Walter, a college dropout, moved to Nashville to make some money. If he saved up enough, maybe he could go back and be with his sister in college, just like the two of them always planned. He found what he was looking for at the diner: a shift with...
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The sign over the shop was old and rusted, but the fresh layer of paint was new. On the first layer: $1 PSYCHIC READING. On the layer above that, the one Walt could actually see: $2 PSYCHIC READING. The price must have recently gone up because, while the sign looked old and in need of repair, the paint on it was fresh.
As Walt was walking by the pay phone and closer to the front door, he looked up at the sign. He stopped, while the people around him did not. Someone behind him who was walking a little too closely bumped into him. Walt turned around.
"Oh, sorry," he apologized, even though he was not the one who ran into someone.
"Watch where you're going," the man huffed as he passed Walt. That was odd.
"What happened to southern hospitality?" Walt said under his breath. He shook his head at both the hateful man and at the fact that he was about to enter this shop. He never in a million years thought he would be doing this. He never once believed in anything like this. He believed in God, sure, but he didn't know the specifics. But a psychic? That's a little too far past the line for him. Oddly enough, something about this made him feel comfort. His disbelief of any kind of magic or psychic readings made him think that maybe he wasn't seeing something. It was all in his head. For the first time in a while, he was able to lower his shoulders and loosen the tension in his jaw. He hadn't even realized how tense he looked. (But by God, everyone around him noticed it very well.) Maybe it was the conversation with Nan. The way she listened to him—she didn't make him feel crazy. Yeah, she lied about seeing it, but she did it out of ... love? She did it to make him feel better, and somehow, it did.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," he said as he ran his fingers into his pocket. The two dollar bills were sitting in the same womb as the pack of cigarettes. He almost forgot the cigarettes were there and pulled out the pack. He lit it and let it dance between his lips. He walked forward to the door.
"Here goes nothin'," he mumbled through his teeth.
Ding. The bell above the front door let the worker know someone walked in. But there wasn't anyone there. To his left, a little table of gifts and rocks and cards and other things that he had no name for. To the right was an old black chair—almost like it was a waiting room in a hair salon. About four feet in front of him was a hallway, but the entrance was blocked by dangling strings of beads. Then, an old and wrinkly hand with long purple fingernails appeared from between the beads. For a split second, it brought it all back. The nails and hands reminded him of that thing. Thankfully, it was a human hand. It was a human fingernail. There were no scales. No claws. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. When he opened them, the woman was standing in front of him with an ashtray. They made eye contact, and Walt made a facial expression like "What? Is this a problem?" ... (There was.) Walt pointed at the cigarette and the woman quickly nodded before he could even get a word out.
"Oh... sorry." After a long drag in, he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and smashed the end of it into the ashtray.
"Thank you," the woman said. She was older, maybe in her mid to late 60s, with a lot of gray hair. It was stringy and up in a bun, but stray hairs sprung out in every direction. Her necklace caught his attention. It was simple yet so beautiful: a single pearl on a golden strand.
