1. THE LESSON OF THE CROW

    Black Oak Cemetery was old and worn; the pavement cracked with gravel edges where the grass made stubborn incursions. The grove of black oaks abutting the cemetery gave it its name. Inside, the trees near the graves were Italian cypress. Monument spires also stabbed skyward. Headstones and flat marble plaques were embe dded in the ground. And, infrequently scattered, were the mausoleums blocks of the rich, who were determined to be as important in death as they had been in life.
     A dreary gray overcast hung low. I’d have preferred a sunny morning, but no one asked me. I left my restored ’84 convertible Spitfire Triumph parked outside the Cemetery Road entrance. I came here for the company. The dead had a lot of time and were good listeners. They didn’t judge, being past petty concerns. I hadn’t known any of these people—except Aunt Liliane, whom people said I took after.
     I turned toward my aunt’s grave, a headstone down by a clump of serpent-limbed oak. I passed a couple of stone angels and mausoleums. The autumn wind tugged my coat and hair. I reached my aunt’s headstone. It stood beside its twin. The second marker was for Miles Sands, my one-time uncle by marriage. He’d gone first, and years later,  Aunt Liliane had followed. I read the inscription: In Loving Memory…
     For the sake of warm memories, I kept faith with the dead which so few did when it wasn’t Memorial Day. I bent my neck in submission. “Lord, keep looking out after my Aunt. Let her know she’s remembered. And loved, here as above. Give me strength for life and joy to celebrate your goodness on this miserable little cursed bit of rock plowing its way across your pristine universe. And if you can help people to stop hating so much, I’d really appreciate it. Amen.”
      I moved on. Over by the nearest oaks stood a picnic table that had seen better days. It was dingy gray, the wood a little crumbly along the edges. I reached the table. It marked a boundary. This was as far from town as I could go in this direction. An unseen border passed through here, one I had to respect. I had no choice. It might as well have been the inside of a prison wall.
      The same wall had been here for Aunt Liliane until death freed her. Now, it was my turn.
      I sat down at the safe end of the table and took out a packet of unsalted, sunflower seeds. I tore it open, made a small pile in the middle of the table, and waited with patience—something I’d gotten good at this past year.
      A “Caw!” greeted me and a flutter of black wings. A crow landed beside the seeds. He looked at me from profile, as if to ask, “Do I not have an awesome beak? Don’t you love its seductive curve?”
      I spoke softly. “Good morning, Mr. Crow. Have you gotten that early worm yet?”
      Ignoring the question, he fed. A year ago, he’d greet my female invasion with raucous indignation. Over the months, as I’d returned to leave him offerings, his attitude had gotten better. He no longer had a problem sharing his table—though he still kept a watchful eye out.
     A good habit.
     There were other crows up in the winding branches. They missed out due to a lack of courage.
     “Thank you, Mr. Crow, for teaching me the importance of a valiant spirit.”
     He paused to look at me with both black eyes.
     I stayed perfectly still.
     He went back to eating, lord of all he surveyed.
     My breath fogged in the cold air. I felt the autumn in my bones as if I were ancient, not just out of college. The peace of this place seeped into my soul as I waited for Joe Crow to finish. He finally departed with a flutter of wings, rejoining his feathered tribe in the branches.
     Getting up, I walked back toward my car. I’d come early so no one would see me communing with crows. My reputation was bad enough. I didn’t want to start any accusations of consorting with familiars. It was one reason I hadn’t gotten a cat while living here. Small town gossip can be a slow death by a thousand cuts.
     Vaguely, I wondered how many more there were to go.

 2. THE OBSIDIAN HEART

     Business hours were over. I turned the closed sign and suddenly leaped back as Tamara burst through the front door. Her pale face, black hair, and black lipstick declared a Goth sensibility that was a little out of place in the Arkansas Ozarks. She had a pierced lip, eyebrow, and many more piercings along the outer ridge of one ear where green tourmalines glittered in gold settings.
     I knew her as a young woman who fronted a local all-girl Goth band called Fantomime. She looked pretty much the same on or off stage, except at the moment, her eyes were impossibly wide. She hurried her words, “I’ve just been to the hospital. It’s horrible! Call the curse back. Let it be over.”
     “I’m sorry,” I said. “Shadows have been loosed. I can’t call them back. They aren’t mine. If you were going to relent, you should never have embraced vengeance.”
     Tamara shouted, “It can’t be too late. This isn’t what I wanted!”
     “You didn’t beg me for justice? You didn’t take my obsidian heart in hand and whisper a prayer of darkness?”
     The official name of the shop was The Raven’s Trove. Painted on the big window was a silhouette of a raven guarding a pocket watch.
     I stared across the room at a glass-shelved curio cabinet. A small stand in there cradled a black-glass heart with a little crack in it. The crack was a kind of keyhole for peering into an Abyss, a sort of antechamber to hell. The heart had a shelf all to itself: one of many cursed relics available to people like Tamara. She’d thrown caution to the wind and now regretted it. I’d known she would. I’d done my best to dissuade her.
     Curses always come back to bite the hand that frees them.
     Aunt Liliane had left this place to me. She’d claimed I was the daughter she’d never had, the only member of the family who’d ever been nice to her. So, all this was now mine.
     Lucky me.
     Tamara reached to grab hold of me, but stopped short, not quite daring. I think she wanted to shake some sense into me, like I didn’t understand. But I did. She was just beginning to see that her vengeance was going to make her a bad person, and she’d grown up in deep Catholic fear of just that fate.
     Her eyes were wild, her breathing fast. Her hands found each other, clenching as if around an invisible microphone. “I didn’t know what I was doing!”
     I sighed. “Often we don’t. It’s how we go through life.”
     We don’t always get what we want. And sometimes, we get exactly what we want, we just stop wanting it.
     I stared into her eyes and gave her the truth. “I can’t help you. You own this curse. You set it free, going against my good advice. Now live with it.”
     Hope—like light—bled from her eyes, turning them into burnt cinders. Her cigarette-damaged voice rasped, “They were right; you’re a horrible person!”
     Yes. I am. God forgive me.
     I crowded her. “I need to close now. You should leave.” My tone of voice implied: Or else! Not that I had anything to back it up with. I own a curio shop; I’m not some dark fantasy heroine out to save the world. I couldn’t change what she’d done. That was beyond my power. I needed her to face that finality. And just go.
     Sometimes, attitude is enough.
     Her breath caught. She stumbled back, spun, and ran out, slamming the front door behind her. My shop was a place of darkness, dust, despair, and occasionally doom. There might be other ds; I wasn’t done counting.
      The Trove was a place I’d never wanted to own. I’d run away myself if I could, but I was trapped. My job was to never sell the cursed items, to keep them out of the hands of the good and the wicked, but not away from fools. My shop was the opposite of Pandora’s Box; I had everything here, but hope. That was sold in the churches around town, where good people called me a witch—not that I was. In less enlightened times, I’d have been burned at the stake, or loaded down with chains and allowed to swim for my life.
     People don’t often realize that God hides His Children in the darkness under his wings where we shine best. Some believers have noble callings. Others receive less honor, serving in unconventional ways.
     I ought to know.
     Scripture came to mind: God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty.
     B.F.M. I sighed. Bait for monsters, that’s me.
     During my aunt’s time, the town had grown more and more aware that something mysterious lived here like an ill-defined ghost slipping by at the corners of sight. A few of the more perceptive citizens knew sorrows sometimes bled from my shop. Sometimes, strangers stood out there in the town square, looking at my building with troubled expressions.
     I’d pray for them to ignore rumor and move on. To not come inside in search of things better left alone. When they went away, leaving my stock alone, I had a good day.
     Locking the door, I looked outside and saw one such visitor across the street, staring at my closed sign. He stood tall, a lean, twenty-something man, wearing a longcoat, jeans, black harness-style boots, and a black ski cap on his head.
     Something about him felt achingly familiar.
     He walked away.
     Maybe he’d return tomorrow. I hoped not because I wasn’t allowed to come between fools and their folly. I’d been warned by my dead aunt’s lawyer—the ever-succinct Jordan Corsa—that getting between fools and their folly was extremely dangerous. He lived here in town, had a thriving practice, and had handled the transfer of my aunt’s property to me. He seemed to know a great deal about the history of the Raven’s Trove, but he wasn’t forthcoming with many details.
     I remember the summers spent here with Aunt Liliane; she’d made a ritual out of turning the deadbolt and saying: “Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day.” Then her steps would lighten along with her spirit.
     I was still trying to get to that level of detachment.
     I went through an archway, into the storeroom. There was a kind of lounge set up with old furniture, a break room for one person—me. There was an old folding table, with napkins, cups, creamer, a box of sweetener, a box of plastic spoons, and on the floor, a small trashcan.
     Dominating it all, my Aunt’s family Bible sat on a wooden stand, opened to Psalms 91. I sometimes stood there, coffee in hand, wondering what it was about that passage that had spoken to her most. I had it memorized, though not necessarily in the right order.
     I checked to be sure the coffee pot was off, and made my way further back to a creaky wooden staircase. I followed the steps to a landing, then took a turn to the second-floor landing. Coming off the stairs, I went through a door and hit the light switch on the wall. Yellow-white light from a hanging lantern brightened things.
     With so much space and just one person, the place should have felt empty, but I had too many memories of time spent here with my aunt for that to happen. Still, without her animating spirit, the place had become a little strange, like a parallel world with one less source of brightness in it. Perhaps happiness wasn’t out of reach. Despite living under this burden, Liliane had enjoyed her life.
     I decided I owed it to her memory to do the same. I made up my mind to go out to the Crossroads Restaurant and Bar for the evening. I could at least pretend I had a life, distracting myself from the grinding gears of fate for a little while.
     Besides, it’s karaoke night.
     I stripped and took a shower in an antique claw-foot tub with a modern square-shaped shower head over it. The wraparound plastic curtain was navy blue with a leaping dolphin on it. There was something suspicious about his knowing smirk. Afterward, I dried my hair and dressed in black leggings, a denim shirt, and added a burgundy leather coat that matched my bag. I went downstairs wearing black running shoes though I never ran.
     Really, who likes to sweat?
     Letting myself out the back entrance, I locked the backdoor and went over to my green Triumph. It was old, but had a rebuilt transmission and engine. My dad—Big Ben Thornton—owned a string of garages and metal shops throughout Texas. He’d restored the car for me so I knew it was safe. My biggest regret was no longer being able to visit home.
     And not being able to say why.
     I slid in and started the engine. It fired up right away with a nice, low rumble. I backed up, turned, shifted gear, and rolled along the back alley to the closest side street. With no traffic coming, I pulled out and headed toward the edge of town. I could get as far as the Crossroads Restaurant, but no further. If I was in a car; the engine died. If I tried walking or running, I’d suddenly find myself back in town, in front of my shop.
     I hadn’t known when accepting my aunt’s legacy that involuntary residency was part of the deal. As towns went, Rutherford was nice enough. The buildings were quaint. The black walnut trees were beautiful with their flaming gold October leaves. The heavy fruit pods they dropped could be a nuisance if not collected, left to rot.
     There were a lot of wood-frame houses with white picket fences, old churches with weathered bricks and steeples, and the basic businesses that a town needed. Sadly, no Walmart Super Center. And the old theater had shut down, but we still had a bowling alley and a hardware store that sold bagged bay leaves, Cajun spice rubs, and locally harvested honey from clover-fed bees.
     It wasn’t long before I reached the Crossroads and found a parking space. It was still early in the evening. I had time for a meal before crossing over to the bar side of the business for karaoke and beer. As the newcomer in town, more people knew me than I could call by name, not that too many of them were friendly. Few were menacing, just standoffish. Only those few who’d known my aunt well made it a point to make me feel welcome when I ran into them.
     I went into the restaurant and was led to a booth. I settled, my purse beside me as the hostess laid a menu on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “Can I get you started with a drink?” She asked.
     “An ice tea, please.”
     “Coming right up.” She excused herself, hurrying off.
     I picked up the laminated monster and scanned the many options. The green chili omelet with fire-roasted peppers and sour cream caught my eye. It came with a choice of fries, onion rings, or tater tots.
     Perfect.
     A waitress came with my drink. She wore a small gold cross, had brassy blond hair, had a pinched look to her mouth as I gave my order. She left quickly without making small talk; a little rude, but that didn’t necessarily mean she knew who I was. I forced the shadow from my mind and sipped my drink. As I sat there, the restaurant filled.
     Then suddenly—cue the dramatic music—the long-coated stranger I’d seen from my shop window appeared at my table. And he wasn’t a stranger. It was my twin brother Clayton.
     “Hey there, Sara.”
     The ski cap was new; he normally sported a ball cap. And he usually shaved as well. It took me a second to place him. I stared. “Clay, what are you doing here?”
     “I’ve come to take you home. This is no kind of life for you. Dad’s worried sick.”
     For their sake, I lied. “I’m fine. There’s no need for concern.”
     “That’s not what I’ve been hearing from the people at the bar. They say you’re mixed up in something dark and twisted. Some kind of witch’s coven maybe. Or a cult.”
     “Flights of dark fancy. It’s not true . Sit down. Don’t make me more conspicuous than I am.”
     “See? Something is going on.”
     “Sit!” I hissed.
     He slid into the booth and reached for my hand. Clay was always the touchy-feely sort; a sensitive artist who was an absolute wizard at parts fabrication in one of my dad’s car restoration businesses.
     “Listen, Sis, I always supported you getting away summers to visit Aunt Liliane. You—coming back with stories—was the only way the family knew she was still alive and kicking. Lord knows, she never bothered to write to anyone, but you.”
     “People have to write letters to get letters,” I said. “Besides, she was a lonely old woman.”
     “Who wasted her life in this God-forsaken town. Dad tried often enough to get her to move back to Texas after Miles died. She preferred to stay here and wither. None of the family want to see that happen to you.”
     She had no choice and neither do I, but there’s no way to explain without sounding like a loon.
     He had two hands weighing down one of mine, as if—by osmosis—he could press his conviction into me. I took my free hand and patted his top hand. “I appreciate the concern, but even if I wanted to leave, I can’t just pack up and go. I have a business, property…”
     And a magic fold in the walls of space that stops me.
     “I’m staying however long it takes. Are you actually living above that old relic of a curio shop?”
     “I am. Where are you staying?”
     “Roadway Inn, just outside of town.”
     The waitress brought my food and this time lingered, giving my brother a bright smile. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
     He smiled back. “I could use some coffee and a slab of pie. What do you recommend, darlin’?”
     The waitress melted like butter in a hot skillet. My brother had three terms of address for women: Sis for me, ma’am for older ladies, and darlin’ for everyone else. I don’t think he knew the power of his twinkling blue eyes, dimples, and his soft, easy manner.
     “Well, uh, the apple crumb pie is good. So is the peach.”
     “Can I get an apple pie, heated, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top?”
     “Certainly, whatever you’d like,” she said.
     I suspected the answer would have been the same if he’d asked her to bear his children. Our family had always said he was the sweet twin while I was the sour. I don’t think they understood that their attitude made it a self-fulfilling prophecy.
     My dear, sweet brother is just the bear I have to cross.

     After lingering a bit longer, the waitress scurried off. At least her visit had distracted my brother, letting me reclaim my trapped hand. Which still left me the problem of what to do with him.