Page 31 of Harnessed in Gold

“They’re long gone,” Barbara says. “But back in the old days, when I was no more than a girl, there were stories. Folks saw ghosts there. Restless souls.”

“You mean the ghosts of the people who met the devil?”

“None other.” She addresses Linda, “What was the one about the preacher? The one who lost his boy?”

“Don’t recall his name, but I remember what they say—that his young’un died of mountain fever?—”

Barbara interrupts, “Yellow fever, I heard.”

“Some sort of fever,” Linda says with a shrug. “Got sick and died, and his pa was so heartbroken he sold his soul to the devil to bring him back.”

Yikes. Until a few weeks ago, I would’ve never believed a story like that. But now? I whisper, “Did he come back?”

Linda’s brown eyes gleam. “Well, now, that depends. Some say he came back as the stray dog the preacher found. Others say he came back, but the preacher had to shoot him.”

“Good god. Why?”

“Because he had yellow demon eyes.”

I’m so absorbed in these tales that I startle when Rime sets my snacks down in front of me.

He lays a big hand on my shoulder. “What’s this about demon eyes?”

“They’re yellow,” I reply.

“Of course they are,” he says—so matter-of-factly, I’m not sure he’s acting.

If demons are real, I quit.

I tell him, “Linda and Barbara were telling me about the crossroads.”

He chuckles. “Are you planning to make a deal with the devil?”

“No.” Although, considering that grin he’s wearing, maybe I already have. Under the table, I nudge his thigh with my knee, reminding him to play along. “Because I don’t want to be a ghost after I die.”

“Oh, a ghost, eh?” He arches a brow. “Is that what happens when you sell your soul?”

Barbara shakes her daubers, prepping the ink for the next round. “That’s one thing that makes ghosts.”

“What else?” I ask.

“Dying before the Good Lord’s ready to take you.”

Linda adds, “Or when there’s something here you don’t wanna let go of.”

Ah, yes, the old ‘unfinished business’ story.

As we talk, I pull a pen from my purse and pretend to be doodling. With Rime’s yellow dauber, I make dots in the margins of my card sheets and draw smiley faces and flowers on them. But in between these masterworks, I jot down notes on the brochure:sidhe, crossroads on campus, preacher’s son, demons have yellow eyes.

Linda sighs, “Used to be the yarb doctor could help when you were troubled by a haint, but there ain’t so many of them nowadays.”

“Yarb doctor?” My head shoots up. “Is that something like a witch doctor?”

“Sure is. He could tell you how to get rid of haints in your house, and if one was following you around, he’d make you a bag with herbs and charms to carry with you in your pocket.”

Discreetly, I writeyarb doctoron the brochure and underline it three times. “And there aren’t any of these yarb doctors anymore?”

“Oh, there’s a few left. Mostly granny women these days. Only one I know ‘round here is Jeannie West. Her papaw was a yarb, and he taught her everything he knew.”