Midlife Curses

by Christine Zane Thomas

  “I’m not refusing any call,” I replied. “In fact, I was out looking for my familiar. No one was there. Except an owl.”

  “You know I can read your thoughts, right?” Stevie said.

  I almost fell down the steps. “I, uh, no… I didn’t.”

  Stevie didn’t smile—cats don’t do that—but I could tell he was smiling inwardly.

  “Your familiar won’t present itself until you’re ready. Truly ready. Your mind and your heart have to be aligned.”

  Oh. While I wanted my familiar to go ahead and show itself, I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to be a witch. After today’s events, after Gran’s confession, I didn’t think I wanted to be.

  “Can you really read my mind?” I asked him.

  “Yes.”

  But can you really, I thought.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Never do that again.” I smiled.

  I was struck by an awful thought.

  Can other things read minds?

  “You’ll have to be more specific.” Again, Stevie had eavesdropped on my thoughts.

  “Can a vampire?” I asked.

  “I believe so.”

  “I knew it.” I’d known there was something odd about Mr. Caulfield said I’d been snippy. I felt violated.

  But how do you kill a man who can read your mind?

  Stevie licked a paw.

  “What? No opinion for a change?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I got bored. What are we talking about?”

  “About Mr. Caulfield’s murder,” I said exasperatedly. “How would someone pull that off if he could read their thoughts.”

  Stevie considered. “I think it would take someone highly intelligent. They’d need to be skilled at—”

  “Occlumency,” I interrupted him. Finally, my Harry Potter knowledge was going to be useful.

  “At keeping their thoughts to themselves,” Stevie countered. “There’s no such thing as that nonsense from your movies.”

  “They’re books.”

  “It’s simple really,” Stevie said. “All it takes is not thinking a thought in the vampire’s presence. Give him no reason to suspect you and he won’t.”

  “That sounds simple enough,” I admitted.

  “Still,” Stevie stretched, “a six-hundred-year-old vampire has other means of protecting himself. And your culprit defeated those as well.”

  Stevie headed for the cat door with his tail high. He left me there to stew on that.

  Inside, there was spaghetti—a strainer full of clumped noodles and some reheated sauce with ground turkey. Gran passed this off as cooking.

  I want inside but now she was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t just me steering clear of her. She was avoiding me too.

  I fell into bed, the day weighing on me. Still, I was too wired to get to sleep. It was time to find another podcast. I decided to take Cyrus’s advice to heart and learn more about Creel Creek. I found one. A podcast that was oddly specific and local. But based on its reviews, it was odd. Something too fantastic to be real.

  10

  Creel Creek After Dark, Episode 44

  It’s getting late.

  Very late.

  The creeping dread of tomorrow haunts your dreams.

  It’s dark out. Are you afraid?

  Welcome to Creel Creek After Dark.

  Athena: I’m your host Athena Hunter.

  Ivana: And I’m the lovely Ivanna Steak.

  Athena: So lovely.

  Ivana: As are you, my dear.

  Athena: You’re too kind. You think we should start the episode?

  Ivana: I think so.

  Athena: Good. Cause I already started recording. This week has been quiet, hasn’t it?

  Ivana: It has. That’s why this episode is a little out of the norm for us.

  Athena: But we return to normal programming next week with a very special episode. That’s right. We’re finally doing it. The vineyard episode. Are you excited to record it?

  Ivana: I am. A little nervous, though. For those who don’t know, we record these shows about a week in advance. And we’re recording next week’s episode tomorrow.

  Athena: It’s going to be fun. Anyway, what’d you say was on the docket today?

  Ivana: Today, we’re reading a story sent in by one of our listeners.

  Athena: And not just any story. This is a true story.

  Ivana: So we’re told.

  Athena: Right, so we’re told. And it’s set right here in Creel Creek—Virginia’s spookiest town.

  Athena: What do you think about it, Ivana? It’s about a witch.

  Ivana: I think it could be true. We’ve heard rumors of a group of women who meet in the old graveyard. Granted, I heard it from the same person who claims to have seen a wolf twice the size of a man in his backyard.

  Athena: Our listeners will remember episode thirteen, where we explored the graveyard’s history, dating back to a mine explosion in the early 1800s.

  Ivana: Or was it a mine explosion?

  Athena: That tends to be the question we ask.

  Ivana: So, without further ado. Here’s The Cabin, by author unknown.

  A witch lived in a cabin in a wood, just past the end of a dirt road on the outskirts of Creel Creek, Virginia.

  The fact was that the road wasn’t actually a road, but the drive to the cabin is of little consequence. The fact that no persons living in said town had ever seen the witch drive a car is also of little consequence.

  What is, however, of consequence is the fact that she lived alone. She rarely ventured out. And when she did, her interactions were few and far between.

  Ten minutes after such an event, the interactees—the people that did meet the witch, a cashier at the grocery, a man at the post office, the farmer selling apples beside the road—well, they could hardly remember a thing about her. Whether she was five-foot-tall or six feet. Whether she had red hair or gray. Whether she had a long bulbous nose, pinkish at the end, or no nose whatsoever.

  It was the former—it’s always the former.

  The witch was a short woman with fiery red hair. She dyed it with beet juice. And she had a rather long nose that blossomed into a plum-sized knob at the end. Her eyes were yellow. They had no problem seeing in darkness, which is how on this particular night, the witch knew she wasn’t alone in her cabin.

  Now, her living space, if you can call it that, was a cluttered area with an abundance of old boxes. A shelf or two of herbs hung next to the fireplace where a cauldron waited. The witch had no need for wood or kindling.

  On the opposite side of the room, there were two rows of cages. Some were empty. Most were occupied. Occupied by what, you might ask. Well, there was a possum, at least two squirrels, three snakes, and a hawk.

  The witch had nothing to fear from the animals, not while they were locked away. It was the human skulking about that bothered her.

  This human was briefly put off by the hissing, the clawing and the scratching, and the hoot of the owl. To the witch, these were ordinary sounds—nothing to worry over.

  “I see you,” the witch whispered into the darkness.

  The intruder wasn’t surprised by the witch’s words. They didn’t reply. Only their hand moved, pulling a dagger from some concealment on their person. Its blade glinted, caught by a sliver of moonlight.

  “I knew you’d come back,” the witch said.

  “I’m not here to kill you,” the intruder said. “I’m here for the book. Killing you is just a perk. Now, where is it?”

  “You’ll never find it.”

  “I’ll make you suffer before you die.” It wasn’t an empty threat. The intruder was going to make the witch suffer no matter the outcome of the book search.

  “I’ve suffered enough these last few years.” There was no strain in the witch’s voice. No pleading. “And I don’t plan to do any at your hands.”

  The intruder raised the knife high. This time, there was no glint. There was no indication t
he blade was there at all. Because it wasn’t. It vanished from the intruder’s grip as their hands plunged down toward the witch.

  When the intruder’s palm lay flat on her chest, the old witch sighed, her last breath. She was gone.

  Angry not to have killed her, not to have made her suffer, the intruder scoured the room for their prize, because the witch was wrong about one thing. They would find the book. And when they did, they’d set their plan into motion.

  11

  The Faction

  The next morning, I rose before the sun, filled with dread for several reasons. It would be a long time before I got the image of Mr. Caulfield, dead as a doornail, out of my head.

  And I still had to figure out what to do about magic and a familiar and vampires and werewolves.

  And then there was that creepy podcast. I’d fallen asleep but I listened to it again that morning. Creel Creek is strange. And getting stranger by the second.

  I didn’t think the hosts could be actual members of the paranormal community. No one is that stupid. Are they? But their voices did seem familiar…

  Who could they be?

  I shook my head. I didn’t need to care. Gran manipulated me with magic to bring me here. I wanted to learn what I needed to learn and get out of here as fast as Crookshanks would go.

  It still wasn’t time to get up, but I was tired of being in bed. I needed to answer nature’s calls. The first, to pee, and the second, much louder call for caffeine.

  Today, I had nowhere to be. With the grocery closed indefinitely, I was probably out of a job. I doubted Mr. Caulfield had any relatives to take over the store in the event of his demise. Being a vampire, he probably assumed there wasn’t going to be a demise.

  I know that’s how I’d play it.

  On my first day, he’d given me a spiel about how the store had been passed down from generation to generation. I realized now that he must’ve actually passed it from himself to himself in some clever fashion—an old vampire trick, like the way the Cullens maintained a residence in Forks for over a century. Oh, Twilight.

  Again, my book knowledge proved much larger than my actual knowledge.

  What would the residents of Creel Creek do without a grocery store? Surely, someone could buy it or take over. But how long will that take? And will I still have a job when the dust settles?

  Definitely questions for another day.

  I had more pressing matters to deal with—like when would my familiar show and who killed Mr. Caulfield.

  More pressing even than that, I was finally ready to talk with Gran. Not about being a witch, not about a stupid dead vampire. I wanted to hear everything she could tell me about my mother.

  I could forgive her trespasses if she’d just open up for once. I needed her. I wanted to know more about my mom.

  Her snores were still reverberating throughout the house.

  After I answered nature’s call, I banged around in the kitchen, pretending to make coffee, until the racket was too much for her to take.

  She shuffled into the kitchen in fuzzy slippers, her hair a mess, her glasses crooked, and she looked like she needed a double dose of nature’s miracle.

  Stevie trailed in behind her. He too looked worse for wear with rumpled fur and droopy eyes.

  Odd for a cat.

  “Trouble sleeping?” I asked.

  Gran took stock of the table. Two cups of coffee waited, steaming and ready to go.

  “It’s a trap,” Stevie grumbled.

  “And I thought you were cooking me breakfast. Banging pots and pans, slamming cabinets. And was that a tea whistle?”

  “No, that was my lips.”

  “I should’ve known better.”

  “I told you,” Stevie said. “Witches can’t be trusted.”

  The cat had a solid argument.

  Gran rounded on me. “This is about your mother, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “But I still want to know why you look so—”

  “Raggedy?” Stevie suggested. “Disheveled? Unkempt?”

  “Unrested.”

  Gram scowled. “I was up late. I thought I’d ask the spirits if they knew anything about your dead vampire.”

  “He’s not mine. He’s ours. And did they?”

  “When she says spirits,” Stevie boomed, “she’s mostly talking about booze.”

  “Rarely,” Gran retorted. “Last night, I only had a sip.”

  This surprised me. Gran wasn’t a drinker. And she hadn’t been too interested in Mr. Caulfield’s murder, other than me being a party to it—and she was right, it was totally her fault.

  She dropped into her seat and drank half a cup coffee before she came up for air.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Well, what?”

  “Did the spirits tell you anything?”

  “No. They’re as fickle as you were in high school. They didn’t tell me anything we didn’t already know, but they told me that old news twice or three times. Blood—they just kept saying the word blood. Over and over.”

  “He drank blood?”

  “As vampires do,” Gran said smartly. “Now, let me finish this coffee and we can discuss that other matter.”

  “My mother.” Talking about Mr. Caulfield made it easy to forget what was really important to me. The lies I’d been told as a kid were hard to let go of. I still didn’t know what to believe.

  Gran made a show of slurping down the dregs.

  Then she started.

  “Your mother and I—our relationship was… trying. You know, I didn’t always live in Creel Creek. Your mother grew up in—”

  “Florida,” I said.

  “That’s right. Her father, God rest his soul, was a good man. So young to die of a heart attack. But he came home early one day and walked in on me performing a spell. The shock killed him. Your mother blamed me. And magic.

  “Your mother was raised by a single parent doing their best, just like you. Except my best doesn’t measure up to the rest of ’em. Your mother left the day she turned eighteen and I didn’t see her again until the week before she turned forty.”

  Like me.

  “I know what you’re thinking. No, I didn’t summon her. I realize now summoning you was a mistake. But, Constance, you can’t come into your powers alone. Your mother knew that.

  “By then, I’d moved here. I don’t even know how she found me. You were with her, well, you probably don’t remember. She made me enchant you to forget.”

  Correction. Apparently, I’d been to my Gran’s house twice before.

  “And she probably told your father she was on one of those location hunts.”

  “Thanks for telling me this,” I told Gran. “I know it’s hard.”

  “Oh, it’s not so hard, owning up to my failures. The tricky thing is not repeating them. And that’s where I’m afraid I’ve failed. Now, can I finish this story?”

  “Go ahead,” I encouraged her.

  “It was like the past had never happened. We said our apologies and started fresh. You were an angel by the way. A lovely girl.

  “But back to your mother. I couldn’t believe it. Here, I thought for sure she’d renounce magic. But no. We had a birthday celebration. Your mother came into her powers. She bought every book Trish’s mother had, from spells to curses, potions and tonics. And she promised to keep in touch, which she did by calling me every week when she was really on a location hunt.

  “My life had changed for the better. I couldn’t believe it when she called to tell me about a job with The Faction.”

  Gran gave me an expectant look. Is that supposed to mean something to me?

  “There’s a faction?” I asked.

  “Isn’t there always?” Gran snorted. “A faction, an order… a ministry.” That was a jab at me. Not to mention Arthur Weasely, who works at the Ministry of Magic’s Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office.

  But that was something I hadn’t considered. What type of jobs are there for witches?

  “
What kind of job was it?” I asked.

  “She wouldn’t say. She said it was a secret. That she’d call me again soon. And not to worry, you were in good hands with your father.”

  “I’m guessing this Faction doesn’t advertise jobs on Glassed-In.”

  “Glassed what?”

  I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s an online job market and social network.’”

  “Definitely not,” Gran scoffed. “But they’re not official in our world either. The Faction is one of those ‘let’s police ourselves and tell everyone we’re the good guys’ kind of deals. And let’s not even speculate where their money comes from.”

  “Well, are they the good guys?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Stevie, who’d been patiently grooming, snarled.

  “I said, in a manner of speaking,” Gran replied defensively. “That’s the other thing. Familiars are an arcane tradition, and they kill them on sight.”

  “They kill them? Really?”

  I was stunned. This Faction didn’t sound like anything out of my books. And they didn’t sound like the good guys at all.

  “Just their bodies.” Gran sighed. “You can’t actually kill—”

  “No,” Stevie interrupted, “you can do a lot worse. You can banish us to another plane of existence. One where we walk for eternity, alone.”

  “Oh, woe is me.” Gran stroked his back. “Forced to live forever.”

  “So, my mother,” I pressed, refusing to be distracted, “you think she, you think she joined this…”

  My heart sank, but I didn’t understand why. Not until a memory of a gray tabby cat popped into my head. My jaw dropped and I covered my mouth.

  Gran knew. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Stevie searched for your mother’s familiar. But he was gone without a trace.”

  “Mr. Whiskers,” I said, remembering the cat’s name. “There’s no way she killed him. She loved that cat. She loved her familiar. I remember.”

  “Mr. Whiskers,” Stevie repeated. “He hated that name.”

  “And Serena always wanted him to be an owl.”

  “Mom would never have—”