Oh, yeah, but I’ll get it.” She wandered over to the counter, slowly taking a mug out of the cabinet and pouring the coffee while trying to figure out where they go from here. In the harsh light of day, a few realities had filtered in, like the fact that this man, who seemed like such a threat maybe a day ago, she’d spent an intense night making love with. She didn’t know how the other Protectors of the Sacred Valley conducted themselves, but she may have just slightly wandered outside the job description.

She felt his hands slip around her waist. “Are you all right, Abra? You seem quite out of sorts this morning.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured as she stirred the sugar in her coffee. Now he was leaning against her, reminding her of that electrical, crazy attraction she felt for this man.

“I know how innocent you were, and I wanted to make sure you’re well.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, wondering vaguely how exactly she would get the milk out of the fridge if he continued to hold her this way. “I’m good.”

And then he straightened up and stepped away from her. She smiled at him a little awkwardly as she moved to retrieve the milk from the refrigerator and then pour it into her coffee. “I’m not sure what we have around here for breakfast. We might have a few bagels.”

Quite oddly, he took the milk carton from her hands and returned it to the refrigerator. “What is it?” he asked, staring at her intently again.

“I-I’m not sure. I guess I haven’t processed things yet. I didn’t expect last night to go the way it did—”

He nodded slowly as though considering thoughtfully. “Yes, yes, it was unexpected.”

“Yes, and I wasn’t really prepared.”

She found herself leaning with her back against the fridge while he canvassed her face, looking, it seemed, for something. “We, my kind, don’t procreate in the ordinary way,” he murmured distractedly.

She frowned, trying to piece that statement together when it dawned on her. “Oh, okay, well, so I shouldn’t be concerned about, well, about—”

“No,” he cut her off abruptly, though an odd, somewhat unreadable expression crossed his face. “No, you shouldn’t be concerned.”

She nodded, smiling but still feeling something unspoken in the air. She took a sip of her coffee, realizing she’d put way too much sugar in it—not all that unexpected, considering the circumstances.

And then she felt his fingertips lightly brushing her cheek. “There is something, though, Abra.”

It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, as she’d experienced this more than once in her life. It seemed acutely as though the other shoe was getting ready to drop. “What?” she said, straightening up with the recognition she was still leaning back against her fridge.

“I asked you about an incantation last night.”

She drew in a breath, trying to think. After everything that had happened, it took her a moment to sift back to that particular conversation. “Yeah, you accused me of putting a spell on you. I didn’t, you know.”

His fingertips brushed her cheek. How could such an innocuous gesture feel so erotic? Of course, the truth was that just about everything about him felt that way right now. “Yes, I know that. But the problem is, there was a spell, an incantation, that drew us together last night. To be blunt, I have an acute sense of smell and could smell magic.”

“So, you don’t mean that metaphorically. You actually could smell an incantation. So, us being together last night—”

And then he bent in and kissed her softly on the lips. “Was wonderful, unexpected but lovely, Abra. Don’t misunderstand me.”

“But—” She murmured.

“But I am certain it was orchestrated. Something or someone very much wanted us to be together.”

*

Lapetus knew some things.

He knew, staring into Abra’s wide green eyes, that she was telling him the truth, but he also knew deep down, in his flesh, his very old bones, and in his blood, that she wasn’t entirely clueless as to what he was speaking about. Quite smoothly and methodically, he took the cup of coffee she’d just poured out of her hands and placed it on the counter beside them. Then he pushed her backward so that she was ostensibly pinned between him and the refrigerator as he pressed his lips against hers, kissing her deeply, thoroughly, passionately so that she could be more than convinced that now there was no incantation coercing him.

Then suddenly, and somewhat unexpectedly, she broke the kiss, looking at him with wide, confused eyes. “What are you doing?”

And then he smiled and softly said. “I’m kissing you because I want to and because I want you.”

Confusion marred her lovely features. But after a hesitation, she leaned in softly, kissing him back. It would wait. Unraveling things that might mar this lovely interlude would wait. And then he pulled her with intent securely into his arms.

*

Jolene was worried. Things felt out of balance. Primarily, she was worried about her mother, who was asleep in her bed, completely exhausted from the energy she had to expend weaving that archaic spell last night. Jolene wasn’t at all sure it had been necessary. Admittedly, those two needed very little prodding to be together. But, and her stomach sank dismally at the prospect, when Abra was told, she wasn’t at all sure how she would react. And she wasn’t at all sure that she could accept, as she should.

*

She was really hungry now. It was closing in on noon, and she hadn’t eaten all day. Beside her, she could feel Peter, or hell, who was she kidding, Lapetus, trying to sleep but then waking and tossing restlessly. She thought about talking to him and discovering what was wrong, but part of her was afraid.

It felt like opening Pandora’s box. Strangely, she felt guilty, as though she’d done something wrong, but she didn’t know exactly what that could be.

“I’m awake,” he murmured.

She smiled, turning toward him and putting on a light-hearted demeanor. “I thought you were tired.”

He pulled her against him. “Sleep, I can always catch up on.”

She laughed, feeling a curious joyfulness that was unfamiliar to her bubbling up within her. “Well, I have an idea. How about we pick up some food from Esme’s for lunch and then sit outside by a lake? There are tons of them here.”

“Would you like that, Abra?”

“Yeah,” she whispered enthusiastically, “and Esme’s makes incredible club sandwiches.”

He nodded, twirling his fingertips in a tendril of her hair, “All right, but let’s run to my place first so I can get a change of clothes.”

She smiled, feeling her mood perceptibly lighten. “Sounds good. I’d love to see where you’re ensconced.”

*

Abra had grabbed a granola bar just to quell the headache threatening to overcome her from lack of food. But her companion seemed less affected by a drop in blood sugar than she did. They took her car because, evidently, last night, Lapetus had traveled to her house on foot. She didn’t want to ask if that was on two feet or four paws because, well, it wasn’t as if she had room to talk. But she was curious about how he managed the clothes thing. With her, there was some magic contortion involved. Her mother called it dimension-tearing, where her clothing was stashed in a little dimensional pocket during the transformation and retrieved afterward. Like a handbag strategically stashed in an alternate reality. Somehow, she doubted her centuries-old werewolf boyfriend here managed things the same way. Boyfriend, wow, was he? No, werewolf lover seemed to suit him more. So complicated and confounding. Maybe she was just his vacation shape-shifting hook-up.

“On the left,” he murmured.

He’d been quiet during most of the ride. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How do you like the village?” She said as she maneuvered her Volkswagen into the driveway behind the black and white jeep. The house, as much as she could see of it, was one of those vacation types, octagonal in shape and well-hidden in the surrounding forest.

“Is that really what you’ve been meaning to ask me?”

Good point, she thought reflectively. “Well, you have to admit we haven’t had much time for small talk. I was just curious. You’ve been around, I mean, seen a lot of places. I was just wondering what your impression is of it—” she murmured, now, actually feeling rather foolish for having brought up the question.

They were sitting in the driveway, and she was struck again by the awkwardness. After all, her life experience was so narrow, and his, well— “It’s very picturesque,” he commented flatly.

“Oh, yeah, I suppose,” she said half-heartedly.

“But there is an energy here, an undeniable power, very old. I could feel it immediately once I came into the area.”

She breathed in deeply. “That’s true. I guess I don’t always think of that. I’m here all the time. It’s just become—”

“Part of you,” he finished her thought again.

“I suppose.”

“You and this place are intertwined, Abra. Of that I have no doubt. But I wonder if you’re happy here.”

She sighed deeply. It was so hard, nearly impossible, keeping conversations light with this man. “I think I would have to say that’s very complicated.”

And then he smiled, but in a way that felt as though there were many layers of consideration going on behind his eyes. “Why don’t we go inside?”

It was airy, a strange house. There was a huge den on the first floor, connected to an open kitchen, and lots of picture windows everywhere. “I’m assuming there’s another floor,” she murmured, canvassing the expansive space.

He smiled, sitting down casually on the long, beige L-shaped sofa, facing a brass-accented fireplace. “The bedroom is downstairs,” he responded.

“I don’t know,” she said, sort of slowly spinning around, trying to soak it all in. “I would expect something a bit more gothic with you.”

“Well, it was what was available, already decorated. But it does have its charms,” he commented, holding out his hand for her.

He pulled her beside him on the couch, putting his arm around her. “I thought you needed to get a change of clothes.”

“Having you here has made me rethink things. How about we have someone deliver lunch, and we relax for a while?”

She smiled, “Not many places deliver. Maybe Dominos.”

“Pizza it is,” he said softly, pulling her in for a kiss.

“All right, but you do have to feed me soon, you know.”

“I know,” he whispered huskily.

*

It was like being caught up in a haze—a pleasurable, compelling, and comfortably tantalizing haze, but a haze nonetheless. Lapetus wandered up the curved staircase that led to the upstairs in the vacation house. He and Abra had indeed ordered pizza, eaten, and spent much of the rest of the afternoon in each other’s arms. Something about her drew him fiercely, hypnotically, and it puzzled him.

In truth, he was usually a colder individual, more exacting and calculating, one might even say detached. But this girl, woman to be precise, had gotten beneath all that iciness. It was not just the fact that she was a shapeshifter, because shapeshifter or not, she was very young, twenty-two, to his over five-hundred-year-old self.

He slowly began to button the long-sleeved dark blue shirt he’d pulled out of the closet. He’d left her asleep in the king-sized bed in the master bedroom. Yes, moving in a haze was just how he’d describe it.

But it was late in the afternoon, and as much as he would love to go on spending days like this, it was best to try to piece together what was happening.

He finished buttoning the shirt and settled on the sofa, trying to clear his mind of the fog that seemed determined to cling to him.

*

“Don’t be so nervous.”

Jolene stared down at the collection of Tarot cards she’d spread out on the coffee table only moments before. “Things are in disruption.”

“It only seems like that. This has always been the way this is done. A new guardian, a new protector of mystical origin, must be raised.”

“But this figure at the center,” Jolene eyed the card of the Magician with great trepidation. “He seems formidable.”

“You’re concerned about the lycanthrope,” Michaela muttered. And Jolene noted how breathless her voice still sounded. She had yet to regain any of her strength after the spell was cast.

“Yes, I am, but the Priestess seems linked to him. Do you think Abra has fallen in love with the fellow?”

“Love? Lust, yes, but love? Seems unlikely. They barely know each other. Once the spell fades, he will move on and be long gone before—”

“Before they figure out what we’ve done.” Jolene reluctantly completed the thought.

*

Abra awoke with a start, though it took a few moments for her vision to clear. She was in a strange, remarkably spacious room, a ceiling fan slowly turning over the king-sized bed. She glanced beside her. The spot was empty. And she remembered, remembered the intense passion that had swept in whenever they touched, whenever it seemed they were near each other. She didn’t know such a thing was possible, to feel — such a desperate yearning to be so close to another human being. But then again, he wasn’t exactly an ordinary person, and she, well, she could very well say the same thing about herself.

She struggled to clear her mind as she retrieved her clothes from the floor where they’d ended up earlier. Lapetus, she turned the name over in her mind. Several times, he’d mentioned a spell being cast. She’d disregarded his assertion, but it was undeniable how altered she felt. Truthfully, though, she’d just attributed it to the intoxication of the new experience—passion, something she ostensibly had never encountered before.

She was groggy, and her mind didn’t feel as sharp as it usually did. After pulling on her T-shirt, she sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, closing her eyes and clearing her thoughts.

She remembered so many times sitting next to her mother, attempting a meditation.

“The most important thing you must do, Abra, is to be calm. It is not possible to connect with the Great Spirit if your mind is in turmoil,” Sarah Jensen had coached her.

Abra cleared her mind and took more than a few deep breaths. Then, she opened herself to knowledge.

Whispers, whispers— she could hear them all around her as she began to feel herself softly pulled to another place.

Her head began to swirl with disorientation, but suddenly, she could begin to see again. Around her, things started to solidify. It was the den of her house, but not now, rather in the wintertime, with the fireplace lit and its flames jumping about zealously.

“So, the child will never know?” Her mother’s voice was younger than she remembered. The figure was hazy, but she stood in front of the fireplace, her hand resting on the mantle as she stared into the flames.

“No, it is for the best.” Now, it was her Gran’s voice. She was sitting on the sofa, but the images were still unclear, out of focus in Abra’s vision.

“And the father?” Sarah’s voice again, and as she turned, Abra could see she was pregnant.

“The tea that you gave him made him forget.”

Her mother turned back, staring a little sadly. Abra could now see her face as she stared into the mutating flames. “Forget me?”

“Forget you, forget this place, forget the time you were together.”

And then her mother nodded and turned to look directly at Abra. And her Gran, Michaela, did the very same. The old woman spoke in a voice that was much younger and stronger than Abra could ever remember hearing before. “Welcome, my child. It’s time we had a chat.”

*

When Jolene drove up to Abra’s house, it was just as Michaela had predicted. The car was gone. Evidently, the two of them were elsewhere. Nervously, she let herself inside with the spare key Abra had entrusted her with. Trust, that word chafed just at the moment. Moving into the kitchen, she opened one of the cabinets where Abra kept her coffee and tea. She pulled the small ceramic jar out of her pocket and placed it on the shelf, closing the cabinet door. Of course, Abra would have to choose to give him the tea, the tea that would make him forget her.

Jolene took a deep breath before she left the house. Her part was done. Regardless of how she ultimately felt about it, her part was indeed finished.

*

She felt solid here now, as though her body was with her.

“It’s not,” her Gran spoke again. “Just feels that way.”

She turned to her mother, whose soft blue eyes were fixed on her. “Are you really here?” Abra said, choking up with tears.

“I am, my dearest one.” And then she lightly put a hand on her stomach. “And I am carrying you. My deepest blessing.”

Abra smiled at her and then looked back at her Gran, whose face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. And in that, her heart sank. What had she heard?

Slowly, she turned to her mother again, a younger Sarah Jensen, who was still smiling at her. She took a deep breath before she asked the question she had been forbidden to ask all of her life. “Who was my father?”

*

Lapetus focused, although it was a challenging prospect. It was as though the great well of old magic permeating the forests throughout The Village was conspiring against him, not really in a tangible, aggressive manner, but in a way that he could only describe as feminine. He smiled to himself, almost a seduction of sorts, soft, pervasive, distracting, so he could not see clearly, nor was he inclined to do so.

It would be easy, so simple, to let go and not concern himself with these intangibles. But it went against his grain. So, instead, he focused more deeply.

The face of Kian, his lieutenant, whom he had left in charge of the coven during his absence, rose in his mind.

“Brother,” Kian sent the thought forward. Lapetus had spent much time training his kin in the arts of thought transference and meditative skills.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Are you well? I haven’t been able to contact you.”

Lapetus thought about the cell phone he begrudgingly carried with him. Part of him always resisted the modern ways. “Yes, is there a problem?”

“No, no, some of us were concerned. That is all. We worried for your well-being. It’s not like you to be out of contact for so long.”

“I’ve been distracted. That is all. I’m not sure when I will return.”

“Yes, all is good here, my friend. Be well.”

“You also, Kian.” And then the image faded from his mind. He’d checked the phone not long ago. There were no messages or missed calls, almost as though things in this mystical valley were somehow being blocked. His mind wandered to Abra again. He could feel her downstairs in the bedroom, but in a quiet state.

He concentrated further, more deeply, and then took in a breath. Her body was indeed there, but her spirit was traveling. He leaned back, now completely zeroing in on following her to wherever she might be.

*

Her mother looked at her with genuine distress in her eyes at Abra’s question. “I know you told me not to ask, but I feel as though—”

“Yes, indeed, it is time,” her Gran said, coming to her feet. Seeing her this way was so strange, so much more vital and alert than she was now. These days, when she spoke to Michaela Jensen, she often sensed that she was in two places at once—her body still in the present, but her mind frequently already having moved on to the next plane.

Abra’s eyes settled on her Gran. “So,” she said softly.

And Michaela smiled broadly at Abra’s spunkiness at such a moment. “Sarah,” she instructed expectantly.

“Your father,” her mother’s voice sounded shaky. “I didn’t know him very long. He was visiting this place, drawn here.”

“Drawn?” Abra questioned, feeling a haunting familiarity.

“Yes, my dear,” her Gran said.

“Who was he?” Abra asked.

“But my dearest, is that the proper question?” Her Gran injected roughly, which, even in this astral state, Abra was beginning to find rather irritating.

“What does that mean?”

And then the old woman, who wasn’t quite as old anymore, moved right in front of her. “It means perhaps the question is not who he was, but what he was.”

She drew in a quick breath as something hit her, actually hitting her right between the eyes. And all she could think of just now was Lapetus.

*

There was a block, or rather a fog, around the place that Abra Jensen had traveled to, and he found that more than disconcerting. No doubt some sort of strong magic barred him from seeing, but Lapetus was not without his own arsenal.

He sank deeper, deeper into his meditative state until he found himself in a place where he’d spent some time long ago. It was in Prague under the tutelage of a sorcerer named Cyprian. The face of his old Master materialized before him.

Of course, Lapetus’ friend had moved on from this earth centuries ago, but he was still in contact with him occasionally, dropping in ostensibly on the past when he required guidance.

Now, he found himself in a very cold chamber, which he remembered well, a basement beneath a stone building. Here was where Cyprian often dabbled in alchemy. The old man was bent over a table, presently seeming to be chiseling stones that, if Lapetus was not mistaken, were made of obsidian. “Master Cyprian,” he said softly.

The white-haired, slight fellow dressed in a long red cloak looked up, his eyes as black as the gems he’d been working on. Of course, Lapetus was aware that he’d just connected with his body in that time frame, which was the simplest method of communication at this juncture. After all, given his longevity, it was the same body he existed in at present, whereas Cyprian was no longer of the flesh. “Lapetus,” he said in his rich Slovak accent. “Ahoj,” and then he frowned, staring at him with confusion. As if focusing intently, he spoke again slowly. “I will speak in your present language. You are in another time.”

“I am, my friend.”

The old man grimaced, and Lapetus felt him intently canvassing his mind. “I wouldn’t have thought it of you.”

“Nor I, my master, at this point I, would think myself well past such things.”

And then his former Master smiled. “We’re never past love, old friend.”

He felt uncomfortable hearing it phrased in such a way. “Is that what this is? Love?”

“I see. It’s been so very long for you, and such an occurrence is unrecognizable.”

And then he nodded. At this moment in his history, Lapetus wore a hooded robe as well, but his was purple, not matching his Master’s. Cyprian was fond of bold colors. “Well, my concern at present is more selective. There’s magic.”

And the old man leaned in, lightly touching his shoulder. “Yes, I can feel that about you. The old and powerful magic of the earth, those who wield it seem formidable within their sphere.”

“Yes, as I thought, a narrow scope.”

“Very narrow, it seems. And the one, the woman that binds you, is she a part of this?”

Lapetus sighed deeply. What a good question, a question, at present, he couldn’t answer. “Limited is what I believe. I have felt and touched her thoughts, and—”

“And she seems genuine to you.”

“I would have used the word innocent.”

“Innocent?” Cyprian murmured. “A state that is most difficult to hold onto.”

*

Abra stared blankly at both her mother and Gran, who seemed rather stoic at the moment. “What the hell does that mean? What he is?”

Her Gran from the past frowned at her in disapproval. “Show a little respect, child.”

“Answer me,” she demanded with so much irritation that she wanted to smack the old woman’s face.

And then she felt her mother reaching out and gently touching her arm. “Calm yourself, Abra. I know this is difficult. It was difficult for me. It is the way, the way it has always been.”

“What does that mean? The way it has always been. What has been?”

And then the stern voice of her Gran cut in. “Your father was a traveler, one from another dimension, an elemental. He was drawn here by the old magics, stayed long enough to conceive you, then left.”

Abra’s eyes widened at this bizarre pronouncement. “What? Why would he—”

“Your grandfather was a vampire from Albania. Your great-grandfather was a shapeshifter from England; before him was a warlock from Greenland.”

“Greenland? What, and they all just dropped in, hooked up, and left?”

Her mother backed away, head bent, as though she couldn’t look Abra in the eyes anymore. Her Gran peered at her sternly, an expression she remembered well from childhood. “No, Abra, these magical beings sired the Guardians of this sacred valley. And then were made to forget.”

She stood there, feeling her head swirling in dizziness. “A spell,” she whispered. “Lapetus said there was some sort of enchantment.”

“Yes,” her mother said softly. “To bring you two together.”

And then Abra looked at them both as a creeping sort of horror took hold of her. She’d been manipulated and lied to. “He can’t have children,” she whispered.

“This is a sacred place, strong in ancient magic. What is not possible becomes possible here,” her Gran stated emphatically.

“No,” she said, feeling herself trembling with rage.

And then her mother’s hands again, her mother who had died, the mother who, in this vision or whatever the hell it was, was now pregnant with her. She held both of Abra’s arms. “You must be calm, my daughter. You have a child to think of now.”

*

“There are a number of powerful energy points within the Northern Continent that will be known as The New World.”

“You can foresee this?” Lapetus asked Cyprian.

“Of course, you are not the only one who can traverse time.” Roughly, his old Master picked up a handful of obsidian stones on which he had carved archaic symbols and spread them out on the table before them. He lightly touched several of the stones, never manipulating their position. “It is an old coven if they can even be designated as such.”

“Then they’re not witches?”

“Not exactly,” Cyprian muttered. “It is more of a calling that binds them rather than personal advancement. They adhere to old ways and are led by the spirits of the land.”

“Guardians, protectors,” Lapetus murmured.

“Yes, yes, it seems so, and this—what was her name again?”

“Abra.”

“Ah, yes, Abra seems to be at the center of it. Always female, not the longest lifespan, but protectors of the old magic.”

“Yes, that is what she claimed.”

“And you doubt her?”

“No, no, actually, I don’t. I just don’t know what part I could possibly play in this.”

*

She wondered if she should take a moment to scoop her jaw off the floor because she certainly felt as though it was down there somewhere. “What did you say?”

“You heard your mother. You are with child.”

“That’s not true,” she stammered. However, her mind was now flipping back frantically through all the times in the last several days that she and Lapetus had made love with zero birth control. But then again, he had told her this was impossible.

“Not impossible here,” her Gran said flatly.

“Stop reading my mind,” she snapped out harshly.

“Abra, my dear. I know it is a shock,” her mother said.

And then she abruptly pulled out of her deceased mother’s grasp. “Ya think?”

“This is how the guardians have always been conceived.”

She stepped back further in recoil from both women. “How could you do this? How could you use me like this?”

And then her mother looked at her with deep upset in her green eyes. “You mustn’t look at it like this, Abra. It’s a blessing.”

“And Lapetus, you’re just going to cast a spell on him so he forgets all about me and never knows he has a child.”

“A daughter who will be a guardian like you,” her Gran explained.

“No, no,” she snapped. “I won’t force this on her.”

“It wasn’t forced on you, Abra.” Her Gran said somewhat harshly. “If you remember, you freely chose to stay here, chose to learn, and to become the protector of these sacred lands.”

“Did I?” she said shakily as unwanted tears began to slip down her face. “Or was it all some enchantment to make me believe there was a choice?”

“Of course, there is a choice, Abra,” her mother’s voice, so soft, so filled with anguish at her daughter’s upset. “I almost decided not to. I was quite young but was rejecting everything.”

Her Gran stared at her with a stony face. “Yes, that is true. The elders compelled me to have another child because it seemed your mother would never accept her calling.”

“Aunt Jo?”

“Yes,” Sarah murmured. “She would have been the protector if I had chosen not to. But I realized it was my burden and also my gift to serve.”

Abra stared at both women, dumbfounded. How could she not have known this was coming? But she never thought of it and wondered if that, too, was an enchantment placed upon her so she wouldn’t think clearly.

“Well, ladies, I have to admit this has been enlightening.” It was a voice, an unexpected intrusion. Abra felt her head absolutely swirl as Lapetus seemingly materialized out of a shadow from a far corner of the room.

“You cannot be here,” Michaela Jensen nearly screeched. “This is a protected space.”

“Yes, well, every spell has its flaws, I’m afraid. Even yours, it seems.”

*

Cyprian’s focus remained glued to the stones as though they were opening visions within him. “And what precisely do you require of me, old friend?”

Lapetus lightly tapped his fingers on the wooden table where Cyprian was now seated. “Yes, it seems my lady has gone traveling.”

“Traveling?” Cyprian glanced up at him with confusion on his face.

“Out of body, some sort of meditation that I am barred from.”

“Ah,” the old man said as though he’d quickly gleaned the situation. “And some sort of spell is keeping you from following her.”

“Yes, it appears there is more calculation here than meets the eye.”

Cyprian nodded slowly as though intently concentrating. “I can see this,” he murmured, pausing as though contemplating matters. “But I might ask you, my friend, if you’re quite sure you want to continue on this path. There is a window here I see, a possibility now to simply go and return to your old life and not embroil yourself in these domestic matters.”

“Domestic?”

“Oh, do not misread me. The events unfolding in your present time frame are of paramount importance to many, but they don’t necessarily have to be to you. You can walk away, forget the woman, and disengage yourself.”

There was a hesitation in Lapetus as his old Master’s words soaked in. “And if I don’t?”

Cyprian sighed with gravity. “If you don’t, it seems your presence will shift the course of things, more particularly your life.”

Lapetus considered, considered the very long and largely uneventful nature of his life as of late. Did he indeed want to return to such an existence, or did he want to explore a divergent path?

“It is something that should be seriously weighed. Your next move will change much, and not just for you. However, in response to your request, yes, I can assist you. The enchantment is not that strong. Its strength lies in its secrecy, which, as of now, has been effectively breached. So, take a moment before you choose, Lapetus.”

*

Michaela Jensen stepped forward in front of Abra and her daughter, Sarah, in a stance that Lapetus could only interpret as fiercely protective. Once he’d used Cyprian’s counter spell to breach the fog surrounding this gathering, it had been quite easy to follow the path that Abra’s spirit had taken here. “This is a private matter,” the woman rasped. “You must not interfere. It does not concern you.”

He raised an eyebrow and was more than deeply angered at this woman’s audacity. “This does not concern me? I believe you have just declared that it is my child that Abra is now carrying.”

“The child belongs to these lands, this earth. This sacred magic allowed her to be conceived,” she stated with rage in her voice. “You cannot interfere with our ways. They are ancient and sacred.”

“And I am just the facilitator for this miracle?” Lapetus asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. If she actually had a physical body at the moment, he would have propelled the old witch right through her lovely plate-glass window for daring to speak to him this way.

“Mother,” Sarah said, moving from behind Michaela. “Lapetus has a stake in what’s happening here. You can’t disregard him this way.”

“No, no,” Michaela said angrily. “We can’t disregard the old ways. The old ways are—”

“Old,” Abra stated flatly. Quietly, she walked around the two women and stood directly in front of Lapetus, her eyes filled with unshed tears. She reached out, took his hand, and said softly, “I am so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know we were being manipulated. I should have seen, but—”

Lightly, he put his fingertips on her lips to stop her from talking. “No, not your fault, my dear. Come with me, and we will decide what happens next.”

She grasped his hand firmly and moved beside him, but just then, the grandmother said harshly. “You should know, this child you carry, Abra, will not survive away from this place. Any more than you or your mother or any of us could survive for a prolonged period. The magic here helped create life, and its absence will take it away.”

*

By the time she returned to her body, Abra’s head was pounding unmercifully. It was too much, too much to take in, too much to absorb. All of it, it felt as though the whole fabric of her life, of everything she’d always believed, had been ripped away from her. Choice? Choice in anything? The mere suggestion of that was laughable. When had she ever had a choice?

“You should know, this child you carry, Abra, will not survive away from this place. Any more than you or your mother or any of us could survive for a prolonged period. The magic here helped create life, and its absence will take it away.”

That had come from her Gran, her beloved Gran who had been a mentor to her, a confidant, and now seemed like an adversary. Maybe she should just leave, pack her bags and test out their theory.

She had stared at her grandmother in total disbelief, caught somewhere between outrage and pain. How dare she? How dare they, all of them, keep so much from her, use her like some puppet, and now drag an innocent child into this, if indeed it was true at all that she was really pregnant. At this point, she doubted just about everything.

“What did you say?” she uttered in no less than total shock. And then her Gran’s face had frozen as though she suddenly realized the news she’d delivered and exactly how heartlessly she had done so.

“Abra, I am sorry. I am sorry to have told you this in such a way. But it is the truth. The Guardians are created here. We are magical beings who draw our strength and power from this earth. If you leave, if your child does so, it will become ill, weak, and eventually die.”

“Abra, darling, I’m so sorry,” her mother’s voice, her sweet voice that would be no more once she left this place.

“Is that why you stayed?” She asked her.

But her mother looked down and covered her mouth, indicating she was too overwhelmed to answer.

“Abra, much rests on your shoulders,” her Gran said sternly.

And then she turned back to her, filled with fury. “And you are a bitch. I hate you for this.”

But she never flinched, just stared at her with no expression. “Yes, I imagine you do.”

She couldn’t remember leaving, only a great swell of dizziness and now nausea as she sat at the foot of the bed in Lapetus’ rental home. Nausea, good lord, it couldn’t be that quick.

“Are you all right?”

She looked up, somewhat surprised and not surprised to see him standing in the doorway. “Oh, me? I’m delightful.”

And then he smiled grimly, walking into the room and quietly sitting beside her on the bed. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded slowly, “Which part? There seems to be a lot of regret to go around just now.”

And then he took her hand gently. “Not sorry about meeting you.”

She sighed, feeling the heavy weight of desolation washing over her. “Maybe sorry about rushing into things, though.”

With his other hand, he gently touched her on the stomach, closing his eyes. It was an odd feeling. She could sense a sort of tingling in the contact. Slowly, he opened his eyes, his hand dropping away.

“So?” she asked.

“It seems there is indeed a child.”

She nodded, “Yep, well, what do you want to do about it?”

Her eyes were so enormous, filled with fear, with pain, and with shadows. That, more than anything, he didn’t like. What was it Cyprian had said about innocence being so hard to hold onto?

He put his arm around her, pulling her close. Whatever spell had been placed on him and Abra at the outset, what was clear was that his draw to her had not diminished one bit, only become somewhat more complicated. “You’ve had a very upsetting time of it. You should rest.”

She leaned against him, laying her head on his shoulder. “You can’t possibly already be acting like a protective father,” she said.

“I am protective of you,” he murmured.

“Maybe we can leave together. I can go with you back to Europe, and we can have the baby there.”

He lightly touched her arm, stroking it gently. He didn’t want to say the obvious, though what Abra’s grandmother had said about the magic of this valley fueling this impossible conception did resonate with him. “This place has become so tainted for you?”

“I-I don’t know. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. People that I thought I could depend on, who I thought were on my side, were just manipulating me.”

“And you’re sure you can trust me, Abra?” he murmured.

And then she sort of stilled, straightening up. “I-I don’t know. Can I?”

He squeezed her hand, which he still held. It was quite the situation for him. His traditional tactic in most things was to find a way to gain the upper hand, but here, in this place, he’d been a different sort of individual and, oddly enough, wasn’t in a great rush to return to who he had been before. “Yes, yes, you can, my dear. And in that spirit, I will tell you something that might change everything.”

He felt her draw in a breath, a sharp, fearful breath that he could sense acutely as the side of her slight body was pressed right against his own. “What is it?” she whispered.

“When I placed my hand on you, I felt something.”

“The baby?”

“Yes, but not one baby. I felt two. I could sense a boy and a girl.”

She turned to him, her green eyes filled with confusion. “I don’t understand. It’s always supposed to be just a girl. That’s what they said.”

“Yes, but evidently, things are changing here in the Ouachita Valley.”

*

They didn’t speak of it much the rest of the day — these great matters. Closing in on the evening, they picked up food from an Italian restaurant in the Village and returned to Abra’s house. She’d thought to suggest getting a bottle of wine, but she didn’t. Already, things were changing in her life. She had a child, no, two children to consider. And a great part of her wanted very much to leave this place now. It had changed for her, or rather, something inside her had changed.

“Do you like working at the restaurant?” Lapetus asked out of the blue.

“Not really,” she murmured.

She was curled up on the sofa in the house with his arm around her. She dearly wished it were Winter, and they could light the fireplace to warm a chilled room. That was her favorite season here. “Have you thought of doing something else?”

“I’m taking classes at an online college. And thought maybe one day I might open some sort of a shop here in the Village, gift shop or something like that. I don’t know.”

“Do you still want to do that?”

She snuggled closer to him. “I did. I don’t know what I want now.”

He leaned over, kissing her softly. “Let things settle.”

“You don’t think I should leave.”

He seemed to hesitate before he answered. “I tend to believe the veracity of what your grandmother said. What’s happened, well, I did not believe was possible.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I know. I just don’t want to do this alone.”

He held her closely, “You mean you don’t want me to leave and forget you and our children?”

“No, I don’t want that.”

“Neither do I,” he said softly. “I can’t be here all the time. I have obligations as well. But I do want to watch our children grow, and I want to be beside their mother.”

She smiled, feeling a warmth spread about her heart. “I want that too, Lapetus.”

“So, tomorrow I’ll find you a ring to hold the place of the one I will have made for you back home.”

She smiled at the prospect, “A ring?”

“Yes, of course,” he murmured. “An engagement ring.”

Again, she smiled. She was going to be Mrs. Werewolf. “You know, I don’t even know your last name.”

“There have been many.”

“Well, you’ll have to settle on one.”

“Understood,” he said softly, kissing her again.

“You know, Aunt Jo left some tea in the cabinet that is supposed to make you forget me.”

“Really? What are you going to do with it?”

“I thought I might flush it down the toilet. What do you think?”

“I think that’s an excellent plan, my dear one,” he said softly.

Copyright © 2025 by Evelyn Klebert

The Story of Enid: Vol. 2 of the Clandestine Exploits of a Werewolf

What happens when your one true love reincarnates, and you just happen to be a werewolf?

Ethan Garraint is an old soul. He has been alive for hundreds of years, battling countless challenges and foes along the way — not the least of which was living through the genocide of the Cathar people at Montsegur, a society that wholly embraced him despite his lycanthropic nature. But in Volume 2 of The Clandestine Exploits of a Werewolf, he faces a dilemma that brings his past and present full circle, merging them both.

In The Story of Enid, the sequel to The Broken Vow

Long ago, before he was Ethan Garraint, before the Cathars, before he became a werewolf, he was a man living in a land where enchantment ruled. He was a Knight known as Geraint who served a King. And it was then that he met the one woman who would own his heart.

“There was someone for you once.”

“Yes, a long time ago.”

“Someone very special to you that, I think, perhaps you still mourn.”

“She was my wife.”

“And she left you.”

“Not of her free will, but yes, most do.”

When one realizes that a long-lost soulmate has been reincarnated, it poses some complications. When you have been a werewolf for nearly a millennium, the complications explode exponentially. Ethan Garraint understands that he should stay far away from Erin Holt, but she is in his city, New Orleans, and possibly in danger. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to stay away. He only wants to remind her of the lifetime they lived long ago, when they were more than lovers, when they became legend.

Coming Soon!!

A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains

At the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains, into their ancient heart, and even perhaps into nearby unexplored dimensions, slip into a series of supernatural short stories. Take a mystical diversion that could very well land you into a realm at the least unexpected and at the most horrifying. But what is clear is that no one, ever, will emerge as they were before.

In need of a spooky distraction?

Halloween Month is getting ready to kick off at EvelynKlebert.com. Each week of this month I will be posting a paranormal short story to set the mood for this special time of the year. I do hope you will check back often to see what’s new.

I also am deep in edits for a new collection of short stories entitled A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains. I plan to post at least one story from this collection during Halloween Month just to give you a little taste of this book. It’s one I’ve been working on for some time and am so very excited to see it come to fruition.

So, in all sincerity, I’d like to take this opportunity to wish everyone peace. And if you can, take a little time to enjoy this unique time of year.

Coming Soon!!

A Murder in the Village and Other Mystical Tales of the Ouachita Mountains

At the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains, into their ancient heart, and even perhaps into nearby unexplored dimensions, slip into a series of supernatural short stories. Take a mystical diversion that could very well land you into a realm at the least unexpected and at the most horrifying. But what is clear is that no one, ever, will emerge as they were before.