How to Date Dead Guys (The Witch's Handbook Book 1)

by Ann M. Noser

  The Book’s pages fly back and forth until they settle on the same spell as before.

  “So this is how I talk to the dead?” I ask aloud, then stop short, and sigh. “Okay. Just this once.”

  Energy tickles up and down my arms. I clear my nightstand and set Jake’s picture on top. Around the photo, I form a pentagram out of flat river rocks and then a circle encompassing all five points. I line the Magic Circle with candles. My hands tremble as I light the wicks. The flames rise and warm my face.

  Heart racing, I try not to listen to the voice of doubt inside. What if this makes things worse? No, it will be fine. I can handle this.

  I kneel down, clear my mind, and focus on the candlelight.

  “Where is Jake? Is he all right? Does he ever think about me?”

  The flames grow and twist into an arch over his picture. Within the blaze, I see children running, green trees waving in the breeze, and the enormous teeth of a monstrous dog snapping closer and closer.

  I lean into the vision. I feel a breeze on my face and can smell springtime.

  BAM, BAM, BAM! My bedroom door shakes with the blows.

  My heart slams into my throat.

  As I scramble to my feet, the flames go out.

  “Hey, Emma, how about a late-night snack?” Steve calls from the hallway. “And how about you make it?”

  “Just a minute!” My heart spasms. What did the vision mean? That giant dog couldn’t possibly be real, could it?

  I remove the candles, put my alarm clock back on the bed table, and hide Jake’s picture in my backpack. I won’t be trying that again anytime soon.

  The next morning on my walk to campus, I spot Jake three times. Of course, none of these people are really him. But each time I feel a catch in my breath, a rush of heartbeats, and then…the shake of my head, realizing I’ve made a mistake.

  Maybe carrying his picture around in my backpack isn’t such a good idea, but I don’t want my roommates to find it instead.

  That night, I write on my whiteboard:

  “The frustration of asking ‘what if’ is never getting an answer.”

  ―Anonymous

  This time, Steve approves.

  riday afternoon after my last class, we pile into the chilly car to drive over to Bernard’s old house. Even Abby wants to help. I don’t know what Mike told her, but she acts quite gung-ho for our plan of giving a lonely widow comfort by getting her house spruced up for her return.

  When we get to Gretta’s house, Mike makes all the introductions. Apparently, Gretta is too hard of hearing to notice the voice change. Then we walk half a block down to Claire’s house.

  “Ber-nie!” Gretta calls out as she unlocks the door, and we follow her inside. She scoops the orange cat off the kitchen table and squeezes him until he yowls in protest.

  Bernard snorts.

  I elbow him, hoping Abby won’t notice.

  “Murowah!” The orange cat jumps down and circles his food dish.

  Gretta heaps food into his bowl.

  “Isn’t that an awful lot of food for just one cat?” I ask.

  “Nonsense, girl!” Gretta shuffles around the kitchen, refreshing Bernie’s water dish. “I’m so pleased you’re going to help me. With Bernard gone, Claire just doesn’t seem to pay attention to anything anymore.”

  I wince, wishing Bernard didn’t have to hear this.

  “She’s simply fading away, the poor girl,” Gretta clucks. “I myself have never been married. I told Claire that cats are great company. Although she is fond of this little guy, I don’t think he’s helped as much as I hoped he would.”

  Gretta pets Bernie while he eats. A loud purr of contentment fills the kitchen.

  “And, of course, naming him after her dead husband probably wasn’t the best idea.” Gretta catches my eye. “You see, Claire blames herself, as everyone does when they are witness to a tragedy.”

  I have the eerie feeling she’s talking about me instead of to me. I clear my throat. “How long has Claire been gone on this cruise?”

  “Almost a month,” Gretta replies. “She and her sister, Dorothy, went to Alaska. Why that aggravating sister of hers insisted on travelling on a cruise ship, instead of taking a comfortable bus, I’ll never know. Poor Claire, she’s always been so afraid of the water. I hope the poor dear isn’t terrified, envisioning the Titanic sinking every time her head touches the pillow at night.”

  “So you think her sister’s annoying, too?” I ask Gretta, then freeze at my mistake.

  “Yes,” Gretta prattles on without concern. “She insisted on informing me of how unhygienic cats were. She tried to get Claire to drop Bernie off at a shelter before they left on their trip, but Claire wouldn’t hear of it. Humpf!”

  Abby smiles at the old lady’s disgust. “Well, let’s do what we can to cheer your friend Claire up.” Then she leans over to me and whispers, “I don’t care much for my sister, either.”

  Gretta eyes the surroundings and shakes her head. The kitchen looks like a certified disaster area, even by my lax standards. “Poor Claire. After Bernard died, I used to come over every few days just to throw out the take-out dinners she left half-eaten on the counter.”

  Abby opens the refrigerator. “Oh boy.”

  Gretta peers inside. “Oh dear.”

  I leave the two of them tut-tutting over the state of the refrigerator to tackle the living room. I yank open shades, pull back curtains, and even fling open a few windows to get some fresh air back into the forgotten blue room. A collection of photos collects dust on the table in front of the window. Claire and Bernard smile from the frames, in different stages of their married life.

  I pick up one for closer inspection as Bernard enters the living room to whisper instructions in my ear.

  I interrupt him. “Just a minute, Bernard, I’ve totally got a crush on you now. You look just like Christopher Plummer in this picture.”

  “Don’t I know it! And don’t you dare get Gretta going on the subject, either. Trust me, you don’t want to hear a three-hour soliloquy about how The Sound of Music changed her life.”

  A hazy image of Gretta forms in my mind. She sits in the glow of her television, completely covered in cat hair, as reflections of Austrian children dance across her thick saucer eyewear.

  Bernard glances around the living room. “Could we buy some new mystery novels for Claire? She never could resist a fresh paperback.”

  “Only if you let me call you ‘Captain von Trapp’.”

  Bernard sighs. “Emma, please. Don’t torture me right now. My last memory of life on earth is of my wife reading a book on the beach.”

  “You drowned at Half Moon Beach, right?”

  “Yes, it’s not a big beach… Just a small offshoot of the river. There was only a lifeguard present on the weekend, but I liked to go during the week when nobody else was there.”

  “I thought Gretta said Claire was scared of the water.”

  “She is, but she enjoyed reading on the beach. Plus, Claire didn’t think it was safe for me to go swimming alone. Ironic, huh?”

  I nod.

  “I’d only been swimming a short time when a sharp pain shot from my chest into my arm. I tried calling out to Claire, but I couldn’t speak. The last thing I saw was a book blocking her face as I sank beneath the surface.”

  I wonder how long it took Claire to look up, and then how long it took her to register what had happened. I suddenly feel like we have something in common.

  Bernard’s voice brings me back to the present. “Then I found myself in the heavenly corridor. Fortunately, someone brought me some pants and a shirt. I would have felt a mite foolish standing around so long in just my faded, old swimsuit.”

  I pat his arm. “Poor Claire. I’d be happy to pick out some interesting books for her.”

  “Thanks,” Bernard says. “Well, the running toilet is calling my swan song. After that, I need to build a silverware drawer divider.”

  He leaves, and I dust the pia
no. Then I reorganize Claire’s sheet music, leaving only cheerful melodies within easy access. I wander back into the kitchen, chuckling at the cursing from the bathroom hallway. Those guys should zip it. Gretta might be deaf, but Abby isn’t.

  “My dears, you’re such a godsend!” Gretta claps her hands in delight.

  The kitchen smells like a pine forest.

  “Abby can reorganize a kitchen faster than anyone else on the planet!” Gretta trumpets.

  Abby grimaces, pointing toward two large black garbage bags. “I threw away a lot of expired food.”

  “Claire’s really having trouble dealing with her husband’s death, isn’t she?” I speak softly, hoping Bernard stays out of earshot.

  Gretta shakes her wrinkled head. “This used to be the prettiest yard on the street, but after poor Bernard’s death last summer, it went neglected. It looked like some renegade artist lived here. Claire didn’t even mow until the city came after her.”

  I frown. What am I going to tell Bernard?

  “Sometimes she’d go a full week without even changing her clothes,” Gretta whispers.

  Just then Bernie struts up, meowing.

  “You’re a big flirt, aren’t you, kitty?” Abby pets him. “You just want more food, don’t you? You little beggar.”

  “You mean he ate all the food you gave him already?” I ask, horrified.

  “He’s a growing boy,” Gretta insists.

  “Yeah, but if he keeps eating like that, he’ll be growing from side to side,” I say.

  “I know what that feels like, buddy, and you don’t want any part of it,” Abby gently scolds him.

  “Silly cat.” Gretta cackles. “He doesn’t like boys.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Have you seen him stalking that lovely Sam?” Gretta asks. “He’s been in and out of that bathroom, as if he thinks they’re hurting that toilet.”

  At that moment, Steve enters the kitchen, and Bernie sniffs him all over, suspicion in every tense hair.

  “I think Bernie would make a good cop,” I say.

  Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t say a word.

  “Well, I’d better take out the garbage.” I heft up the bags.

  Abby leans against the counter. “I’m feeling a little tired.”

  “Poor dear, you worked so hard.” Gretta pats her back. “Why don’t you take a wee nap on the couch while the rest of us finish cleaning up?”

  Soon “the guys” are done with the silverware drawer and the running toilet.

  “What’s left to do?” Mike asks, looking around.

  I peek into the bare cupboards and refrigerator. “Maybe we should we get Claire some groceries. Then she won’t have to go right when she gets home.”

  “I’m so pleased with all of you for trying to help me cheer up poor Claire.” Gretta bounces in her supportive footwear. “While you’re there, could get me some Fancy Feast? My cats love it―it’s like kitty cocaine.”

  “Sure.” I think that sounds rather racy of her, but hey, the woman did live through the seventies.

  “Thank you, dear. I’ll just finish tidying up while you’re gone. Toodle-loo!”

  We drop Abby off at the apartment building on our way to the grocery store.

  Once we are alone again, Bernard comes to the forefront. “Thanks, you guys. I really appreciate your help.”

  Inside the store, Bernard acts a little mad. Fortunately, the aisles are quiet for a Friday evening, so his sudden onset of dementia isn’t too conspicuous.

  “This place is dead!” Bernard releases an evil laugh. He stashes items in his cart as he cruises through the store, muttering, “Dorothy hates this,” or, “Dorothy hates that.”

  “You must really dislike her,” I comment.

  “You got that right!” Bernard winks. “Dorothy won’t eat anything generic. Dorothy hates maple frosting. Dorothy only drinks tea. Dorothy’s allergic to fresh flowers.”

  I shake my head as Bernard tosses a white carnation bouquet in the cart.

  After grocery shopping, we go back to Claire’s house. Gretta helps me put all the food away while Bernard tunes the piano.

  “How lovely!” Gretta places the flowers in a vase on the kitchen table. “Your friend Sam is so thoughtful.”

  “Yes, he is,” I say. If she only knew.

  he next afternoon, Bernard forces me to do yet another drive-by. When Claire isn’t home, Steve makes up a reason to talk to Gretta and discovers Claire’s flight has been delayed. We return home and pull into my parking spot.

  Right next to my mother’s crimson BMW.

  “What’s my mom doing here?” I gawk as she pops the trunk and steps out, dressed in high-heeled boots, large sunglasses, and a fashionable white leather coat. But it isn’t her fake leather ensemble that surprises me―I’ve seen it before.

  What floors me are the grocery bags crowding the back of the car.

  Stunned, I hurry over to her, nearly getting knocked down by Mike in his eagerness to carry all the bags inside.

  “You bought me groceries?” I manage to ask.

  “Hello, Jake!” Mom’s whitened teeth sparkle in the sun. “Of course, dear.”

  “But…” I watch Mike struggle with four to five bags hanging off each arm. “Why?”

  Mom falters. “Lots of mothers bring their college kids groceries to help out, now and then.”

  “Yeah, but…” I stop short, not wanting to hurt her feelings after such a gallant gesture. Instead, I smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Now, I want to see your apartment,” she announces, no doubt trying to hide her eagerness behind her giant, tinted eyewear.

  I knew it! She’s here to spy on me.

  I grab the rest of the groceries and head toward the building. Mom follows, carrying only her purse. I spot two college guys across the street stop what they’re doing to watch her strut-walk.

  I roll my eyes and lead the way upstairs.

  “Thank you for the groceries, Mrs. Roberts,” Mike says, as Mom and I enter the kitchen.

  “Of course! I even bought some of those Pop-Tarts you like so much.”

  “Awesome!”

  Shoot! He shouldn’t let on that he lives here. I shoot him a dirty look, and the two of us start putting all the bags of food away.

  “Thanks, Mom. This is great. I love light Oreo ice cream.” I look up smiling, but she’s no longer in the kitchen.

  “Hey, Mike,” I whisper. “Where’d she go?”

  He cringes. “I think she went in my room.”

  I stop smiling and dash after her. She stands in the middle of my dead friends’ bedroom.

  “Uh, Mom?”

  She swings around to face me, raising her hands in a defensive gesture. “I’m not searching for drugs this time.”

  “I swear, the strongest things I have around here are Aleve and ibuprofen.”

  Mom nods. “A girl’s best friend.”

  “They’d be even better if they were chocolate coated.”

  Mom only half listens, preoccupied with the contents of the room, including the open closet stuffed with jeans, white T-shirts, and gray sweatshirts.

  “Jake’s not a very adventurous dresser, is he?”

  I don’t know what to say. Is Mom going to freak out that I’m living with a guy?

  “Emma.” Mom pauses. “Do you sleep in here?”

  My stomach churns. Don’t tell me we’re going to have the sex talk again. “No, I have my own room. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  I lead her to the other bedroom, which seems to confuse her even more.

  After pretending to admire my choice of artwork and the purple comforter, Mom wanders back into the kitchen. Mike finished putting away the groceries and now flips channels on the TV with a fresh bag of chips on his lap.

  Then comes a knock on the door. Abby bursts in with a pink shirt on a hanger.

  “Oh, hello!” Her eyes light up. “Are you Mrs. Roberts? I recognize you from Emma’s pictures. I have to t
ell you that I think you’re so pretty!”

  Mom usually glows after such compliments, but coming in contact with a very pregnant college student five minutes after learning her only daughter has shacked up with a guy seems to unnerve her.

  “Uh, yes I am. But I must be going now.” She grabs her purse off the counter, a crazed look in her eyes.

  “You’re leaving already?” I ask, surprised at how disappointed I feel.

  Abby holds up a sequined V-neck shirt. “It’s too bad you’re leaving. I just brought a lucky shirt for Emma to borrow for her date with Greg.”

  Mom turns to me, horror-struck. “You mean you’re living with one guy and going out with another?” She looks like she might faint.

  Her shocked expression renders me silent. I can only stare at her as she backs away and exits the apartment. From the living room window, I watch her race to the BMW and cruise away.

  I finally find my voice. “I hope she doesn’t get pulled over by a cop. Especially Officer Walker. She tends to speed when she’s angry.”

  “What’s she so upset about?” Mike asks.

  Abby raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell your mom you moved in with a guy, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You should’ve explained to your mom that you two are just friends,” Abby reasons.

  “You’re right,” I say, even though she isn’t. “I’ll give her a call after she calms down.”

  “Things will be fine.” Abby hands me the shirt. “I gotta run―I want to hear all about your hot date.”

  “It’s not a date!” I toss the shirt on the counter.

  Abby laughs and scoots out the door.

  “Hey, Emma.” Steve glimmers to the forefront with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “What do you want now, Steve?”

  “I just wondered about the real reason your mom got so upset. I mean, why wouldn’t you tell her this is a platonic living arrangement?”

  I hate the way he says “platonic”. “Because she wouldn’t believe me, Mr. Smarty Pants,” I grumble. Why does Steve always have to know everything?

  “Why not?” Mike flickers back into view, one hand digging into the chips.