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

by Christiana Miller

  "More's the pity."

  I wasn't quite sure about the care and feeding of a trapped spirit, so I thought I'd ask Tillie if she needed anything. "So, are you good?"

  "By good, do you mean trapped? Unable to affect you? Imprisoned and bored? Astounded by your na•vetŽ? Wishing I had pushed you a little harder? Or aimed the garden shears higher? Then yes, I'm good."

  "Every time I get sucked into caring about you, Aunt Tillie, you find a way to set me straight. Thanks."

  That night, I dreamt of Lisette. She was in a cemetery, humming to herself, weeding. She stopped and sniffed the air, as if she could smell a shift in the winds.

  She looked around, searching.

  Then she locked eyes with me.

  "Help me," she whispered.

  I sat up with a gasp. The dream had been so vivid. It left me with a burning desire to find out more about my ancestral twin.

  I wondered how aware Aunt Tillie was of my actions and thoughts while I had her trapped. Could she sense me all the time? Or just when I was physically near her?

  And, most importantly, how she was going to react if she caught me researching Lisette? She may not be able to throw me down staircases anymore, but Aunt Tillie still seemed to be holding onto her Olympic gold medal in nagging.

  It was too late to go back to bed and too early to wake up. So I went down to the kitchen, made a pot of extra-strong coffee and hopped on the internet to research Lisette McDougal. Just to be on the safe side, I worked in the kitchen, away from Aunt Tillie's vase and her radius of movement. But all I pulled up were ads for professional finding services.

  Once morning officially hit, I drove over to the local newspaper office. An impossibly-young intern led me to their archives. It was like a mini-library with multiple computer terminals and three microfiche machines, minus books. I mean, there were a few books visible on the counter, but they were mostly directories and atlases. On the other side of the counter, an older woman in brown polyester pants and a fall-motif sweater, presided over a large scanner, a fax and a photocopy machine.

  She was having a slow day, so she showed me how to work their archaic DOS-based computer archives and their microfiche machine. But after hours of trying every search string I could think of and scanning through years of Halloween issues, (after all, what better day for an article to appear on the town's infamous witch house?), I still hadn't found anything useful.

  After I left the newspaper building, I went over to the main library building on Vermont and Cherry Ave. I knew it was probably a long shot, and sure enough, I didn't find anything in their archives either. Although that didn't surprise me. But it sure made me wish I could turn back time to when the town's written history actually went back to accounts of the first settlers in the area.

  On my way home, I dropped in on Daniel Roake at the nursing home. But he couldn't recall anything more than what he had already told me. Although I had to laugh when he told the head nurse that I was his new girlfriend.

  "You know what they say," I told her. "One hundred is the new sixty."

  "Va-va-va-voom." Daniel said.

  She scurried away, looking scandalized and he, very gentlemanly-like, kissed the back of my hand. "If I was ten years younger," he said.

  "I'd probably be too old for you," I laughed.

  He winked. "Stop by anytime, sugar. We're having a boxing competition this weekend. I'm the resident champ."

  "Seriously?" I couldn't even imagine it. "You old people are tough."

  "You better believe it." He laughed. "It's that Wii," he explained. "I thought all you young hep cats were hip to the Wii."

  Wii boxing. That made more sense. Too little sleep must have been making my brain fuzzy.

  "And my grandson should be back by then," he said, teasing me. Sly old fox.

  "Back?" I tried to sound nonchalant. "Where did he go?"

  "New York. He's a hotshot writer now. Runs in the family, you know."

  I laughed and promised to visit him again soon. When I left, he was watching re-runs of The Golden Girls on the communal TV.

  Later that night, I called Gus. "What's up, girlfriend?"

  I explained the situation to him and all he did was laugh at me. "You're the witch. You want to know about someone who's dead, ask her directly."

  "And I'm supposed to do that how, exactly?"

  "Don't make me spell it out for you. S-e-a-n-c-e? Sabbatic dreaming? Astral projection? Mean anything? The ways to contact the dead are only limited by your imagination."

  "That's the problem. I'm too close. I don't know if I'll be able to separate fantasy from reality. Besides, I've been up since four. I'm exhausted."

  "That's the best time to try to contact the other side. Did you ever open that present I gave you?"

  "What present?" I cast my mind back to the last time I had seen him. He had given me Grundleshanks and then... Wait, there had been a small box...

  "Find it. Open it. Use it. Then you can sing my praises." And with that, he hung up.

  So I went looking through my things until I found it. Inside the box was a small jar of homemade flying ointment. I checked out the ingredients label. Belladonna, mugwort, wolfsbane, datura, magic mushroom tincture and toad secretions. There was also a warning to apply the ointment sparingly.

  I was really skeptical about taking this any further. I love Gus to pieces but he's insane when it comes to mixing up alchemical goo. I'm perpetually amazed he hasn't poisoned himself. And now he wanted me to try his latest concoction?

  I pulled a quarter out of my jeans pocket. "Heads, I try it. Tails, I go to bed."

  Heads. Damn. I put up a protective circle, sat on the floor and applied the flying ointment to the inside of my wrist. Sparingly. Very, very sparingly. Knowing Gus, this was going to be potent stuff and I didn't have a designated driver.

  When I came to, the sun was dawning. Well, that had been a waste of time. All I had seen was vivid colors -- red, silver and green -- flying at me from all directions. A vortex in space opening up. Voices talking so fast, they were impossible to make out. Everything was fast. Fast, fast, fast. And then Lisette, standing in a room, in front of a stone altar, her hand on a skull.

  It was the same room I'd seen in my dreams, back in Los Angeles. But what did that mean? What did that have to do with me? And why was Tillie so dead set (no pun intended) against Lisette and I connecting?

  I stood up, wincing. My legs were cramped, every muscle hurt, and my feet, hands and butt were numb. I hopped around, shaking my hands and feet as the pins-and-needles pain hit. It felt like they were on fire. Ugh. I hated this part.

  As soon as I could move without pain, I went out for a walk to let the early morning air clear my head. The sky was just beginning to lighten. Normally, it would be showcasing the rising sun's artistry. But today, the sky was awash in a uniformly flat color, tinged with the promise of rain, and a low-lying fog hovered over the dew-soaked ground. A lone bird trilled its morning aria, only to cut off its song mid-note.

  As I walked around, I noticed a well-worn path, leading deep into the woods. And, because I never seem to be able to leave anything alone, I followed it.

  It led me to the old-fashioned family cemetery I'd been dreaming/hallucinating about. So it actually did exist. The place was just starting to fall to neglect. Some of the fence planks had rotted through and random plant life was beginning to encroach on everything. Aunt Tillie must have tended to the cemetery, until she became one of its residents. Willows, yews, poplars, oaks, apple and cherry trees stood guard over the tombstones, like ghostly sentries shrouded in mist.

  I pulled my jacket tighter around me and walked among the old-fashioned tombstones, reading the inscriptions. It seemed to be my entire family, on my mom's side. Gus was going to be green with envy. An old family homestead, replete with ghosts and a private, family cemetery, was his idea of a dream come true.

  In the center of the cemetery, a broken granite angel watched over a riotous overflow of roses
. At first, I thought it was just a sculpture, but it was actually an elaborate tombstone. It was the oldest grave here, and it was where I had seen Lisette in my dream.

  Here lies a promising witch -- too promising for her own good. 1650 -- 1677.

  It had to be Lisette's grave. Damn, she was young when she died. Only twenty-seven.

  The age I am now.

  A shiver crawled up my spine.

  A raven cawed and landed on one of the tall, standing tombstones.

  In the silence that followed, I heard someone say, "You overestimate your talent, witch. And your importance. It will be your undoing."

  I whirled around, trying to find the voice, but I was alone. Had I actually heard that with my ears? Or had it been my imagination? Was it meant for me? Or was it an echo from the past? Something someone once told Lisette?

  I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. I whirled back to Lisette's tomb, but there was no one there.

  I rubbed my eyes and looked again, opening up my mind's eye and activating whatever second sight I possessed. Next to each grave, the fog swirled and started forming human shapes. Was this real? Or was Gus's ointment screwing with my head?

  I blinked, but the shapes were still there. I slowly backed away, as one of the shapes beckoned me to come closer.

  Instead, as soon as I got to the gate, I turned and ran.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  After I got home, I took a long, hot shower and scrubbed my wrist about six times, to make sure I got all of Gus's flying ointment off my skin. I was too wired to sleep so, once the sun was up and the morning fog had lifted, I decided to tackle the godawful mess in the cellar.

  With sunlight streaming in through the small cellar windows, it didn't seem as scary of a place. Most importantly, with Aunt Tillie trapped, I didn't have to worry about a flying shovel whacking me in the head when my back was turned. Which ratcheted the fear level way down.

  It took hours to sweep up all the glass and broken decorations, replace the lights, clean the blood stains from where the garden shears impaled my leg, and pick up equipment and various odds-and-ends that were strewn everywhere. Aunt Tillie's little poltergeist-y tantrum had certainly been effective. Even the large, metal shelving unit in the back of the cellar had been knocked over.

  I tried to prop the shelving unit back up, but it fell backwards and hit the wall, making a hollow thud. Hollow? I picked up a hammer and tapped the wall. It sounded hollow. I tapped on the East wall. That sounded solid. So I returned to the North wall and tapped it again. Definitely hollow.

  I rooted through Tillie's tools until I found a sledgehammer. As I was about to smash through the wall, I remembered the rowan tree out front and hesitated. Obviously, wanton destruction would have to be my last choice.

  There had to be a way to get behind that wall. I pounded and knocked and prodded, but I couldn't find an opening. I hefted the sledgehammer again. Did I dare risk it? But just as I drew my arms back for a swing, I saw something silver flash between the wall slats. I dropped the sledgehammer and took a closer look. It was a type of lock. I was going to need something long, thin and narrow.

  I ran upstairs, grabbed a letter opener from Aunt Tillie's desk, and went back into the cellar to try to jimmy the lock. The letter opener went partway in and stopped. I jiggled it back and forth, but it didn't release the lock. I took a barrette out of my hair and inserted that into the lock. I closed my eyes and tried to feel where the pins were, but it was hopeless. Lock-picking was in Gus's wheelhouse, not mine.

  Somewhere, there was a key that fit that lock. But where?

  I ran back upstairs and searched Aunt Tillie's desk, pulling out all the random keys she had stashed in there. I tried them all, even the safe deposit box key, but nothing worked.

  After I did the grocery shopping, I hit the bank. It was an old wooden building and, like the rest of the town, looked like it had been built in the nineteenth century. When I walked in, it seemed everyone knew everyone else. Which was no surprise, since it was the only bank in town.

  The teller, Michelle, was super-sweet and chatty. "So, you're living at the witch house?"

  "That's what I hear."

  "Poor Tillie. That's a crime what happened to her. A real crime. She was real old though. Should never have been driving. Especially without her glasses. But she hated wearing them, so she forgot them whenever she could. Old people. I swear they need someone to parent them."

  I wondered what 'real old' meant to a barely-legal teller. "You seem to know more about my Aunt Tillie than I do."

  "Well, that's the downside of a small town. We all live in each other's pockets. And everyone loved Tillie, on account of her bein' so sweet and all."

  I snorted and quickly covered it with a cough. Seemed like my lethal, posthumous Aunt Tillie was very different from the Tillie everyone else remembered. Death must have made her personality take a turn for the worse. "Did Aunt Tillie have an account here?"

  "All her accounts transferred to her trust after her death."

  "Yeah, I've got the trust info," I said. "I was just wondering if she had a safe-deposit box."

  "Hold on, let me check." She left and came back a few minutes later. "You're right. She rented a safe-deposit box right before she died."

  My ears perked up and a soft wind whispered in my head. There was something in that box that I needed to see. I could feel it. "Can I see it?"

  "We need you to bring in a copy of the Death Certificate and the Will."

  "Seriously? I have to prove that she's dead and I'm her beneficiary? I bet this whole town could recite the details of her Last Will and Testament by memory."

  She smiled. "You have a point. I guess we could waive the rules. Just don't tell Mr. Harding."

  "Mr. Harding?"

  "He's my new boss. He's a stickler for rules. Even when they're stupid." She looked around, presumably for Mr. Harding. "Follow me," she said, ushering me down a set of stairs and into the vault. "Do you have her key?"

  I pulled the key out of my pocket and held it up.

  Within minutes, I was ensconced in a small, private room, sorting through Aunt Tillie's safe deposit box. Birth certificate, property deed, some pictures of Aunt Tillie, there were even a few of my mom, holding me when I was a baby.

  I flipped through the pictures. Wow, my mom had been young when I was born. I studied her face, looking at the similarities between us. I had her eyes. And her jaw. And her hair. That must have been hell on my dad. A visual reminder of the woman he lost, every time he looked at me. Although, what surprised me most was that I looked more like Lisette than I looked like my own mom.

  Under the pictures was an unusual-looking pendant. It was a pentacle, with most of the pentagram inside an ouroboris serpent, (a snake eating its tail), and where one of the pentagram arms jutted out of the serpent, it turned into a long stem, topped by an infinity symbol. I couldn't imagine anyone wearing it. It looked more like a key than a pendant for a necklace.

  A key. This had to be it. I pocketed the pentacle key and the pictures of my mom, and returned the box to the teller.

  When I returned home, Tillie shimmered and formed in front of me. She was bigger than usual and her anger was palpable. "You have to stop."

  "Really, I don't have to do anything." I held up the pentacle key. "I want to see what's behind that wall."

  Tillie's flesh dripped off so that all I saw in front of me was a rotting, worm-eaten corpse.

  "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Aunt Tillie, but I can take care of myself. You're not going to scare me off with some sideshow theatrics. So get back in your vase."

  I really liked the new set-up, with Aunt Tillie being around, but not being able to physically hurt me anymore. I should have done that power-over ritual when I first arrived, instead of waiting until she almost killed me, to toss her in a brass bud vase.

  I walked through her and towards the kitchen. It was kinda weird seeing my body go through Aunt Tillie's, but I wasn't
about to let her see me get squeamish.

  She stood there, looking martyred and annoyed. "Then meet your fate, you arrogant girl."

  She returned to her vase in a cloud of ectoplasm and I headed for the cellar.

  Even though it would be dark soon, and going in the cellar at night was not something I really wanted to do, I was obsessed with finding out what was behind the wall. So I turned on all the cellar lights, located the hidden lock on the wall, and then slipped the key in.

  The lock clicked and released, and a hidden door swung open. Behind the door were stairs that led down into black pit. A cold, malevolent breeze raced up from its depths.

  Gooseflesh rippled across my skin and I felt my pineal gland kick into overdrive.

  I took a camping lantern from the tool table, turned it on and slowly crept down the stairs, one hand on the light, the other hand on the wall.

  It was a small stone room, cold as a cave, with a stone altar in the center of it. It was the room I had been dreaming about for months. This must have been Lisette's temple space.

  I walked in and cast feelers around the room. I could sense vibrations of violence and tragedy. Something epic must have happened, to have imprinted itself on the space for so long. I placed the lantern on the altar. It didn't give off a lot of light, but it was better than nothing.

  I tried to open up my sight to the past, but I didn't get anything. I needed to find a way to go back in time. Gus's flying potion hadn't really worked for me before. But what were my options?

  An image of Grundleshanks flashed across my mind's eye. Sometimes, you have to kiss a lot of toads...

  I ran upstairs, got Grundleshanks's tank, brought it down into the hidden room, and placed it on the altar. Then I drew a circle of protection around us with my trusty blackthorn staff and called on the Gods in all directions to keep us safe.

  I reached in the tank and picked up Grundleshanks. For a long minute, I felt paralyzed by doubt. Did I really want to do this? I could already feel the effects of the toxins from his skin, traveling up my arm.