Fog Descending (House of Crows) by Lisa Unger

Author:Lisa Unger [Unger, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-05-26T16:00:00+00:00

6.

Ian might have been offended that Josh had dozed off while he was talking—if he hadn’t fallen asleep as well. They’d moved from the kitchen to the living room, and at some point, while recounting his time at Merle House, Ian had just passed out on the ridiculously soft couch. He dreamed about Claire; she was running down a lane lined with trees, and he was chasing her.

Shit, he thought as he jerked awake.

It was just after two thirty. Everyone knew that 3:00 a.m. was the witching hour, the liminal space between late night and the approach of morning. This was when things happened. Liz believed it was because so many people were deeply asleep at that time, that all that dream energy opened a kind of doorway in the universe.

Ian roused himself from the couch. Josh was sound asleep in the Eames chair by the fireplace, snoring softly, glasses askew.

Ian couldn’t blame the kid for failing at literally the only thing Ian needed him for; he’d practically bored poor Josh to sleep, droning on about his bizarre childhood memory. How far had he even gotten?

Ian left Josh sleeping and went to walk the house, stopping in the foyer. He pulled a fresh stick of white sage, Liz’s old abalone shell, and a pack of matches from his backpack, which he’d left by the door. Standing in the double-height space, he lit the smudge stick.

Smudging was a Native American ritual for cleansing, blessing, and repelling evil influences. Liz’s family had descended from the Seminoles in Florida, and she had been careful to get her sage bundles from indigenous people in New Mexico. The sage was only harvested at a certain time of year, according to Liz, and if it wasn’t done right, harvested by the right person, bundled and blessed appropriately, then it was just new age garbage at best, appropriation at worst. Not all the rituals Liz had employed spoke to him, but the sage had a special power—it smelled of calm, of cleanliness.

He let the match light the leaves, and the smudge stick started to smolder. He blew on it to get the embers going but avoided a full flame, and the curling smoke started to fill the air. He used the shell to catch the ashes as he walked from room to room. He used Liz’s favorite mantra:

“This house belongs to Astrid and Chaz,” he said, keeping his voice soft but firm. “Their light and love energy fills the space and invites all negativity to return to the universe, where it will be welcomed with love and nonjudging.”

He repeated it softly over and over.

According to Liz, sometimes all that trapped or lost entities wanted was to be told they could go home, like a runaway who’d done shameful things but found the courage to call her mom, asking for forgiveness.

Liz, his beautiful wife, had been a true believer. It had radiated off her in waves; you could see it in her stunning smile, the kindness of her

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