What Lingers

Chapter One

"I'm so glad to have helped you, Mrs. Spate."
You smiled softly as you snuffed out the remaining smolder of the tea light candle, sliding the metal lid over it. The steady stream of smoke danced as you disturbed it, the scent of rosemary and patchouli lingering in the air. Rosalie had come again to ensure the child growing inside her, round and stubborn beneath her ribs, would stay that way. The life you'd helped conjure. Truth be told, you put in more work than Mr. Spate. The man was older than dirt and half as fertile. It took herbs, rituals, and more than one session bathed in candlelight and prayer to pull that baby from the other side. Each visit a little darker than the last. That's why she comes weekly now. To make sure it stuck.

"Oh, honey, you don't understand how grateful I am," Rosalie murmured, tears brimming in her eyes as her hands cradled her belly.
You followed her out to the porch, your bare feet creaking against the old wood, and took her hand in yours.

"Of course I do, Mrs. Spate. You tell me every time," you chuckled, helping guide her down the steps toward her waiting wagon.

"But if you really want to show me how grateful you are," you added, tightening your grip just slightly, "you keep showing up. No skipping, no second-guessing. You hear?"

"Of course," she said quickly, like it had already been settled in her spirit. "I'd never risk missing a session."
She hoisted herself up into the seat; too high for her liking, not low enough to keep her from doing it anyway. You steadied her with both hands, making sure her weight settled evenly before she could tip.

"Now you tell that man of yours to get a proper car. Something a pregnant woman can climb into without needing a damn ladder, we know he can afford it. And next time, knock three times like I said. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

Rosalie laughed, giving you a tired wave as the horses started down the dusty road.
"Will do," she called out, her voice fading with the distance.

You stood at the edge of the porch, watching the wagon disappear down the winding path. The wind carried the scent of wet pine and kicked up a bit of dust...but that wasn't what made you stiffen.

There it was again. That feeling.

That tingle at the back of your neck, like the air had eyes.

You turned slowly, gaze scanning the tree line beside your house. Just shadows and hush.

"Probably an animal," you muttered. But something inside you twisted all the same.
No birds. No bugs. No breeze now. Just silence. And something watching.

Your hand drifted down to your waist, to the place where your mojo bag always sat, tucked tight beneath your clothes like a second skin.

*

Your eyes shut as you release a deep sigh, the hot water easing the stiffness in your body after a long day of what your husband likes to call "sitting around the house." Unbeknownst to him, you'd been on your feet since sunrise; visiting the markets, tending to your herb garden, dressing candles, and sewing mojo bags.

"Silly little crafts," he calls them. But those so-called crafts are the reason there's food on the table and the tin roof doesn't leak when the storms come.

He makes good money working nights on the railroad. But he can't seem to keep it in his pockets long enough to do anything responsible with it. He thinks you're clueless about how he's been spending his wages. All he knows is his wife can't work. That would be a dishonor. A shame to his name.

But work is all you do. Days are spent tending to the house and your husband. And when he leaves for the night shift, you go to work too. Stitching bags, steeping teas, dressing candles with herbs. Rootwork, they'd call it—devil work, because according to everyone around here, if it wasn't of God, it had to be evil.. But nobody speaks of it, because to speak of it would mean you know.