The Sybil
After sending her latest manuscript to her publisher, bestselling true crime author Autumn Blakemore decided to take a break from writing. For the past ten years, she had written one book after another, working long days without surcease.
I need a vacation, she thought as she closed her laptop and got up from her desk. But for now, I'll settle for a cup of coffee.
As she waited for the French roast to brew, she checked the messages on her phone. Anna Maria Loftus, her agent, wanted to schedule a nationwide book tour that included guest appearances on three television shows. Since her editor had not even seen the first draft of her latest book yet, Autumn saw no urgency in finalizing travel details at the moment.
GOING ON VACATION, she texted Anna Maria. WILL BE IN TOUCH WHEN I GET BACK.
She then turned off her phone, something she never did. No phone calls. No text messages. No emails. Overworked and unmotivated, she wanted to go somewhere and relax and hopefully find new inspiration for her next manuscript.
By the end of the week, the exhausted writer had completed her preparations for her trip. Her clothes were packed, the post office was notified to hold her mail, the bank that issued her credit card was informed of her plans and her home security company was instructed to keep watch over her Beacon Hill brownstone. After a light breakfast, she set the alarm, locked her front door and carried her luggage out to her car. With no set destination in mind, she turned the key in the ignition. She had a full tank of gas, a wallet with plenty of cash and a supply of reading materials. Her cell phone was still turned off. Barring any unforeseen emergencies, it would remain so until she returned home.
Which way should I go? Autumn wondered as she neared the entrance ramp to the interstate; on impulse, she headed north.
An hour after crossing from Massachusetts into New Hampshire, she got off I-93, opting to take a more scenic route. Having lived in Boston all her life, she found the White Mountain area breathtakingly beautiful despite being an alien environment. The small towns with their white, steepled churches, quaint antique shops and cozy inns were particularly appealing. Located between the towns were farms, all of which featured an iconic red barn. As she made her way north, Autumn also encountered an occasional covered bridge.
You won't find anything like this in the city.
It was nearly three o'clock when she finally stopped for lunch and gas.
"You're not from around here," Ella, the waitress assumed, taking note of the customer's designer clothes. "Just driving through, huh?"
"Actually, I'm taking a little vacation."
"Where you headed?"
"Nowhere in particular."
"No? I thought maybe you were going to Serenity Valley. But I suppose not, you look too normal for that place."
Autumn was intrigued by the woman's comment.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Since there was only one customer in the bistro, Ella took the time to chat with her.
"You don't know about Serenity Valley?"
"No. Why? Is it famous?"
"To some people, it is. You ever heard of Lily Dale, New York?"
"I recall reading something about it once. It was an enclave for the Spiritualist movement, I believe."
"It still is. Serenity Valley has a similar history but where Lily Dale had the Fox Sisters, Serenity Valley had Chastity Welk."
"I'm not familiar with the name."
"Chastity Welk was a famous psychic medium back at the turn of the century—the twentieth century, that is. She supposedly could communicate with the dead When she was still a young child, her parents took advantage of people's gullibility and toured around the country with her. They made quite a bit of money off her act, enough to buy several hundred acres of land, which eventually became Serenity Valley. After the parents were killed in a train wreck, Chastity settled down there. Soon other psychics descended upon the area. The place has since become host to fortune tellers, clairvoyants, astrologers and all sorts of people claiming to have paranormal abilities. They hold psychic fairs there three or four times a year and seminars on oddball topics like dowsing, scrying and automatic writing."
"And what about Chastity Welk?" Autumn wondered. "Whatever happened to her?"
Ella poured both herself and the writer a cup of coffee before replying.
"She's been dead for more than a century. Not long after she moved back to New Hampshire—that would be around 1915 or 1916—she was murdered."
"Murdered? Who killed her?"
"No one knows. The case was never solved."
Although Autumn was a true Doubting Thomas who believed only in things that could be explained by modern science, she found Ellie's story interesting. While she shared Harry Houdini's opinion that psychics and mediums were nothing more than con artists and phonies, she had built a lucrative career around murder. Every true crime book she had written told of solved cases where the killer was apprehended, tried and convicted, but this long-unsolved murder tempted her. Since she was currently fighting off what appeared to be a case of writer's block, maybe it was time for her to tackle something new.
I've never written about a cold case before. But I suppose there's a first time for everything.
* * *
Assuming a town that held psychic fairs and New Age seminars must have ample lodging for visitors, Autumn headed to Serenity Valley after leaving the diner. Despite getting lost three times, she managed to find the town, nestled in a quiet gorge that looked as though it had been transported from the nineteenth century and deposited into the twenty-first. Like many small New England towns, Serenity Valley had a common. However, unlike the others, it had no church. No tall steeple rose above the trees, pointing the way toward heaven.
Thankfully, not only were there rooms to rent in private homes, but the Serendipity Inn contained thirty guestrooms. Autumn pulled into the parking lot and entered the lobby.
"Do you have any vacancies?" she asked Sasha Millen, the young woman at the front desk. "I didn't notice any sign outside."
"Yes, we do," the clerk replied, staring at the writer as though she recognized her.
Perhaps she's seen my photograph on the back of one of my books.
"I'm not sure how long I plan to stay. Maybe a few days or a week."
The young woman asked her to sign the guest register and handed her an old-fashioned metal room key. Autumn was surprised by the lack of modern technology. No computers, printers or fax machines were in sight.
"Is there free Wi-Fi in the rooms?"
"I'm sorry, no."
"Is there any place in town where I can get access to the internet? I don't seem to be able to get any bars on my phone."
"I'm afraid not. It's the mountains, you see. We have difficulty even getting television and radio reception here."
"At least there's electricity," the writer mumbled as she headed up the stairs to her second-floor room. "Thank goodness I won't have to resort to reading by candlelight."
After putting her suitcase in her room, Autumn returned to the lobby.
"Does the inn have a dining room?" she asked Sasha.
"We only serve breakfast here. If you're hungry, there's a café at the end of the street."
Since she had been behind the wheel nearly the entire day, the writer chose to leave her car in the parking lot and walk to the café. Along the way, she passed nearly a dozen Victorian homes, every one of which had a sign on the lawn that advertised some form of psychic reading, including tarot cards, tea leaves and palmistry.
What? No Ouija boards?
By the time she arrived at the café, Autumn had passed nearly two dozen people. All of them had stopped and stared at her with the same deer-in-the-headlights look on their faces as the young woman in the Serendipity Inn had.
They can't all have seen my publicity photo, she reasoned. Maybe they're just not used to seeing strangers here.
The eight people sitting at tables in the Mystick Café reacted in much the same way as everyone else she encountered in the town. Constance Bagley, the overweight, middle-aged waitress was an exception to the rule. She greeted the writer with a warm, welcoming smile.
"Sit anywhere you like."
"The counter is fine."
"You're a few days early for the fair," Constance observed, reaching behind the counter for a menu.
"I'm not here for the fair. I was just driving through New Hampshire with no real destination in mind. When I heard about your town, I decided to come and see what it's like."
An elderly woman who was seated at a nearby table rose from her chair, walked to the counter and stood in front of Autumn.
"Is there something I can do for you?" the writer asked.
"Hell is empty, and all the devils are here," the old woman replied in a dull monotone.
"Excuse me?"
Autumn could not suppress the shiver that coursed through her body.
"Oh, don't mind Mercy!" Constance said and led the old woman back to her table. As she passed the writer, the waitress lowered her voice to a whisper and added, "We suspect she's in the early stages of dementia."
"I don't imagine anyone who talks about hell and devils is in her right mind."
"Pay no attention to what she said," the waitress chuckled. "Mercy was a school teacher before she retired. What she told you about hell being empty is a line from Shakespeare's The Tempest."
"I read many of his works in high school and college but never The Tempest."
"Me either. Romeo and Juliet is all the Shakespeare I've ever read and that was because I was forced to, but Mercy frequently goes around quoting the Bard."
While Autumn perused the menu, Constance delivered the check to the three diners at Mercy's table.
"It's her, I tell you!" the old woman cried.
"Hush!" her two companions urged.
"It is. I may be old, but I'm not blind or stupid. She is The Sybil!"
Autumn turned her head and saw that the old woman's arthritic index finger was pointing in her direction.
"You must be mistaken," she announced. "My name isn't Sybil, it's Autumn."
The waitress frowned and shook her head, a silent plea to the customer to pay no mind to the old woman's ravings.
* * *
After taking a hot, relaxing bath in the inn's clawfoot tub, Autumn donned a pair of Derek Rose silk pajamas and got beneath a handsewn quilt on the Queen Anne four-poster bed. She closed her eyes, expecting a speedy journey to Morpheus's realm, but was disturbed by a strange voice that spoke from the shadows of the room.
"After all these years, someone has finally come to help me."
"Who's there?" Autumn asked, reaching for the lamp on the night table.
"It's me, Chastity."
"This isn't funny! Where are you?"
Although she could see no one in the room, she had no difficulty hearing the voice. She got out of bed and went to the closet.
"If this is your idea of a joke ...."
"It's not. I'm Chastity Welk, or rather that's who I was in life. Now, I'm just a spirit."
"You expect me to believe that nonsense?"
"Did you forget where you are? Serenity Valley has long been a haven for people with psychic abilities."
"But I'm not one of them," Autumn pointed out.
"Apparently, you are, or you would not be able to communicate with me."
"Is this really happening?" the cynical writer asked herself. "I feel as though I'm awake, but could I actually be dreaming?"
"I know from experience how upsetting the first contact with the dead can be, but you'll get used to it," the spirit assured her. "I did, and I was only a small child at the time."
"I don't believe any of this. It must be some kind of a scam. Well, I'm not going to fall for it. First thing in the morning, I'm leaving here."
"I thought you came here to help solve my murder."
The voice took on a sorrowful tone that moved the writer to compassion.
"Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't know how to go about it. You were killed more than a century ago."
No sooner did the words leave her mouth than Autumn realized she was beginning to believe that she was in actual communication with the murdered spiritualist.
"Please help me," the spirit begged. "I can't rest in peace until my murder is solved."
"Why can't you just tell me who did it?"
"Because I don't know who it was. I never saw the killer's face."
"I don't get it. For more than a hundred years, psychics have flocked to Serenity Valley. Why hasn't one of them helped ascertain the killer's identity?"
"Because none of them has had any experience in solving murders, but you have."
"Look, I'm a writer, not a detective. I never took part in a criminal investigation. I just write about homicides that have already been solved by the police."
"In a few days, the fair will commence in town. Hundreds of people will flock to Serenity Valley, all of whom have psychic abilities to some extent. I'm sure you can rely on their help if you need it."
"I don't see what good they'll be. I still ...."
Autumn felt a brief but sharp pain in her head, just above her eyes. After it passed, it left a sense of emptiness in its wake.
"What was that? Chastity, are you still here?"
There was no answer. Apparently, the psychic connection was broken.
* * *
Autumn was not a DIY person. She never attempted to do anything herself when she could call on a professional to do it for her. Not only did she rely on car mechanics, handymen and landscapers to handle the "man's work" that needed to be done, but she also hired women to tend to the domestic chores as well. She had a housekeeper to clean her brownstone, a cook to prepare her meals, a beautician to style her hair and a manicurist to polish her nails. It was no surprise then that she decided to consult a psychic-for-hire to solve Chastity Welk's murder.
That's what they're paid to do, after all. And in a town like Serenity Valley, psychics must be a dime a dozen.
After a cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun in the dining room, she grabbed her Hermès handbag and exited the inn. The first business she passed advertised the services of a tarot card reader who promised an inexpensive and accurate glimpse of the future.
"It's not the future I'm concerned with; it's the past."
The next establishment was owned by a woman who could read auras. Again, she would be of little help in solving a century-old murder. Her neighbor prepared astrological charts and horoscopes. There was no shortage of New Age adherents, including one who practiced osteomancy: bone reading.
"Too bad I can't get my hands on Chastity Welk's skeleton. Maybe it would offer a clue as to her killer."
Autumn walked five blocks before she came to sign advertising the services of a medium. She opened the door and stepped into a shop that sold incense, candles, gemstones and a wide range of Wiccan paraphernalia.
"Welcome to Blessed Be," a woman with a pentagram tattooed on her forehead announced. "How may I help you?"
"Are you the medium?"
"Yes. I am Hepzibah."
"Is that your real name?" Autumn asked with amusement.
"No. It is my professional name. Are you here to ask my help in contacting the dead?"
"Not exactly. I want someone who can see into the events of the past—specifically the murder of Chastity Welk."
Hepzibah's eyes widened, but she quickly concealed her surprise.
"Many have tried to learn the truth of her death, but no one has been successful," the medium admitted.
"So, you can't me?"
Taking note of Autumn's Christian Louboutin boots and high-priced handbag, Hepzibah was reluctant to let the writer's business slip through her fingers.
"I, myself, have never attempted to solve the mystery, but I might be willing to try."
Autumn did not ask how much the medium would charge for her services since money was no object to her.
"All right. Let's do it."
"Now?" Hepzibah exclaimed.
"Why not?"
"I'm the only one here right now. I'll have to close my store."
"I don't see any customers here; do you? Don't worry. I'll make it worth your while."
Hepzibah walked to the front door and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED.
"This way," the Wiccan said, leading the writer to a room at the back of the shop.
Autumn smirked when she saw the midnight blue walls that were covered with cabalistic symbols, Egyptian hieroglyphics and Celtic writing.
"Is this for real? I feel like I'm on the set of a B-rated horror film."
"Please sit down," Hepzibah said, embarrassed by her customer's remarks.
"Don't tell me you want us to hold hands!"
"That won't be necessary."
After several minutes of calling out to a spirit guide named Clarabelle, the medium slipped into a trance.
"Who do you want to speak to?" Hepzibah asked in an exaggerated Southern drawl—presumably it was Clarabelle communicating through her. "Well, speak up!"
Autumn realized the spirit guide was talking to her.
"I want to talk to the person who killed Chastity Welk."
"Don't you want to communicate with the victim herself?"
"No. I've already done that. She doesn't know who murdered her. That's why she asked for my help."
Hepzibah suddenly dropped all pretense of being in contact with the dead. She rose from her chair and stared, open-mouthed at the writer.
"What's wrong? What happened to the so-called Clarabelle?"
"You ... you're The Sybil!" Hepsibah cried.
"Oh, not that again!" the writer said with disgust. "First the old woman in the café and now you. Why do people insist on calling me Sybil? My name is Autumn."
"I don't care what your name is. You're The Sybil, the one whose coming was foretold to us."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You're The Sybil. The one Chastity's prophecy warned us about."
"I don't ...."
Hepzibah stepped back, wanting to put distance between herself and the woman with the thirty-five-hundred-dollar boots and the fifty-thousand-dollar handbag.
"Get out!" she screamed. "I don't want you in my shop any longer!"
Deciding to abandon her quest to contact Chastity Welk's killer, Autumn returned to the Serendipity Inn. Since the start of the psychic fair was still three days away, there were no guests in the lobby.
This place is as dead as Chastity Welk!
Sasha Millen, manning her post behind the front desk, looked up when the writer entered.
"Hello, Miss Blakemore. Will you be needing anything? Clean towels?"
"Thank you, but no. I would like to ask you a few questions, though, if I may."
A look of worry crossed the young woman's face.
"What is it you want to know?"
"Have you ever heard of a person called The Sybil?"
"Y-yes."
"And the prophecy that warned people about her?"
Sasha nodded her head.
"Then tell me about them."
"A Sybil is an oracle, one who could convey the prophecies of the ancient gods. Before she was killed, Chastity Welk predicted that a Sybil of great power would come to Serenity Valley. However, Chastity's prophecy claimed that this sybil would bring death and destruction in her wake."
"I just visited a medium by the name of Hepzibah. She claimed I was The Sybil of the prophecy."
Sasha's face paled with apprehension. From the moment the writer arrived, she was certain the woman represented a danger.
"Perhaps it's best you return to Boston," she suggested.
"Maybe you're right," Autumn said, knowing full well she intended to stay and make some sense out of the strange situation she found herself in. "I'll sleep on it tonight and decide in the morning."
* * *
Hoping she would have better luck with one of the people who came for the psychic fair, Autumn decided not to seek any further assistance from the residents of Serenity Valley. However, since the fair would not scheduled to begin for another two days, she made use of the time by doing research. Since there was no internet access in Serenity Valley, she drove more than an hour to a library equipped with computers. Before taking a seat in front of one of the six Dell desktops, all of which were still running Windows 7 operating systems, the writer decided to see if there were any other resources available.
"Excuse me," she said to Grayson Dodds, the white-haired librarian.
"Yes?" the woman said, lifting her head up from her paperwork. "Don't I know you? Of course! You're Autumn Blakemore, aren't you?"
"I am."
"What are you doing here? Wait. I know. You're here to investigate the murder of Huey Levesque back in 2007."
"No. Actually, I'm thinking of writing a book on an unsolved murder this time."
"Really?" Grayson said with surprise.
"Yes. Do you have any information on the death of Chastity Welk?"
"The psychic from Serenity Valley?"
"That's the one. I'm staying in the valley, and there is no computer access there. That's why I came to your library. While I'm here, I was wondering if you had any material by local or contemporary sources?"
"There are several books written about the life of the psychic. Normally, we don't allow people to check them out unless they have a valid library card, but I'm willing to make an exception in your case—provided you promise to return them."
"Naturally. I wouldn't dream of keeping a library book."
"There are also some old newspaper accounts in the periodicals section. You can have a seat in our research room, and I'll bring them out to you."
"Thank you so much."
Rather than waste time reading through the dozens of articles written about the deceased spiritualist, Autumn made photocopies of everything and stuffed the pages into a plastic shopping bag. Then she headed toward one of the Dell desktops to search the internet. Google gave her more than two million results, but she stopped visiting websites after three hours.
"That's all for now," she declared as she gathered nearly half a ream of paper from the library's printer.
"Is there anything else I can help you with?" Grayson offered.
"No. I think I have more than enough information to read through now. Thank you for all your help and for letting me borrow these books," the writer said, carrying a stack of old hardcover tomes in the crook of her right arm and the bag of loose papers in her left. "I promise I'll be careful with them."
* * *
For the next two days, Autumn left her room at the Serendipity Inn only to have breakfast in the dining room and dinner in the Mystick Café.
"What can I get you?" the perpetually pleasant Constance Bagley asked as the writer closed her menu. "Another salad?"
"No. I'm pretty hungry tonight. Maybe I'll have the hamburger deluxe."
"Onions on your burger?"
"Sure. It's not as though I have a hot date tonight."
"And what do you want to drink?"
"I'll take a Coke."
"Diet or regular?"
"Regular. I plan on working into the wee hours of the morning, so I'll need plenty of sugar and caffeine."
After giving the food order to the cook, the waitress returned to Autumn's table with a red plastic cup filled with ice and Coca-Cola.
"What is it you're working on that keeps you up so late at night?" she inquired.
"I'm a writer, and I'm doing research for a new book."
"A writer, you say? What is it going to be? A steamy romance?"
"No. I write true crime books. This time, however, I'm going to write about an unsolved crime: the murder of Chastity Welk."
"That would explain why you're here," Constance said. "And do you believe you'll solve the case even though others have tried and failed?"
"I can only hope."
"Well, if anyone can do it, you can."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"People around here are convinced you're a gifted psychic."
"People like Mercy?" Autumn asked, her voice tinged with sarcasm.
"Oh, her! She's not right in the head. She thinks you're The Sybil. Me? I don't put much store in that old prophecy. Truth be told," Constance confessed, lowering her voice as though to share a secret, "I don't believe in most of the nonsense that goes on in this town. Hell! I've brewed enough cups of tea to realize there is nothing to be learned from wet tea leaves."
"If you're not a believer, why do you live here?"
"I was born here. My family goes way back to the founding of the town. My grandparents started the Mystick Café and passed it on to my parents. They, in turn, left it to me. I'm not about to give up my home and business just because I don't share the beliefs of the others who live around here."
"I was a diehard skeptic when I arrived in Serenity Valley," the writer confessed. "Now, I'm not so sure."
"Oh? Did something happen to change your mind?" the waitress asked.
"What if I told you I'd spoken to the ghost of Chastity Welk and that she asked me to solve her murder?"
"I'd say you had better head back to Boston before you wind up in a padded cell."
* * *
After having skimmed through every book that she checked out of the library and every page she printed from the internet, Autumn was no closer to solving the cold case than before. If the investigating police had had a suspect, his or her name never made it into the written accounts of the crime. Nor had any source even hinted at a possible motive for the spiritualist's murder. The only useful bit of information she ascertained from her long hours of research was the cause of death. Chastity Welk had been stabbed through the heart.
"I know you're counting on me to discover your killer's identity," the writer spoke to the empty room, hoping the spirit was listening, "but I don't know how to go about it. My only hope now is that someone attending the fair can help."
Autumn did not add that if she made no progress by the end of the weekend-long event, she would abandon her search and her plans to write a book about the young spiritualist's death. There was no point in her writing about a cold case for which she had few details. Readers wanted multiple chapters filled with forensic evidence found at the crime scene, DNA tests, psychological profiling and police interviews.
All that I know about this cold case can fit on a single page.
After eating a hearty, calorie-filled breakfast of French toast smothered in butter and maple syrup, three sausage links and two cups of coffee in the Serendipity Inn's dining room, she put on a pair of Jimmy Choo sneakers and headed toward the town common. There were more than four dozen brightly colored tents erected on the grass; and food trucks offering everything from pizza, fried chicken and artisan grilled cheese sandwiches to ice cream, cupcakes and cotton candy lined the streets.
"It looks more like a carnival than a psychic fair."
As she passed by the food trucks, Autumn made a mental note to try a deep-friend Snickers candy bar before the day was over. Normally, she watched what she ate, but—damn it!—she was on vacation. She deserved to give in to temptation. But first, there was work to be done.
With a sigh of resignation, she headed for a red and white striped tent. A raven-haired woman who went by the name of Madame Bathsheba, whose real name was Reba Nevin, sat at a table on which a crystal ball was placed.
"Would you like to know your future?" the psychic asked, trying unsuccessfully to disguise her Alabama accent.
"What can you tell me about the past?" Autumn countered.
"What do you want to know?" Madame Bathsheba answered the question with another question.
"Who killed Chastity Welk?"
The color drained from Reba's face.
"I'm afraid I can only see into the future," she claimed uneasily. "Perhaps someone else here today can be of assistance to you."
"Thank you," the writer said and walked to the next tent.
"I am Thessaly," the white-haired octogenarian announced, trying to project an air of mystery. "Through me, you can speak to someone from beyond the grave. Please, take a seat."
"Can I speak to the person who killed Chastity Welk?" asked Autumn, who remained standing.
"N-no," the old woman stammered. "Unless you know the identity of the person, my spirit guide cannot contact him or her."
"Thanks. I'll try someone else."
No sooner did the writer walk away from her tent than Madame Bathsheba joined Thessaly. The two women watched in silence as Autumn neared the next tent, one that belonged to the tarot reader Chandra—a.k.a. Billie Jean Puckett.
"What does the future hold in store for you?" Chandra asked, holding up the lovers card. "Romance? Fortune? Fame?"
"Can your tarot cards tell me who murdered Chastity Welk?"
"I cannot do a reading for a dead woman, but if you would like me to tell you about yourself ...."
Billie Jean reshuffled the deck and turned over the top card.
"Number thirteen, the death card," the psychic said when she saw the skeleton figure.
Autumn knew enough about tarot cards to know the card did not necessarily mean physical death. Rather, it referred to change, rebirth and transformation.
"No thank you. I prefer to remain ignorant about what will happen to me in the future."
The discouraged writer visited tent after tent and spoke to psychic after psychic. A few were men (including the colorful Bramwell and Eldridge), but most were women. Unfortunately, Gilda, Charisma, Honey, Bianca, Natasha, Anika and Buffy—all of these names were pseudonyms—were of no more help than Madame Bathsheba, Thessaly and Chandra.
I think I'll take a break and have that deep-fried Snickers now, the writer decided, frustrated at her lack of success.
As she headed in the direction of the food trucks, Xander Salisbury, a clairvoyant who was built like a professional wrestler, approached her from the rear and grabbed hold of her, pinning her arms behind her back.
"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Once she was firmly held in his grasp, the other psychics emerged from their tents.
"Make sure you don't let her go," Bianca called to Xander.
"Don't worry. I've got her," the giant of a man assured them.
"What's going on? What do you want from me?" Autumn shouted.
"We know what you are," Madame Bathsheba answered.
"So? I'm a writer. What of it? Look, you needn't worry about my writing a book about Chastity Welk's murder. I've given up that idea. Let go of me. I promise I'll collect my belongings from the Serendipity Inn and go back home to Boston straight away."
Sasha Millen, the young woman who worked at the Inn's front desk, stepped forward and told the others, "I'll take care of her personal things."
"And I'll get rid of her car," Eldridge added.
"What are you planning on doing with me?" Autumn asked, suddenly fearing for her safety.
"You are The Sybil," Thessaly announced. "According to Chastity Welk's prophecy, you will destroy us all."
"Why on earth would I want to do that? I've got nothing against psychics! In fact, I think I'm one of you."
"She wasn't referring to us personally," Buffy explained. "You are going to destroy every man, woman and child in the world."
"We must stop you," Xander spoke into her ear from behind. "It's the only way we can save mankind."
"Stop!"
The group of psychics fell silent, and they all turned in the direction of the shouted command.
"Constance!" the writer cried when she saw the middle-aged waitress from the Mystick Café. "Thank god you're here. These people want to abduct me—or worse—kill me!"
"They can't hurt you, my dear," Constance said, drawing nearer to Autumn.
Slowly, Sasha and the attendees of the fair fell back. Many were sobbing. Others trembled with fear. Xander reluctantly let go of the writer. Once freed, she turned around and slapped him across the face.
"Once I'm in an area where I can get cell phone service, I intend to report you all to the police."
Constance laughed. It was a frightening sound, completely lacking in either humor or amusement.
"The police? Don't be ridiculous! What good would they do anyone at this point?"
"These people meant to do me harm. You don't honestly think I'm going to let bygones be bygones; do you?"
"You are The Sybil. You needn't fear them. Quite the opposite."
"Oh, don't you start now! I thought you were the only sane one in this town."
"Did you really?" the waitress asked; however, the voice was no longer her own.
"For a minute there, you sounded like Chastity Welk," Autumn declared.
"That's what I wanted you to think when I spoke to you at the inn."
Now, all trace of a female voice was gone. It was replaced by a deep, baritone that was better suited to the dark, amorphous figure the former waitress had transformed into.
"The death card," Autumn murmured. "It predicted transformation."
"And in this case," the malevolent supernatural creature explained, "it also predicted my rebirth and your actual, physical death."
As the demon took possession of the writer's body with the intent of wreaking death and destruction on everyone and everything that crossed its path, Autumn realized with her last conscious thought that she had never actually communicated with the murdered spiritualist. In that moment when she and the demon briefly shared consciousness, she knew the awful truth. Chastity Welk, a truly gifted medium, had made contact with the malicious spirit from beyond the grave. During that brief encounter, it had tried to take possession of her, but her will and her ability to fight against evil were strong. She fled to Serenity Valley, then an unpopulated land hidden in the mountains of New Hampshire, where she would hold it prisoner in her mind.
Other psychics soon arrived at the isolated locale, and a small town was formed. However, all of them knew the danger the demon presented. When Chastity felt her hold on the fiend weakening, she ordered one of her followers to stab her through the heart, hoping her death would put an end to the threat. For more than a century, the determined disembodied spirit attempted to take possession of a human being but was repeatedly prevented from doing so since no one with a glimmer of psychic ability would attempt contact with it.
Finally, projecting a false image of a harmless middle-aged waitress, it bided its time until a skeptical person with absolutely no clairvoyant ability entered Serenity Valley thus breaching its prison walls. And now, thanks to an emotionally and physically drained true crime author, hoping to revive her energy and take on a new project, the demon's long wait had at last come to an end.
Salem once attended the psychic fair. He didn't make any money giving tarot card readings, however, because he spent most of his time eating the deep-fried Snickers.
