While Vika tended to avoid places where people gathered, the library was the exception. She loved the smell of it, how the shelves contained layers of stories, and how there wasn’t an expectation to socialize.
Usually.
As she walked past the reception desk, the librarian, Eileen, looked up from her computer, a smile brightening her face.
“Vika! What a surprise. How are you? Keeping busy? How’s the store? I’ve been meaning to stop by the shop.”
Vika arranged her face into an expression she hoped passed for approachable. “The shop is great.” Not a customer in sight. “Actually, I was looking for you. I was wondering if you could tell me about the Orchard Bride ghost.”
Eileen’s eyes widened as she leaned forward conspiratorially and dropped her voice. “Would this have something to do with the early bloom? It’s incredible, isn’t it?”
Vika smiled back at Eileen. “I went to see it this morning, and it is…. something.”
“Indeed, let me just come around so we don’t disturb the other patrons.” Eileen whispered dramatically, glancing around at the three retirees reading newspapers.
She came out from behind the desk, her long flowered skirt swishing as she walked.
Vika followed her to a small conference room and took a seat at the table, folding her hands so she wouldn’t fidget impatiently. “So, what can you tell me about the ghost? Who was it?”
“Well,” Eileen began, clearly delighted, “the most popular story is that she was waiting for her groom on her wedding day when he died in a logging accident.”
“Of course he did,” Vika muttered.
“Tragic,” Eileen agreed happily. “She wandered into the orchard. Apparently, it was their special place, you know, and never left.”
“Hmm.” Vika responded. “But who is she?”
Eileen patted her gray hair, which was wound with a purple scarf. “My personal favorite,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard the question. “Is that she was murdered by a jealous suitor. Can you imagine? Though there is no historical evidence to support that. Another version of the story is that she drowned herself in the lake and haunts the orchard because that was where she was the happiest.”
“That seems unlikely,” Vika said. None of that explained the blood she saw, unless the jealous suitor killed her in the orchard.
“Well, you know how these stories go.” Eileen spread her fingers. “When I was a girl, they said that if you walked backwards through the orchard during a full moon, she’d come to you floating through the trees. That’s silly, of course. People have seen her at all different times. No walking backwards required.”
“People actually believe these things?” Vika asked.
“Well, people love a good mystery. The Falks, you know, the new owners, certainly aren’t discouraging it. I heard they’re planning an Orchard Bride Festival for the summer solstice.”
Vika rolled her eyes. “Is there any history that suggests who she was? Perhaps she was one of the orchard’s previous owners?”
Eileen drummed her manicured nails on the table. “Before the Falks, the Carsons owned the orchard for generations, and they were pretty tight-lipped about her. There are no records that I’m aware of that list her name. That’s the funny thing about ghost stories. They change with the times until they’re more about the person telling the story than the actual ghost. I’m curious, Vika, what are you looking for? Did you see something this morning at the orchard?”
Vika hesitated, not wanting to stoke the fires of gossip. “I saw something. I’m trying to make sense of it.”
Eileen’s expression softened, but her attention sharpened. Librarian curiosity activated.
“I don’t think she was a bride, though,” Vika added. “Are there any town historical records I could go through that might have pictures from that time?”
Eileen scrunched up her mouth, thinking. “Yes, there are newspapers, family records, and even old school yearbooks. Let me see what I can find.”
Several moments later, Eileen returned with a stack of leather-bound books and manila folders. Her bracelets jangled as she set them in front of Vika. “I’ve pulled everything I could find from when the orchard was established in 1892. There isn’t a lot, but some of the local historians kept decent records. I would start here.”
Eileen dug through the stack and pulled out a leather-bound journal that looked like a scrapbook. She flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “Here. This is odd. The orchard is mentioned sporadically, but nothing for several years. Then, in 1910, there was an article in the local paper about the ‘miraculous recovery’ of the trees after a blight.”
Miraculous.
Vika leaned forward.
The photo showed twisted trees, bark scarred in unnatural patterns.
Vika wished there were people in it. She was sure this was the time she was looking for, especially if the ghost was somehow protecting the orchard.
“Thank you,” Vika said. “I will start looking through these.”
“I’ll check the microfiche,” Eileen said, already halfway to the door. “You have me invested now.” Eileen practically glowed with excitement.
“Thanks. I just want to give her her name back,” Vika said, flipping to the first page of the scrapbook that held the 1926 article.
“If anyone can,” Eileen said gently, “it’s you. You’ve always had a way with the forgotten things.”
The door clicked shut.
Stunned by the unexpected compliment, Vika stared at it for a moment before shaking it off and digging into the first book. And the next one, and the ones after that.
Over an hour later, Vika pulled out another scrapbook, but this one was more personal, less historian. Inside were newspaper clippings, a pressed flower, and some photographs. Vika wondered who it had belonged to. There was no inscription.
She turned the page and landed on a black-and-white photo of two young women in the orchard, their arms around each other and a bushel of apples at their feet.
One was familiar. The girl on the right was clearly a younger, happier version of the terrified ghost who’d run away from her at the orchard.
The handwritten caption read, “Misha and Dahlia Vale gathering apples for the pies.”
Dahlia Vale.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Ben. “Found something. Meet at the Orchard?”
Vika typed back a thumbs-up emoji, eyes still on the photo.
“Dahlia,” she murmured.
Not a bride.
Before going to the Phoenix, Vika stopped at home. Millie, her chubby basset hound, was so happy to see her. She nearly wiggled out of her skin when Vika’s hand brushed the leash, and Vika didn’t have the heart to leave her home.
The walk to the orchard took twice as long because Millie needed to smell everything in her meandering way.
When they arrived at the orchard, Ben was talking with Mr. Falk, who was on a ladder with pruning shears tending to the trees which had not started blooming early. His wife had a rake and was cleaning up the fallen leaves.
Millie burst toward Ben, running at a chunky gallop. He crouched down and gave her an equally enthusiastic greeting. “Millie, my favorite girl.”
Millie instantly flopped down onto her back so Ben could scratch her pink, spotted basset hound belly.
After watching this display for several minutes, Vika cleared her throat.
“Right,” Ben said, standing. “Hi Vika. You remember Mr. and Mrs. Falk?”
Vika nodded.
“We were just discussing the Orchard Bride,” Ben said.
“The Early Bloom and the Orchard Bride are all anyone can seem to talk about. We’ve had at least twenty early visitors so far.” Mrs Falk’s eyes shone with excitement.
“I bet,” Vika said dryly.
Mr Falk climbed down the ladder, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I don’t really understand it myself.”
“Well, you started circulating the stories,” Vika started and stopped when Ben shot her a look.
“We were hoping to have a look around,” Ben said.
“Of course,” Mrs. Falk said. “Feel free to wander. If you post pictures, use the hashtag #OrchardBrideBlessing.”
Now Vika did roll her eyes.
“So, have you seen the ghost?” Ben asked cheerfully.
“Pshaw,” Mr. Falk said, waving his hand dismissively. “Bunch of nonsense, but it brings people in. We’re making t-shirts, you know. I’ll save one for you.”
Ben pulled Vika away as she was about to respond. He called over his shoulder, “Thank you! We’ll be sure to use the hashtag if we post pictures.”
They headed off down the dirt driveway with Millie trailing behind. The dog’s ears perked up as they approached the wyrd knot, her nose going into overtime.
The moss covering the roots looked thicker somehow, more green, and tiny violet flowers spread in a circle around the oak tree. How was that possible? They were just here this morning.
Ben crouched down and examined the roots. “Incredible.”
The fur on Millie’s back rose. She whined and backed away from the circle.
“Smart girl,” Vika mumbled, giving her a reassuring pat and turning back to Ben. “So, what did you find?”
“Right,” he said, digging through his backpack. He brought out an old book, opened the tattered cover and turned it toward her.
Vika leaned in.
The page was a mess of lines. Loops over loops, crossing and recrossing until her eyes couldn’t follow where anything began or ended. It reminded her of the Fates’ tapestry.
She blinked. “What am I looking at?”
Ben huffed a quiet laugh, tapping a point on the page. “Look at the pattern.”
“It looks random.”
“It’s not,” he insisted, a little sharper now. He shifted closer, angling the book. “Look here. And here. See how it doubles back?”
Vika squinted. “…Yes?”
Ben dragged a hand down his face, and took a breath. He tried again. “It’s a knot. Powerful magic, especially in places where the veil is thin. Like here.”
Vika’s gaze flicked up. “A spell.”
“Exactly.” Relief softened his voice. “A binding spell, I think. Made to hold something in place or keep something out.”
Her attention dropped back to the page. The lines started to make more sense.
“It could be why our ghost is still there,” Ben said. “I think she’s held here.”
“Or holding it together,” Vika countered.
He tilted his head. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Vika leaned back, arms crossing, gaze drifting to the spaces between the rows of apple trees.
“Who would do that?” she murmured.
Ben shrugged.
Something didn’t feel right. “She didn’t feel trapped,” Vika said. “She felt…” She searched for the word. “Tethered?”
Ben considered that. “…So she did it to herself,” he said.
“Maybe she had to.”
Silence settled between them, heavier now.
Vika’s stomach tightened as she remembered what the spirit had said. From unraveling.
She swallowed. “She’s protecting it. If that knot comes undone…”
“Things slip,” he said. “Time doesn’t stay where it’s supposed to. Maybe it’s already happening. I mean, something is happening there. The early bloom. The ghost appearing to you.” Ben leaned forward, his storm-gray eyes intense.
Vika’s fingers drummed her leg. “Why now? If she is bound to the orchard and has been protecting the knot, why would it unravel now?”
“Either she’s weakening… or the knot is.”
Vika didn’t like either option.
“Can you ask her?” he added. “She reached out to you once. Maybe she—”
“She didn’t reach out,” Vika cut in. She ran away.
“She talked to you or tried to.”
Vika stiffened, conceding the point. “Dahlia Vale,” she said softly. “I know you’re here. We want to help you.”
The air went still. No rustle of leaves or birds calling. A chill rippled over Vika. Millie growled low.
Dahlia materialized between two trees, eyeing Vika warily. Vika started toward her, and the spirit retreated.
Vika stopped. “It’s all right. I won’t come closer.”
“She’s here?” Ben asked.
Vika gestured to the shadow between the trees.
“I found a photograph,” Vika said. “Of you and Misha.”
Surprise flickered across Dahlia’s face, followed quickly by anger. “Stay away from my sister.”
Vika held up her hands and said softly, “Let us help you.”
Ben gave her a curious look before focusing on the space where Vika said Dahlia stood. “Dahlia, we can see the binding. We know you’re protecting something. We want to help.”
The ghost’s gaze snapped to him and then darted to Vika. She shook her head violently. “You can’t. If she takes me…” Her translucent hand waved in Vika’s direction.
“What did she say?” Ben asked.
“Nothing,” Vika said quickly.
Dahlia’s eyes widened in fear. “I know what you are.” She spit it like an accusation.
Then she was gone. Her slippery form flickered and dissolved. Millie pressed herself into Vika’s leg.
“What happened?” Ben asked.
“She’s afraid,” Vika said, giving Millie a scratch.
“Of what?”
Vika shrugged and turned away. “I don’t know.”
A car door slammed in the distance. Voices drifted from the direction of the parking area. More gawkers, probably coming to see the miracle bloom and take selfies.
Vika looked down at the wyrd knot, at the way the roots twisted and held. A binding spell, Ben had said. Powerful magic to keep something contained, or to keep something out.
“The blood I saw,” she whispered. “It was here. At this spot. Someone died here, and Dahlia bound herself to prevent… what?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “To prevent it from happening again?”
Millie’s ears perked up, and she let out a single, sharp bark, her warning bark.
A sharp gust of wind scattered apple blossoms from the one blooming tree. They fell in a pattern that made Vika’s skin prickle. Not random.
Ben saw it too. He crouched and traced the pattern with his finger, not quite touching the petals. “A boundary marker,” he said mostly to himself. “She must be trying to tell us something. A marker with this symbol would have been carved into fence posts a century ago to delineate property lines and ward off trespassers.”
Vika crouched before the tree and placed her hand on the soft moss. A scream ripped through the air, followed by the sharp crack of gunfire. Vika jerked her hand away.
Silence.
Ben was studying her, a confused look on his face. How did he not hear it?