Wrapped in Black: Thirteen Tales of Witches and the Occult

by Jennifer L. Greene

  And then there was the mustard aisle. Well, half an aisle anyway. The opposing shelving held standard condiments like ketchup and pickles and corn relish and the like, but Chet never even glanced their way. They were all so pedestrian.

  His pulse quickened every time he stood before the golden wall of goodness. There were Dijons and deli-styles, honeys and hots, spirited and sweets, whole grain, fruit, beer, and lovely simple yellow. He'd sampled many brands and varieties and had narrowed down his favorites. But there were still so many to try!

  Chet loved the 4th of July because the Park District held an annual pig roast and oyster bake. For eight bucks, you got a plate of seared pork with baked beans, cole slaw, a buttered roll and all the oysters you could shuck. Now the rest of the stuff could go to hell, to Chet's mind, but the pork was utterly to die for. He'd stand soaking in the smoke at the edge of the stone pit while the pig spun over the open flame. He'd savor it. Foster it. Turn it into a deep crave which would start as a black hole in his belly and threaten to devour him whole. By the time the beast finished blackening, Chet's mouth would fill with saliva so fast he'd have to subtly spit into the grass. By the time he got his plate, he'd pay extra for doubles.

  And he always brought his own mustard. He'd carry the jar in a fanny pack, usually a spicy brown. Mustard made everything taste better. Everything.

  Even now, saliva squirted into his mouth as he scanned the stacks for something that would perfectly complement the triple-decker sandwich he intended to construct for dinner with meats and cheeses and breads purchased right here at Arch's. Roast beef, prosciutto, and salami with Colby, Muenster, and Swiss on pumpernickel (of course), topped off with sliced onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and a squirt of red vinegar to top it off. The final piece of this wonderful puzzle was, of course, the mustard. It had to be just right…

  “You seem to be in a bit of a quandary,” a soft, lithe voice said beside him. Chet jumped. He thought he'd been alone in the aisle, but a woman stood a yard away. She was beautiful in an austere way, with auburn hair hanging past her shoulders and deep green eyes--assessing, evaluating eyes. Chet felt a bloody flush creep up his cheeks.

  “Oh, um, yes,” he said.

  The woman reached a slender hand out to touch his elbow. “I feel your pain. What's on tonight's menu?”

  “I, um, a roast beef sandwich,” Chet replied.

  “Then I would go with horseradish mustard. Try Silver Springs.”

  “I was kind of leaning that way, but for some reason I'm feeling plain yellow tonight,” Chet said, recovering from his initial shyness. If there was one thing he loved talking about, it was food. He knew food. He didn't know much else.

  “Are you kidding me?” the woman asked, eyes bulging. “I see that prosciutto in your basket--you're thinking of spoiling it with yellow?”

  “Well, I--”

  “I bet you were going to pick up Plochman's weren't you?”

  “No,” Chet said, growing serious. “Not Plochman's. Never Plochman's.”

  The woman burst out laughing and for one moment her grip on his elbow tightened. It felt nice, a gesture of genuine affection and affinity. It was not something he'd felt since he was a senior in high school and had gone on his only date with Rhonda Appleton. Afterward, as he walked her to her porch, worried about kissing her (he'd never done so before with anyone but his mother), Rhonda had squeezed his arm in exactly the same place, smiled, and said goodnight. The touch had been plenty for Chet; he'd practically floated home. The next week at school, though, he'd spotted Rhonda laughing with Shane Dodd in study hall. As he watched, she'd reached out and gripped his arm in precisely the same place she'd gripped Chet's days before. That one miniscule betrayal had killed his love life once and for all.

  Until tonight, it seemed. Because the woman in the mustard aisle released his arm and held out her hand. “Sarah Bremerton. At the risk of sounding forward, is there any chance I could talk you into forsaking your sandwich to have dinner at my house tonight?”

  Chet's tongue stuck in his mouth. He'd never been asked to a woman's house before. He'd heard of people getting picked up in a market, but those were usually single women approached by a hapless-looking guy who kickstarted conversation with Excuse me, but could you tell me which fabric softener is best for static cling?

  Sensing his discomfort, Sarah Bremerton rushed on. “I know how that must sound, but I only live up the block. And as one mustard enthusiast to another, I have something that might appeal to you.”

  “What's that?” Chet managed.

  Sarah gave him a sly look and said, “I have a space in my kitchen devoted to mustard-making. No joke. I'm a gourmet chef by trade. I could use an expert opinion on a new recipe I'm trying.”

  Is this the world's perfect woman? Chet wondered. Beautiful, intelligent, and a chef? On top of that, she was inviting him over to sample his favorite thing in the known world? His life had gotten exponentially better in the past sixty seconds. But if he didn't stop acting like a complete tool, he was going to blow it.

  At last he forced his tongue to cooperate. He took charge. Tonight could change his life in so many ways, ways he wanted. Needed. He smiled and said, “That sounds delightful. I accept.”

  “Excellent,” she said, smiling broadly. Chet could see how long her teeth were. The incisors looked unnaturally sharp, like a vampire's. That was ridiculous, though, and so was he if he blew this opportunity by staring this particular gift horse in the mouth.

  They stepped together to the checkout counter and Sarah laid her items on the belt. Chet noticed she had fresh spinach, vine-ripened tomatoes, and squash. He hid a grimace. He hated vegetables and hoped they would not be included in tonight's fare.

  As she collected her bags, Sarah gave him her address. “Give me an hour to get ready, okay?”

  Chet nodded, his chins bouncing. “I'll be by around eight o'clock.”

  “Perfect. Bring your appetite.”

  That wouldn't be a problem. He brought his appetite everywhere. If he didn't sate it frequently, sometimes hourly, it grew in him like a malignant tumor.

  He used his time to shower and scheme. Was Sarah Bremerton inviting him over solely for dinner, as one mustard aficionado to another? Or could there be something more to it? Improbable. Women just didn't find Chet attractive. He didn't blame them, or himself. He did not require the touch of a woman--or anyone, for that matter. He was perfectly satisfied with his first love.

  On the other hand, a little dessert wouldn't hurt either. Chet tried to imagine Sarah seducing him. In his fantasy, she gave him a sultry smile before offering to slather him down in Silver Springs stoneground. He laughed at his reflection while combing his thinning hair. It took a few minutes to dig a Ban roll-on out of his medicine cabinet and he was just thankful he still had one stashed somewhere. He dabbed on some aftershave, a sharp, tangy concoction he hoped wasn't overpowering.

  Chet spent the rest of the time pacing the kitchen and listening to nothing but the flat slap of his soles on linoleum. Groucho lay beneath the table, muddy eyes tracking his master's progress, knowing now was the usual time he could expect a morsel to drop to the floor. Chet considered making a quick sandwich--nothing extravagant, just a hot ham and Swiss on rye--but decided against it. He wanted to save his appetite for whatever delicacy his date would prepare. An honest to God gourmet! How had he struck it so lucky?

  At a quarter to eight, Chet climbed into his car and listened as he always did to the creak of the struts as they bore his girth. He drove to the address Sarah had given him and found himself staring up at one of the oldest houses in town. He'd driven past it a thousand times on trips to Arch's and had often marveled at its architecture: Colonial with elements of Gothic Revival. Gables rose high into the sky, supporting a black iron widow's walk, and a wide plank porch ran around one side. He'd never considered who might live here. In fact, as a kid he had been convinced--as had all his classmates--that this was the haunted house every town seems to host. It
had been fully renovated in the intervening years, the vines of ivy stripped away, the overgrown lawn neatly manicured, and the roof patched and reshingled. The rehab looked superb. Could a chef afford such accommodations?

  She must be a hell of a cook, Chet thought, stomach rumbling.

  He forced himself to take the stairs slowly, though he was eager to discover how the night would turn out. With any luck, it would begin with making mustard and end with making love. That part made him jittery since it had never happened, but he thought with Sarah's guidance he would make the grade. And if the only thing that happened tonight was dinner sans dessert, that would be fine too. There would time for the rest. Tonight could be the start of a beautiful relationship.

  He was about to knock when the door swung opened on a long vestibule lit only by flickering candles in wall sconces. It was empty. Chet had time to think that the rumors of this house being haunted had been true, but then Sarah Bremerton was standing there. She had been all along, he realized, and he released a shaky laugh.

  Jesus, get a grip, he thought.

  “Hello, Chet,” Sarah said, revealing those startling teeth. “Are you all right? You look like you've seen a you-know-what.”

  “Sorry. A think a goose just walked over my grave.”

  “Well, come on in before we exhaust the entire lexicon of creepy clichés.”

  They say every house has its own distinct odor, based on multiple variables. Sarah Bremerton's house smelled of nutmeg and cloves…and something else. Something Chet couldn't place. It was food-based, he thought, but of a kind he did not like. Burnt Brussels sprouts or rotten rutabagas. It lingered beneath the smell of spices, but he thought he'd be able to ignore it during his stay. As far as future stays--on long December midnights, perhaps, after a multi-course dinner and lovemaking--well, he'd ferry that brook when he came to it.

  Sarah ushered him around a corner and into the kitchen. Chet's breath caught. It was grander than he imagined, easily twice the size of his living room.

  Chet could make out a built-in cutting board, a wine storage area, and double-stacked convection ovens. The walls were constructed of authentic stone and the cabinetry of knotty alder. An armory of pots and pans hung from the walls. A brick oven big enough to roast a boar glowed warmly, the smell of fresh bread emanating from its depths. Her spice cabinet alone was bigger than the mini-fridge he kept beside his bed. An enormous kettle bubbled on one of the six range burners. Dual copper sinks, distressed hardwood floors, and granite countertops rounded out the ensemble.

  But the most impressive aspect was the honest-to-God cedar tree which stood as the room's centerpiece, with lighting fixtures hanging between the branches near the ceiling. Chet shuffled forward and put his hand on the petrified trunk.

  “Is this real?” he asked.

  Sarah nodded, obviously pleased at his reaction. “I had it preserved. I could never stand feeling cooped up in a kitchen all day. I'm an outdoorsy kind of girl, but my profession doesn't allow for much of that. So I brought the outdoors in with me.”

  “It's marvelous,” Chet remarked, eyes darting everywhere like feeding hummingbirds. He pictured the hundreds of midnight snacks he'd concoct in this room after he moved in. Which he would. He had to live here; it was like his favorite fantasy come to life. He had to play it just right, this extremely fortunate hand he'd been dealt tonight.

  “Except for my garden, this kitchen is my favorite place in the world,” Sarah said. “I could never count the hours I've spent here, whipping up this and that for hungry guests. Tell me, Chet. Are you hungry?”

  Chet offered an apologetic smile. “To tell you the truth, Miss Bremerton, I'm famished. It is Miss Bremerton, isn't it?”

  “It is. And please, let's lay formalities to rest. My house rules say that once I've invited you here, you call me Sarah.”

  “Sarah it is,” Chet agreed. He was feeling fine. Better than fine. Everything was going to work out perfectly, he could feel it.

  “I'm glad to hear you're famished because you'll be stuffed by the time I'm through with you,” Sarah said. Her green eyes sparkled. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

  “I'd love one.”

  She poured two goblets of some type of red--Chet's specialty was food, not drink--and handed one over. Chet sipped and found it dry and delightful.

  “I am in love with your house,” he said, feeling giddy. He tried to keep it reeled in, but the good feelings kept unspooling. “You know, I used to think it was haunted when I was a kid. Silly, right?”

  “It sort of has that air about it, doesn't it?”

  “I think I might have to leave a trail of bread crumbs to find my way out.”

  Sarah made a noncommittal sound before leaning over the simmering kettle. Chet squinted into it over her shoulder, but could not discern its contents.

  Double bubble, toil and trouble, he thought and had to bite back nervous laughter.

  “While the stew boils, would you like to make mustard? I always keep my promises.”

  Chet's heart melted like mozzarella on a deep dish deluxe. This could be nothing other than love. “What do you need me to do?”

  “I have all the ingredients right here,” Sarah said, sweeping a hand over a countertop littered with spices and cooking implements.

  Chet picked up one of the bottles and inspected the label. “Rapeseed oil? Sounds kinky.”

  Sarah plucked the item from his hand and replaced it on the table. “It is an absolutely essential ingredient if you want perfect mustard. Most manufacturers use other ingredients and end up compromising their product. There is no compromise in my house.”

  She fell strangely quiet, speaking only when directing him on the next step of the recipe. She sounded like a surgeon instructing a subordinate through a particularly taxing operation. Chet worried that he'd muddled things up for himself. The cloying vegetable smell nagged him and soon he felt a dull throb pulsing at his temples.

  “Would you care to taste-test the finished product?” Sarah asked, spooning up the brown concoction. Her brilliant smile at last returned and Chet allowed himself to hope everything would turn out well after all. He dipped his head and took the bite of mustard like a kid sampling grandma's cake batter.

  Except what he tasted was better than any batter. The mustard was absolute perfection: tart yet sweet, spicy without being hot. He closed his eyes to savor it, pushed his tongue through it. There was a very real moment when he thought he might weep. That he'd had a finger in its creation made it all the more perfect, like knowing he'd helped make an embryo.

  “So?” Sarah asked, watching him. “Do you approve?”

  “It's the best thing I've ever tasted,” Chet replied, quite honestly. “What's your secret?”

  Sarah grinned, but clucked her tongue. “A magician never reveals her secrets.”

  It didn't matter what ingredients his hostess used to create her masterpiece as long as she didn't stop feeding it to him. My God, it would go perfect on just about anything, he thought. Burgers, brats, dogs, pork chop sandwiches…absolutely anything. His belly rumbled and he placed a hand on the bulge beneath his shirt while trying to ignore the one growing in his pants.

  “Oh, look at you,” Sarah cooed. “You're positively starving to death and here I am burbling like a brook.”

  “I'm sorry,” Chet replied, hoping his body hadn't blown anything for him.

  “Never fear, sir. Dinner's on the way.” She motioned toward the dining room. “Find a seat and let me serve you.”

  In a daze of ravenous euphoria, Chet waddled through the door and discovered a dim chamber aglow with tapered candles in silver candelabra. A long mahogany table dominated the center of the room, twelve places set with fine china and sterling silver. Was that just for appearances or was Sarah planning a dinner party? He hoped it was the former, but if it was for the latter where were the rest of the guests? He wanted her alone tonight. Another bottle of wine had been opened to breathe and he poured himself an
other glass to steady his nerves.

  When he pulled out his chair, he noticed something odd. The heavy oak was supported by casters. They squeaked as the chair rolled back over the hardwood floor. He'd seen tables on wheels because they were cumbersome to move, especially by one's self. But chairs? Anyone could move a chair. A toddler could move one without the benefit of wheels.

  He peered around the dining room. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, their gold cords hanging like limp pasta. A grandfather clock ticked in one corner. Oil portraits of austere yet beautiful women were situated at intervals in heavy gilt frames--Sarah's ancestors, no doubt. As he looked from one to the next, he had the sense they were watching him.

  Too many late night horror flicks, Chet thought, taking another drink. He watched the candles drip their bloody wax so he wouldn't have to think of all those painted eyes on him. Maybe there was something to this being the town's haunted house. His gut loosed another grumble. He wished now he'd snacked at home.

  The clock began chiming the hour and Chet was starting to get seriously hungry when he felt the change come. It started slow, nothing but a low tingle, before creeping with efficient speed from the inside out. His skin prickled. He found it hard to breathe.

  A heart attack? he thought. Oh, please, Jesus, no. Not now. Not this night, where he stood to gain so much.

  He reached for his wineglass, hoping a sip might help (he'd heard red wine was good for the heart), but found his hand immobile. This was no heart attack. In the coming minutes, Chet would find himself praying it was. Because then he could go to the hospital, where lives were saved. He tried to gain the momentum to push himself up and stagger into the kitchen to beg Sarah to call 911, but the rest of him was as immovable as his hand. The tingle increased until his skin was practically humming. He would have cried out in terror had his jaw been allowed motion.