Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead (Toad Witch Series, Book One)

by Christiana Miller

  After a few rings, the answering machine kicked in and a sexy male voice came on the line. "I know you're there, bitch. Pick up the phone."

  I rolled my eyes. Sure enough. Only Gus could make "bitch" sound like a pet name. I picked up the receiver. "I hate when you do that."

  He laughed. Gus was my best friend and chosen family. He was like the brother I never had. We were each other's standing date and occasional wingman. He was also one of the few self-proclaimed witches I'd met with real ability. His 'sight' was annoyingly spot-on and he could be pushy as hell. Other than our shared sense of humor and our shared love of men, we were total opposites.

  I was your typical, pale, Scottish-American with a fondness for jeans and tee-shirts. Gus, on the other hand, was an eccentric Greek-American Celtophile. With a flair for the unfashionable. Seriously. His wardrobe was like Pirates of the Caribbean meets The Craft. Long, flowing shirts, blousy pants and gnarly Celtic man-jewelry. And yet, somehow, he was able to pull it off without looking like a stowaway from a Disney flick.

  "So? Don't keep me in suspense. What happened?" Gus asked. "I could hear you screaming all the way in West Hollywood."

  "Hold up, let me get the headset on." As soon as my hands were free, I walked into the kitchen and started putting groceries away. Yay, most of the eggs were still intact.

  "Out with it. Tell Gus what's wrong."

  I sighed, dropping the gooey broken eggs into the garbage. "My unemployment's about to run out, I can't find work and I've just been evicted. Oh, and I'm spending another birthday -- that everyone forgot, hello -- alone. Other than that, I'm fine."

  "So you've had a full day."

  "Fuck off." Bastard. I could hear him trying not to laugh. "I'm so glad my misfortune amuses you."

  "I didn't forget your birthday, I'm planning a surprise."

  "That's what you said last year." I finished putting away the fridge food and started on the dry goods. "But you get points for consistency."

  "You are in a foul mood. Why don't you tell Lasio you've lost your way and you're ready to be saved? She'll be all over that."

  "Because that would be lying. And lying is wrong. Didn't your parents ever teach you that? Or were you raised by wolves?"

  I expected Gus to make some kind of smart-ass remark, but all I heard was... silence.

  "She thinks I should move into your sardine tin with you," I added, still waiting for a reaction.

  All I heard were some odd thumps and quiet breathing.

  I made a face at the telephone. "I'm sorry, is my life falling apart boring you?"

  "Hush. I'm trying to catch Lord Grundleshanks eating. There's a cricket marching on his damn head and he's about to... stay oblivious. Damn it, Grundleshanks."

  I rolled my eyes. What was it about boys and distractions? Were single-track minds were a male genetic marker?

  "Whatever. Call me when you break up with the toad." I said, hanging up.

  I searched through the fridge until I found what I was looking for -- my secret stash of brandy-filled, bean-shaped chocolates from Trader Joes. I opened the box to find one, single, solitary, lonely little bean nestled in the corner. Figures. I should have known. It's just the way my luck's been going lately.

  I sighed, bit into the little teeny bitty chocolate and brandy confection and tossed the box in the trash. Then I pulled the tarot deck out of my purse. It was a Thoth deck and normally, I like using it because it was loud, unequivocal and unambiguous in its messages. Although sometimes, it could be way too blunt.

  I shuffled the cards within an inch of their lives and re-pulled three cards for the upcoming year.

  The order was different, but the cards were the same.

  Three of Swords, Tower, Death.

  Son of a bitch.

  Chapter Two

  Later that night, I was whipping up a bowl of frosting when I heard a scratching sound at the door and the door knob turned.

  I grabbed a knife from the butcher block. The only way in or out of my apartment was the front door. So if someone was breaking in, one of us was gonna be screwed. And it wasn't going to be me.

  The door swung open...

  I clutched the knife harder...

  It was Gus.

  "Damn it." I swore, as I put away the knife. "Haven't you ever heard of a doorbell? Or privacy? You just shaved five years off my life."

  Gus once told me had learned how to pick locks on the internet. Personally, I suspected he had spent a previous life as a cat burglar.

  "I tried your doorbell. Didn't work," he said.

  "What about knocking? What if I was having sex on the living room floor?"

  "I'd wonder if the Jurassic age had returned."

  "Ha. Funny. Very funny. Fuck off and go bug somebody else."

  "Be nice to me. I come bearing good news."

  I looked at him suspiciously. He looked good, he smelled even better -- Gus blended his own essential oils and he was wearing an amber / patchouli mix that was warm, sexy and incredible.

  "You found a new boyfriend and you're on your way out to Bordello?!" Bordello was the hot, new nightclub in downtown L.A. It had live Blues bands and Gus and I were both dying to try it out.

  "Oh, ye of little faith. Would I come over here just to rub my water wealth in the face of a woman who lives in the desert?"

  I rolled my eyes and returned to frosting the double-fudge kahlua cake I had cooling on the rack. When some people get depressed, they can't eat. When I get depressed, I bake. It's why my clothes never quite fit. Good thing I don't get depressed too often, or I'd look like Jabba the Hut.

  "If you're on your own tonight, sit down and pull up a plate. I baked it myself."

  Gus arched an eyebrow over at my trash can. "Since when does a box mix count as baking?"

  "Hey, I put in additional ingredients. It doesn't come with kahlua in the mix, y'know."

  He picked up the box and checked it out. "Partially hydrogenated vegetable oil. You have any idea how bad this is for you?"

  I shrugged. "More for me, then. I didn't want to share, anyway."

  "Eating yourself into a coma is such a chick thing."

  "I am a chick."

  "With those hips? Who could miss it?"

  "Jackass. Just for that, I'm wishing myself a new best friend." I carefully finished sticking the candles in the cake, making a big smiley face with them. Birthday cakes just don't taste the same without candles.

  Gus turned off the lights and I carried the platter out to the dining room table as he sang, "Happy Birthday to you."

  I made a wish for more time, just in case the cards were right, and took a deep breath.

  Some people may think it's silly, but the whole ritual of birthday wishes has always seemed to me to be a simplified form of spellcrafting. You send your wish to the Gods, by using your breath to blow the flames, (and your wish), from the manifest world to the unmanifest world. Hoping that your wish will be granted and return to you in manifest form.

  With the way my life was going, I needed all the help I could get. So I wished and blew those candles out as hard as I could. To my relief, I got all the candles out in one breath.

  Gus turned the lights back on. "You want to tell me what that was about? There was a little bit more oomph to that, than your standard birthday wish."

  "If I tell you, it won't come true."

  He sighed. "You gotta think positive, Mara."

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "That's easy for you to say. You have a job."

  "Think of unemployment as being the Gods' way of putting you on a new career path."

  "Really?" I pulled out the candles and cut the cake into slices. "Because panhandler doesn't seem like much of a career path to me. Go figure."

  "It's all about attitude, my little magic mushroom. Change your attitude, change your life. Embrace what the future brings you. You should be dancing on your coffee table, giddy with the possibilities."

  "When did you turn into a gay Oprah?" I said, slidin
g an extra-large piece of cake onto my plate.

  "Bite your forked tongue, woman."

  "There are days when I wonder why we ever became friends."

  "Because I bring 'fab-u-lous' into your monochromatic life. Now, hush up and prepare to be thrilled." Gus smiled, inordinately pleased with himself. "You, Mara Stephens, are about to embark on a new career. Courtesy of moi."

  I stopped with a bite of cake halfway to my mouth. This wasn't going to be good. I could just feel it.

  He waved his arms like he could see the billboard above the Hollywood freeway. "Mara Stephens, Fortune-Teller to the Stars. And it starts tomorrow."

  "Seriously?" I had made the mistake of reading Gus's cards once. He thought I was spookily good. So he's made it his life's mission to make me regret it ever since. Although he calls it getting me to embrace my abilities. "Tell me you're joking. I am so not on speaking terms with my tarot cards at the moment."

  "Mmmm. Let me see... Yup, pretty sure I don't care. Whatever happened, apologize to the cards and get over it." He leaned forward and pinched my waist. "Now, assuming it still fits over your self-indulgent rolls, get your best witchy outfit together. The fate of a ninth grade class depends on you!"

  "Are you out of your mind?" I slapped his hands away from my love handles. "I am not going to play Witchy-Poo to the post-toddler set. Besides, I'm busy tomorrow. I have to track down my weasel-y little landlord and throttle him."

  "It pays two hundred and fifty dollars for three hours work."

  "Why didn't you start with that? My schedule just cleared."

  "That's my girl." He winked at me, smug in victory. "Do your best not to scar them for life and everything will be fine. Tomorrow, you conquer the ninth grade. Next week, Dame Fate is ours for the taking."

  I laughed and rolled my eyes. Gus lit a cigarette and took a drag. He was perpetually trying to quit, but he had the self-control of an infant. I took the cigarette away and ran it under cold water as he started hacking up a lung.

  "Talk to me about conquering Dame Fate after you conquer your disgusting nicotine addiction. I thought you were quitting."

  "Something's got to kill me. Without my vices, I could live forever and that would really fuck up the natural order of the universe." He gave me a wicked grin, kissed me on the cheek and wafted out in a nicotine cloud.

  That night, I tossed and turned, lost in a nightmare world that felt eerily familiar.

  I ran through the woods, driven by a sense of imminent doom that was so strong, it pulsated through the air. Branches tore at my ankle-length skirt. I struggled to breathe against the confines of my bodice, but I couldn't slow down.

  Driven by a sense of urgency that I didn't understand, I increased my speed, until I burst out of the woods and into a clearing, next to a small, stone cottage. I forced open the heavy oak door and ran in, panicked.

  Blood seeped through the walls, running down in rivulets, pooling on the dirt floor. Blood streamed over my booted feet, soaking my skirt. A rising tide of blood filled the room, the iron smell overpowering.

  I turned to run out, but the door was blocked by a large, tattooed man, holding a knife.

  He plunged the knife into my stomach and twisted it. The pain was unbearable, the sheer burning as the blade cut through muscle, tissue and organs.

  I gasped as he slowly pulled the knife out.

  On the point of the blade was the bloody, mutilated head of a newborn, its mouth open in a silent cry.

  The baby's eyes snapped open...

  A burning red, a fiery window into hell...

  I felt myself falling into the flaming abyss...

  I bolted upright, sweating, breathing hard. It was 4:00 a.m. and I was freezing cold. I know Los Angeles is technically a desert climate, so the night can be a lot colder than the day, but this was ridiculous. I jumped out of bed to get a winter blanket.

  I shuffle-ran down the hall to the linen closet, shivering. If it got any colder, it was going to snow inside my apartment.

  I snatched a fleece blanket out of the linen closet and wrapped it around me. But as I was about to go back to bed, I noticed a light on in the living room.

  I held my breath and listened.

  Male voices. At least two of them. And neither one sounded like Gus.

  What the hell was going on? I thought about calling the cops, but both my cell phone and my landline was in the living room. And, unlike apartments in Chicago, there was no back door for me to sneak out of.

  I toyed with the idea of the bedroom window, but the screens were screwed in so you couldn't open them. And the toolbox with the screwdriver was under the kitchen sink. Crap.

  I took another deep breath and held it, straining to hear what the voices were saying.

  It sounded like John Travolta saying "Look at me." Did I go to bed and leave the TV on?

  On the bottom shelf of the linen cabinet, next to the kitchen towels, was my Mag-Lite flashlight. I picked it up and hefted the weight. Sturdy. Oh, yeah, that would hurt an intruder. On a good day, it might even deflect bullets.

  I held it like a club and crept down the darkened hallway, my heart in my throat, and carefully opened the door between the back hallway and the living room.

  There was a guy sitting on my couch, smoking a cigarette and watching Get Shorty.

  I lowered the Mag-Lite. "Gus?"

  He turned toward me.

  Not Gus.

  Not even close.

  Chapter Three

  "Dad?" I gaped at him. He looked like he was in his twenties, with a full head of blond hair, instead of the graying strands he had when he died. This wasn't the first time I had seen a ghost, but it was the first time I'd seen one so up close and manifest. Like he was really sitting there.

  "Hi, pumpkin." He lowered the volume on the TV. "I've been waiting for you."

  I set the Mag-Lite on the coffee table and sat down in the chair next to the couch. "You look all... Rebel Without A Cause-ish."

  "Yeah. One of the perks of being dead. You're not limited by time." He exhaled, sending smoke up in a cloud. "I can be whatever age I want."

  "And you smoke?!"

  "I did when I was younger. I gave it up when you were born. What's it gonna do now, kill me?" He laughed and leaned back, relaxing against the couch. "We don't have a lot of time. You officially turn twenty-seven in," he looked at my clock, "three hours and twenty-one minutes."

  "You came here to wish me a happy birthday?"

  "No, I came to warn you."

  Great. Fabulous. Figures. It probably had to do with the crappy tarot cards I pulled today. I pressed my fists against my temples, but his voice went on.

  "I tried to get here sooner, but it's tough to time appearances from a dimension where time doesn't exists. Do you remember your mom?"

  I rubbed my forehead. My head was starting to throb. "She took off when I was a kid. How much am I supposed to remember?"

  "She didn't take off, she left to protect you."

  "Tomato, tomahto."

  "You remember how hard we looked for her?"

  Yeah. I remembered. We had spent most of my life searching for her.

  "I never told you this, but I tracked her down at Aunt Tillie's house. I begged her to come back home, but she was afraid. She said she was cursed. And whatever was coming for her, she didn't want it to touch you, or even know you existed. Three days later, on her twenty-seventh birthday, she vanished."

  I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

  "You need to lay low. Stay off the Otherworld grid. You can use your sight to stay alert for danger, but other than that, stay in the shadows. I won't be able to help you, without drawing attention to you. You'll be on your own." He reached over, patted my hand, and started to fade.

  "Dad! Wait! Come back!"

  But he was gone.

  I picked up the remote control and turned off the TV, but the sudden stillness creeped me out. So I turned it back on and snuggled into my blanket.

  What did he m
ean, she was cursed? It sounded like something that was handed down from generation to generation and I was woefully under-informed about it. I wished he had stayed longer. Although, to be honest, I was surprised he made it back to this side of the veil at all. My dad's a normal human being. Not like my mom.

  As I thought about my parents, I remembered all those times when I was little, snuggling into my dad's arms as he watched TV and I fell asleep.

  When I woke up, I was in my bed. I got up and went to the hall closet. My fleece blanket was still folded up, on the top shelf. The Mag-Lite was still in its place. It was as if last night had never happened. Maybe it hadn't been a ghostly visitation at all. Maybe it had just been a dream.

  I sighed. So it was going to be like that. One of the reasons I hated dealing with ghosts, is that they always screwed with my sense of reality. They had the ability to make dreams seem real and reality seem surreal.

  I walked into the living room and turned on the TV. SoapNet. Not exactly a channel that would air Get Shorty. And then I noticed the time.

  Damn, damn, damn. I was going to be late. I took the fastest shower known to womankind, then ran around my apartment like a demented wind hag, throwing everything I could possibly need into a box.

  Gus's big job opportunity was this afternoon and I still needed to meet with Lenny before I drove over the hill.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was sipping a chai latte at Aroma, the local coffee shop/bookstore, waiting for Lenny. An hour later, I was on my second over-priced latte, paging through a book I couldn't focus on.

  I looked up at the clock. Then I looked at my watch, but it gave me the same time. I was starting to feel like an unwitting character in a never-ending Beckett play.

  Just as I was giving up, the elusive Godot swept into the shop. And "swept" was exactly the right word for it, with his white Panama hat and white alligator shoes. Perfectly groomed from stem to stern, wearing a pale yellow shirt and white linen pants, Lenny looked like a summer day in Florida. He smiled at me, but his eyes were twitchy.