2,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: BookRix
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Some deaths are expected. Others refuse to rest.
When tarot reader Rahel Vega is hired by troubled heir Jason Green to investigate his grandfather’s passing, she’s skeptical. Seamus Green was 102—what could possibly be unnatural about his death?
But something about Jason’s desperation lingers in Rahel’s mind, and when she consults the cards, they confirm her unease: deception, hidden forces, and a presence that refuses to move on.
As she navigates the world of Manhattan’s elite, Rahel realizes that wealth and privilege can hide secrets far darker than greed or ambition. The deeper she digs, the more she suspects that Seamus’s death wasn’t just a matter of old age—but something far more deliberate.
With her career in flux and unseen forces closing in, Rahel must uncover the truth before it’s buried for good.
THE HANGED MAN'S SECRET is the gripping second installment in the Rahel Vega series, a supernatural thriller where intuition is power, the past never truly dies, and sometimes, the dead whisper the loudest.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
Ähnliche
The Hanged Man's Secret
Part Two
Table of contents
PREVIOUSLY IN THE RAHEL VEGA MYSTERIES
The Hanged Man's Secret
For Markus
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
A Note From The Author
PREVIOUSLY IN THE RAHEL VEGA MYSTERIES
In The High Priestess' Game, we met Rahel Vega, a talented tarot reader whose metaphysical store in New York City was abruptly closed when her landlord rented the space to a pizzeria for higher profits. With her apartment rent set to increase and her savings dwindling, Rahel faced financial ruin.
Desperate, Rahel discovered an unexpected talent for gambling, guided by a strange new magic that helped her win big at a local casino. Her winnings, however, drew unwanted attention from casino security, who connected her to the mysterious disappearance of another lucky gambler.
When Rahel began investigating the missing man's case, she relied on her tarot cards, psychic abilities, and the guidance of her four spirit guides—especially the dapper and cryptic Mister B.—to uncover the truth in a world where fortunes changed hands and people vanished without a trace.
As the investigation deepened, Rahel discovered what really happened: the missing gambler's brother had quit his gambling addiction, but when his still-active gambler brother discovered a powerful spell that actually worked, the reformed brother's greed resurfaced. Unable to resist the temptation of guaranteed winnings, he murdered his own brother.
Detective Johnson, suspicious of Rahel's uncanny knowledge of the case, brought her in for questioning at the police station. Convinced she was somehow involved, he interrogated her relentlessly until the victim's brother confessed to the murder, forcing Johnson to release her—though his suspicions about her abilities remained.
By the end, Rahel had helped bring justice to those responsible, but her store remained closed. With her casino winnings nearly depleted and unwilling to risk gambling again after the dangers she encountered, Rahel attempted to build an online tarot reading business through YouTube videos and a website, www.empowering-tarot.com.
Despite her efforts, success eluded her until a mysterious client named Jason Green reached out—a seemingly troubled young man who believed his 102-year-old grandfather had been murdered for his fortune. Though skeptical, Rahel agreed to investigate, setting her on a new path that would test not just her psychic abilities but her understanding of the true nature of her gifts.
Now, in The Hanged Man's Secret, Rahel must reinvent herself while pursuing a case that will lead her into even darker territory, guided by spirits who seem to have plans for her that extend far beyond solving a single mystery...
The Hanged Man's Secret
Part Two
Part 1: The High Priestess' Game
For Markus
Thank you for literally saving my life through the second-degree Reiki attunement. But that remains a story for another book.
Chapter 1
I counted the bills again, spreading them across my bed like fortune-telling cards that refused to predict anything but doom. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty... not even close to enough. The walls of my apartment seemed to inch closer with each bill I touched, with each drip from the leaking faucet that marked time like a metronome counting down to eviction.
The envelope from the casino felt light in my hands, mocking me with its emptiness. My casino fortune was rapidly dwindling, and I had to accept that chapter of my life was closed forever. The shadows I'd witnessed in that world left me too shaken to ever return to the gambling tables, no matter how desperate things became. The bold red lettering on the foremost bill—FINAL NOTICE—burned into my vision, an accusation I couldn't answer.
Through the paper-thin walls, my neighbor's television blared a game show. Applause, cheering, the host's manufactured excitement. Someone was winning. Someone was always winning, somewhere else.
"Eight hundred and seventeen dollars," I whispered to the empty room. The same total I'd calculated an hour ago. And an hour before that. As if counting might somehow multiply the sum, as if my desperation might manifest more zeroes at the end.
I sank deeper into my threadbare couch. A spring dug into my thigh, a discomfort I'd grown so accustomed to that its absence would have been more noticeable. The fabric was wearing thin at the armrests, like everything else in my life.
The bills stared back at me. Rent. Electric. Water. Phone. Internet. Each one a mouth to feed, each one hungry for more than I had to give. My fingernails scraped against the coffee table's surface as I gathered the papers into a neat stack, aligning their edges as if order might somehow create solution.
"They're going to throw me out on the street," I said, pressing my palms against my temples where a headache was forming. "First the store, now this."
The store. My sanctuary with its velvet curtains and scented candles. The place where I'd spent half my life building something that felt like purpose. Gone now, replaced by a pizza joint with checkered tablecloths and too-bright lighting. I'd walked past it yesterday, caught a glimpse of teenagers laughing where my regular clients once sat in contemplative silence. The sign above the door—"Slice of Heaven"—seemed to mock the "Empowering Tarot" that once hung there, proud and full of promise.
The faucet in the kitchenette dripped again. A steady pulse that seemed to quicken as my anxiety rose. I should fix it. Add it to the list of things I should do but couldn't afford. Couldn't manage. Couldn't face.
A chill swept across the room, subtle at first—like someone had opened a window in another apartment down the hall. But the sensation grew more distinct, more localized. The corner of the room seemed to darken, then shimmer, like heat rising from asphalt in summer.
I knew what was coming. Who was coming.
The shimmer took form gradually, particles of light coalescing into the suggestion of a man. First the outline, then the details. A large, handsome figure in a three-piece suit from another era. Wide shoulders. Strong jaw. The fine fabric of his suit jacket appeared first, then his vest, and finally his bow tie, which he adjusted with translucent fingers as if preparing for a formal photograph.
Mister B. had arrived.
He stood tall in my shabby apartment, an aristocrat in a hovel, though his expression held no judgment. His eyes—dark and penetrating despite their spectral nature—fixed on me with that familiar mixture of sternness and kindness. When he spoke, his voice carried an echo, as if his words were traveling from some distant place to reach me.
"You're being dramatic again."
I bit back the urge to argue. Mister B. had been with me my entire life. A guide, he called himself. A helper between worlds. He'd taught me to understand my gift, to listen to the voices others couldn't hear, to interpret the patterns others couldn't see.
"Dramatic?" I gestured at the bills. "This is reality, Mister B. Cold, hard reality."
He moved across the room without walking, simply there one moment and here the next. The air around him rippled like water. "Reality is rarely cold or hard. It's malleable. Fluid." He peered down at my pitiful stack of cash. "You've faced worse."
"Have I?" I stood, needing to move, to dispel the energy building inside me. "The store was everything. It was how I reached people, how I used my gift. It was how I paid rent."
Mister B.'s form flickered slightly, a sign of his disagreement. "The store was a vessel, nothing more. Your gift resides here—" He gestured toward my head, "—and here." His hand moved to indicate my heart. "It cannot be repossessed or evicted."
I paced the small confines of my one-room-apartment, five steps one way, five steps back. The floorboards creaked in protest. "People won't come to me without the store. It gave me legitimacy. It created atmosphere. Now what am I supposed to do? Read cards on a street corner with a tin cup?"
"There are always options for those willing to adapt," he said, his voice gaining that professorial tone I recognized from my most stubborn moments.
I ran my fingers through my hair, unwashed and limp. "Easy for you to say. You don't need to eat or pay rent."
"I wouldn’t agree on the eating-part," he said, with a ghostly smile. "But basically … yes, I have other concerns."
A rush of shame swept through me. Mister B. never spoke of his own circumstances, of what kept him tethered to this world or what obligations he might have beyond guiding me. His patience with my self-pity was greater than I deserved.
"I'm sorry," I said, dropping back onto the couch. "I just... I don't see a way forward. The world doesn't need another half-rate psychic. They need rent money."
Mister B.'s form drifted closer. The temperature around me dropped several degrees, but it wasn't unpleasant—more like stepping into shade on a hot day. "The world needs exactly what you offer, Rahel. Truth. Insight. Connection. The medium may change, but the message remains constant."
I looked up at him, my spiritual mentor, my oldest friend, my most persistent critic. "The medium may change," I repeated slowly. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, "that perhaps it's time to consider new ways of reaching those who need you."
The faucet dripped again in the silence that followed, but now it sounded less like a countdown and more like possibility. One drop. Another. Another. Time passing, yes, but also time beginning.
My fingers brushed against the edge of the envelope. The casino winnings. Not much, but something. A beginning. "New ways," I echoed. The words felt strange in my mouth, frightening but also... exciting? "I wouldn't know where to start."
Mister B.'s form began to fade slightly, his time with me drawing to a close for now. "You'll find your way. You always do." His voice grew fainter. "But first, I believe you have an appointment tomorrow. With your landlord."
My stomach knotted. "Mr. Goldstein."
"Indeed." Mister B. was barely visible now, just an outline, a suggestion. "Perhaps he will have news that will... adjust your perspective."
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with my bills, my leaking faucet, and a fragile, newfound sense that perhaps—just perhaps—this ending might also be a beginning.
***
I pushed open the frosted glass door with "Goldstein Property Management" etched in flaking gold letters. The smell hit me immediately—cheap cologne trying to mask the mustiness of old furniture, like a man who thinks one splash of aftershave can hide a week without showering. Mr. Goldstein hunched behind his desk, his bald head gleaming under fluorescent lights that cast everyone in their sickly, unforgiving glow.
He didn't look up when I entered, his eyes fixed on his computer screen where rows of numbers—other people's fates reduced to digits—scrolled past. His fingers tapped at his keyboard with mechanical precision. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. I stood there, unwelcome and unacknowledged, clutching my purse against my side like a shield.
The office was small, cramped with filing cabinets that had probably been there since the Reagan administration. A dying fern drooped in the corner, its browning leaves a testimony to neglect. The chair across from his desk—my designated spot—had a tear in the vinyl seat that had been repaired with electrical tape, now curling at the edges from years of nervous visitors shifting their weight.
I cleared my throat.
Mr. Goldstein held up one finger—wait—without breaking his rhythm or looking away from his screen. The gesture was practiced, perfected through years of making people like me understand their place in his world. Beneath notice. Until convenient.
I waited, because what choice did I have? My eyes wandered to the framed certificates on his wall, the family photo where even his children seemed to be frowning, the desk calendar marked with what looked like eviction dates in red pen.
"Have you sampled the pizza from the establishment that replaced your shop?" he finally asked, still not looking up. His voice had that nasal quality that always made me think of someone trying to sound more important than they were. "Their margherita is absolutely divine."
Divine. The word hung in the air between us, a deliberate mockery. He knew what my shop had been, what I had offered there. Spiritual guidance. Readings. A sanctuary for those seeking answers. And he had reduced it to a before-and-after food review.
"I haven't," I said, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.
"You should." He clicked his mouse decisively, finally turning his attention to me. His glasses sat low on his nose, transforming his eyes into calculating little marbles. "Support local business."
The words were a paper cut—small but stinging. My shop had been local. Years of building relationships, of creating a safe space where people could explore their fears and hopes. Now it was all mozzarella and marinara.
Mr. Goldstein reached for a folder on the corner of his desk, sliding it toward me without making eye contact. His fingers were thick, adorned with a gold pinky ring that caught the light as he moved. "Your file."
I didn't reach for it. "I came to ask about my apartment."
"Did you?" He raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. "I thought perhaps you were here about the notice."
My fingers brushed against the tarot deck in my pocket, seeking comfort in its familiar edges and corners. I always carried a deck with me. Not my professional deck—that one stayed home, treated with reverence—but a smaller one, worn from handling. A talisman. A tool. A truth-teller when all else seemed designed to deceive.
What would the cards tell me about this man? The Tower, perhaps—destruction of false structures. Or the Devil—bondage to material concerns. I imagined laying out a spread right there on his cluttered desk, watching his smug expression falter as the cards revealed what I already knew: he was a small man wielding what little power he had with mean-spirited precision.
But I didn't pull out my cards. Instead, I forced myself to meet his gaze directly. "Yes. About the notice."
He finally looked up, glasses perched on the end of his nose. His smile didn't reach his eyes, which remained cold and assessing. "You've got four months until rent goes up."
"Goes up?" The words came out as a whisper. "By how much?"
Mr. Goldstein leaned back in his chair, which creaked under his weight. "Threefold. It's all in the file." He gestured to the folder between us, which suddenly seemed to contain not papers but a sentence. A judgment.
"Threefold?" I repeated, my mind racing to calculate what that would mean. My current rent already consumed most of my income. With the shop gone, with only private readings to sustain me... "That's not possible. That's not—"
"Market rate," he interrupted, the phrase clipped and final. "The neighborhood is changing, Ms. Vega."
Changing. Like my shop changing into a pizza place. Like stable rent changing into impossible demand. Like security changing into fear.
"I've been a tenant for fifteen years," I said, hearing the desperation creeping into my voice and hating it. "I've never been late with rent. Never caused problems."
"And I appreciate that." His tone suggested he appreciated it the way one appreciates a train running on schedule—expected, unremarkable. "Which is why you're being given four months' notice rather than the legally required sixty days."
My hand closed around the deck in my pocket, squeezing until the edges dug into my palm. Pain to focus on. Pain to keep me from screaming or crying or begging—none of which would move this man.
"I can't afford a three hundred percent increase," I said, forcing each word past the tightness in my throat. "Not with my business..."
"Ah, yes. The unfortunate closure." He nodded as if sympathetic, though his eyes remained cold. "Have you considered seeking employment elsewhere? The pizza place might be hiring." A small, cruel smile. "I hear they're quite successful."
The room seemed to contract around me. The walls inching closer, the ceiling lowering. The air growing thinner. I felt my breath coming faster, shallower. My vision tunneling until all I could see was Mr. Goldstein's face, floating in darkness like a malevolent moon.
"Is there..." I swallowed, tried again. "Is there any flexibility on the increase?"
He checked his watch—a not-subtle hint that my time was expiring. "You're welcome to renew at the new rate or provide notice of your intent to vacate." He pushed the folder closer to me. "All the details are inside."
I reached for the folder with numb fingers, the paper cool and impersonal against my skin. Just sheets of corporate language disguising a simple truth: I was being pushed out. Just like my shop. Just like everything else that didn't fit the new vision, the new neighborhood, the new reality.
"Four months," I repeated, needing to say it aloud, to make it real.
"The letter explains everything." Mr. Goldstein was already turning back to his computer, dismissing me.
I stood, the folder clutched against my chest, the deck in my pocket pressing against my thigh. The floor beneath me no longer felt solid. I was floating, untethered, the world around me suddenly uncertain.
"Thank you for your time," I said automatically, words my mother had drilled into me. Always be polite. Even to those who don't deserve it.
Mr. Goldstein didn't respond, already typing away at whatever spreadsheet contained the next person's fate. I turned toward the door, my movements mechanical, disconnected from conscious thought.
The hallway outside his office was dim, illuminated by flickering fluorescent tubes that buzzed like trapped insects. I leaned against the wall, letting the cool plaster support me while I tried to steady my breathing. Four months. The price is three times what it was before.
Mathematical impossibility dressed up in legal language.
I pushed away from the wall and moved toward the stairs, the folder heavy in my hands as if it contained stones rather than papers. Each step down felt like descent into deeper waters, pressure building in my ears, movement becoming more difficult.
Outside, the summer heat hit me like a physical blow. The sidewalk shimmered, people moved past in a blur of colors and sounds that didn't quite register. I stood frozen, adrift in a current of pedestrians who flowed around me like I was just another obstacle to navigate.
Four months. And then what?
The folder crumpled slightly in my grip. I forced myself to loosen my hold, to straighten my spine, to put one foot in front of the other. Movement without purpose, direction without destination.
The walls were closing in. The floor beneath my feet no longer solid. The future no longer certain.
And somewhere, in a corner of my mind, Mister B.'s voice echoed: "Perhaps he will have news that will... adjust your perspective."
Adjusted indeed. Shifted from worry to panic, from uncertainty to doom. I moved through the heat-soaked streets, a ghost already, haunting a life that was slipping through my fingers like water.
***
The espresso machine shrieked like a creature in pain, drowning out Samantha's hushed confession about her marriage. I leaned forward, straining to hear, conscious of the table's sticky surface beneath my forearms. Three weeks since I'd lost my shop, and I still hadn't adjusted to reading cards in public spaces—the stares, the noise, the complete absence of the controlled environment I'd cultivated for years.
"Sorry, could you repeat that?" I asked, offering an apologetic smile. "The noise in here is—"
"I said he's talking about children again." Samantha's fingers nervously twisted the wedding band on her left hand. "After I explicitly told him I wasn't ready."
I nodded, trying to project the serene understanding that had come so easily in my shop, where the lighting was dim and flattering, where scented candles masked the smells of anxiety and uncertainty, where silence was a presence rather than an absence. Here, under the coffee shop's merciless LED lighting, Samantha looked older, more worn. Her makeup couldn't quite hide the shadows beneath her eyes.
Or perhaps it wasn't the lighting. Perhaps it was me, seeing more clearly now that my own foundations were crumbling.
"Let's see what the cards say," I murmured, reaching for my deck.
The table wobbled as I laid out the cloth—a poor substitute for my carved wooden table back at the shop. This laminate surface was uneven, marked with coffee rings and scratches from countless laptops. I could feel eyes on us from neighboring tables—curious glances, whispered comments. In one corner, a man with thick-framed glasses stared openly over his laptop screen, his expression a mixture of amusement and disdain.
I'd chosen this café because it was six blocks from my old shop—far enough that I wouldn't have to see the pizza place, close enough that regular clients could still find me. It was a compromise that pleased no one, least of all me.
Samantha shifted in her metal chair, which scraped against the floor with a sound that set my teeth on edge. "Should we be doing this here?" she whispered, eyeing the barista who was watching us with undisguised interest. "It feels... I don't know. Exposed."
"It's fine," I lied, shuffling my cards with hands that felt stiff and unfamiliar. Each card caught against my fingers, protesting this indignity. These weren't meant to be handled beneath overhead lights, surrounded by the chatter of strangers discussing stock options and Tinder dates. "Focus on your question about your husband, about your future together."
Samantha nodded, closing her eyes briefly. She'd been coming to me for three years, ever since she found my shop during a rainstorm and decided her soaked condition was a sign to step inside. She'd become more than a client—almost a friend, though the professional boundary remained. She knew things about me. I knew more about her.
I dealt the cards in our familiar pattern, the one we'd established over dozens of sessions in my quiet back room with its velvet curtains and shelves of crystals. But here, the movements felt performative, theatrical. A spectacle for those with nothing better to watch.
The first card revealed the Six of Cups—nostalgia, childhood memories. Fitting, given her husband's desires. The second showed the Eight of Swords—restriction, feeling trapped. The third...
"Death, reversed," I said, keeping my voice low as I tapped the ominous-looking card. "It means—"
"Could you speak up?" Samantha leaned forward, straining to hear. "I can't hear you over the noise."
I cleared my throat, uncomfortable with raising my voice to discuss something so personal. The espresso machine hissed again, releasing a cloud of steam that seemed to mock my attempts at creating an atmosphere of intimacy.
"Death reversed," I repeated, slightly louder. "It doesn't literally mean death. It represents resistance to change, stagnation. Combined with these other cards, I'm seeing a pattern of—"
A young barista with blue hair and multiple ear piercings approached our table, spray bottle and cloth in hand. "Sorry to interrupt," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "Just need to wipe down this area."
Before I could protest, she bumped against our table while reaching for a nearby surface. The table—already unsteady—tilted sharply. The cards slid across the slick laminate like leaves scattered by autumn wind, some falling to the floor, others landing in Samantha's lap.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" The barista's eyes widened, her practiced customer-service smile faltering. "I didn't realize they would slide like that."
I bit back the words that rose to my lips—sharp, angry words about respect and space and common decency. Instead, I forced a tight smile. "It's fine."
It wasn't fine. The reading was ruined. The flow broken. The energy scattered along with the cards.
Samantha bent down, gathering cards from the floor. Her fingers were gentle with them, respectful, and something in my chest tightened at this small kindness. I collected the ones that had fallen into her lap, our hands briefly touching in the exchange.
The barista hovered uncomfortably. "Can I get you guys anything else? A free pastry maybe? For the trouble?"
"We're fine, thank you," I said, my tone making it clear that her departure would be the greatest service she could offer.
She nodded and retreated, taking her spray bottle and her disruptive presence with her. But the damage was done. The moment was broken, the connection severed.
Samantha helped me gather the remaining cards, stacking them neatly. Her expression was apologetic, but there was something else there too—a decision forming. I'd seen it before in other clients' faces, that moment when they decided the effort wasn't worth the reward.
"I'm sorry, Rahel," she said softly, sliding a twenty across the table toward me. The bill lay there between us like a barrier, a formalization of what had once been more fluid, more meaningful. "I miss your shop. The privacy, the incense, the silence. Meeting like this..." She gestured vaguely at our surroundings, the noisy café with its harsh lighting and curious onlookers. "It feels wrong."
I didn't touch the twenty. "We could try somewhere else. Maybe the park when weather permits, or—"
"It's not just the location." Samantha's gaze dropped to the table, avoiding my eyes. "It's... everything has an energy, right? Isn't that what you taught me? And this energy is all wrong. Fractured. Unsettled." She touched my hand, her fingers warm against my cold ones. "I don't think I can do this anymore."
The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples through my already unstable world. Another loss. Another ending. Another piece of the life I'd built crumbling away.
"I understand," I said, because what else could I say? I couldn't argue. She was right. This was wrong—all wrong. The cards deserved better. My clients deserved better. I deserved better than this half-life, this pale imitation of what I'd created.
Samantha stood, gathering her purse. "You helped me through so much, Rahel. My mother's illness. The job change. All those decisions..." She paused, searching for words. "I hope you find your way back to that. To creating that space again, somewhere."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Around us, the café continued its noisy existence—the hiss of steam, the grind of coffee beans, the tap of laptops, the murmur of conversations. Life continuing while mine seemed suspended.
"Take care of yourself," she said, and then she was gone, pushing through the door into the bright afternoon, leaving me alone at a sticky table with scattered cards and a twenty-dollar bill I hadn't earned.
I stared at the money. My last reading with a woman who'd trusted me with her secrets for three years, reduced to a transaction neither of us was satisfied with. I pushed the bill into my pocket alongside the others—tips that barely covered the cost of the drinks I felt obligated to purchase for occupying table space.
The Death card stared up at me from the table, still reversed. Resistance to change. Stagnation. The irony wasn't lost on me.
With methodical care, I gathered my cards, wiping each one on my sleeve before returning it to the deck. They deserved better than this place with its spilled coffee and indifferent audience. They deserved reverence. Purpose.
As I packed away my cloth and cards, I felt a familiar chill—the slightest drop in temperature that often preceded Mister B.'s appearances. But he didn't materialize. Just a reminder, then, that I wasn't entirely alone.
Small comfort in a coffee shop where I was nothing but a curiosity, a woman with funny cards and dwindling clientele. I stood, chair legs scraping against tile, and made my way toward the door Samantha had disappeared through minutes before.
Outside, the heat wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. I paused on the sidewalk, momentarily disoriented. Where to go now? Home to my apartment with its dripping faucet and looming rent increase? To another café to wait for a client who might never appear? To the park to sit on a bench and pretend I wasn't watching my life unravel strand by strand?
The tarot deck pressed against my thigh through the fabric of my pocket. Waiting. Patient. Eternal in a way nothing else in my life seemed to be. They had answers, if only I could find the right questions. The right place to ask them. The right way to listen.
For now, though, there was only the crowded sidewalk, and another piece of my carefully constructed life scattered to the wind like the cards across that wobbling café table.
***
I set the last candle in place, completing the triangle. In the middle stood four glasses of water, one for each of my guides. The flame flickered as I struck the match, then steadied, casting long shadows across my bedroom floor. My knees ached against the hardwood—a reminder of how long it had been since I'd properly communed with my guides. Too long. Desperation always brought me back to basics.
The apartment was quiet at this hour—a rare gift in a building with walls thin as tissue paper. No televisions blaring. No couples arguing. No babies crying. Just the occasional creak of settling foundations and the distant hum of city traffic. Sacred silence, or as close as I could get to it.
I sat cross-legged in the center of the candle triangle, my spine straight despite the exhaustion that had settled into my bones. My hair hung loose around my shoulders—no barriers, no constraints, nothing to block the connection I sought.
I knocked on the floor three times and repeated their names three times, or at least the names they had told me. "I call to those who guide me," I whispered to the empty air that wasn't empty at all. The words were an old formula, taught to me by my mother before she passed, refined through years of practice. "I seek your counsel in this time of darkness."
The room seemed to hold its breath. The candle flames stood unnaturally still, as if time itself had paused to listen. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing, on the energy gathering around me. Prickling along my skin. Filling my lungs. Pressing against the inside of my skull like a gentle, insistent tide.
When I opened my eyes, Mister B. was there, hovering near the window. His form was more substantial than it had been a couple of days earlier—well-fed by the energy of the candles and my intentional summoning. The moonlight passed through him, casting no shadow, but his features were distinct: the proud nose, the heavy brow, the eyes that had witnessed more than I could imagine.
"You haven’t called us properly for a long time," he said, his voice carrying that slight echo, like words spoken in a vast, empty hall.
"I've been... struggling," I replied.
Mister B.'s form rippled with what might have been a sigh. "So we've observed."
A second presence stirred in the room, gathering form beside my dresser. Unlike Mister B.'s immediate, fully-formed appearance, this one coalesced more gradually. First a shimmer, then a suggestion of fabric—voluminous skirts, a high collar—and finally, the stern face of a woman framed by hair pulled tightly back from her forehead. Auntie, as I'd called her, though she was no blood relation.
Her Victorian dress rustled without disturbing the air, the sound a memory of fabric rather than its reality. Half her face remained in shadow, a deliberate choice—she'd once told me that some truths were better left partially obscured.
"Child," she said, her voice carrying the crisp accent of another century. "You look unwell."
"I'm fine," I lied, an automatic response that earned me sharp looks from both spirits.
"Dishonesty serves no purpose here," Auntie said, her transparent form drifting closer. "This is a place of truth, however uncomfortable."
I nodded, properly chastised. "You're right. I'm not fine. I'm falling apart."
Two other presences entered the room, Grandpa and Ma. I instantly recognized that they were only here to observe, and intended to let Mister B. and Auntie lead the conversation today.
"I'm losing everything," I said to them, voicing the fear that had been growing inside me for weeks. "The shop is gone. My clients are leaving. Soon I'll lose my apartment." I gestured around the small bedroom with its secondhand furniture and faded curtains. "It's not much, but it's mine. It's all I have left."
Mister B. moved closer, his form rippling with each movement. "The world has changed," he said, his tone that of a teacher addressing a stubborn student. "Your services must change with it."
I struggled not to let frustration color my voice. "I've tried. The coffee shops, the park—it doesn't work. People want privacy for readings. They want atmosphere. They want—"
"They want you," Auntie interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Your gift isn't bound to physical space, child."
The light near the ceiling pulsed brighter, drawing my attention upward. Grandpa and Ma approving what Auntie had just said.
A vast web, stretching across countries, continents. Countless points of light—people—connected by invisible threads. Distance meaning nothing. Physical presence unnecessary. The sensation of reach, of expansion, of barriers dissolving.
"The internet," I whispered, understanding blooming slowly. "You mean reaching people online."
The light pulsed once in confirmation.
I frowned, unconvinced. "But readings are personal. They require connection, energy exchange. How can I possibly—"
"Did the telephone end conversation?" Mister B. asked, his spectral eyebrows raised. "Did writing end storytelling?"
"That's different," I insisted. "This is spiritual work. It's intimate."
Auntie's form drifted to the edge of my candle triangle, her expression stern but not unkind. "Intimacy takes many forms, child. The heart recognizes truth regardless of the medium."
The unnamed light pulsed again, sending another impression: The seekers still hunger. The message remains the same. Only the medium must change.
I sat with this, letting the wisdom of my guides settle into me. They'd never steered me wrong before, though their advice often came wrapped in riddles and metaphors that took time to unravel. The world had changed—was changing still. Why should my work remain static?
"The internet," I repeated, the idea taking clearer shape in my mind. "I could reach people everywhere. Not just locally." A spark of excitement kindled in my chest, the first I'd felt in weeks. "I wouldn't be limited by physical space. By geography."
Mister B. nodded, approval evident in his transparent features. "The principles remain unchanged. Only the tools differ."
"But how?" I asked, practical concerns rushing in to dampen my nascent enthusiasm. "I don't know the first thing about creating a website or finding clients online or—"
The light pulsed again: One step. Then another. The path reveals itself to the walking, not the waiting.
Auntie's form began to fade slightly, her energy waning. "You've faced greater challenges than this, Rahel Vega. You were only sixteen when you started reading cards for your classmates. Twenty-one when you opened your store. Twenty-three when you were finally able to quit your second job at the callcenter and make a living from reading cards."
Her words struck me like physical blows—reminders of strength I'd forgotten I possessed. "This is different," I said, but with less conviction.
"It is merely new," Mister B. corrected. "And newness always carries fear. Fear of failure. Fear of change. Fear of success."
The candles flickered, their flames bending as if a breeze had passed through the room, though the air remained still. A signal that our time was growing short. These connections took energy to maintain, and even with the ritual's support, they couldn't remain indefinitely.
"I wouldn't know where to begin," I said, a final protest that sounded weak even to my own ears.
The light pulsed its response: Begin with what you know.
"Readings," I said, understanding. "I could record readings. General ones at first, for different signs or situations. Then personalized ones for clients who—" The ideas began to flow, gathering momentum like a stream after rain. "I could use video. Let people see the cards, see my face. Create that connection visually instead of physically."
Mister B.'s form was fading now, becoming translucent. "Consider it an evolution, not a replacement."
Auntie, too, was diminishing, her Victorian silhouette blurring at the edges. "Your gift adapts. It survives. As do you."
The unnamed light pulsed once more, brighter than before, then contracted to a pinpoint before vanishing entirely. Its final impression lingered in my mind: a sense of approval, of rightness, of paths converging toward purpose.
