Witch Hits the Beach: (A Paranormal Witch Cozy Mystery) (Main Street Witches Book 5)

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Witch Hits the Beach: (A Paranormal Witch Cozy Mystery) (Main Street Witches Book 5) Page 16

by Ani Gonzalez


  So this should be a breeze, no?

  "Don't look so glum, Claire." The voice came from the general direction of my right ankle. "Just ignore the epic remodeling bill, and focus on saving the world."

  I glanced down. Pookie, an ornery black chihuahua with beady amber eyes and a sparkly purple collar was looking up at me. Despite the conspicuously adorable adornment, the eerie eyes hinted as to the dog's otherworldly origins.

  Great. Even my stupid hellhound thought I was dragging my feet. I wiped my sweaty palms on my dark wash jeans, and took a deep breath. Pookie was right.

  C'mon. Claire. You are a mean, lean, badass witch. A freaking necromancer for crying out loud. You just defeated a spectral disco-dancing prom queen. You can't be scared of a dinky little house and whatever is inside.

  A cloud passed, casting ominous shadows over the building's crumbling facade.

  Yes, I can be.

  Like Pookie said, this was no mere haunting. Joy.

  Hello, Delacourt Manor. We meet again.

  The thought made me giggle, although it was thoroughly inaccurate. I, Claire Delacourt, have never lived in Delacourt Manor.

  Until now. Now I was buying it it and whatever was inside.

  Which could be seriously bad news because the house had a long an consistent history of being dangerous to my family. It had been since the eighteen hundreds, which is why I was raised in a nondescript condo building near Main Street. No moldings, no period details, and no nasty, dark creatures trying to kill you.

  "Hey, chillax," Pookie muttered. "No reason to get dramatic just because most of your ancestors died here a hundred years ago or so. Quit being a diva."

  I rubbed my arm, suddenly noticing the goosebumps. "I'm just cold. I should have brought my jacket."

  "I love it," Pookie said mercilessly. "Big, bad necromancer scared to a little house."

  "I'm not—"

  Elizabeth turned around with an uncertain smile. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

  "Just talking to myself," I explained quickly.

  Para-typicals couldn't hear Pookie speak, thankfully, but the Banshee Creek residents were not exactly psy-null. The town was located on top of one of the continent's most powerful ley lines. This feature attracted supernatural entities and general weirdness. The effect was so strong that even the para-typical had found a reason for it; they called the ley line a "geomagnetic fault." Thanks to its influence, the townsfolk were a bit more sensitive than the regular joe.

  I had to keep that in mind, if I was going to live and work here. Keeping info away from the normals was going to be hard. I added that to the list of "seventy thousand things I hate about my hometown."

  Elizabeth gave me a kind glance. "You're wondering why the house never sold? Don't worry, we are a full disclosure event. A very tragic event occurred in the house."

  See? That's what I meant. How had she known that?

  With no Delacourt heir to claim it, the house eventually reverted to the Commonwealth of Virginia for nonpayment of real estate taxes. It had been owned by the government for decades. Ever so often, the house was put up for sale, but there were never any takers.

  Until now. Until me. You had to be crazy to live here.

  And I fit the bill. The thought gave rise to a bitter laugh.

  "But," Elizabeth added with only the smallest pause. "That's not unusual in this town."

  "I bet," Pookie interjected.

  Elizabeth frowned and looked around, as if searching for the sound of the voice. She finally aimed a narrow-eyed glance at the dog. "Did you cough, sweetie?"

  She then patted Pookie on the head then stood up in a swift, lady-like motion. Elizabeth, unlike me, was the type of girlie-girl who did everything gracefully. "He's such a cutie. I can tell why he has his own fan club."

  "He's adorable, all right," I responded, not mentioning that Pookie, or Poocong as he's known in the Fourth Circle of Hell, is also deadly, sarcastic and cheats at poker.

  "He'll love it here," Elizabeth replied, as we entered the house. "Lots of ghosts to chase, which will give tons of wonderful footage for your show."

  Pookie trotted inside muttering "I don't chase. I obliterate" under his breath.

  Elizabeth waved her hand around. "Let's start the tour. This is the foyer, very spacious, as you can see."

  I noticed she didn't mention the cracked sidelights or the deep gouges on the mahogany door.

  Smart.

  I stood in the threshold, unable to keep from making a mental list of all the things that could made those scratches. I followed the list with an analysis of the kind of summoning that would break the glass.

  The answers were not comforting.

  But at least those were things I could deal with. The way the floor dipped under my boots was a different story. Did the foundation need to be replaced? That sounded expensive.

  I followed Elizabeth into the living room, senses at full alert. It was a surprisingly bright and open space, with mint green wallpaper and old shutters. I could imagine a small, tufted sofa in front of the windows, flanked by dainty winged chairs, maybe even a fringed lamp to complete the picture.

  The image was sweet and peaceful and completely at odds with what I knew about the house. Weird.

  "Everything needs updating, of course," Elizabeth said cheerfully. "But the house is livable."

  "Define livable," Pookie muttered, glancing back at the foyer.

  I wasn't sure if he was referring to the claw marks or to the shaky floors, and I didn't ask. Ignorance was bliss in this instance, at least for now.

  "Come look at the dining room," Elizabeth continued, resolutely ignoring whatever it was she was hearing. "It has wonderful windows."

  It did. The room was octagonal in shape and perfectly suited for formal rituals and enchantments. As it should be, as it was built exactly for that purpose. I wasn't a big fan of the candle-and-chanting traditions—I was more of an improv enchanter. I could, however, appreciate the details. Five antique candleholders still hung on the walls and you could still see the remains of the pentagram design on the floor. The wood had been sanded and re-stained, but it was still there.

  Barely.

  But the pattern seemed to grow clearer as I stared at it. Lines of power criss-crossed the old wood table.

  "Looks like you triggered something," Pookie noted unnecessarily. "Fun."

  I frowned, staring at the lines. This was not magic I recognized.

  "Isn't the table gorgeous?" Elizabeth asked. "It's hard to find an eight-sided table, so it comes with the house."

  "Yes, lovely," I lied.

  We were both lying. The table was a large wood octagon with eccentric carvings and little charm or style, but Elizabeth was right. It would be hard to find a piece of furniture to fit this room. This table had likely been built for the house by the family.

  Which said a lot about my lineage's supreme lack of taste. That table was one of the ugliest pieces of furniture I had ever seen in my life.

  "Wait until you see the kitchen," Elizabeth said, as she crossed the room, not noticing anything unusual. 'It's quite spacious, which was quite rare for the time."

  "Of course," I replied, trying not to smile. Victorian houses usually had depressingly tiny kitchens that were strictly for staff. This room, however, was large and bright, with expansive counters and lots of room to work.

  "Cooking must have been so much fun here," Elizabeth said, running her hand over the polished wood countertops.

  That comment made me chuckle. Cooking wasn't the only activity done in this room, as evidenced by the runes carved on the counters.

  Runes that seemed to be glowing.

  I traced a y-shaped rune of protection and reached out, trying to perceive.

  Nothing.

  If, as Pookie said, I triggered something, it wasn't immediately obvious.

  "There's even an herb garden right here." Elizabeth opened the dutch door to the side yard and stepped outside.

 
Pookie followed her, eager to explore his new domain. He'd probably pee the whole place, just to mark it as his own.

  Demon dog pee. Just what the house needed.

  I followed them , even though I already knew what the garden looked like. I was eager to get out of the house. Something felt wrong. I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was, but the wrongness permeated the whole house.

  The sky had grown cloudy, and the overgrown garden was cold and dark. I ambled to the moon dial, where Pookie was already busy marking his territory. A sudden gust of wind made my silver hair fly up, gray strands blowing wildly, and I instantly regretted not using a ponytail.

  "Dark clouds," I whispered "Creepy feeling. Pentagram appearing on the floor. Does any of this ring a bell?"

  "I'll take 'things best tackled on an empty bladder' for five hundred, Alex," the dog growled in reply.

  His words were lighthearted, but his ears came to attention and his eyes acquired a startling amber glow, a reminder of his true origins.

  I could feel the power, rising. The electricity crackling in the air. This was going to be a doozy.

  Elizabeth's phone beeped, startling us all.

  Well, maybe not all. Pookie's glowing eyes were focused on the device. He did not look away.

  "Excuse me." Elizabeth checked her messages quickly, as a cold breeze wafted up to us.

  I looked around for weapons. Scraggly mint plants, rosemary bushes, a cracked moon dial and a mossy garden gnome were all I could find.

  "I'm sorry," Elizabeth said. "I have a family emergency." Her lips thinned. "I apologize profusely. We can come back so I can show you the bedrooms—"

  Well, wasn't this convenient? Elizabeth found an urgent reason to leave just as the magic stared swirling around us. Like I said, Banshee Creek folk were very attuned to these things.

  Not that I was complaining. I was definitely not averse to getting the innocent bystander out of her ASAP.

  "Don't worry," I told her, putting a little magical oomph behind my words. "I'll drop by your office to sign the paperwork tomorrow."

  He face brightened. "Then you are buying it. That's fantastic. I wasn't sure..."

  "That I would indeed purchase a house with a deadly history, faulty plumbing, and a family of bats living in the attic?" I laughed despite the ominously darkening sky.

  Elizabeth smiled as she pushed her flying hair off her face. The wind was getting worse.

  "Well, creepy can be nice sometimes." She put her phone in her purse and shook my hand. "See you tomorrow."

  Then she ran off as the armies of hell were pursing her.

  Which wasn't far from the truth, to be honest.

  A nearby shutter banged against the house and a bolt of lighting crosses the sky. I watched Elizabeth hurry out and wondered what the heck type of defense could I conjure with a bunch of wilting mint leaves and an old garden gnome.

  Elizabeth was right, creepy could be nice sometimes.

  This wasn't one of those times.

  "Well, the civilian is out of the way," Pookie said, eyes still glowing. "Let's see what kind of homecoming present this house has for us."

  You can find purchase links for the book here.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  MUST LOVE GHOSTS EXCERPT

  "Well, I want you in my zombie apocalypse survival team."

  Mike Stone turned. The owner of the throaty female voice, a tall girl with long magenta hair and strange clothes, glanced at his military fatigues appreciatively. Her eyes were yellow, with slit pupils, like a cat's.

  He was standing on a cobblestone street surrounded by colonial buildings with brick façades and old-fashioned moldings. Baskets with chrysanthemum blooms hung from wrought iron lampposts and vintage signs adorned the quaint, if slightly run-down, shops. Banshee Creek, Virginia was the kind of town where the shop signs announced "Ye Olde Bake-Shoppe," and "Merrie Colonial Pubbe."

  The magenta-haired girl in the black catsuit and sky-high heels looked decidedly incongruous. She blinked as the afternoon sun hit her on the face, and realization dawned. Contacts. She must be wearing contacts.

  "That's a very realistic costume," she purred, her smile displaying plastic fangs. "Warm, too. I didn't realize it got so cold here in October. Next year, I'll put on a nice thick fur and come as a Siberian were-cat."

  "Um, thanks," he replied. He didn't know how to tell her that it wasn't a costume. That he wasn't an aspiring zombie survivalist, just an ordinary soldier on leave.

  "Here." She handed him an orange flyer with an elaborate flourish. "You're officially invited to the Banshee Creek Costume Party."

  He grabbed the flimsy bit of paper. It screeched "Party Tonight!" in an exaggerated Gothic font.

  "The Guinness Book of World Records people will be there," the cat girl explained, her feline eyes sparkling with excitement. "We're trying to make it the biggest Halloween costume party in history so make sure you register."

  She winked at him, and turned to a spindly young man on stilts. He was wearing large grey wings and red-tinged goggles.

  "Hey, Mothman," she shouted. "Great costume. We're really excited about the latest sighting." She waved an orange flyer. "Do you know where to register for the party?"

  They walked off, leaving Mike behind. He looked at the throngs of people lining Main Street. He counted three Elves, eleven princesses, and a platoon of naughty nurses.

  He'd forgotten it was Halloween.

  More to the point, he'd forgotten it was Halloween in Banshee Creek, Virginia. The Fall Equinox was no laughing matter in the Most Haunted Town in the U.S.A.

  Well, that accolade wasn't official yet, but his Army buddy, Cole Hunt, had been certain that his hometown would win the coveted title. Cole and his friends had been diligently documenting the local hauntings so as to convince the powers-that-be that their town could be the premier paranormal destination in the United States.

  And Mike had heard all about their plans, ad nauseum infinitum, in fact. Cole stayed in touch with his Banshee Creek buddies all through his two-year deployment to Afghanistan. He'd supervised the investigations from afar and edited the documentaries in his free time. As a result, Mike had sat through endless hours of night-vision footage and had spent many days listening to static trying to discern what Cole described as "electronic voice phenomena."

  Oh, yes. His friend had a plan. Cole intended to come back to Banshee Creek, marry his fiancée and turn the town into the ghost capital of the United States.

  But Cole didn't get to come back.

  He died in Afghanistan, and Mike, who had no plans, no family, and no home, survived.

  The irony was inescapable. The guy with no future made it out alive, but the one with the plan, the one with the loving family, the one with the devoted girlfriend.

  That guy didn't make it back home.

  Mike hoisted his duffle bag, avoided a laughing foursome dressed in Star Trek uniforms, and walked up the cobblestone street. He didn't have a life plan like Cole, but right now he was a man on a mission, a mission to find 12 Hooded Owl Road, Banshee Creek, Virginia.

  He looked down Main Street, assessing the town he'd heard so much about. Banshee Creek was laid out like a typical small Virginia village, with one main road lined with shops and Colonial row houses. An auto repair shop with a neon 1950's sign that read "Virginia Vintage Motors" sat on a corner. The shop's small parking lot was full of restored cars and a couple of kids in ghost costumes were taking pictures around a black 1967 Impala. The car was nice, but Mike's eyes kept drifting towards a late-model Jeep Wrangler with an elegant black paint job. Sure, it didn't qualify as "antique" or even "vintage," but it looked cool and the price was very affordable.

  Which was probably due to the stagnant local economy. Most of the stores had "for sale" or "for rent" signs. Sheets of plywood covered the windows of the local bookstore. A small movie theater held pride of place in the center of town, but its marquee was broken and the last movie featured seemed to be Close En
counters of the Third Kind.

  Yet there were a few signs of life. A real estate sign in front of a dilapidated mansion with the sloping roof of a stereotypical haunted house had a sold sticker. The row houses had small gardens in front, many of them covered with weeds, but an enterprising soul had put out planters with purple and orange flowers in an attempt to spruce up the sidewalk.

  And the town still attracted visitors, in spite of its ramshackle state. The streets were full of costumed partygoers and a couple of businesses, including a pizzeria and a bakery, were busy with customers. The hardware store had a table in front filled with Halloween paraphernalia and the glowing red goggles worn by the—what was the name, again?—Mothman, that's it. The Mothman goggles seemed to be quite popular. A bunch of kids in black capes were trying them on and taking pictures. The crisp fall air carried the scent of apples and cinnamon and he experienced a sudden craving for cider and...candy corn?

  Back in Afghanistan, Cole's plan to paranormalize his hometown sounded silly and far-fetched. But here in Banshee Creek it was starting to make sense.

  "Looking for a haunted house?"

  A teenage boy in jeans and a yellow t-shirt with a large letter X handed him a piece of paper. Curiosity piqued, Mike took it, carefully avoiding the kid's makeshift metal claws.

  It was a homemade map, made by someone with a talent for drawing and an excessive fondness for horror movie fonts. The title was "Banshee Creek's Haunted Houses" and there was something very familiar about the style of the illustrations.

  He identified Main Street and the Scooby-Doo house, but what was that strange dark line that crisscrossed the town? A river? Railroad tracks? He squinted at the complicated script, making out the words "geomagnetic fault." Upon closer inspection he realized that several of the buildings were marked with cartoon ghost symbols. He turned the paper to read the map legend, which described the various ghosts and other critters that supposedly infested the town. One of them identified as a brownie, but wasn't that a dessert? Or a uniformed child that sold cookies? At the bottom of the page there was a hand drawn copyright symbol and the author's name.

 

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