Nothing To See Here: “Red Wine Ouija” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

The appearance of Jordan Psenka was real enough to be shocking. Yet didn’t quite add up, chronologically. If he had been dead for a century, and employed at a store on our township square before the closed IGA that a few older neighbors remembered from the 1940s, then his connection to me and the lot where my prefab home sits could not be confirmed. The residence park wouldn’t have existed in his time. Therefore, this ghostly claim of being pushed off his spot, at home and at work, seemed illogical.

 

But Mercy Goodrich-Tait only intensified her spiritual search for knowledge. She put aside the Ouija board, and returned to her readings in red wine.

 

“You see neighbor, on the other side, there are no concepts of time. A day might well become a year, or longer. Perhaps a thousand years! Those who have crossed over perceive everything as being part of a unified whole. Calendars and measurements of distance are irrelevant. What matters is that their memories from the mortal plane are respected...”

 

I could not help thinking that this explanation bordered on a nonsensical rant of hucksterism. Still, I did not want to offend my host. Her passion for peering into the realm of otherworldly spirits was genuine enough. So, I simply shrugged and nodded.

 

“Okay then, your take is that this butcher from antiquity thinks I stole his acre of mud?”

 

The wise crone smiled while refilling her goldfish bowl with fermented, red juices.

 

“If you like to view it in that context, then yes. I prefer an opposite point of reference. He has chosen you as his contact in the timeline. Your manufactured hut is where he must have had a cabin hewn from logs. And the business that succeeded his trading outpost was also part of the story. We view only a chapter of this tale, as people of the flesh. But once our souls pass beyond the veil, then we become part of the eternal saga. Everything, as I said, is connected to everything else, ultimately. And all of that is tied to our origin as a species, sired by a cosmic creator.”

 

I rubbed my eyes while attempting to understand.

 

“You’re referencing the idea of... God? Isn’t that out of character for a mystic seer?”

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait cackled so loudly that her fishbowl began to ring like a chime.

 

“EVERYTHING IS PART OF THE GRAND SUM, RODNEY! DON’T YOU SEE?”

 

I had expected some sort of palm reading, or display of Tarot cards, with a prediction of future events. But she had given me a challenging perspective on life, death, and what might come afterward.

 

“Okay, let me put two and two together here. A settler from the early days of this state practiced his trade to feed pioneer families. Then, those of the postwar era continued to develop their civilization, locally. And now, I am sitting in the midst of their graves? Apparently not showing the proper respect for what transpired, beforehand?”

 

My benefactor rattled her bracelets, and huffed at this note of skepticism.

 

“You must learn to live beyond the ‘now’ Rodney! Your eyes see what lies on the land, and hangs over us in the sky. But for those like myself, I have learned to perceive much, much more. Listen to me, and learn. Listen to the visitor who gifted us with his presence, and learn!”

 

She dropped more pieces of uncooked pasta into her reserve of wine. Then, began to narrow her gaze, with a frown of concentration. She put both hands on the glass vessel, and repeated a chant I did not recognize.

 

“Darksome night and shining moon, East then South, then West, then North; Hearken to the witches’ rune – Here I come to call thee forth!”

 

I could hear my stomach gurgling in protest. A quick glance at my wristwatch indicated that I had passed the normal hour for drinking cool beverages on my front porch. My patience was wearing thin.

 

“You really want to hear from that phantasm again?”

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait hummed a melody of droning, ancient characteristics. She brought her face close to the bowl, and began to breathe rhythmically.

 

“Grace us with your knowledge. Forgive us if we are careless. Our intentions are pure, our hearts are just. We pledge to you our devotion as children of the Grand Goddess...”

 

Again, an inexplicable rush of wind blew across the crowded room. Cats scattered for cover. Artifacts toppled from their perches. A painting actually fell off its wall hanger. And my belly ached from the pervasive uneasiness.

 

“Look, ma’am, I think this has been an interesting experience to say the least. But my time on the clock must have run out. Or sand in the hourglass, however you measure such things!”

 

A guttural voice barked from the shadows. Jordan Psenka was offended by my impatience.

 

“SIT AND BE QUIET, MORTAL MAN! THIS WOMAN HAS SUMMONED ME AGAIN, AND I WILL HONOR HER TROUBLED PLEA WITH ANOTHER PART OF THE STORY!”

 

My head drooped. I could not stop trembling in my seat.

 

“Alrighty then, say your piece! I’m not going anywhere...”

 

The veteran cutter of meats whispered in my ear.

 

“My smokehouse was ruined in a fire. It left me a pauper, with no way to feed my wife and children. They departed for relatives who lived across the lake. I was left alone, with no means of support. I could never afford to follow them to those new lands in the north. My cabin collapsed during a storm in the summer that followed. I was hungry and cold at the end. Eventually, they buried my bones up on the hill, without a proper funeral. I have been forgotten now, but not by this sorceress! And as it happens, not by you! In your dreams, I have been able to live again! For that, I give thanks!”

 

The cryptic confession caused me to chill. Had I lost control of my own mind?

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait released her grasp, and sat back in the crude, handmade chair.

 

“Do you understand, Rodney? You have been chosen. I am only a conduit for comprehension. A pathway from the old to the new. Your cause is clear now, to embrace this voyager, and remember his sacrifice. You must go to the township cemetery. And stand before his burial plot, with reverence!”

 

Before I could respond, she got to her feet, spun around the small chamber, and tore away every curtain from its tall windows. Sunlight flooded into the confined space. I realized that the séance session had finally concluded. Yet I was grateful for any excuse to leave the musty trailer, and its furry, feline inhabitants.

 

“I’ll do whatever you ask, if that brings a conclusion to this weird episode! Let me out of here!”

 

I did not really expect to find Psenka’s grave on the hilltop. But with enough searching among the older plots, a weathered stone appeared with an inscription faded over time. Two knives were crossed under the name, tools of a trade from yesteryear that is still extant, today. A cross had been carved for the top, but was crumbling around its edges.

 

“Here lies a man who did but his best. We commend him this day to an eternity in rest. Let his kin proclaim what he believed throughout life – that the blessings of God were his children and wife. Amen.”

 

The epitaph felt odd for someone who had been abandoned as a byproduct of fate. But with my hands clasped and head bowed, I realized that at least, his memory would no longer be a footnote of history.