Dandelion Souls: Kyrie Carter: Supernatural Sleuth

By Leta Hawk

They told her she could embrace her great-aunt's legacy or run from it…

When Caine Michaljuk comes into the Copper Kettle, Kyrie Carter immediately senses something "off" about him. Hours later, she finds herself spirited to an unfamiliar place in the woods where the young man lies injured. Delirious, he believes Kyr to be the Swamp Angel. Over the following weeks, Kyr's supernatural abilities paint her at times as the hero and at times as the villain in Caine's story as it takes on a life of its own in the small town.

…but it would appear that running from it is not an option.

Even as Kyr seeks to learn more about the mysterious spirit and why Caine tried to summon her, the Swamp Angel herself appears to Kyr to say that Caine is in grave danger at the hands of the Flying Head, a malevolent entity he unwittingly awakened. With the help of the Swamp Angel, Kyr must figure out how to defeat the evil being before it claims Caine's soul and hers.

As if her paranormal problems aren't enough, she also finds herself at odds with Renovo's contentious new police officer, as well as butting heads with her great-aunt's old nemesis, who it seems has a connection to Caine Michaljuk…and to her own family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bumblebee Road Publishing
• Release date: Dec 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215470855

Book preview

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank the same motley crew of characters I usually acknowledge in this portion of the book—family, friends, enemies, inspirations, various strangers I encounter on my travels...

But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my younger son (not by name, as he would hate me forever if I embarrassed him in such a manner) for his role in finally getting this book out there. As he and I commiserated over the fact that neither of us was blessed with the gift of brevity in writing, he suggested I make this a two-part book. After listing a million reasons (okay, maybe only three or four) why that couldn’t be done, I had to admit his suggestion bordered on genius, and so here we are. Thank you, son. I am indebted to you.

Dandelions—Dandelions! I used to pass you by;

Beneath my feet your yellow stars I crushed without a sigh;

I used to gaze upon your blooms with but a careless eye,

And if of you I thought at all, knew not the reason why.

From Dandelions

Franklin Stanwood

Dedication

To Beverly Cleary, my favorite children’s author, who passed away during the writing of this book. It was your books that sparked my love for reading and led to the desire to write my own.

Chapter One

I LOOKED AROUND at the half dozen preschoolers making melty snowmen out of construction paper and smiled. They had enjoyed hearing a couple new snowman stories, and had enthusiastically joined in singing Frosty the Snowman, even though it was more than two months past Christmas, and now they were busily crafting.

After carefully placing a black top hat on his snowman, Liam held up his project. Look, Miss Kyr. He’s melted.

He certainly is, I said, drawing back to avoid getting my hair into the wet glue. I love the way his carrot nose points up to the sky, like he’s looking up at the sun.

Liam laughed and began dancing around with his snowman, singing Mr. Golden Sun.

A new-to-me girl named Rebecca tossed her blond pigtails as she turned to inform Liam, Mr. Golden Sun melted Frosty.

Liam stopped dancing long enough to consider and then dismiss her critique before continuing his song. Just then, Lillian emerged from the stacks with two thick novels in her hands. He dashed over to her, waving his creation. Mimi, look! I made a melty snowman!

She chuckled as she took the glue-smeared snowman from him and studied it for a moment. He’s melty, all right. It may take until spring for him to dry. A blast of wind struck the back of the building, making her glance up at the window. She grunted her displeasure and muttered, I doubt there’s much chance of a snowman melting outside today. That wind is bitter cold.

I shivered as a chilly draft seeped in, but before I could respond, Alan turned from the display he was setting up and quipped, Did you ever wonder why everyone says it’s bitter cold? You can’t taste cold, so how can it be bitter? He replaced a romance novel with a cozy mystery and shot us a devilish grin. I mean, you can taste snow, but snow isn’t bitter...unless it’s yellow snow.

Another little girl named Stacia stopped slapping black paper circles onto her snowman and asked, What’s yellow snow?

Liam laughed. I made yellow snow out back last night.

All right, Liam. That’s enough, Lillian said, ushering him toward the circulation desk. Tell Miss Kyr goodbye and thank you, and let’s go check out our books. As she passed Alan, she gave him a mock scowl and wagged her finger at him.

Bye, Miss Kyr. Thank you for my snowman, Liam said, picking up the books he’d chosen from the floor next to his chair. Bye, Mr. Alan.

I waved to Liam and Lillian and then laughed as I shook my head at Alan. You’re incorrigible, you know that? I glanced at my remaining crafters, thankful that only Rebecca and Stacia had heard the conversation. Not to mention, a bad influence.

Alan drew back and put a hand to his chest dramatically. A bad influence? Why, Kyr, I’m offended and shocked that you don’t see the importance of warning the younger generation about the dangers of yellow snow.

Quirking an eyebrow at him, I responded, "Someone needs to warn the younger generation about the dangers of you."

AFTER ALL THE CHILDREN had left, I gathered up the leftover art supplies, swept the paper snips from the floor, and wiped off the craft table. As I scrubbed away the dried-on glue and scraped off a few paper circles that were stuck to the surface of the table, I unconsciously hummed Mr. Golden Sun. I was still humming as I carried the art basket back to the supply closet. When I emerged and approached the circulation desk, I became aware that both Alan and Wendy were watching me curiously. Stopping short, I asked tentatively, Is...something wrong?

No, of course not, Wendy said, smiling at me. "It’s just that I’ve—we’ve—noticed that you’ve seemed to be really happy for the past few weeks. I mean, you’ve always had a cheerful disposition, but lately you’ve been exceptionally happy."

It’s more than that, Alan said. You actually seem more at ease, more...I don’t know...settled. Are you practicing Zen meditation after you leave the library?

I cocked my head and gave him a puzzled look before realizing the truth in their observation. I thought for a minute and was quickly able to pinpoint what had precipitated the change. I guess you could say I am more at ease. Now that things at the house have settled down, I don’t feel like the town freak show anymore. I’m finally to the point where I’m looking forward to actually settling in here in Renovo and just being normal.

Not surprisingly, Alan grunted disapprovingly. Really, Kyr. Normal is way overrated.

Well, Alan, that may be true, I said, sounding more serious than I intended to, "but let me tell you, paranormal is no paradise either."

Touché, olé, he said, raising his water bottle in a toast. Here’s to your new, normal life in Renovo.

Another blast of wind rattled the windows, and I muttered, Now if winter would just skedaddle already...

Hear, hear, Wendy said.

Well, ladies, Alan mused. You know how the old saying goes: Into every life some snow must fall. Especially when you live in the great frozen tundra that is northern Pennsylvania.

Considering the fact that I have to drive up that mountain to get home, I’d just as soon the snow stay away.

BY THE TIME I LEFT the library a couple hours later, the clear skies and cold sunshine had given way to low, gray clouds that were heavy with wintry precipitation. I had hoped to make it home before anything fell, but no such luck. No sooner had I turned onto Bitumen Mt. Road than a mixture of sleet and snowflakes began flying. As I concentrated on navigating the slippery curves, I silently cursed Alan for jinxing the weather.

The farther up the mountain I went, the worse conditions became, and by the time I reached Onion Run Road, the precipitation had completely changed over to snow, and it was coming down in earnest. As I always did when I had to drive in bad weather, I breathed a sigh of relief when I made it home and guided my car through the evergreen arch.

However, my relief was short-lived. As I passed beneath one of the low-hanging pine branches, I glanced up toward the house and saw what appeared to be a tall figure standing on my front porch near the door. Before I could determine who or what I was seeing, the branch I was driving under dropped its load of heavy, wet snow onto my windshield. Before the wipers could clear away the snow, whoever or whatever had been there was gone. I scanned the front and side of the property as far as I could see from my vantage point, but there was no one, nothing. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I muttered, Alan may have jinxed the weather, but it looks like I may have jinxed my house.

For a moment, I sat watching the tree line, undecided about what to do. I considered heading over to Papa Schuy’s cabin, or at least calling him, but I quickly dismissed the thought. I didn’t want to bother him or worry him over something that most likely would turn out to be nothing,

Okay, Kyr, let’s act like an adult. Giving myself a mental shake, I proceeded up the driveway and parked beneath the willow tree. I gathered my things, got out of the car, and started toward the house through the snow. Just as I reached the porch, a flutter of wings and a loud caw-caw startled me. Merle swooped down from somewhere in the trees and landed on the railing in front of me. He hopped and danced back and forth, making agitated noises in his throat.

Suddenly aware that he was trying to tell me something, I nodded and acknowledged, I saw him too, Merle. Any idea where he went?

He hopped and squawked and looked toward the tree line. I wished he could give me a description of what he had seen, but immediately changed my mind. As smart as Merle was, I knew that if actual words would come out of his beak, I’d likely faint dead away on the spot. Deciding it was enough that he seemed to acknowledge my suspicions, I dug a half-eaten granola bar from my purse and offered it to him. Here you go. Thanks for keeping an eye on the place.

I laughed as I watched him fly away with his reward, and then turned my attention back to the matter at hand. Still wary, but also curious, I hurried up the porch steps to unlock the door and drop my purse and my tote bag in the foyer before heading back outside.

Keeping one hand on my phone, I crept down the porch steps and went around to the opposite side of the house. Much of the ground already had a coating of snow, which gave me some hope that I might find footprints or some other evidence that I’d had a human visitor. Unfortunately, even though I went all the way to the back of the house, there wasn’t much to see. If I had seen a flesh and blood person, he seemed to have kept to the side of the house where the snow hadn’t lain yet and had likely somehow made it to the trees without leaving a trail. But where had he gone from there?

I stood for a couple minutes just looking around and listening for any sound that might give away the location of my unwelcome guest, but the only sounds I heard were the whisper of snow falling on the mountain around me and the normal chirp and chatter of winter birds. I was unnerved not only by the fact that someone had been on my property—I recalled the unfriendly visitors I’d had on New Year’s Eve—but also by the fact that he’d seemingly just disappeared.

My feet were beginning to throb from the cold, and what light I had left was fading fast, so I decided it was best to give up the search and go inside. I turned and started toward the front of the house, feeling as though I were being watched. Not far from the front of the house, a twig snapped in the woods beside me. I let out a gasp and was about to bolt for the front door when I spotted a doe—a white doe—standing near the edge of the tree line, staring right at me. Her benign eyes locked with mine, and as I stared at her, unblinking, I almost sensed that she was trying to convey some telepathic message.

Suddenly, a snowflake landed on my nose, causing me to blink. My connection with the deer was broken, and she turned and bounded off into the trees, leaving me perplexed and wondering about the strange encounter.

AND YOU’RE SURE IT wasn’t Schuyler? I had made the mistake of telling Spook about my mysterious visitor, and he was in full investigation mode.

Positive. Papa Schuy said he was out in the woods above his place, tending to his...business at the time. I rubbed my temple, still trying to come to grips with the fact that my biological father was a moonshiner.

Spook laughed. He’s still trying to replicate Farrington’s finest?

I suppose so. I had given my father three bottles of the Prince Farrington whiskey that Spook and the Peterys had found hidden in the basement, and he had begun attempting to reverse engineer Farrington’s recipe. Thankfully, Officer Morgret continued to turn a blind eye to Papa Schuy’s activity, but I was afraid that one day his luck would run out.

Anyway, he said, shifting gears once more. So I’m guessing you didn’t call the police? I could tell by the tone of his voice that he hoped I had.

No. I rushed to explain my reasoning before he could jump in to scold me. There was no need to run Officer Morgret or anyone else all the way up here in this weather, especially when I didn’t find any proof that someone had actually been here. Unless, of course, you count Merle stopping by.

You mean Helen’s spy-crow who seems to have taken you under his wing?

I couldn’t help giggling at his joke, bad as it was. Ha ha, you’re such a punny guy. It is kind of nice having him around; I’m sure that bird doesn’t miss a trick. I recalled the bird’s nonverbal response to my question about my visitor. And it seemed he was trying to tell me that someone was in fact on the property.

Wait, what do you mean by that? After I related what Merle had done when I asked him what he’d seen, Spook grunted and said, If only that bird could actually talk.

Or if I could hook a spy camera to him, I mused, thinking about how much ground he likely covered in a day.

You know, Kyr m’dear, you could take the advice I and several others have given you and hook up security cameras outside your house. You can connect them to your phone and be alerted whenever someone is on your property.

I immediately regretted mentioning the spy cam. I know. It’s just that...I don’t know, sometimes I feel like ignorance is bliss. Do I really want to know who or what might be traipsing around outside my house? If I were completely honest, it was the what, more than the who, that gave me the creeps. I shuddered as I looked out the kitchen window into the darkness, once again conscious of the fact that someone, or something, might be lurking in the mountains behind my house. Knowing I had to get out of my current mindset if I wanted to sleep tonight, I tried again to convince myself I’d imagined what I saw. Look, maybe I really didn’t see anything. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light. It was snowing pretty hard, and it was just starting to get dark. Not to mention the fact that my natural booby trap dropped that load of snow onto my windshield...

About that natural booby trap... Spook seemed to understand that I needed to put the thought of a possible intruder, whether flesh and blood or paranormal, out of my mind.  I have noticed that rather troublesome branch, Kyr m’dear. I know you love your little evergreen entryway, but the way those trees are leaning is becoming a bit of a safety hazard. You’re going to want someone to take care of that come spring.

I guess you’re right, I said, putting my coffee mug in the sink and checking on Lucifer one last time before turning to exit the kitchen. Maybe I’d better start looking for a landscaper.

He chuckled. I think I might know a guy.

Oh, do you now? I settled down on the couch and wrapped myself in Celeste’s shawl. I’ll have to get his number from you.

CHAPTER TWO

"LOOKS LIKE THE spring thaw has begun." Alan’s voice drew my attention from the stack of books I was arranging on the display shelves. He motioned to me, so I abandoned my task to join him at the window.

I let out a gasp as I took in the scene outside. The last time I had taken notice of the river behind the library, it had been thickly covered with ice and snow. The milder temperatures of the past week had allowed the snow to melt and the ice to break up. Now, huge chunks raced past, bobbing and swirling in the rising, swift-moving current. Every so often, a large branch floated past, at times catching on something beneath the water, causing it to turn, submerge, and rise to the surface again. The spectacle was beautiful and mesmerizing, but not so much so that it distracted me from the potential problems I knew a quick thaw could cause.  Have you ever had flooding here at the library?

Surprisingly, no, Alan replied, leaning close to watch what looked like a small tree tumble past in the water.

In all the years I’ve worked here, I’ve never seen more than a little wet carpet. Wendy got up from her chair at the front desk and came to join us at the window.

Seeing how close the building sat to the edge of the riverbank, I doubted the truth of her words. I thought about the flooding that often threatened the river rat communities near my hometown in early spring. Even if her words were true and the library was safe from advancing waters, I couldn’t help wondering... What about the parking lot?

Wendy turned to me to respond, but before she could say a word, Alan jumped in. Oh, no worries, Kyr. We keep a stash of kayaks in a shed out back for just such an emergency.

Now accustomed to Alan’s facetious nature, I replied with a joke of my own. And I suppose you’ve got a supply of matching lifejackets to go with those kayaks.

Alan shot me a saucy grin. Wouldn’t have it any other way. I hope you like hot pink.

You two are a couple of peas in a pod, Wendy said with a chuckle. More seriously, she continued, Flooding in the parking lot is a more likely scenario than flooding in the library, actually, and we do keep an eye on that, Kyr. If we see the water beginning to spill over the banks, we shut everything down and get all the cars out of the parking lot.

With that question settled, I tore my gaze away from the river scene and went back to my book displays. Even with the possible threat of some river flooding, I smiled at the prospect of spring approaching. As much as I had enjoyed the beauty of the snowy scenery around my new home, I was ready for warmer temperatures. As I placed a gardening book at the top of the display, my mind turned to thoughts of starting a vegetable garden, cleaning up Celeste’s moon garden, and hosting family get-togethers in my back yard.

WHEN I LEFT THE LIBRARY a couple hours later, I took a quick peek around the back corner of the building at the river. It was indeed a bit higher than it had been earlier, but there seemed to be no imminent danger of it overflowing its banks to threaten the parking lot. As long as the ice and other debris kept moving freely further downriver, I figured we’d have no problems with flooding or with being open tomorrow.

I unzipped my coat and let it fall open as I crossed the small lot to my car, and I made a mental note to begin packing away some of my heavier sweaters and to get a few spring outfits out of the cedar chest in the guest bedroom. The faint scent of trees waiting to bud in the mid-March air seemed to call to me, urging me to spend time outside in the moon garden instead of staying cooped up inside on such a beautiful afternoon. Nodding my head in acknowledgement of my inward change in plans, I decided to stop by the Copper Kettle for a quick bite that would serve as both a late lunch and an early supper so I wouldn’t have to spend time in the kitchen. 

The lot was less than half full, as was typical for this time of day, but I saw three cars in their usual spots right by the front entrance, so I wasn’t surprised to see three familiar faces seated at the bar when I came through the door. Hey there, Ginger, Cal called out, raising his half empty glass to me.

The Three Amigos, as I’d begun referring to Cal, Archie, and Boltzy, were as much a fixture in the pub as the dark red walls were, and I now looked forward to seeing them as much as I did talking to Gussie. In the weeks since Jamison Hufnagle’s arrest for attacking me in the woods behind my house, the three men had adopted me into their circle. I had taken to sitting at the bar with them when I came in for lunch, and Gussie had gleefully informed me that they always inquired about me if too many days passed without me stopping in. Although I never encountered any of them outside the Copper Kettle, and in fact at times wondered if they ever left the establishment, my growing companionship with them gave me an added feeling of belonging in the town, as though I was at last recognized as one of the locals.

I smiled in his direction as I returned his greeting. Hi, Cal. Hey, Archie, Boltzy. What’s good on the menu today?

As if my words had summoned him, the bartender Graham had once referred to as a Sleestak popped up from behind the bar and eyed me from behind Coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses. There’s lots good on the menu, little lady. All depends what you’re in the mood for.

Repulsed, I shrank back, not taking my eyes off him. While Gussie and the Three Amigos repeatedly assured me that he was harmless, albeit a bit sleazy, he still made my skin crawl.

Knock it off, Walt, Boltzy growled through a mouthful of peanuts. She ain’t on your menu, and you sure ain’t on hers.

Before anyone else could respond, the kitchen door swung open, and Gussie breezed in. Did I hear someone— She grinned as she spotted me standing near the bar. Hey, sweetie! I thought I might see you today.

Hi, Gussie. I moved forward to greet her with a hug. I figured I’d stop by and grab a quick bite so I don’t have to cook supper. I want to spend some time outside in the garden this afternoon. Spring is in the air.

Archie barked out a laugh, and I heard him mutter, That’s what you think.

As I turned to shoot him a curious look, he downed the last of his beer, got down from his barstool, and immediately stumbled. If Boltzy hadn’t reacted quickly to steady him, he likely would have ended up face-first on the floor.

I leaned close to Gussie and whispered, It’s not even three o’clock, and he’s already that far gone? How long have they been here today?

Gussie laughed and elbowed me. Oh, sweetie, he isn’t drunk. His knees must be acting up again. To Archie, she said, Is there snow on the way, Archie?

You betcha. He grimaced as he hunched over, massaging the offending knee. By the pain in my joints, I’d say a good ten inches, if not a foot tonight.

The others gathered at the bar wagged their heads, grumbling about being sick and tired of snow and cold. Walt threw a well-worn dishrag onto the bar. I thought we were done with that crapola. I already packed away my snow blower. Are you sure?

Have my knees ever been wrong?

I shook my head in disbelief and said, more to Gussie than to Archie, That can’t be right. The Weather Channel isn’t calling for snow, at least not more than a dusting overnight.

Archie straightened up enough to fix his gaze on me. You young folks and your Weather Channel! You rely too much on them fancy maps and radars. No one reads the signs anymore. If my knees say there’s gonna be a foot of snow, then mark my words; there’s gonna be a foot of snow. As soon as he finished speaking, he gave me a curt nod and hobbled off in the direction of the men’s room.

Still somewhat dubious, I turned to Gussie and saw that her brow was wrinkled with worry. So you believe him?

Sweetie, I’ve known Archie my whole life. Her troubled eyes met mine. He might tell some tall tales, but he doesn’t stretch the truth when it comes to the weather. Ever since he overturned his dump truck on I-80 back in ’97 and shattered his leg, his knees have been more reliable than any TV weatherman at predicting snowstorms.

I furrowed my brow as much in frustration as in disbelief. And yet people in this town called Celeste a weather witch? Not to mention what some people call me.

Gussie found my comment humorous. The difference is that Archie only predicts the weather. Celeste claimed to make the weather happen.

I knew that Gussie’s words were true. Over the past few months, I’d learned from Schuyler and Helen that Celeste had often played up her abilities and worked the townsfolk into a frenzy, making them believe she was a powerful witch that they’d do well to fear. Maybe holding the community at arm’s length had worked for her, but that just wasn’t me. Even though I was content to keep to myself much of the time, I wasn’t okay with the suspicious looks I received from some of the townsfolk, as though I were someone to be avoided and feared, not the least of whom was my inherited nemesis, Teresa Vale. I hadn’t seen her around lately, but I knew that, like a chronic illness flare-up, she was lurking around some corner just waiting to pounce. Not wanting to mentally go down that road at the moment, I shook my head and took my place at the bar.

By the time Archie came limping back from the men’s room, I was chowing down on my usual Copper Kettle late lunch of half a sandwich and a side salad. While I ate, I listened to the low murmur of conversation from the handful of patrons over in the dining room, punctuated by the familiar banter between Walt, Gussie, and the Three Amigos.

I had just taken a bite of salad when the front door swung open and a bear of a man strode in. Although he hardly spared a glance in my direction, something about him sent a surge of panic rushing through me, and my food stuck in my throat, making me reach for my water. I watched as he caught Gussie’s eye and purposefully approached.

He dropped his backpack onto the barstool next to mine. Uh, hi. My GPS just tanked on me a few miles back. Do you know how to get to Creekview Cabin?

Oh, sure! I know that place. Gussie tore a sheet from her order pad, dug a pen out of her pocket, and began drawing a crude map. You’ll want to make a left out of the parking lot...

While she gave him directions, I alternately pushed the salad around on my plate and cast surreptitious glances in the young man’s direction, trying to determine why his presence filled me with such dread. More than once, I caught him looking at me instead of paying attention to Gussie. I squirmed in my seat, sensing that he was scrutinizing me. Well, aren’t you doing the same thing? I chastised myself, quickly averting my eyes as he looked my way again.

I stabbed a tomato with my fork and stuck it in my mouth, defending myself defiantly. I wouldn’t be studying him if something didn’t feel off. I slid my gaze in his direction again, trying to make sense of my reaction. Neither his easy stance as he spoke with Gussie nor his curly blond hair and scruffy beard gave the impression that he was in any way suspect. His demeanor, too, was nothing short of polite and pleasant. Still, I kept one wary eye on him, just in case he decided to start any trouble.

It shouldn’t take you more than fifteen or twenty minutes to get there from here. Gussie straightened up and gave the man a wink as she handed him the paper.

I think I can find it. Thanks. He flashed her a smile and then glanced down at the handwritten directions. As he turned to go, his grey-green eyes met mine and widened—apprehensively, I thought—and he froze for a moment until I looked away. He picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder before hurrying out the door, obviously anxious to be on his way.

After he exited, I turned and watched the sliver of light from outside shrink as if in slow motion as the door drifted shut. The intense anxiety still coursing through my veins was a mystery. The man’s presence had given me the impression that he posed some threat to the Copper Kettle, or to someone here, so why hadn’t that feeling abated now that he was gone?

When the door shut with a thump, something clicked, and I knew that my trepidation wasn’t because the man presented a threat, but because he was in some kind of danger himself.

He’s a cutie, isn’t he?

Gussie’s voice broke into my thoughts. I blinked a few times before turning to face her. I’m sorry, what?

She leaned against the bar and propped her chin on her fist. Those green eyes and that smile. And he smelled like the outdoors, didn’t he?

Her words didn’t register until Boltzy hooted. Gussie, you need to get your pretty head outta those romance books you’re always reading. Not every guy that walks in here is a Harley-quin hero.

Gussie straightened and shot him a dirty look, but before she could respond, Walt cut in, He’s a sight better’n you sitting there with a long-neck bottle in your hand and pretzel crumbs all over your shirt.

Cal and Archie laughed at his observation as Boltzy looked down and brushed the crumbs off his chest. Yeah, well, looky who’s talking. You ain’t no Marlboro Man yourself, Walt.

As the men launched into a discussion over which of them was least likely to grace the cover of a romance novel, I hurriedly gathered my things and asked Gussie for the check.

Oh, sweetie. You’re leaving already? Her soulful expression pleaded with me to stay awhile longer, but my urge to follow the man was overwhelming.

I’m afraid so, Gussie. I entreated her with my eyes as I took out my wallet. There’s ...something I need to do.

Overhearing my comment, Walt turned to Gussie and said, "Yeah, Guss. She needs to go work in her garden."

The Three Amigos laughed, and I shot a withering glance in their direction. Don’t worry. I’ll wear my snow boots just in case.

Archie stopped laughing long enough to fix a stern gaze on me. You might be scoffing now, Ginger, but we’ll see who’s laughing tomorrow ‘bout this time.

Well, it sure ‘nough won’t be you. Cal broke a piece from a thick beer pretzel and popped it in his mouth. You’ll be holed up at home with Ben Gay on your knees and cursing Old Man Winter.

Gussie laid my check in front of me, and I barely glanced at it before pulling a few bills from my wallet and telling her to keep the change. Let it snow, then, I said, hopping down from the barstool. I’ve got plenty of milk, bread, and toilet paper, so I’m set.

I said my good-byes and dashed out the door into the parking lot. Too late, I realized as a late-model black pickup truck pulled out of the lot onto Route 120. My shoulders sagged in defeat; I wouldn’t be able to warn him. What would you warn him about anyway, dolt? It’s not like you even know what kind of danger he’s in.

As I turned to storm off in the direction of my car, I thought of Helen’s insistence that my tendency towards visions, dreams, and impressions was a gift to be developed and used. What good is it if the impressions I get don’t make sense? I muttered irritably to no one in particular. I can’t help someone if I don’t know what I’m helping them with. I closed my eyes and sent the briefest prayer of protection in the direction the young man had gone and hoped I wouldn’t hear about him later on the local news.

CHAPTER THREE

I OPENED THE back door and stood on the top step for a few minutes taking in the view. Hardly two weeks earlier, the trees on the mountain had been tipped silver with a thick layer of frost. Now, looking closely at the trees, I could see the faintest blush of yellow-green spreading along the ridge, pale along the ridge tops and deeper green further down. All around me, the woods were silent, still deep in their winter sleep, yet beneath the stillness, I sensed something. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I closed my eyes and opened my mind to whatever seemed to call to me. As I listened, I became aware of a low murmur pulsing through the mountains around me.

Anticipation.

The single word flashed in my mind, and I knew instinctively that it meant that all of nature reached toward spring and the promise of new life. I smiled as I thought about my own new life taking shape here in Renovo, but then my breath caught as a familiar voice echoed in my mind, displacing my short-lived sense of peace and hope.

No one reads the signs anymore. If my knees say there’s gonna be a foot of snow, then mark my words; there’s gonna be a foot of snow. My eyes flew open as I recalled Archie’s arthritic knees, and I cast anxious eyes to the sky as his dire prognostication came to mind once more. The sky was still blue, and the sun still shone brightly, though seemingly with less warmth than before. A few high, thin clouds had appeared, but there was nothing that suggested a snowstorm of the magnitude that Archie had predicted.

The thought of almost a foot of snow suddenly seized me with terror, and I unconsciously reached behind me for the doorknob, fighting the urge to retreat inside where it was safe.

Letting out an audible sigh, I released the doorknob and wrapped my coat more snugly around my neck, silently chastising myself for rushing out of the Copper Kettle. In my haste, it seemed I had left behind Celeste’s shawl. Without it, I felt cold, naked, and vulnerable. Get a grip, Kyr. It’s a snowstorm, not Armageddon. I shook my head and forced myself to go down the steps and into the yard, perplexed by my reaction. Even if it did snow a foot—and I still doubted it would—why should that prospect set my nerves on edge? There had been a number of snowstorms in the short time since I’d moved here, so why should this one be any different? Though I searched within myself, I couldn’t find an answer, so I did my best to dismiss the thought as I set off toward the moon garden.

Crossing the yard was easier said than done, and my mind was soon engaged with watching my footing. In between the remaining patches of snow, the ground had turned to mud beneath the sparse, dead grass. With each step, the schluck, schluck, schluck of my boots sinking into the mud broke the peaceful silence of the mountains. A little more than halfway to the moon garden, I stopped and glanced over my shoulder, huffing and puffing and thinking that digging through the cedar chest might have been the better option after all.

Finally reaching the moon garden, I unlatched the gate and tugged it open. I cringed at the protesting screech of rusty metal on rusty metal and made a mental note to look for some WD-40 in the outkitchen.

Leaving the gate open, I began wandering somewhat aimlessly along the winding path, stopping every so often to pick up twigs or to kick dead leaves off the path. When I reached the butterfly girl statue that had startled me the first time I encountered it, I frowned at what I found. A large branch had broken off a nearby tree in a recent storm and now leaned against the statue. I picked up the branch and tossed it to the side, then broke off the icicles that hung from the statue’s fingers. I shook my head, realizing how much work there was to be done.

I continued walking along the path until I came to the center of the garden. The stone bench was littered with twigs and dead leaves, and a layer of half-melted snow covered it all. The little round pool in front of it was likewise almost hidden by snow, ice, and organic debris. As I took in the scene in front of me—in fact, all around me—I thought to myself that the once well-tended moon garden was now an absolute mess and reeked of neglect. Aloud, I rationalized, Well, there’s nothing I can do about it at the moment.

As if in defiant answer to my statement, an icy wind kicked up and seemed to rush down the mountain and across the creek to swirl around me, making me shiver. Bare tree limbs and still-verdant evergreen branches whispered together, though whether in accusation or agreement with my statement, I couldn’t tell.

Without warning, I was overcome by the irrational fear of becoming lost or trapped in a snowstorm. Desperate to get out of the garden and make it back to the house before—what?—I turned and hurried back along the path. The unnamed terror breathing down my neck made me quicken my pace, and I began to run. Branches snagged in my hair, and thorns tugged at my coat as if trying to prevent me from leaving.

As soon as I rounded the bend in the path where the butterfly girl statue stood, I became disoriented; nothing looked familiar anymore. The statue was gone, and no pyracantha bushes or dormant lilacs lined the path. In their place stood tall trees and thick underbrush, almost as though I had crossed the creek and wandered deep into the woods on the other side.

Out of nowhere, the cold breeze that had been whispering through the trees abruptly turned into a howling arctic blast, bringing with it heavy snow and sleet pellets that stung like a thousand bees as they assaulted my exposed cheeks. The afternoon light, too, had faded to twilight, almost as though I’d been outside for several hours. Confused, I trudged through the quickly-accumulating snow, unable to see and follow the path. My feet repeatedly became tangled in vines and broken branches hidden beneath the snow, and several times I fell into unseen hollows in the ground and had to free my boots, my coat, my hair from the thick, sometimes thorny underbrush before I could get to my feet and continue on.

Even though my difficulties made it seem as though I’d been walking forever, I knew that in reality I had only been walking for a few minutes. Still, I also knew that I’d been walking long enough that I should have come to the gate, or at the very least either the creek or the fence surrounding the moon garden. My senses told me I was either truly disoriented within the moon garden, or I had in some way been transported somewhere else. But how is that possible? Even as I spoke the words aloud, I recalled my unintentional venture back into Charlotte’s time just weeks ago.

Giving myself a shake to dispel the unsettling memory, I continued on. It wasn’t long before I came to a break in the trees that brought me to a paved road that was partially snow-covered. My pulse quickened. Although I knew there was no way it could be Onion Run Road, logic told me that if I followed this road, it would eventually lead somewhere, or to someone who could tell me where I was and how to get back home.

As I chose a direction and began walking, a distant voice from within the trees to my right caught my attention. I stopped, listening hard. At first I heard nothing but the babbling of the snow-muffled creek and the softer sound of the wintry mix falling on the dormant trees. Thinking I’d imagined it, I kept going.

There it was again—a weak voice from somewhere beyond the road, and it sounded like someone in trouble. I hesitated; it was already getting dark, and I was unsure of my surroundings. What if I left the main road and became even more disoriented in those unfamiliar woods?

When the voice came a third time, more insistent and desperate, I abandoned thoughts of my own safety and plunged headlong into the trees. It was difficult to see in front of me, and I stumbled several times in the deep-snow-covered underbrush. Chunks of snow lodged inside my boots, making my ankles first burn from the cold and then become numb.

Something on my left caught my eye, and I came to an abrupt halt—a light! I squinted as I tried to make out what it was through the trees. I suddenly felt foolish as I realized it was a porch light; there was a house set back from the main road not more than a couple hundred feet from where I stood. The voice I’d heard must have come from the house and not from the woods as I’d first thought. My chagrin turned to hope as I realized I could stop at the house and ask for directions back to my own house.

As I turned to make my way back to the road, I heard the voice again, weaker yet more desperate, somewhere behind me in the woods. Now certain that the voice hadn’t come from the house, I turned around once more and with renewed purpose set off in the direction of the sound.

Almost immediately, the creek was in front of me, and my heart sank. If the person who’d been calling for help was on the other side, I would have to cross the creek to reach him. Seeing no footbridge, I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the house, debating whether I should continue searching or go to the house for help.

Help me, please. Swamp Angel, if you’re real...help me.

Swamp Angel? My attention snapped back to the voice in the woods; it sounded as though the person was just across the creek. Could he see me? I called out softly, Hello? Where are you? Do you need help?

Rustling in the underbrush on the opposite side made me squint into the darkness, looking for the source of the sound. At first I saw nothing but snow, trees, and tangled underbrush, but then I thought I saw slight movement. I crept as close as I could to the edge of the creek, calling out again, Hello? Do you need help?

Suddenly, what I thought was just a heap of snow shifted, and I saw it was a person who had collapsed between two trees. A snow-covered head rose up a few inches, and I sensed that the person saw me. My suspicion was confirmed when a hand was raised to wave weakly. Swamp...Angel. Please help...me.

Knowing that whoever it was had either fallen sick or been injured, I charged ahead, breaking through the thin film of ice that had begun to form on the knee-deep creek. I let out a wail of shock as the frigid water filled my boots and soaked my jeans. I stumbled forward clumsily, trying to keep my balance. I knew if I fell in, hypothermia would set in quickly, and I would be of no help to the stricken person on the other side.

I sloshed clumsily across the creek and made it to the opposite bank, and then went directly to the person-sized heap between the trees and knelt down. It appeared to be a tall, husky man, and judging by the amount of snow covering his back, I guessed he had been there awhile. However, what I’d thought was snow covering his head wasn’t snow at all, but was in fact...a shawl? I unwound the shawl from his head and held it close to see it better in the dim light. My jaw dropped as I realized it wasn’t just a shawl; it was my shawl! My missing shawl! How had he—

Help...me. Please...

The man’s voice drew my attention away from the shawl. As I focused on the man before me, I immediately recognized him as the young man who had stopped at the Copper Kettle to ask for directions. What do you need? How can I help?

Swamp Angel...you came. Help me...

Since the man wouldn’t directly answer any of my questions, I assumed he was either delirious or couldn’t hear me. The only thing I knew for certain was that he was in dire need of medical attention. I stood and glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the house I’d passed. The porch light was barely visible from here. Could the man walk? If I could get him to see the light, would he be able to gather the strength to walk there? I had to try.

Kneeling down once more, I shook him and took his face in my hands. I was shocked at how cold his skin was; even his beard was covered with frost. I raised his face so he was looking at me. Can you walk? Can you make it over there? I turned and pointed toward the house. See the house?

He still seemed not to hear my words, but his glazed eyes followed the direction of my gesture. For just a moment, a flash of hope lit his face, as though he had in fact seen the light at which I was pointing. Just as quickly, however, his eyes became dull with defeat, and he let himself slump to the ground again as though giving up. Can’t...walk. Ankle...

I knew I had to act fast. He needed medical attention soon, but he needed warmth now, or he wouldn’t make it. I picked up the shawl and glanced at it, wondering again how it had come to be in his possession. Worry about that mystery later, okay? I gave myself a shake and wrapped it around his head once more, tucking it inside his coat. It wasn’t much, I knew, but I hoped it would be enough to preserve him until help could arrive.

I got to my feet and picked my way carefully across the creek before starting through the trees toward the house. Snow was still falling and accumulating rapidly, making my trek more difficult. Once, I glanced back at the unfortunate man, but I could only make out an ill-defined heap between two trees. I had the fleeting fear that my tracks would soon be covered by snow, and I wouldn’t be able to guide rescuers to him. I tried desperately to quicken my pace.

Soon, I emerged from the trees into a modest back yard. In a sudden moment of panic, I thought, What if no one is home? Thankfully, as I got closer to the house, I saw lights on inside and heard muffled voices that I knew came from a television.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I made my way up onto the deck. Through the sliding glass door, I could see a man and a woman sitting in the living room watching TV. Just as I raised a hand to knock on the glass, the man glanced over and saw me standing there. His eyes went wide with fear as he launched from his chair and pointed at me...

THE NEXT MOMENT, I was standing alone just outside the moon garden gate, bewildered. Looking around, I could tell it was once again late afternoon and not twilight. The sky had begun to cloud over, and a few stray snow flurries fell. The ground around me was still muddy and devoid of snow, with only the same remaining patches that had been there when I’d first come outside.

Fear swept over me, and I was overcome by the notion that the moon garden had become some kind of vortex. Afraid of being swept again into some unknown place and time, I pushed the heavy gate shut, making sure it latched. Then I turned to run pell-mell for the house, heedless of the mud that splashed up onto my jeans and my coat.

Reaching the house, I thundered up the steps, stopping abruptly at the door to catch my breath. I turned to look apprehensively over my shoulder, afraid that something had followed me, afraid that instead of my back yard, I would see the woods from which I’d just come. When all appeared normal, I let out a sigh of relief, involuntarily reaching up to clutch Celeste’s shawl. I gasped as I realized that it wasn’t draped around my shoulders.

Still somewhat confused over