I nuzzled up against the carthorse. He whinnied and lowered his head so I could rub against him. I had a special fondness for horses both as a young witch and as a cat. Mrs. Bowers sat on a bale of hay, accepting tickets as one of the volunteers helped customers into the cart. Holding the reins, the handsome young man fixed his gaze on Abigail. She pulled the collar of her leather jacket around her neck to hide her blush. She might be used to such looks but did not take comfort from them. Just the opposite. I nudged her toward the cart. The young man reached down his hand from his seat. “Hi, I’m Bryson. Do you want a ride?”
I pushed my head against Abigail who grabbed his hand and jumped up. She settled next to him. I sat next to Abigail. Pixel tumbled up, balancing next to me. Bryson jerked the reins, and we took off down the trail through the tunnel of trees, leading into Biltmore Forest. Makeshift ghosts and skeletons hung from trees, swaying in the breeze. A speaker hidden by shrubs played eerie music and scary laughter. “You never told me your name?” Bryson asked.
“It’s Abigail.” She smiled shyly, glancing down.
“I don’t recognize you from 4-H. Are you new?”
“I’m new to town.”
“Oh.”
“Where are you from? Visiting? Vacationing? Doing the world tour of pumpkin fests?” he grinned.
“I’m just passing through,” Abigail said, shifting further away on the seat.
Bryson thought for a moment. “If you’re still around in an hour, would you want to walk around the fest? Maybe get some cider?”
Abigail turned silent. I could see she was troubled by his affection. As we rode deeper into the woods, bouncing with every bump, giggles came up from behind us. Zombies appeared, approached us and the kids in the back of the cart screamed. Abigail clung to Bryson. Pixel growled. Bryson put his arm around Abigail, smiling. I knew she was safe with him. He was a watcher. I had spotted him earlier in the day. His aura light was the same as Lionel’s, strong and pure. I saw him watch over the children as he helped them climb into the cart. Know it or not Bryson was here to watch over Abigail.
The trail reached its apex and began its curve back toward the festival grounds. As we turned the corner, ghosts appeared from behind the trees. These were not volunteers and none of the riders saw them. I thought it ironic to have a haunted hayride in an actual haunted wood. Thankfully I alone could see the ghosts that clung to the Biltmore Estate, some workers killed during construction, others taken by illness. They watched peacefully as we trotted by. They were harmless souls. Abigail wiggled out from under Bryson’s arm as we returned to the open field. Happy hay-riders jumped off the cart, giggling and moving on to the next activity. “Can we meet up?” Bryson asked.
Abigail grabbed Bryson’s phone from his pocket, typed something in before handing it back. “Call me sometime,” she said, hopping off the buckboard. I looked behind watching Bryson watching Abigail walk away. We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the grounds and checking in with the Society ladies. We found Mrs. Tangledwood, wandering around the tables of the local jewelry artists. Abigail picked up a copper bracelet. After checking the price tag, she returned it. Mrs. Tangledwood was admiring herself in a tabletop mirror. She was trying on a silver chain that held a large almost emerald-green stone dangling. She turned to Abigail. “What do you think? It’s simple but elegant.” She said.
“Is that an emerald?” Abigail asked.
“Oh, no, it’s hiddenite.”
“Hiddenite?”
“Yes, it’s only found in Hiddenite, North Carolina. Hiddenite is not that far from here and the gem is more rare than emeralds. William Earl Hidden who was in the area searching for plutonium for Thomas Edison discovered it. Wearing hiddenite is supposed to encourage growth,” Mrs. Tangledwood said, fingering the stone. “That’s it. I’ve decided. I’m going to take it. After all, why shouldn’t I have nice things?” She negotiated a price with the jeweler.
When the sun was low in the sky, we returned to Mrs. Twiggs. On reaching the maze, Mrs. Twiggs was collecting tickets from the last customers.
“Oh, Abigail dear I’m glad you’re back. Would you mind taking my place for a few minutes? This is the last group.”
“Sure, Mrs. Twiggs.” Abigail sat on the hay bale. Mrs. Twiggs hurried off toward the concession stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a mouse scamper by, Pixel hot after it. I couldn’t resist the chase. I flew after Pixel and his prey. I lost track of time, my mind fixating on the mouse. My body betrays me or something confuses me. Why did I leave Abigail alone? I hurried back to the maze. She was gone.
I circled around the perimeter, calling to her. I climbed over a 10-foot wall of hay, searching for her. I saw movement in the heart of the maze, a wall shifting, closing in and then another and then another. I leapt to the ground and ran through the maze as walls closed in behind me, screaming out to Abigail. I could hear her screams muffled by the bales. I followed her voice until I reached the center of the maze where Abigail lay on the ground staring up at a scarecrow, its eyes glowing bright red as it leapt off its post. I stood in front of it, trying to block it from reaching Abigail. “Run, Abigail, run,” I commanded as I leapt onto the scarecrow and tore at its eyes, pulling out its stuffing. It fell to pieces around me. But then, all the pieces came to life, crawling along the ground like thousands of spiders until they came together to form the creature again.
Off in the distance, Abigail screamed and then she became silent. I ran from the scarecrow to find Bryson holding her in his arms. Abigail was hysterical, tears streaming down her face. “Are you OK? Abigail, are you OK?’ He asked her, keeping her close.
She caught a breath. “I. . . I.”
“You were lost. It’s easy to get lost in here. It’s dark, it’s big. It’s OK.” Bryson said, putting his arm around her shoulder.
“But,” Abigail said.
Bryson took her hand. “Let me lead you out.”
Abigail nodded. I followed them out of the maze, giving one last glance toward the scarecrow that was back up on his post, his eyes dull buttons.
Let it Bleed
I watched Abigail as she wandered around the vintage vinyl shop with Bryson, their shoulders touched as they flipped through the albums. Bryson gave her a crooked smile, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. He picked up an album. I sat quietly by the headphone rack where two young girls sat listening to tracks. I could hear Stevie Nicks through the headphones, singing “Rhiannon.” As always no one paid attention to me. I walked confidently, wanting to appear as if I belonged in the store. I listened in on their conversation, grateful Bryson was Abigail’s watcher.
“I’m so glad you called me.” He held up a Partridge Family album. “My Partridge Family collection was running dangerously low.” He smiled.
Abigail returned the smile. “About yesterday and the maze I let my imagination run wild. I think I was scared because I was lost in there.”
“No worries.” He picked up “Let it Bleed” by the Rolling Stones. “Have you ever heard this? This is a classic.” He took Abigail by the hand and walked her over to the listening station. He carefully took the album out of the cover and placed it on the phonograph. Then he crouched down and placed the stylus in the groove.
Abigail put the headphones on and started bobbing her head. I could hear the opening guitar strains of “Gimme Shelter.” Bryson tapped his foot along to Charlie Watts. Abigail’s smile disappeared, her eyes grew wide. She tore the headphones off and ran out from the store. After chasing her to where she collapsed in an alleyway, I rubbed against her and asked, “Abigail, what is it? What’s wrong?”