"SeaWEED Dreams" by Alli Fraser

SeaWEED Dreams

by Alli Fraser

The beach town didn’t NEED her magic or her herbal remedies, at least that is what the prude tourists whispered as they picked up speed walking past her cozy shop on their way to marinate on the sand. She was hardly the only practicing witch in town and definitely not the only person who utilized marijuana in a spiritual, recreational and medicinal sense.

However, she was the only one who used the flower to help others connect with spirits since moved on from our physical realm.

Most wouldn't believe it until they were desperate enough to seek her out and book a first session with her but there was no denying the ability she had to completely transport her clients into a new realm where they could sit and be visited by those who chose to show up to chat about all sorts of things. Those who were brave enough to come once ended up with standing appointments leaving Guinevere booked solid. 

As Guinevere finished up with her last client for the day, locking her front door and staring out at the old memorial-turned-museum sailboat docked in the ocean across the street, she could feel her intuition calling and she knew better to ignore it.

Her and that sailboat had a history, enough so that she would argue the only reason the town may need her is because of her ability to protect them from the spirits that were anchored to the boat. She knew they existed from her own battles with them. Guinevere did not fear death, she feared the spirits that haunted that boat when the sun sunk below the sea each evening 

She traveled the spiral staircase up to her house above her shop and was greeted by her cats and dogs. Guinevere made a cup of tea, one infused with orange, peach and a Purple Kush strain her husband had grown to his standards and sat down on her back porch - covered in bird feeders + wind chimes to let the special concoction work its magic.

When Guinevere opened her eyes, she was in the familiar  “room” her clients sat with their spirits another realm away. Her most loved spiritual advisors who she usually visited would not have invoked the gut feeling she had earlier that day. She could not have predicted the three young men who sat in front of her, a slight sepia tone to their aura, in their sports lettermen jackets, with harsh and thick black fishing line stitching each of their mouths shut.

In one swift movement one of the young men used his finger to rip the stitches out. Before Guinevere could process what was happening, the man screamed “Keep our boys off that ship!!”  

At the same time all three figures started spewing salt water from their mouths covering Guinevere, the two others stitches coming loose with the pressure of the water flowing out. It couldn't have been seconds later that they disappeared and Guievere was alone again opening her eyes as her husband walked up the spiral staircase from his long day at work. 

Guinevere wasn’t sure what to think and that was clear as the next few hours she sat speechless trying to dissect the meeting she had with the young men. Was she safe to go to bed tonight and consider the message more tomorrow morning? Should she attempt an all-nighter peering out her front window making sure the ship was left alone? 

This was nothing like her usual sessions, the most exciting thing that happened during those sessions were family members spilling the metaphorical tea about their generational trauma. She usually shared every detail of her day over dinner with her husband but no matter what words she attempted to form — she couldn’t produce them. 

Her thoughts were interrupted when her husband spoke up: 

“I stopped at the coffee shop this morning for a refill and overheard the group in front of me, I think you are going to want to hear this ‘Vere” 

“I was standing in line, checking the weather app on my phone to see what was being predicted for the weekend of the fourth.

The group of teenage boys in front of me waiting on their coffees were talking about how monumental it would be to start their senior year of highschool with something everyone would remember” her husband rolled his eyes thinking about how simple the world seems at that age. 

“Don’t say it” Guinevere hesitated.

“They said they were wanting to sneak on the ship to attempt to spend the night in the dungeon” 

Guinevere’s whole body went frigid cold and she knew she may already be too late. 

Bounding down the spiral stairs, over the lazy cats and jogging as fast as her bones would allow, she found herself crossing the quaint street in front of her shop just in time to see three shadowy figures hopping the dock gate that blocked the public from entering when the museum was closed. 

Time seemed to slow as Guinevere surveyed her options.

By the time she was able to summon a hole in the gate and squeeze through, following noises that she had only heard before from the vile spirits living aboard, her intuition let her know she was too late.

When she got to the source of the noise, she saw the three boys lined up on the replica “plank walk”, their backs to her. She could see their ankles and wrists bound with the same thick black fishing line. As fast as she could start reciting a protection spell, she saw the spirit spin the boys so their backs towards the ocean and shore.

It happened so fast.

As she noticed the spirits' energy start to push them together — off into the water, the last thing she saw was the three boys' mouths, stitched with most precise sailors knots, salt water already spewing from between the stitches. 

They could not be saved.