Hexes and Holly: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery Holiday Anthology

by Tegan Maher

  The others gather their things and leave. Delia pauses in the doorway. “Are you coming?”

  “I’ll just sweep up,” I tell her. “I’ve got Merlin. I’ll be fine.”

  She hesitates, then nods and leaves, closing the door behind her.

  Merlin lies by the door, seemingly unconcerned. I blow out a long breath, then switch on the radio, gather up my broom, and begin sweeping.

  I try not to think of anything, concentrating on gathering up the dust and crumbs, as well as brushing away any negative energy the way my mother taught me, and picturing the place filling with a golden light.

  After a while, though, I feel the skin prickle on the back of my neck. I stop sweeping and turn to look around the café. It started snowing about an hour ago. The flakes are small at the moment and melting when they meet the pavement, but the weatherman has forecast a heavy fall tomorrow. The fairy lights are still flickering, and the tinsel around Sir Boss’s neck sparkles in the light.

  Merlin is sitting up, looking past me, at the corner of the café.

  I follow his gaze, but there’s nothing there.

  “Merlin?” I walk toward him and stop in the middle of the room. He glances at me, then looks back at the corner.

  My heart races, and my breath mists before my face. But it’s only doing that because it’s so cold outside. And sometimes I catch Merlin staring at the wall at a spider, so I don’t think his attention signifies anything serious.

  Still, I’m unnerved, and I want to go home, but I have one more thing to do before I leave. I go into the breakroom, open my bag, take out the items I prepared last night, and return to the café. I walk over to the door, trying not to imagine that I can feel Sir Boss’s eyes fixed on me.

  I open the bag and take out the twig of rosemary from my garden, the salt that I’d left out in the midday sun during the summer solstice back in June, the jar filled with water blessed under the full moon, and the piece of rock crystal. I put a short length of red cord on the table next to it, along with a pair of scissors and a paintbrush.

  I unscrew the top and put the rosemary, salt, and crystal into the jar, screw the lid back on, and shake it a little. Then I put my hands around the glass, close my eyes, and say the spell.

  “Herbs and crystals, sun and moon, protect and bless and cast your boon, no harm shall pass this boundary, merry met and blessed be.” I open my eyes. The water in the bottle now glows with a pearly white light. I take off the top, dip the brush into the water, and carefully paint around the doorframe.

  I take my time, making sure to cover every inch of wood, from the floor, up the right-hand side, across the top, down the left, and then across the threshold at the bottom.

  When I’m done, I put down the bottle, pick up the cord, and hold it between the blades of the scissors. Then I say the final part of the spell. “Goddess, as I cut this cord, activate the magic ward.”

  I snip the cord in two. As I do, the barrier I’ve painted around the doorway glows a bright rose-pink for a few seconds.

  The colour fades, and the smell of rosemary fills the air, which means the spell has worked. No one with any evil intention can now come through the door.

  I go to the back door and repeat the spell there. Then I lock up, say goodnight to Sir Boss, and go home.

  I keep the phone by my side all evening and check the camera every few minutes. It’s strange to see the café at night. Sir Boss looks lonely in the semi-darkness. I have to remind myself that he’s not alive and I don’t need to leave the fire and the radio on for him.

  The cabinets are clearly visible, the remaining cakes and pies still behind the glass. There’s no sign of any movement.

  I eat my dinner in front of the log fire, then curl up with a book, Merlin at my feet. I read until midnight, continuing to glance at the phone, but the picture doesn’t change. Eventually, I turn off the lights and go up to bed, leaving Merlin out in the hallway, and snuggle under the duvet.

  I take a last look at the phone, turn on the motion detector, and set it to record if it spots any movement. “Good night, good knight,” I whisper to Sir Boss. Then I turn the phone off and close my eyes.

  I wake just after six a.m., like I normally do, and the first thing I think about is the café and the camera. Sitting up in bed, I switch on my phone and bring up the picture.

  The cabinets are empty.

  My jaw drops.

  There’s one piece of video that marks where the camera detected movement. I click on it with a pounding heart. The clock in the corner of the camera reveals it’s exactly two a.m. But there’s no picture. Instead, static fills the screen.

  It lasts for nine minutes. At 2:09 a.m., the video ends.

  3

  “I don’t believe it.” Cooper takes my phone from me and double checks the timing. “That’s incredible. What could have caused that?”

  I shiver. It’s been snowing all night, and it’s freezing in the café this morning. Joss has lit the fire, but it’s taking time to warm up, and I feel cold to my core.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I rang Angus, and he said it sounds as if there was some kind of interference for those nine minutes. But I’ve checked before and after, and there’s no sign of anyone in the café.”

  “Perhaps we’ve got a poltergeist,” Joss jokes. “A technologically savvy one.”

  Cooper chuckles and Delia grins, but my stomach does a strange flip, and Allison looks alarmed.

  “A poltergeist?” she whispers. “Do you think it could be?”

  “Even if it is, it’s hardly the setting for a horror movie,” Cooper states. “Whoever heard of a ghost that steals cakes and pies?”

  Allison continues to look scared, though, and I have to turn away before they see the fear in my eyes. My heart is racing, and for a moment I feel a little faint. I’ve never seen a ghost, but my mum and my grandmother have both warned me about malevolent spirits in the past, so I know they exist. The wards I put on the doors are both unbroken. No real person came into the café last night. What other explanation can there be?

  The first time I spot the man is during the lunchtime rush.

  The café is busy, with all the tables taken and several people waiting in the takeaway area for their purchases to be put in the plain boxes we’ve had to go and buy hastily from the stationery shop down the road.

  Outside, the snow is falling more thickly now, beginning to lie on the grass in front of the abbey and on the tops of the parked cars. Standing by one of the tables that’s now pushed up against the window, because nobody’s going to want to eat outside in this weather, is a man in his early thirties. He’s dressed in jeans and a thick jacket, and his hands are stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold wind.

  He’s been there for a few minutes, and I assumed he was waiting for the queue to die down before he came in and ordered something. But Cooper eventually catches up with the orders, and still the man stands outside, occasionally shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  “Is he scouting out the premises?” Cooper asks.

  I feel a ripple of unease. “I hope not. He wouldn’t be so obvious about it, would he?”

  We both watch as the man sees us staring at him, looks at his feet for a moment, then pushes open the door and comes in. He walks up to the counter and looks right at me.

  I glance at Cooper, who’s frowning, then at the man. “Hello,” I say. “You came in at last.”

  “I’ve been plucking up the courage,” he replies. He clears his throat. “My name’s Jake. I wanted to say thank you.”

  It’s so unexpected that I just stare at him. “For what?”

  “You know,” he says, and studies his feet again.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him gently. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

  He looks back up again. “For the food,” he murmurs. “The cake and the pie you left on the doorstep last night. I don’t know how you knew, but it came at just the right time.” He inh
ales a big, shaky breath, then blows it out slowly. “Since I lost my job a few months ago, money has been super tight. Making sure four kids have full stomachs is no joke. So I just wanted to say thank you—it really cheered up Gillian—my wife—and the kids loved the cake, especially.”

  My jaw has dropped. I can feel Cooper staring at me.

  Jake’s gaze shifts between us. “It was you, right? It had The Avalon Café on the box.”

  “Yes,” I reply, because I can’t think of what else to say. “We’ve been trying to help out a few families in the area. Spread a bit of Christmas cheer, you know.”

  “Well, we really appreciate it. It’s nice to know that someone cares in this day and age. It’s very easy to feel alone.” His eyes are glassy; he’s not far from tears. He bobs his head, turns, and makes his way quickly from the café.

  I look at Cooper.

  “Didn’t expect that,” he says.

  “What’s going on?” Delia asks, coming up behind us.

  Cooper explains what’s just happened, while I stand there, my head spinning. Delia’s jaw drops and her mouth forms an O. “So someone stole the cakes and pies and took them to people who needed them?”

  “Sort of a mixture of Santa and Robin Hood,” Cooper says.

  I look around for a chair, relieved when Cooper drags one over. I drop into it, feeling dizzy, and something else I hadn’t expected—ashamed.

  In the past, Mum always made extra cakes and pies at Christmas that she used to take to the local shelter for the homeless, or other places for people in need. More than once, especially when I was grown up, she would volunteer to work at the shelter on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, and I joined her a few times. But I’ve been so caught up in my own grief and troubles that I haven’t even thought about giving to charity this year.

  Has Mum come back to remind me there’s always someone worse off than yourself?

  “Are you all right?”

  I look up to find Mrs. Russo looking at me with concern.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “I’ve just had a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

  “We’ve discovered that someone is taking cakes from the café and giving them to people in need,” Cooper says. “Weird, huh?”

  Mrs. Russo’s eyebrows rise, and she smiles. “Sounds like you’ve had a visit from La Befana.”

  I stare at her. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “La Befana,” she repeats. “In Italy, she was an old witch who flew on a broom, delivering presents to all the children. The story says that she met the Three Wise Men who had seen the star in the sky and asked her if she knew where the baby Jesus was. She didn’t know, but she invited them in to stay for the night, as she was known for having the most beautiful home in the village. The next day, they asked her if she’d like to join them on their journey. She refused, saying she was too busy with her housework, but later she regretted saying no. She rode out to give the baby a gift but couldn’t find him, and therefore she leaves gifts for children as a penance.”

  “I’ve not heard of her,” Delia says. “What a lovely story.”

  “It can be traced back to at least the thirteenth century,” Mrs. Russo says, “but they say it probably relates to a much older goddess of fertility and agriculture. My mum used to tell me all about her on Christmas Eve, God rest her. I still feel her watching me now when I leave mince pies out for Santa, and I know she’s telling me I should leave some out for La Befana, too.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I whisper.

  Delia frowns at me. “What do you mean?”

  “The Yule Wishes. I got the recipe off the internet.”

  They all stare at me. “What?” Cooper says eventually.

  “I adapted it a bit,” I say, “added an ingredient or two.” I decide not to mention the spell. “But the original was definitely called La Befana Cake.”

  “Okay…” Cooper says slowly. “So what are you saying?”

  I give myself a mental shake, realizing that I can’t admit what I’m really thinking, and just smile. “It’s a coincidence, that’s all. But thank you, Mrs. Russo, for reminding me.”

  “You’re welcome,” she replies, obviously puzzled.

  I get to my feet. “Come on, people are waiting to be served. The coffee won’t make itself!”

  Cooper goes off to steam the milk and pour the espresso, and Delia returns to the till to take the customers’ orders. I go into the breakroom, though, and sit on the sofa for a moment. Merlin comes up to me and puts his head on my knee.

  I remember old Mrs. Russo. She used to come into the café once a week on a Friday for a cup of tea and a piece of cake, and she’d sit in the corner and watch me working, smiling whenever I looked her way. A few weeks before she died, on one of her last visits to the café, I took her tea over to her and she said, “You’re a good girl, Gwen.”

  “Thank you,” I replied with a laugh. “That’s a nice thing to say.”

  “You have the golden aura of someone who puts others first,” she told me. “Don’t ever lose that.”

  I just smiled, assuming she was being metaphorical about the aura, and left her to her tea, but now I wonder whether she actually had the sight.

  I’ve lost my way a bit lately. It’s understandable, of course—Mum’s only been gone three months, and my grief is still an open wound that will take time to heal. But I know I’ve withdrawn into myself, spending all my time working, and I haven’t seen as much of my friends and family as usual.

  “Do you think it was her?” I whisper to the Labradoodle. “La Befana speaking through the ghost of old Mrs. Russo, reminding me that I have to think of others, and not just my own worries?”

  Merlin licks my hand, and I stroke his curly fur. “We’ll have to find out,” I murmur.

  The door opens a little, and Delia’s head appears around it. “You all right?” she asks.

  I nod. “I’ve been thinking about La Befana. And I’ve got an idea…”

  Cooper finishes early today, and Allison and Joss leave at six p.m. After they’ve gone, Delia and I carry several cardboard boxes to my car. It’s snowing thickly now, and my wipers push aside an inch of snow before we make the short trip we’d planned earlier.

  Afterward, when I get home and I’m eating dinner by the roaring log fire, I’m very tempted to stay there. But I get dressed in warm clothes, pick up the bag I’ve prepared, head to the car with Merlin, and by ten p.m. I’m letting myself into the café again.

  I banked up the fire before I left, so I stoke it and add fresh logs, and soon the flames are leaping away. I make myself a cup of tea, then curl up in a chair with the blanket I brought with me over my legs, turn on my iPad, and bring up my book. Merlin sits by my feet on his own blanket, looking out of the window into the wintry night. The only light is from the fairy lights twinkling around the window—I’ve even switched my iPad to night-reading.

  Mum sometimes stayed behind to work late here. I often wondered what she got up to, and suddenly I think that maybe she did this—just sat in the darkness, enjoying being in the place that had been in the family for so long, surrounded by her memories.

  I miss her so much. My eyes mist over, but I don’t let the tears fall. Instead, I look out at the snow and let my mind wander through the past for a while, trying to remind myself that all the women in my family have sat here and done this, and because of that, I’m never truly alone.

  After that, I read for a couple of hours, but by midnight I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes open, and eventually I put down my iPad. Sir Boss stands to my right, keeping guard at the door, and I feel oddly safe. No harm will come to me while he’s here, I’m suddenly convinced of it.

  I can sleep anywhere, so I curl up in the chair, lean my head on my hand, and within minutes I’m asleep.

  I jerk awake sometime later. The snow is falling thickly outside, and it’s already covered my footsteps. The fire in the hearth has died to a glow. Sir Boss stands quietly, the tinsel around his neck twink
ling from the fairy lights. Merlin is sitting up, though, looking at the corner of the room.

  Touching the iPad, I realize it’s 2 a.m. Quietly, I get to my feet.

  And then I see her. She’s standing in the corner of the room where she always used to sit, looking just the same as the last time I saw her, with grey hair pulled back in a neat bun, round glasses, and dressed in a navy skirt with a lighter blue cardigan over a pretty blue blouse.

  Then she shimmers, and for a moment I can see another figure beneath her, also with long grey hair, quite beautiful, dressed in a dark-green gown that moves around her as if in a breeze.

  In Italy, she’s supposed to visit on Twelfth Night or Epiphany Eve, and her name, La Befana, probably comes from the word Epiphany. In paganism, she’s the Crone or the Wise Woman, who watches over us until the Maiden is born again in the springtime. Mrs. Russo must have been a witch too, and she’s somehow been able to help the spirit of La Befana come through.

  I put down my iPad and walk a few steps forward. “Hello, Mrs. Russo,” I say softly.

  She doesn’t reply, but she does smile. Then she looks pointedly at the cabinets. I follow her gaze. They’re empty, but this time it wasn’t her doing.

  “Delia and I took the food that was left at the end of the day to The Trussell Trust,” I tell her. They provide a nationwide network of food banks for those in need. “And I’ll make sure I do that every night from now on.”

  She glimmers in the darkness. “Those who help others help themselves,” she says, and I realize then that she’s trying to help me deal with my grief.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Thank you.”

  She passes her hand from right to left in front of her, filling the air with a glittering dust. It floats down like tiny snowflakes across the room, and for a moment all the tables, the counter, even Sir Boss standing by the door, all shine.