Chapter 8: Wheel of Fate

After I dropped off the cardboard at the recycling center, I drove straight to Maggie’s shop.

When I entered the shop and began browsing, Maggie was busy at the counter, scanning receipts and filling out paperwork. Though she did not immediately greet me, she did raise her head to make eye contact as a show of acknowledgment.

I took my time examining the merchandise, as I didn’t want my intentions to be immediately evident. It wasn’t until I paused at a selection of straw dolls did Maggie approach.

“Welcome back,” she greeted me warmly. “Have you found what you are looking for?”

I gazed at the stack of crudely fashioned dolls and plucked one wearing a green-and-white gingham dress from the huddle. “Are these voodoo dolls?”

“Why? Are you wanting to curse someone?” she asked, appearing slightly amused.

“Oh no, that’s horrible,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to do that to anybody. I was just curious.”

“They are protection effigies,” Maggie informed me. “They are stuffed with rosemary, sage, and lavender. You place them on your bed to promote sleep and healing.”

“Oh, that makes me feel much better,” I proclaimed, clutching the doll to my chest. “What about those dolls over there?”

“Those are Bridgid dolls. The ritual is the same, except the bed needs to be next to a fireplace to welcome light and fortune into the home,” she advised.

I gazed at the rows of unusual dolls. “Do they work?”

“Buy one, then let me know.”

“Oh, I didn’t come here to purchase anything,” I said, offering her the doll back. “I just wanted to talk.”

“This is a store,” Maggie reminded me. “Monetary exchanges are expected.”

“I’ll buy the doll if you will take a few moments to speak with me?” I bartered, surprised by her shift in demeanor. She had seemed so eager and helpful the day before.

One of Maggie’s eyebrows rose in skepticism.

My mind scrambled. This wasn’t going as I had intended. I’d first intended to shoot a bunch of questions at her like a harried reporter and hope one would be intriguing enough for an answer.

But then my gaze landed on a sign advertising palm reading.

“What if I bought a palm reading?” I suggested.

Maggie cocked her head in consideration. After a few moments, she opened her hand and said, “That will be fifty dollars for twenty minutes.”

“Fifty dollars?” I repeated in disbelief. Though my funds were low at the moment, I realized that I had nothing to bargain with. So, I reached into my back pocket for my billfold. “Whoever said talk is cheap is a big fat liar.”

“The best speakers usually are,” Maggie agreed as she accepted my money.

I prepared to start querying her, but Maggie placed a hand up to stop me. “Palm reading is done in private,” she informed me. “Let me put a sign on the door so we are not disturbed.”

I waited patiently as Maggie went behind the counter and found a sign that said, “~Palm reading in session~,” which she hung on the door.

“Can’t people still walk in?” I asked when I noticed that she failed to also lock the door.

“My usual customers know the drill,” she said, walking over to the door frame that only had a velvet curtain protecting the entrance. “Now, if you will follow me, we can start your reading.”

I wanted to remind her that I didn’t actually want a palm reading, but resisted out of fear she may call the entire thing off.

The reading room was what I had anticipated. There were strange masks on the walls, mysterious books piled on tables and the floor, and in the center of the room was a round table, shrouded in silk, with a crystal ball for a centerpiece.

Maggie pulled out a chair from the circular table and gestured at the opposing seat, inviting me to sit. I did as she instructed.

“Can you see the future in this thing?” I inquired, reaching out to cradle the glass ball in my palms.

“I won’t be able to see anything if you keep smudging it with fingerprints.”

“Sorry.” I quickly withdrew my hands. “That was rude of me. I know better than to touch things that aren’t mine. I’m just nervous.”

Maggie ignored my ramblings. Instead, she returned the conversation to the ball in the center of the table. “That is not a crystal ball. It is simply a glass sphere.”

“Well, that’s not very mystical,” I jested.

“Oh, but it is,” Maggie said. “Spheres are special. They are the most resilient shape, and unlike all the other geometrical shapes, they can roll, they can bounce, and due to their contours”—she paused and cocked her head so she could gaze through the glass—“they can distort reality.”

I took a moment to think this over and realized that she was correct. “Whoa…,” I breathed.

“Enough about crystal balls,” Maggie said, extending her hand. “Place your hands on mine with your palms up.”

I did as she instructed, assuming she had understood that the reading was only a ruse to speak with her, but to my surprise, Maggie began investigating my palms.

“I assume you are a curious person,” she finally said.

“Is that what the lines in my palms told you?” I asked, hardly able to prevent my sarcasm from seeping into my tone.

“No, you said you were here to ask me some questions,” Maggie shot back.

I resisted withdrawing my hands as I said, “Yes, I am curious about something. When we first met, you mentioned that you were close to Virginia Cole. I started reading her book, ~Until We Collapse~, and I noticed some similarities between you and the character Annie.”

“Annie was clever and very perceptive,” she simply remarked, neither confirming nor denying my suspicions.

“You think so?” I said, attempting to bait her, but she didn’t bite, so I redirected my questioning. “In the book, Annie spoke of the house as if it were a telephone—like an open line to another dimension. Do you think that is possible?”

“That depends on why you are asking,” Maggie replied, not diverting her eyes from my palms.

“Are we going to talk in circles the entire session?” I spat. “If so, I want my money back.”

Maggie released my hands, threw her head back, and laughed. Though her chuckles were warm, I was unsettled by them.

After a few moments, I asked, “What’s so funny?”

“You. Accusing me of talking in circles when ~you~ are the one beating around the bush,” she stated, clasping her hands together. “Tell me, what happened? Why are you really here?”

I exhaled, relieved that we were finally getting somewhere but reluctant to tell my story. I knew how small-town gossip spread, and I did not want to be labeled as cuckoo.

But I suspected if there was anyone in town I could trust, it was Maggie, so I began to tell her about the strange phenomenon I had been experiencing.

I watched her expression as I spoke, and not once did I detect any doubt.

As I finished, I added, “In my dream, Dan and Karen Johnson were much younger than they had been when they passed, and when I compared the details from my dreams to the photos included in Virginia’s books, the accuracy is astounding.”

Maggie sat back and studied me. “Maybe you weren’t consciously aware that you had viewed pictures of Dan and Karen,” Maggie surmised. “The conscious mind compartmentalizes, but the subconscious doesn’t miss much.”

Before I could object, she added, “But that isn’t important. What do you think was the meaning behind the dream?”

“Before I woke up, Dan was praying in the basement. He pledged that he would do anything to make things work and something replied to him. I didn’t get a chance to find out if Dan responded, because my mother woke me.”

“Why is his answer so important to you?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “What happened to the Johnsons doesn’t make any sense. The family seemed to be doing so well before the massacre.”

“So, you think he invited the darkness?” Maggie pressed.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t think about it much until now. I guess I just assumed the house was haunted,” I replied. “Maybe the daughter, Melinda, was under the house’s influence when she poisoned her family.”

“Houses don’t haunt people, people haunt houses,” Maggie stated confidently.

Before I had a chance to press her, she leaned over the table and lightly lifted the pendant that hung around my neck. “Do you know what the meaning behind the wheel of dharma is?”

“I know dharma is the path of goodness that all people are seeking—some religions consider it a law of social order,” I rattled off.

“And the eight spokes on the wheel represent all the cosmic laws,” Maggie continued. “Didn’t you ever find it odd that it was shaped like the captain’s wheel on a ship, as if to say that we are all at the helm, and it is our responsibility to steer our destiny?”

“My father gave it to me as a reminder to remain on the right path,” I confirmed. “But it never made sense to me. If your theory is true, then why do dreadful things happen to good people?”

“How do you know that they don’t bring it on themselves?” Maggie queried.

“Why would they?” I asked, displaying my hands. “I don’t think anyone likes it when things go wrong.”

“No, they don’t,” Maggie agreed. “But everyone likes to imagine themselves as prophetic. They often expect bad outcomes, and when the universe delivers, they are satisfied by being proven right, and when they are treated with grace, they will often participate in self-sabotage.”

“So, being right is more important than the outcome? Why would anyone upend their life for a little self-satisfaction?”

“Because it makes life seem predictable,” Maggie concluded.

“Do you think that was what Dan did?” I asked. “Do you think he sabotaged his family?”

“Not intentionally,” Maggie replied. “I think darkness called and he answered without considering the consequences. Dan Johnson possibly got what he thought he wanted, but he planted the seed because of the fruit, not for what the fruit could provide.”

“What would you advise me to do?” I asked her.

“Nothing,” Maggie stated abruptly, “because our time is up.”

I gaped at her. “Are you serious?”

She answered by rising and gestured for me to do the same.

I bit my lip. She had taken all my money, and I doubted my mother would let me swipe her card for a palm reading.

“Thank you for your time…,” I said, not bothering to disguise my bitterness.

She held back the curtain and allowed me to pass. Without looking at her, I made a beeline for the door.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” Maggie called out to me, “but I can give you some parting advice.”

I spun around and crossed my arms over my chest, hating myself for granting her the courtesy.

“Be careful what you wish for, and consider how you will answer if darkness calls,” she said, then added, “You can keep the doll. It’s on the house.”

I gasped when I realized that I must have grabbed a straw doll without realizing it. I was about to offer to give it back, but instead I held it to my chest. At least I was recouping some of my loss.