She laughed, shaking her head. ‘Look, I understand journalistic curiosity, Aisling. But just for once, you’re going to have to accept it – there’s no mystery here and no story to tell. And frankly, talking about the murders for this long has been a total buzzkill and a waste of time. Now listen, what did those unpublished articles of your mother’s say? That stuff might not be fun, but it is interesting.’
I knew she was purposely changing the subject, but I didn’t see how I was going to get much further with her for the moment, so I answered her question.
‘It was interesting, actually. Most of it was much as I expected – Arnold forced Abby to let him see everything she wrote, and if it was something he didn’t like, then he pulled it. She em … she got pretty frustrated about it. In the end, she resorted to writing him angry letters.’
I opened my bag and pulled out the letter about Brian the Brave. I’d neatly pressed it between the pages of my diary, in the hopes that Grace would be back to normal so I could share it with her. Right now, she was far from normal, but I decided to show it to her anyway. ‘Here. This is the last letter Abby wrote to her father.’
I felt a little guilty as I watched Grace read. One of the reasons I felt guilty was because I could see that this was definitely harshing her buzz. Like, totally. But the other reason was that I was using this sad and emotional moment to my advantage. While Grace read, and brushed away some tears, I took the opportunity to focus on her purse – or, more specifically, the flash drive that was in it.
I concentrated on it and did what I had done in my lessons with Brent – I imagined it was a friend, dancing towards me. Within seconds, the flash drive had moved into the air. It was moving a bit too much, to be honest. As soon as it was close enough, I grasped it.
‘What was that?’ Grace looked up.
‘It was em … a wasp,’ I replied.
‘You caught a wasp with your hand?’
‘Yip. I sure did.’
‘You’re very strange,’ she remarked, looking back at the letter.
She was probably right about that. I could feel the flash drive continuing to dance. The whole bringing the inanimate to life thing came shockingly easy to me. But what didn’t come so easy was making those things inanimate once again. So far, I’d been using a command word that Brent had taught me – Neamhbheo. But I couldn’t say it as loudly or as firmly as I needed to when I was sitting next to Grace, so I stood up, mumbling, ‘Just gonna let the wasp out the window,’ and rushed across the room.
I pushed the window open and unclasped my palm. ‘Neamhbheo,’ I whispered.
As the flash drive finally stopped dancing, Grace glanced up. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said go. I was talking to the wasp. He didn’t want to go. He felt we’d developed a bond.’
‘Of course he did.’ She squeezed her eyes shut and laid the letter on my desk. ‘Well, I was right – reading that letter was definitely no fun. I mean, I’ve stopped being surprised that Arnold was busy suppressing the paper’s stories from the moment he bought it. I shouldn’t have been surprised about that in the first place, seeing as I knew what a creep he was the second I met him. Sorry. I know he’s your grandfather. I shouldn’t be so harsh.’
‘No need to apologise. Why do you think I tried to convince myself I wasn’t related to him for so long?’
She pressed her fingers to her temples. ‘I just … I’m lost for words. I mean, Brian was in Riddler’s Edge the year Abby disappeared. This letter makes it clear. So why can’t I remember hearing anything about him? These stories might not have made it to publication, but I would have heard talk about town. Not just a few scattered Tall Tales. If a man like that was in town … people would have talked.’
‘There’s a record of him staying in at the Fisherman’s Friend, too,’ I said. ‘So he was hardly keeping a low profile. He em … he never signed out that December.’
For the first time in two days, Grace was looking just as frustrated as I felt.
‘I mean, how can it be that no one remembers him, even though he was rushing about playing the hero all over town?’ she went on. ‘And this letter, it says that Abby was going to speak with me, to tell me all of those stories her father suppressed. So either Abby never made it here …’ Grace chewed on her hot-pink painted lips. ‘Or else … or else Arnold found a way to make me forget.’
12. A Spooktacular Tour
‘Welcome to the first stop on the Spooktacular tour,’ said Margaret, following it up with a cackle. Margaret was a human local. But she wasn’t just wearing a pointy hat for the holiday. She really believed she was a witch. She had been part of a coven with two other equally powerless human women. Thanks to Henry Kramer, the bungling witch hunter, both of those women were now dead.
It was two p.m. on the afternoon before Halloween, and Greg and I were covering the tour for the newspaper. Grace had sent me out after our conversation, and then she’d gone off on her planned shopping trip. She felt like we both needed to do ‘something fun after reading something so depressing.’
I wasn’t sure how much fun I was going to have, but Greg had been delighted to come along with me. I had no idea where Dylan had taken himself off to after we left the office, but I doubted it was to the garda station.
There were eleven tourists joining us for the tour. Dozens more had been queuing up, but Margaret’s minibus could only seat so many. The first stop on the tour took us to Margaret’s own house, which she’d turned into the Magical and Haunted Mansion of Margaret the Magnificent.
There were sound effects playing in the background as we walked inside, making creaking noises and – of course – the occasional scream of terror. As we walked through, fake spiders scurried across the floor, a wind machine blew an intermittent ghostly breeze our way, and chains rattled in the attic.
Margaret assured us that each and every one of us would be safe in her care, because she was a powerful witch who could fight off the darkest of evils. Oh, how I wished that were true. If it was, then I wouldn’t be on my own against whoever was behind these murders.
She had some of the locals playing a succession of evil witches, wizards and ghosts (unsurprisingly, Hilda had refused to join in the fun). Margaret battled them through the rooms of her house, one after another. She had a toy wand that sent sparks flying, and each time she sent those sparks towards her enemy, they would fall to the ground, clutching their chest, saying, ‘You have bested me again, Margaret the Magnificent! You are indeed the most powerful witch of all!’
After half a dozen exciting (and hilarious) battles, she announced that we were about to leave this leg of the tour, and led us all back into the hallway. As soon as we were there, we were confronted by one last, surprise foe. It was her husband, Mossy, dressed in purple robes and a pointed silver hat. He was wearing wellies beneath the robes, but I felt that they only added to the occasion.
‘It’s you!’ Margaret cried. ‘The evil wizard Mossuro! I thought that I had sent you to your grave during the last blood moon.’
‘You had,’ he said, pointing a wand her way (well, it was a twig decorated with silver spray-paint, but it did the job). ‘But you forgot about the power of Halloween. There is bad magic in the air, Margaret the Magnificent. And I have used it to rise from my grave and avenge my death!’
Margaret clutched her wand with a shaky hand. ‘There might be bad magic at this time of year, Mossuro. But what you don’t know is that there is extra good magic, too.’
While sparks flew from her wand, Mossuro proved a tad more difficult to beat than the others. He didn’t fall to the ground, but fought back with his own wand instead. They parried back and forth until Margaret closed her eyes and said an incantation:
‘Halloween spirits, come to my aid
Make this wizard go back to his grave!’
As she spoke, she was not-so-discreetly rummaging about in her pocket. She pulled out a smoke bomb and threw it to the ground. Before our eyes, the evil wizard Mossuro v
anished. When I say vanished, what I mean is that I heard him run up their staircase very quickly before the smoke faded away.
The crowd seemed to love the show (although those Bloody Marys Margaret had served when we entered might have had something to do with it).
With Mossuro defeated, we left the Magical and Haunted Mansion of Margaret the Magnificent, and piled into her minivan. We didn’t have far to go. Less than a minute after she had started driving, Margaret pulled up outside a lovely cottage on the edge of the town – a cottage that used to be owned by one of her two best friends, a murder victim called Heather Flynn.
‘In this house,’ said Margaret. ‘We shall meet no evil witches, wizards or ghosts. For the witch who once lived here was more powerful than me. And even from the grave, her beautiful soul shall keep the bad spirits away. If you would all like to follow me, I shall teach you some of the magic Heather used to perform. And if you feel a breeze across your face, or a soft hand fall over yours, fear not – for it is only the good and great Heather, guiding you in your spells.’
As Margaret led us into the large kitchen, I blinked back a tear. I knew that Heather had left the house to Margaret in her will, and that Margaret couldn’t bear to sell it. She’d vowed that it would always be a part of the Spooktacular Tour, and she was sending the proceeds of the tour to the local cat shelter.
There was something so touching about it all. Those three women may not have had any actual magic, but I always felt that their hearts were in the right place. And if they had been born empowered, then I had no doubt that they would have made amazing witches.
Margaret stood at the huge worktop that ran from Heather’s kitchen into the attached greenhouse, and began plucking herbs from their stems and throwing them into a mortar. ‘There are spells that only we witches know,’ she said. ‘Spells which can bring your loved ones back, just for Halloween. So think of the person you want to see more than anything in the world, and follow my directions.’
They all paid the greatest attention as Margaret got to work, opening up one of Heather’s old spell books and taking out a few of her cauldrons from beneath the counter. Yes, Heather had been the proud owner of a large and diverse cauldron collection. What wannabe witch isn’t?
I nodded to Greg’s camera, trying to give him the hint that it was time to take pictures.
‘This bit is kind of boring,’ he said. ‘Can’t I save my energy for when we get to the ghost train or the Turnip Maze?’
‘No!’ I hissed. ‘I want it all in the paper.’
He rolled his eyes, but started taking snaps of the class. He’d been at it for about five minutes when his jaw dropped open. ‘I’m picking something up through my filter,’ he whispered. ‘But I can’t see it with the naked eye. Look behind Margaret and tell me what you see.’
I looked at Margaret, and gasped. There was a form behind her – a woman with long golden hair, wearing a floaty white dress. ‘That’s Heather, isn’t it? Is it because it’s Halloween tomorrow?’
Greg shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Ghosts aren’t usually visible until the evening of Halloween. I have a feeling that it’s just a case of a friend checking in on a friend.’ He nudged me. ‘I hereby promise to haunt you if I die before you – which, seeing as I’m not half sióga like you, is highly likely. And when I say haunt you, I don’t mean in the creepy sense. I’ll look out for you. Y’know – like I do now. I’ll be there forever with a steady supply of snacks, and reminders to charge your phone.’
I grinned at him, linking my arm in his and kissing his cheek. Sure, he’d probably go back to acting like a dumb teenager in a second or two, but for now he was the adorable wizard I loved, and I was going to lap it up for as long as I could.
13. A Trustworthy Turnip
The next stop on Margaret’s Spooktacular Tour was Rachel Loughnane’s farm. Rachel had been the witch hunter’s second victim in Riddler’s Edge.
She had lived in a large farmhouse just outside the town, and one of her fields was now a Halloween fairground. There was a fortune telling tent, in which Pru was currently working. There was apple bobbing, and an area where you could pick and carve your own pumpkins. There were a few rides available, but the most popular attraction was the ghost train.
I’d been on ghost trains before, and this one was just about as (un)scary as the others. But despite the lack of fright, it was by far the most fun I had ever had on a ghost train – particularly because by the end of it, Greg had launched himself onto my lap and was pretending to be terrified.
I could have stayed at the fair all afternoon, but Greg assured me that the last stop on the Spooktacular Tour – the Turnip Maze – would be the best of all.
We all hopped into Margaret’s minivan and headed a little further out the road to Moonstone Farm. When we arrived, someone I knew greeted me with a red-faced grin.
‘This is your farm, Mark?’ I asked as he shuffled on his feet before me. I knew Mark from choir practice (although since I discovered that it was the witch hunter’s magic making me sing like an angel, I hadn’t gone quite as much – and believe me, the ears of the other choir members were all the better for my absence).
Mark grinned. ‘Well, me and Granddad. We grow the turnips together. Margaret texted me to tell me you’d be on the tour. She told me to be on my best behaviour with you.’
Greg nudged me. ‘That’ll be why he put on a clean pair of wellies, then,’ he whispered.
‘We’re em, we’re covering it for the paper,’ I said to Mark, digging my elbow into Greg’s side at the same time.
‘I know. I can’t wait to read it. I read all your articles, Ash. I save them in a binder. And that photo you have next to your by-line? I’m looking into having it blown up and turned into a cut out so I can stand it at the end of my bed.’
‘Er … that’s …’
While I was thinking of the appropriate response (there had to be something a little less dramatic than calling the stalker police, right?) Mark’s eyes lit up. ‘Hey, now that you’re here, you can finally come for a ride in my tractor.’
I was once again trying to think of the right response (Greg was no help at all, sucking on a lollipop and sniggering to himself) but luckily some help arrived in the form of the tour’s leader.
‘You won’t want to leave the group just yet, Miss Smith,’ Margaret said. ‘And what are you playing at anyway, Mark Moon? You know perfectly well that your tractor is far too large to get through the Turnip Maze.’
Mark opened his mouth, but Margaret spoke over him. ‘And what about the rest of the tour group? Hmm? You’re supposed to be giving them a speech, aren’t you?’
Mark scratched his head and looked down at his wellies. ‘Yes, Margaret. Sorry Margaret.’
Now that Margaret had Mark under control, I opened up my notebook and began to take some notes. Well … I began to pretend to take notes. I was almost as good at it as Malachy was at pretending to type. It was a crafty but necessary ploy. Mark seemed like a nice enough guy – a little bit tractor obsessed, but none of us were faultless – but I already had two not-boyfriends to contend with in the form of Jared and Dylan. I didn’t need a third.
I’d been wondering about the Turnip Maze for a long time, and boy oh boy were my friends right when they told me it had to be seen to be believed. There were turnips, and they were laid out to form a maze. Sounds unimpressive, right? I mean, turnips are what – a few inches in size?
Um, no. These turnips were not your average turnips. Each one was at least ten feet in height, and about five or six feet wide. Mark had carved them out and lit them from within, so that bright and spooky faces looked out at you as you attempted to walk the maze.
‘How does he get them so big?’ I wondered. ‘I mean, I’ve never seen turnips this big.’
Greg grinned. ‘I think that Mark’s granddad might have something to do with it. He’s on my list of wizards to meet before I die. Or … before he dies, considering he’s a fairly old wizard. He�
�s called Felim Moon.’
I gasped. ‘Of course! This is Moonstone Farm. I read about a wizard called Felim Moon who lived here when I was going through that file that Adeline and Arthur gave me.’
‘Really? That’s a story I’d like to read. But he never sees people anymore. He just stays holed up in the farmhouse. He tends the soil early in the morning and late at night, and he disappears any time anyone drops in for a chat. Literally disappears because, y’know, he’s a wizard.’
‘Does Mark know? I mean, he seems one hundred percent human from what I can tell.’
Greg shrugged. ‘He is human, and I don’t think he knows what Felim really is. But if he does, he’s certainly not spreading it around to the other humans in town.’
I glanced at Mark. He was currently going into great detail about the methods he’d used to carve the turnips. No one was yawning, but that might have had something to do with the fact that every single tourist had already entered the maze. Basically, Mark was talking to himself.
‘So how do we get to talk to Felim?’ I whispered. ‘Abby wrote about my father stepping in when he was attacked by some witches years ago. There’s a chance that he might remember my dad. Although … no one else who should remember him seems to.’
Greg had finished his lollipop, so he dug around in his pockets and found a packet of peanuts. ‘Well then we should definitely try and talk to him. You know for a fact they met, right? So if he can’t remember that meeting, then we have one hundred percent proof that there’s some kind of memory mojo at work.’
Shiver Me Witches Page 9