Weathering Old Souls :Metaphysical, Spiritual Historical Fiction by James J. Cudney & Didi Oviatt ➱ Book Tour with Giveaway
One
morning as winter should’ve been transitioning into spring, an eight-year-old
Abigail awakens with a piercing scream. She bolts upright and snails herself to
the edge of her bed, placing a heavy hand on her chest to help steady herself
and catch her breath. Her body twinges as though she’s fallen down a flight of
stairs or been slammed by a double-decker trolley. The agony starts in the
muscles behind her shoulder blade. From there it feels like a rocket exploded,
escaping through her chest, leaving only traces of burning gases to snake their
way through the rest of her fragile body. She coughs violently as her system
tries to rid itself of unknown toxins.
The
bedroom is dark and frigid because the pipes broke the previous day and her
father was too busy sleeping off a hangover to call a contractor to fix them.
Oliver has no mechanical knowledge or experience with home repair, but he tells
Abigail that the Stauntons will address the issue since their heating system
has also experienced problems with the winter storms that year. It’s been an
unpredictable season, much more so than the usual winter in South Carolina.
Some days Abigail has played outside all afternoon, hardly catching a chill.
Others she wakes to a beautifully ominous layer of frost clinging to every
blade of yellow grass as if its very life depends on it.
A thin
glint of light pushes through the crack between the bottom of the broken shade
and the splintered windowsill. Abigail watches as the sparkly dust settles on
the foot of her bed and shines brightly. It reminds her of the quartz necklace
dangling on the neck of the woman in her scary dream. It was gorgeous and made
the woman feel safe and comforted as it has in every dream where it made an
appearance. Abigail’s told Margaret about the necklace many times, wishing she
could hop out of bed today and do it again. It’s only been two months since she
saw Margaret, but missing her is more than just a faint feeling. It’s soul
crushing. She aches for Margaret’s companionship like any other child would her
own sibling who’s grown up and gone on without her.
In her
nightmare, Abigail was stuck inside the body of an old lady running through a
field, sweat pouring from her head down the curves of her hollowed and withdrawn
cheeks. It was pitch black, and there were trees all around her, the wind
shaking the branches such that they whispered secret directions in an unknown
language. They resembled monsters with claw-like arms and vicious teeth, ready
to bite her flailing limbs. Someone had been chasing her, but Abigail never saw
the figure’s face.
Confusion
rocks her body. Part of her is the small innocent child who wants to scream for
Elizabeth, but a stronger piece of her feels much older, more mature, as if
she’s lived for decades, maybe even centuries. She shakes through the aftermath
of terror, unable to make sense of what happened in her sleep. All she knows is
that it was horrific and made her fear something awful was destined to happen.
Abigail wonders if her nightmares relate to the bits of conversation she’s
overheard between Elizabeth and Bradford in the past. Elizabeth once said
something about a killer coming after them again, but they’d ultimately agreed
they were much safer now.
After
deliberating with Imaginary May for a few moments, Abigail announces, “I can
handle this on my own. I am a big girl. Margaret’s gone, but she taught me to
be strong.”
She
cuddles the teddy bear that Elizabeth gifted her last month for Valentine’s
Day. Elizabeth had always bought one for Margaret when she was a child, the
kind of mother and daughter tradition that Abigail has always yearned for. This
is the first year that Margaret has been away for Spring Break during
Valentine’s Day. Elizabeth missed her daughter immensely, so she purchased two
identical teddy bears at the local toy store. One for Margaret, who would be
home on Spring Break soon, and one for her favorite little neighbor and second
daughter.
With a
heavy sigh, Abigail stretches her arms above her head, extends her legs, and
spreads her toes apart. Then she drops her chin to her chest, before rolling
her head around in big circles. Four times each direction, one for every major
element. She studied them in school that year. With each round of her neck, Abigail
breathes in and counts to ten, then she lets out the air and reminds herself of
everything she has to be grateful for. Margaret once taught her this morning
routine, to help her ease the body tremors brought about by a nightmare, as the
last doctor she saw refused to give any pain medication or advice. The
stretching and breathing exercises help, and her pains slowly evaporate like a
faint mist over a swamp.
An oblong
mirror that’s mounted to the wall across from her window offers Abigail a dust-clouded
view of her messy hair as it knots and sticks out in every direction, along
with her worn-out unicorn covered nightgown. She chuckles at the sight of
herself, and the last of her anxiety and spasms disappear. She imagines the
body aches to have a color, a dull shade of lilac, as they lift in a swirling
pattern like hazy smoke and exit out of the beam of light coming through the
window.
“Stay
away, you filthy bloke,” she chastises the imaginary swirl of colorful
pain.
Thank you so much! ❤
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