Free The Spirit is Willing (An Ophelia Wylde Paranormal Mystery) by Max McCoy Page A

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    “You know Mister Bradley’s game?” a woman in a blue sun bonnet asked. She cradled a Bible in her arms.
    “A version,” I said. “But why are you doing this here?”
    “As Christian women of the Union Church on Gospel Hill,” she said, “we feel a duty to offer wholesome entertainment to those wretches who seek diversion but risk damnation in the pleasure domes of sin around us.”
    “I’m not sure this is the hour to save the patrons of the Saratoga from themselves,” I said. “You might have better luck at ten o’clock at night, rather than ten o’clock in the morning.”
    “Don’t be silly,” the woman said. “We couldn’t have the children out that late.”
    “Of course not. What was I thinking?”
    “I don’t believe we’ve met,” the woman said in a voice choked with forced cheerfulness. “My name is Beatrice Babcock. My husband was Samuel Babcock, but he was called home to Jesus last winter when he was crushed beneath a Murphy wagon full of buffalo hides. The weight of the moisture in those frozen hides snapped the axle and the wagon tipped over.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be. He is with Jesus. And you are?”
    “Not a churchgoer, I’m afraid.”
    “I didn’t mean that, dear. I meant your name. And you are?”
    She extended her right hand and I took it. “Ophelia Wylde.”
    Her hand wilted in mine.
    “Is there something wrong?”
    “No,” the Widow Babcock said. “I know about you, of course.”
    “Of course.”
    “In the Times .”
    “It wouldn’t have been anywhere else.”
    “I can’t say that I approve of what I read.”
    “Do explain,” I urged.
    “Editor Shinn reports that you speak to the dead.”
    “And you find this without credibility.”
    “On the contrary,” she said. “It is because I trust the account that I am disturbed. Leviticus 19 warns us against those who are familiar with spirits, or who are wizards, because we risk being defiled by them.”
    “Do I look like a wizard?”
    “You are dressed strangely.”
    “Let’s take a short walk.”
    “Whatever do you mean?”
    “Little pitchers have big ears,” I said. “Come with me.”
    We walked a few yards away.
    “And what about what it says in the next chapter?” I asked. “The part about a man or a woman who has familiar spirits or is a wizard shall be stoned to death?”
    “Yes, it does say that.”
    “So you are in favor of stoning?”
    “I am a Bible believer, young lady.”
    “Then you also believe the rest of Chapter 20.”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Then let’s see what other offenses are punishable by stoning.”
    I asked to see her Bible.
    She reluctantly handed it over.
    I found the chapter and ran my finger down the verses.
    “Adultery. Death by stoning?”
    “Of course.”
    “A man who lieth with another man.”
    “Disgusting,” she said.
    “But death?”
    “Sadly, yes.”
    “How about a beast?”
    “It is a chapter on moral instruction,” she said.
    “And death for the beast as well, it says here. Is that meant for the instruction of other beasts?”
    “You are on the verge of blasphemy.”
    “Which brings us to cursing one’s parents.”
    “What?”
    “It’s on the list.”
    “Well, now . . .”
    “Says right here that punishment is death by stoning.”
    “You are twisting my words.”
    “Here’s another: If a man lieth with a woman during her time of bleeding . . . oh, not stoning. Just banishment for them both. Surprisingly lenient, wouldn’t you say?”
    Widow Babcock snatched the book from my hands.
    “That is quite enough,” she said.
    “As you wish.”
    “Spiritual darkness,” she said. “That is what I am fighting. The town has been cast down into spiritual darkness. I will pray for its deliverance, Ophelia Wylde. And I will pray for you.”
    I forced a smile.
    “How kind,” I said. “But I should prefer if you save your prayers for yourself.”
    Back at the Dodge House, I threw myself on the bed and told myself that I