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Authors: James D. Doss
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bedroom ceiling—and fallen onto Daisy’s face. The startled woman had slapped her forehead so hard that her fingers still ached at breakfast time. Well aware of the taboo against killing Spider People (the murdered member’s kin, bent on revenge, will come and find you!), she had searched for the tiny corpse so she could draw an imaginary circle around it and mumble, “I didn’t kill you—it was one of them uppity Navajos. Tell your relatives to go and bite the Navajo.” But she had not found the remains. Now, as Daisy eyed the creature on the window, it occurred to her that the spider’s ghost probably knew who’d stopped his clock. If so, the avenging relatives might be camped close-by, and this one could be a scout sent to locate the Ute spider killer.
The guilty party jutted her chin, scowled at the intruder. You even think about putting the bite on me, you nasty little bugger, I’ll smack you flat as a flapjack—just like I did your ugly cousin!
The leggy critter took off like a shot, boppity-bopping it back the way he had come from.
Daisy witnessed the retreat with the taste of gratification sweet on her tongue: Hah—look at that lily-livered little backpeddler trot! Satisfied with this modest victory, the feisty old warrior took up the yawn where she had left off. Cleared her throat of whatever it needed clearing. Shifted her stiff legs to find a more comfortable position. Sighed. Closed her eyes—one at a time, right then left, because this is the way shamans do it.
Blackness was what she saw, like a mile underground in the bowels of a coal mine. But gradually, as if the Cosmic Artist were dabbing silver paint, the dark canvas became studded with innumerable little pearls of light that bloomed, faded, tried ever so hard to look like stars. Just as she drifted off, Father Raes’s kind face appeared among those uncertain constellations, smiled down upon Daisy Perika.
Nice touch.
Eight
The Courtship
Cassandra Spencer was astonished at how easily (and quickly!) Beatrice snagged her man. The psychic wondered whether her pretty sister might have bought a spell from one of those Mexican brujas, because she seemed to be doing nothing at all. As if by magic, Andrew began to drop by Bea’s home. Call her on the phone. Within a week, the blooming romance was the talk of the town. There were quiet dinners in fine restaurants. Hand-in-hand walks in the park.
The shortest engagement in the recent history of Granite Creek was announced at a gathering of close family and friends. The date was set for the same day in April, forty-one years ago, when Beatrice’s parents had exchanged solemn vows—and not quite a month after Astrid’s death. It was quite a scandal, of course, which set tongues-a-clucking, eyes-a-rolling. For those who were not invited to the wedding, the fascinating details (with a splash of color photographs) were published in the Granite Creek weekly.
The Colorado Springs Airport
Cassandra Spencer lifted her dark glasses, leaning until her nose almost touched the plate-glass window. The aircraft the newlyweds had boarded just minutes earlier roared down the runway, lifted off the asphalt like a silver missile catapulted from little David’s sling. The elder sister watched the sleek aircraft downsize to blackbird size, shrink to a mere speck in the sky, vanish into the southern mists. The thought that her ecstatic sister and drop-dead-handsome Andrew Turner were on their way to Costa Rica for a blissful honeymoon was irksome. If I had pulled the whole toothpick, the bride clinging to Andy’s arm right this minute would be me instead of Sister Bea. And she would be standing here, watching our plane leave . But moping over bad luck was for losers. I must drive back to Granite Creek, concentrate on my career. Think things out . There was plenty to think about. Like how to come up with something really creepy that would grab the TV audience by their collective throats, give them a good dose of
The guilty party jutted her chin, scowled at the intruder. You even think about putting the bite on me, you nasty little bugger, I’ll smack you flat as a flapjack—just like I did your ugly cousin!
The leggy critter took off like a shot, boppity-bopping it back the way he had come from.
Daisy witnessed the retreat with the taste of gratification sweet on her tongue: Hah—look at that lily-livered little backpeddler trot! Satisfied with this modest victory, the feisty old warrior took up the yawn where she had left off. Cleared her throat of whatever it needed clearing. Shifted her stiff legs to find a more comfortable position. Sighed. Closed her eyes—one at a time, right then left, because this is the way shamans do it.
Blackness was what she saw, like a mile underground in the bowels of a coal mine. But gradually, as if the Cosmic Artist were dabbing silver paint, the dark canvas became studded with innumerable little pearls of light that bloomed, faded, tried ever so hard to look like stars. Just as she drifted off, Father Raes’s kind face appeared among those uncertain constellations, smiled down upon Daisy Perika.
Nice touch.
Eight
The Courtship
Cassandra Spencer was astonished at how easily (and quickly!) Beatrice snagged her man. The psychic wondered whether her pretty sister might have bought a spell from one of those Mexican brujas, because she seemed to be doing nothing at all. As if by magic, Andrew began to drop by Bea’s home. Call her on the phone. Within a week, the blooming romance was the talk of the town. There were quiet dinners in fine restaurants. Hand-in-hand walks in the park.
The shortest engagement in the recent history of Granite Creek was announced at a gathering of close family and friends. The date was set for the same day in April, forty-one years ago, when Beatrice’s parents had exchanged solemn vows—and not quite a month after Astrid’s death. It was quite a scandal, of course, which set tongues-a-clucking, eyes-a-rolling. For those who were not invited to the wedding, the fascinating details (with a splash of color photographs) were published in the Granite Creek weekly.
The Colorado Springs Airport
Cassandra Spencer lifted her dark glasses, leaning until her nose almost touched the plate-glass window. The aircraft the newlyweds had boarded just minutes earlier roared down the runway, lifted off the asphalt like a silver missile catapulted from little David’s sling. The elder sister watched the sleek aircraft downsize to blackbird size, shrink to a mere speck in the sky, vanish into the southern mists. The thought that her ecstatic sister and drop-dead-handsome Andrew Turner were on their way to Costa Rica for a blissful honeymoon was irksome. If I had pulled the whole toothpick, the bride clinging to Andy’s arm right this minute would be me instead of Sister Bea. And she would be standing here, watching our plane leave . But moping over bad luck was for losers. I must drive back to Granite Creek, concentrate on my career. Think things out . There was plenty to think about. Like how to come up with something really creepy that would grab the TV audience by their collective throats, give them a good dose of
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