Chapter 1: The Fortune-Teller

Present day—

It all started because my son was getting married, and my wife and I went to see a fortune-teller. It was one of those new-age shops just outside Cincinnati—dreamcatchers in the window, incense smoke curling through the doorway. We’d always been practical folks, but Diane’s nerves about the wedding had her clutching my arm, determined to get every detail right.

We just wanted a lucky date for the wedding, but after the fortune-teller finished reading the cards, he looked at us seriously and asked, "Do you have a child who hasn't come home in many years? The signs are off."

His voice dropped low, and his gaze seemed to pierce right through me, straight to the secret I'd buried deeper than any grave. The room seemed to shrink; the incense smelled suddenly like burning rubber.

Hearing this, my heart skipped a beat. Sweat broke out at my temples. My fingers twisted in my jacket pocket, searching for something to ground me. My mind raced, replaying that one night over and over.

I quickly exchanged glances with Diane. Her eyes were wide, lips pressed tight. It was the look we’d shared years ago, silent and heavy—a whole conversation in a single breath.

From her panicked expression, I could tell she was thinking the same thing as me. Guilt flickered between us, old and raw as ever. We’d never spoken about it, not really. Not after that night.

The fortune-teller continued, "A son's wedding is a big deal. The whole family needs to be together for the ceremony. If anyone's still missing, I'm afraid something bad will happen if you go ahead."

His words landed heavy, like a preacher at a fire-and-brimstone sermon. In a small town, folks take omens seriously, especially if you’re marrying up like our son was.

"What kind of thing?" Diane asked anxiously, her voice trembling, the southern Ohio edge of her accent slipping in. "Lord help us, what do you mean?"

"Don't ask about that. Just know it's something very bad." He shook his head, beads jangling from his wrists. Diane gripped my arm harder.

"Do you have a daughter as well?"

The question made my throat tighten. I nodded. "Yes, but..."

He leaned in, lowering his voice: "That's it. I can tell your daughter really wants to come home. Tsk tsk... this girl, she's something else."

The fortune-teller's words left me reeling. My daughter has been dead for twenty years. How could she want to come home, and how could she be 'something else'?

My mind snapped back to all those years ago—her laugh, her way of tugging at my sleeve. My stomach turned. Had she ever really left?

He added, "Since forever, the dead should be buried, the living come home. To make the wedding go smoothly, nothing can go wrong. Go back first. When your whole family is together, come find me again to pick the date."

His tone was final, like he was closing a book. I didn’t dare argue. We paid, cash only, and left in silence, the bell above the door echoing in my ears long after we’d gone.

He was insistent, so we had to leave as told. The ride home was silent, the sky turning that flat gray Ohio color that always made everything seem colder. Diane stared out the window, clutching her purse like a shield. Neither of us spoke until we pulled into our driveway.

Back at home, Diane was full of worry. She paced the kitchen, arms wrapped tight around herself. The smell of coffee lingered, stale and burned. I stood in the doorway, feeling the weight of what we’d left behind settle back onto my shoulders.

She looked at me helplessly. "Mark, what are we supposed to do? It’s been twenty years. Kelsey’s... she’s gone. How can we bring her home?"

Her voice cracked at Kelsey’s name. She hadn’t said it in years. I felt the old guilt stirring, the kind that never really lets you go.

I ran my hands through my hair, just as anxious. It was one of those moments you wish you could just wake up and find it was all a nightmare, but the truth always sits heavy in your chest.

Our future daughter-in-law's family is wealthy and influential; it's rare for our son to marry into such a family. They lived in one of those gated communities with golf courses and their own security detail. The kind of folks who could trace their family back to the Mayflower. We didn’t want anything to mess this up for our boy.

The in-laws are particular about these things and kept insisting we find a fortune-teller to pick a good day for the wedding. It was more than just tradition—it was about keeping up appearances, making sure the universe was on your side.

Now, everything's held up because of our daughter. I have to figure something out. I glanced at Diane, who was wringing her hands, her knuckles white. I realized we were trapped by the past, and something had to give—soon.