Page 29 of Begging for Mercy
So, I clean up at least half of the property on my own and avoid facing my problems. The cameras and bugs in my pocket jangle against each other as a constant reminder of why I’m here at all, and when I finally wipe a layer of sweat from my brow and lean against my companion, the rake, for a spell, I stare across the lot at the dilapidated church.
Thatwould be a cool location for some footage.
After returning my tools to the shed, I enter the church and scope out locations for my cameras and mics, placing half adozen in various shadowed corners, along tall pillars, or beneath the pulpit. The stained glass windows are covered in grime, but multicolored light still filters through in muted tones. Kane would have a fit if he knew that the lighting could be even better, so I make a mental note to clean the windows, too, eventually. Sunlight fills the room from a hole in the ceiling, and a bird’s nest sits on one of the beams crossing the rafters. String lights would help the ambience. Maybe a bundle of pillows or a mattress on the floor…
I take a few pictures of the space and guess the square footage so that I can make a few online orders once I’m at my desk. We could kill Mercy here. I don’t think Kane would oppose changing our usual venue for a place as hauntingly ethereal as this.
Shuffling footsteps sound at the door, and I turn to find an old woman peering through the shadows at me. She smacks her lips and places her hand on the nearest pew to steady herself. “Thought I saw you come in here,” she murmurs, exhaling softly. “After all that work, I was worried you’d leave without saying hello.” She motions for me to follow her. “Come on inside and have a glass of tea.”
I watch the woman disappear through the doorway before making my decision to follow. Being invited inside their home makes it easier to plant cameras. I won’t have to sneak around. As we walk across the property at her slow pace, she talks to me, pausing at various points for me to comment. Not having anything to say, I stay silent for the entire journey.
I never asked for an overview of the land or a history lesson on its owners, but she provides anyway, seemingly happy for the company.
After telling me about the soil quality and number of graves on the property, she begins telling me more about her family. “The Morningstars have lived on this property for generations,”she regales, looking appreciatively out across the landscape. “Mercy’s the fifth generation… or was it the sixth?” She subtly shakes her head. “Did you know she was born right here, in this very house?” Granny hobbles up the front porch steps and holds open the screen door for me. “Do you like your tea sweet or unsweet?” Leading me into the kitchen without a moment’s hesitation, she reaches into an upper cabinet and grabs two glasses. Her hands shake like she’s about to drop them.
I swoop in and take them from her, grabbing the glasses and taking them to the fridge. I don’t knowwhyI’m helping this woman. She’s the host here—I’m the stranger wandering onto her family land in the middle of a random November morning. “I like sweet,” I finally answer, relieved when she plops into a chair at the round breakfast table.
“Red lid. Pour me some, too, dear.”
I set the glasses down on the counter, fill them with ice from the tray, and generously pour sweet tea from the red-lidded pitcher into our cups. Handing her a glass, I take the seat opposite her and survey their kitchen. It’s small, which is expected for an older home, and cluttered. Spices in unlabeled jars sit out near the stove, with herbs dangling from the chandelier over our heads. The cabinets are paneled with glass, allowing me to see even more clutter buried within. Layer upon layer of dried pasta, canned sauces and jellies, round containers filled with bleached flour and three types of sugar. Thrown around in complete disarray. The flour isn’t even sitting next to the sugar; they’re in separate cabinets entirely. If there’s an organization method to the madness, I’m not picking up on it.
My eye twitches, and I have to force myself to look at something else. The breakfast table wobbles to the right and its face has long since lost its protective seal, the stain faded in patches.
Kane wouldlovethis shit.
Granny hums to herself while she sips her tea, staring at me like she’s sizing me up. “You were here the other night,” she muses, pulling up the edge of the table to reveal a hidden compartment. She retrieves a deck of cards and starts shuffling them in her hands, surprisingly agile for a woman so old. “Want a reading?” Before I can answer, she flips three cards onto the table and hunches over them, tutting to herself as she reads them.
One thing becomes immediately clear: they’re not normal playing cards—they’re tarot cards.
I try not to snort aloud. “I don’t believe in that stuff, Granny.”
She grunts, flicking her gaze up for a split second before returning to her cards. “Whether or not you believe doesn’t change the reading.” Touching each of the cards, she mumbles something under her breath.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I lean over the table to get a look. A handsome, shirtless man holds out his hand for the viewer in the first card, then in the middle card, a girl sits in front of a mirror, her reflection tied up and blindfolded, and the last image is of two lovers embracing as they stare deeply into each other’s eyes, a red string tying their bodies together. Instinctively, I think of Kane and Mercy. He’s the shirtless man offering her his hand, then she’s the girl all tied up in knots over him in the second card, and then they’re obviously the lovers embracing at the end.
Granny Morningstar slides the cards closer to me and studies my face. “What do you see?”
“They’re just cards, Granny.”
She tuts. “Your perspective is important when reading the cards.”
“I didn’t ask for a reading.”
Tapping the first card, she takes a quick breath. “This is The Devil. He often represents temptation, overindulgence, andobsession. But when we are surrounded by shadows, we can finally see the light.” I won’t pretend to understand what she means, so she moves on quickly. She taps the next card’s face, the one with the girl and the mirror. “This is the eight of swords.”
I stare at the picture, and the girl’s features easily morph into Mercy’s, her skin turning white as snow and her hair dark as ink. “There aren’t any swords.” Rather, crows tie the girl up with a thin strand of string coiling around her body. The blindfold is a simple black strip of cloth tied over her eyes. It’s not what I would have imagined a sword card to look like. “Not a very good depiction, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Granny says gruffly. She stares at my face while I stare at the cards. “The eight of swords represents feeling trapped when you’re the one tying the knot. You can’t see the truth because you’re too wrapped up in your own lies.” Pointing to the final card, she continues, “The Lovers is often considered self-explanatory. Many people believe that it means love is coming into your life, but I’m not sure that interpretation fits here. I think you need to let go of something you’ve been holding onto. A belief? A fear?” Her eyes narrow as she leans closer. “Maybe a secret?”
Leaning back in my chair, I sip my tea. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Granny holds my gaze for a long moment before stacking the cards in order and sliding them towards me. “Place these under your pillow.” She reshuffles the rest of the deck and returns them to the secret compartment in the table. “Maybe in dreams, your mind will quiet enough to listen.” A pack of cigarettes appears from her stash, and after pulling one for herself, she holds the pack out to me. I pull one from the pack and light the tip before holding the lighter up to hers. Once hers has started to burn, she takes a drag before speaking again. “Ever since my grandson went away, no one spends any time in the fields. My husbandused to keep the spirits company. Malachi takes after him.” Her gaze grows distant. “He was a good man, my husband. My grandson, too, although troubled in his youth. I hope he returns home. We all miss him.”
Mercy has a brother? I don’t remember seeing that in any of her records or online profiles.
Granny’s mouth twists wryly. “Not many remember Malachi. He left, oh, years ago now.” Her tired eyes wrinkle around the edges. “I miss him.”
I didn’t come here for a heart-to-heart, so I merely grunt and finish my cigarette in silence. But then I wonder… is Mercy as upset about her brother’s absence as her grandmother? “Why hasn’t he come to visit?”
