A low hum fills the room, resonating in my chest, and the candles flicker, their flames stretching and contorting as if caught in a gale. The air heats with an otherworldly energy, a palpable force that makes my skin prickle. It’s as if the shadows lift from the art, weave around me, andpull me toward the card. It’s an irresistible force that tugs at my very core.
I pick up the card, and my breath catches in my throat. It’s warm beneath my fingers, glowing, humming in time with the beat of my heart.
Wind gusts through closed windows, rustling the linen curtains and making me shiver. The bursts of air intensify, throwing loose papers across the room and wrapping around me in a whirlwind.
The world tilts hard, and sparks of light dance at the edges of my vision, filling the space with a shimmering haze. I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the vertigo. Even with them closed, the sensation of my body tumbling and spinning is overwhelming, and it’s all I can do to keep the contents of my stomach down. Sounds blur into a cacophony of whispers and distant echoes. And then I hit the floor. Hard.
“Ow, damn it.” Apparently, closing my eyes didn’t stop me from falling over. At least the world has stopped spinning. “Stella?” Holding a hand to my aching head, I open my eyes and gasp. “What the…”
Stretching out before me is a breathtaking landscape bathed in the soft glow of dusk. Rolling green hills ripple across the horizon, dotted with small stone cottages complete with thatched roofs and wisps of smoke curling lazily from their chimneys. Narrow dirt paths weave between them, lined with clusters of wildflowers that add splashes of color to the lush green.
“Okay, Elara, remain calm. This is merely a response to mixing wine and edibles.”
As a psychologist who keeps up with the advancements in using psychedelics in therapy, I’m aware thathigh doses of THC can cause hallucinations. But I only had one measly gummy! Then again, so did Stella, and she has a much higher tolerance, which means the milligrams were likely higher than a typical dose for novices.
“Freaking great. Stella, can you hear me? I’m seeing things over here,” I say as I slowly get to my feet and brush the hallucinated dust from my heather-gray leggings. I take a few test steps, wondering if I’ll run into her furniture or a wall. I don’t hear the sharp creaks from the old wood floors as she moves around or the sounds of the wind chimes tinkling on her balcony or the low hum of her refrigerator.
Maybe I’m not really moving or talking. Maybe I’m just lying on her floor, passed out while I cavort around in whatever alternate universe my brain’s created.
“Great,” I sigh. “Now what am I supposed to do?”
As if on cue, the distant sound of horses’ hooves clopping on the dirt road reaches my ears. A moment later, they crest the hill—a pair of sturdy horses pulling an honest-to-God covered wagon behind them. Not the kind that traveled the Oregon Trail, with its bulky frame and plain canvas stretched over wooden bows. No, this wagon is entirely different.
It’s grim-looking and straight out of a medieval tale with heavy, dark timber and sides reinforced with iron bands that glint dully in the waning light. Small, barred windows are set high along the wooden walls. Chains and manacles hang from hooks along the sides, rattling and clanking as the whole contraption creaks forward on massive wooden wheels.
And sitting on the bench, holding the reins, is a portly man wearing too-tight clothes from the Renaissance era.His outfit is as disheveled as it is outdated. A once-white linen shirt, now stained and yellowed with sweat and age, peeks out from beneath a tattered leather jacket that barely contains his barrel-like middle. His pants are a dull brown, patched at the knees and clinging to his stout legs. Mud-spattered boots rise to midcalf, the leather cracked and soles uneven.
This hallucination is odd, to say the least, but since I’m stuck with it until the effects of the gummy wear off—which could be up to eight hours on the high end—there’s nothing to do but see how it plays out.
“Whoa there,” he says, pulling on the reins when he reaches me. “What are you doing out here all by yerself, m’lady?”
He scratches his scruffy beard, crumbs flaking onto his chest as he gives me an unwelcome lascivious appraisal. His beady eyes trail down my body and up again, lingering on my breasts. I suddenly feel naked, despite my yoga pants and light blue spaghetti-strap tank top that I wish had better coverage than the thin shelf bra.
Pulling my long auburn waves in front of my shoulders for extra concealment, I affect a casual tone. “Just out for a stroll is all. Have a good night.” I hastily turn and walk in the direction he came from, eager to put distance between us and wanting no part of whatever he represents in this bizarre vision.
But as I pass the wagon, I realize it’s more than wood and metal. It’s a giant wooden cage. A cage full of women.
What the fuck, brain?
I step forward to get a closer look. There’s a massive iron padlock on the heavy door, its surface rough with rust and age. Five women peer out from between thethick iron bars that crisscross the door. Their eyes are wide with fear, and their ashen faces tear-streaked.
They’re dressed in the same Renaissance style as the driver—coarse linen dresses, dulled and dirty, laced tightly at the bodice and flowing down to their ankles. Their wrists are shackled with heavy iron cuffs connected by short chains. The metal clangs as one woman reaches for the bars, clutching them so tightly her knuckles turn white. I lock eyes with her, and my hands start to shake. Her tear-filled gaze is a silent plea for help.
Rage ignites within my chest, a searing ember that quickly spreads like wildfire. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and my nails dig into my palms. Hallucination or not, I can’t stand by and do nothing.
I step closer to the door. The cold metal padlock bites into my fingers as I tug at it. “I’m going to get you out of here,” I promise, my voice firm despite the blaze of emotions burning through my veins.
“Please, be careful,” one of the women whispers as they exchange uncertain glances.
A shadow falls over me, and I spin around. The driver’s standing uncomfortably close, his beady eyes narrowing. The stench of stale ale and sweat rolls over me, making my stomach churn.
“Open this up right now and let them go,” I demand, squaring my shoulders, ready to read this dirty bastard the riot act. “There will be no trafficking of women in my hallucinations.”
For a moment, he seems taken aback. He raises his scraggly brow, his gaze flicking over my athleisure.
“Well, come on,” I press, taking a step forward. “I’m in charge here, and I say they go free.”
A slow, greasy smile spreads across his fleshy face, and he dips his head in a mock bow. “O’course, m’lady. My apologies. I’ll release them straightaway.”
