The book at my back seems to burn into my flesh through the fabric of my backpack, my jacket, and my shirt. I know I’m imagining it, but I take the bag off and hold it by the handle anyway.
To the left of the podium, up front, is a door—one that looks like an office entrance. And on the front, it readsReverend.
I make my way up the aisle, knocking against the murky glass a few times.
“Come in,” a low voice calls, and I take a sharp breath before turning the golden knob and stepping inside.
Several candles are lit, a few paintings of different prophets I can’t name lining the walls.
A large oak desk is settled toward the back of the room, with a large Bible resting propped open, and behind it sits an elderly man in a black button-up with a black robe layered over it, and a long cross necklace around his neck.
He has a thick white beard and full brows, his light blue eyes peering up at me curiously.
“How can I help you, son?” he asks, resting his interlocked hands on the desk in front of him.
“Hi, reverend,” I greet, using the title I saw on the door. “I came here to ask you a question.”
He waves to the chair in front of his desk, where I sit hesitantly.
“My name is Reverend Clark,” he says. “I haven’t seen you here before. What is your name?” His voice is calm and kind, yet deep and strong.
“Julian, and yes, I don’t normally attend church, sorry.” I’m not sure why I’m apologizing; it just feels like the correct thing to do in the face of a priest in a church.
“No need to apologize, Julian. To each their own, though everyone has a home in the house of God. What is your question?”
“Um.” I clear my throat, open my backpack to pull out theBlack Book. “Did you happen to help the Chastain family a few years back?”
Reverend Clark takes one look at the book in my hands and sits up straighter, his eyes narrowing.
“No, son, I did not. And I don’t think the church is the correct place for that text.” His tone has changed; it has morphed into something distant and displeased.
I stuff the book back into my backpack.
“Sorry. I… I’m looking for a priest or a psychic who helped their family about two to three years ago. Do you happen to know anything about it?”
Reverend Clark watches me for a long moment, his lips set into a thin line. His fingertips begin to tap against the oak desk, blue eyes narrowed.
Then, he sighs. “I don’t know anything about the Chastains, though I know who they are. I know they are good Christian people.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks anyway.” I grab my backpack and stand, bowing my head at him in thanks as I turn toward the door.
“Julian,” the reverend calls, and I look at him over my shoulder as I grip the doorknob. “There is only one psychic in town. Her name is Madam Lu, and she lives by the old water tower on Bass Avenue.”
I take in this information, mentally logging the directions.
“Thank you, Reverend,” I say, smiling at him.
“God bless you, son.”
Finding Madam Lu only takes about fifteen minutes of driving and two of parking, and then I’m walking up the concrete walkway to where the sign that saysPsychic Readings, Palm Readings, Tarot Card Readingsglows ominously.
The hours of operation are written in chalk on the front window, and she should be open for another two hours, so I open the front door without knocking.
The exterior looks the same as the other houses lining this street—white-trimmed and painted a soft green, bushes and flowers lining the walkway, and a small porch.
But the inside has been converted into a waiting room with hippie décor and various houseplants and incense.
Behind a desk in the corner is a lady in her mid-fifties, her graying hair wrapped into a tight bun with a bandana holding back her bangs. She’s in a floral dress, with a bunch of piercings in her ears and a faded tattoo of a snake on her collarbones.
