Apparitions and I go way back, been seeing the walking dead since I was a child. Back then, though, no one believed me or they labeled me crazy so I told the ghosts to fade away. 

     And they did. 

     Then Katrina hit and I ended up on my roof and the trauma of the storm reopened that psychic door.

     I’m called a SCANC, although I despise that stupid acronym. It stands for specific communication with apparitions, non-entities and the comatose and for me, that means water.      In a nutshell, for those who repress their abilities, trauma will kick it back — and then only in the realm of that trauma. 

     In other words, I only see ghosts who have died by water.

     I can’t imagine the ghosts that may linger at Grandma Willow’s homestead will be ones that I’m able to see, but I don’t rule it out either. It’s why I’m here, really. When I first learned of my ghostly talent, I thought the universe had granted me my wish to see my beloved Lillye again, who died way too young of cancer. Even though those in the know insist that SCANCS cannot see ghosts outside their specification, I keep pushing for ways to evolve my “gift.”

It’s one reason TB’s not talking to me right now. He’s come to grips with Lillye’s death, believes she lives on in his heart. I haven’t given up trying to see my precious angel, and I have put myself and TB in harm’s way trying to prove being a SCANC will allow me to cross that threshold. I mean, really, why else would I have been given this strange talent if not to see the one person I miss in all the world?

     It’s also the reason why I’m here. In the process of trying to meet Lillye I followed a man with nefarious intentions who promised me contact. TB saved my butt, but along the way I discovered I was a witch. Apparently, one in a long line that includes Grandma Willow and Aunt Mimi and Goddess knows who else. I chuckle at that last thought because I have no idea what a goddess is. 

      My appetite gone, I drop the pizza crust into the box, lean my head back and sigh. I close my eyes and enjoy the bourbon’s warm burn in my gut. But despite the comfort it offers tears slip through. 

       “Grandma Willow, please help me,” I whisper.

       The window shutter flaps against the outside walls, like someone tapping at the door. That slight breeze flutters down the chimney and stirs the ashes, which ascend like angels in a circle of dust. But, for the most part, the house remains quiet and still. 

       Until a voice sounds.

       “I’m right here.”

       I open my eyes, expecting my witchy grandmother but the voice is masculine. Standing in front of me, clear as day, is my father.

       “Hey babe,” he says.