Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead
Christiana Miller
HekaRose Publishing electronic publication date: April 2011
Electronic Edition
Copyright © 2010 Christiana Miller
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead
Copyright © 2010 Christiana Miller
www.christianamiller.com
Edited by: Tana Panagopoulos
Cover Design by: Tara Shuler
HekaRose Publishing
www.hekarose.com
All Rights Are Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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PRAISE FOR SOMEBODY TELL AUNT TILLIE SHE'S DEAD
"Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead is a fine romp through spookyland, with enough paranormal creepiness to chill your blood. Witches, demons, magic spells, oh my! There's just enough intrigue and magic spells to keep you on edge, and Miller's hilarious one-liners leave you begging for more. Highly recommended for fun but scary reading on dark, stormy nights."
Bonnie Turner, Author,
Down the Memory Hole
"Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead is a spellbinding story with magic, drama, romance and the coolest amphibian ever. Christiana Miller has created a witty, talented, sharp-tongued protagonist in Mara, whose journey leads her down a path of broken promises, family secrets, and unimaginable betrayals. This is a spellbinding tale about the families we are born to--and the ones we choose. It captivates from the first page and holds on until the final, shocking conclusion. You won't want to miss it!"
Barbra Annino, Author,
Opal Fire: A Stacy Justice Mystery
DEDICATION
To my Dad, who whispered the idea for this story to me in my dreams, after his passing, and to Lord Grundleshanks, the late, great, magickal toad.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Big THANK YOU's go to:
Troy, who inspired me and who thought immortalizing Lord Grundleshanks was a fitting tribute for a magickal toad. To Mark and Griffin, for putting up with having a broke-ass writer in the family. And to my mom, who's been asking me for years when the book's coming out.
I also want to thank Mike Campbell for coming up with the title -- I will forever be grateful. Jill and Carrie for being my beta readers. My Backspace, Kindleboards and Facebook crews for their continued advice and assistance. And my manager, Leslie Conliffe, for her patience.
But most of all, a big thank you to my children. To my grown-up kids, who have taught me to live life on my own terms. And to my baby girl and muse, who inspires me and teaches me, everyday, how to reach for the stars.
Table of Contents
Part One -- Los Angeles
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part Two -- A New Life
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Epilogue
PART ONE
Los Angeles
Chapter One
At the beginning of this whole, surreal journey, I had no idea you could be evicted from your body as easily as you could be booted out of your apartment. Easier, actually, since there's none of those pesky laws in place to protect you. But it all started out so innocently... With a streak of bad luck.
One of the problems with being a witch is when you ask the universe a question, it generally gives you an answer. Or just enough of one to ruin a perfectly good week.
But since it was my birthday...
And since I was an eternal optimist...
And mostly 'cause I was stuck at the longest red light in the history of traffic, with nothing else to do...
I dug my tarot deck out of my purse and pulled three cards for the coming year.
Death.
Three of Swords.
The Tower.
Transformation. Sorrow. Change through destruction. Happy birthday to me.
Damn it. I shouldn't have looked. You'd think I'd know better by now. Damn tarot cards always suckered me into peeking into my future and I just about always regretted it. Because the hell of it was...
They were usually right.
After a quick stop at Trader Joe's, I was finally home. I propped the grocery bag on my hip, wrestled open the wrought iron gate and placed my hand on my mailbox. Mara Stephens, Apt 1-C.
I stood for a second, hoping my unemployment check was in there and tried to read the vibes. This was a game I always played with myself -- a small psychic exercise to keep my 'sight' sharp. But I didn't feel any sense of urgency or hope. Just a whopping dose of dread.
Great. So my guess was no check, but at least one major bill I'd have to pay. I unlocked the box and quickly sorted through the mail. Sure enough -- a sale flyer from the Crooked Pantry, a birthday card from a temp agency and a pink notice from the Dept. of Water and Power.
Good thing I had plenty of candles to fall back on. And a swimming pool. Maybe I could shower over the drain in the courtyard, with the garden hose. People washed their dogs there all the time. And my shampoo was considerably less toxic than flea dip.
Tucked into the back of the mailbox was a reminder about the rent. At least that was one thing I didn't need to worry about. Lenny knew I was good for it. How much longer I'd be able to pay the rent though..
. That thought made me queasy.
Suddenly, a wave of panic hit my stomach and clenched it hard. Forget crawling, gooseflesh positively raced across my arms. I struggled to breathe. Whatever was wrong, it all seemed to be coming from the direction of my apartment.
I dropped my mail into the grocery bag and peeked around the corner of the mail stand. Behind the screen door, my front door was wide open.
Shit! I ducked back behind the mailboxes and fumbled through my purse for my cell phone.
I flipped open the phone and hit 9-1-1.
Busy.
I hung up and tried again.
Still busy.
Bloody hell. No wonder the crime rate was so high in Los Angeles. I didn't know what the non-emergency number was, so I decided to call my home phone and warn the intruder to clear out.
If I was lucky, it would just be a break-in. A simple case of anonymous robbery. I'd warn them that I was on my way home and they'd hit the road with their haul.
But as I punched in the first three digits, the phone beeped, the battery icon blinked and the screen went black.
Damn it. I shoved the phone back into my purse and took another look at my apartment. The living room lights had been turned on against the gathering dusk. But why would robbers turn on the lights? Didn't that negate the whole idea of stealth?
I crept closer. That's when I saw Mrs. Lasio, the new building manager, planted like a bull in my living room.
Great. Just freaking great. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn't it have been some whacked-out crack-head carting off my TV?
Mrs. Lasio was a heavyset, older Latina woman who always wore an ostentatious gold cross, which could double as a weapon. It was heavy enough to do serious damage if you whacked a mugger with it and no security person would ever dare confiscate it. And she was trouble from the minute she walked into the building courtyard. She made no secret of her feelings about me. After she met me, she added a blue and black eyeball-shaped amulet to her crucifix, as protection against the evil eye. But, other than that, she'd always left me alone. Until now.
I slammed open the screen door. "What are you doing in my apartment?!" I yelled, dropping the grocery bag on the carpeted floor. Then I winced when I remembered the eggs. Ye Gods, this was turning out to be a shitty birthday.
Mrs. Lasio was so mad spit flew out with every sentence. "Look at this devil shit. I warn Lenny about you," she said, making the sign of the cross. "Iesu Maria. Brujaria. Devil magic."
I looked around my living room. Third-hand furniture, wall-to-wall bookshelves and various dragon and gargoyle statues that I quite liked. Okay, so I was having a second childhood in my twenties and grooving on my bits of gothic statuary. Sue me.
But Mrs. Lasio was very pointedly looking at the alcove in the wall. It's where the built-in wet bar used to be, before I took a sledgehammer to the counter. Now it had been remade into an altar.
There was a chalice and athame (cup and knife, together they represented the union of male and female), a small cauldron, incense and candles laid out on top of it and a pentagram plaque on the wall (representing fire, earth, water, air and spirit).
Next to the sink, where most people kept their barware, I had a tribal skull, (made of resin), sandwiched between a statue of Hekate and a statue of Baphomet, with various tarot decks spread out in front of them.
Nothing too out of the ordinary for a young witch, but how was I going to explain it to someone as superstitious as my building manager?
"What are you talking about? It's not evil, it's Wicca. You know, Mrs. Lasio, like on TV? Charmed? Buffy? Witches of Eastwick? Good magic, white dresses, Goddess moons, blessings of the earth? Do you watch TV?"
She picked up my statue of Baphomet and waved it at me. "Is Satan."
"It's Baphomet." But with its wings, horns, half-human/half-goat appearance, I had to grant that maybe, just maybe, it gave a bad impression. Damn it. I was so screwed.
I took a deep breath and tried to explain. "Baphomet sits at the threshold between order and chaos, life and death, male and female. He's representative of the duality of the manifest universe and the cosmic unknown." He just looks kinda scary. Although I didn't say that last part out loud.
Mrs. Lasio snorted, unswayed by my speechifying. "You think I am stupid? I see this in Church. You worship el Diablo," she said and threw the statue across the room.
I almost had a heart attack, but Baphomet just bounced harmlessly on the couch cushions before settling to a stop.
"What is wrong with you? You break into my home and now you're throwing my things around? Screw this. I'm calling the cops. They can deal with you."
Mrs. Lasio scuttled to stand between me and the phone. "I smell something funny. Maybe your apartment on fire. Maybe you have drugs. I have to check before I call policia."
"And how many weeks did it take you to think that one up? Or did you have help?"
"I don't like you, bruja. You are hazard to building." Her eyes narrowed as she played her trump card. "I am Manager. And you... Evicted."
And that was how it all began. If I had known then, what I know now, I would have packed up every objectionable item the minute Mrs. Lasio moved in and I realized how narrow-minded and bigoted my new building manager was. After all, if witchcraft is in your blood, you don't need the accoutrements. They just make it easier to focus. But if you have to, you can craft stark naked, waving a toilet brush. At least, that's what my mom always said. To be honest, most of the witchy stuff was hers. I just liked them. While witchcraft was in my blood and I could cast some kick-ass spells if I had to, reading tarot cards was usually the extent of my witchy practices. Unlike my best friend Gus, who reveled in his witchiness. The only thing stopping him from tattooing a scarlet W on his forehead, is that it would clash with his wardrobe. But more on him, later.
"Evicted?!" I sat down on the couch before my knees gave out. "You can't do this. I've lived here for ten years," I whispered. Even after my dad died, I moved into a smaller apartment, but I still stayed in the building. Most people my age were saving to buy their first house but I loved my apartment.
We had rented it, sight unseen, from Chicago. The minute I saw the ad, I just knew it was the one. I could feel it in the way the blood rushed to my head and my skin tingled. And sure enough, when we pulled up in the moving van, I had immediately fallen in love with its 1970's-style architecture, triangular arches and quaint little pool with seahorse imprints.
It was my bit of retro-paradise in the middle of hot, smoggy Los Angeles. How was I supposed to just give it up?
The image of the Tower card kept flashing in my mind. Chaos and destruction.
"My soul is going to heaven. Is not going to hell. You take your devil garbage and get out." Mrs. Lasio crossed herself again. "I have priest come bless this building."
"There's no way Lenny will let you do this to me." Lenny was our neighbor when we moved in, but then he won a chunk of money on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire and bought the building. Other than my dad, I'd known him longer than anyone.
"He saved, bruja. I take Lenny to church with me and Jesus find him. He not under your spell no more."
That must be why I was suddenly in her sights. I inwardly cursed the fact that I was on a month-to-month lease instead of a yearly contract. But Lenny was as commitment-phobic in his business contracts as he was in his relationships.
"Great. Good. Fabulous. Maybe Jesus will defend the two of you in court when I sue your ass. Ever hear of religious persecution, Mrs. Lasio? The ACLU will hang you from a flagpole."
Mrs. Lasio crossed her arms, the fingers of her left hand tapping her flabby upper arm. "You are like little dog with big words. Yap, yap, yap." She glared at me. "You no pay rent, you get out. You evicted."
"That's ridiculous! Lenny knows I always pay my rent. He's never gotten it later than the fifteenth."
"Too bad for you, rent is due on first. My nephew is lawyer." She slapped an eviction notice on the coffee table in front of
me. "You get out by end of month. No funny business, or I keep security deposit. I am watching you, bruja."
And with that, she left, slamming the door behind her. I thought about throwing a curse at her, but it wasn't worth the coin. Few things were. Dumb karma. Dumb threefold law. Dumb me for not paying the rent sooner.
Like I said, I should have known better. Mrs. Lasio was more religious than most priests I'd met, taking fanatical to a whole new level. Every Easter, she hosted a "Passion of the Christ" movie night and then paraded around the block with her friends, holding mock crosses on their back, wailing at the top of their lungs and flicking holy water at anyone who had the misfortune of being on the sidewalk. I should have realized that she'd never tolerate a witch living in her building. I should have known she'd jump at the first chance to get rid of me. But I just hadn't been paying attention.
I paced around the apartment. Two weeks? How was I going to find a new place to live in two weeks?! I studied the eviction notice again. It certainly looked official. Could Mrs. Lasio have done this on her own? Without Lenny knowing about it?
I read down the page. Nope. There was Lenny's signature, in his neat, careful penmanship. It was official. I tore the notice into thirds and tossed it on the coffee table. So much for him considering me to be family.
I picked Baphomet up off the couch, before I accidentally sat on him. He wasn't that bad. Almost attractive. In a demonic sort of way.
"What's wrong with people nowadays?" I asked him. "The Knights Templar worshipped you for ages. They were Christians. Well, okay, so maybe they were heretical, but still..."
The phone rang. I tried my best to ignore it as I carefully positioned Baphomet back on the altar.
"Not that I'm not a social person," I told Baphomet, "but how much humanity should anyone have to suffer in any given day?"
Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead (Toad Witch Series, Book One) Page 1