Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  I frowned. “Does it work?”

  “I’ve never tried it, but Vika claims it does. It grows in my mother’s old witch’s garden.”

  “Well, nothing else’s worked well enough.” I lifted my brow and picked out a tiny section of gnarled root, my nose wrinkling as I held it between thumb and forefinger. “Doubt I’ll have any appetite after this.” I bit my lower lip and rolled the plant between my palms. “It’s not toxic or anything, is it? Do I need to wash before I eat?”

  “No.” She gave a dismissive wave. “In fact, it also protects against poisoning.”

  I smirked. “Good to know, in case Eric brings me a tainted salad.”

  Thankfully by the time he approached with our food, the stink had dissipated.

  I placed my open palms up on the table.

  “Here you go, ladies.” He distributed the various plates, and knocked over Jancie’s water glass in the process. “Darn. Sorry about that.” He grabbed a towel half-tucked in his hip pocket and dabbed at the water cascading off the table edge. “Did either of you get wet? Hope not.” A blush rose on his cheeks, making him even more handsome. How could I be attracted to a guy based only on looks? Did this tell me something about my feelings for Logan? Maybe I wasn’t ready for something serious.

  It was easy enough to watch his face as I restated my question, “No. I’m fine, but I really want to know why you and your friends were at my house making noise?”

  “Umm…my buddy John was tipped off by a few women at the haunted house, one named Dullie or something like that. She said there was a real zombie around the main cabin.” He gulped. “I didn’t know you lived there. Honest. I’m so sorry.”

  “Do you mean Dulcie Quinn?” Jancie asked.

  “Yeah. Dulcie. That’s it.” He faced me. “Aggie, I’m so sorry. I wanna make it up to you. Will you let me take you out to dinner some time?”

  I tucked my hands into my lap. The devil’s shoestring worked…too well. “Apology accepted. Did you see a zombie?”

  “I don’t know.” Eric shook his head. “Todd and John said they saw a body coming from the ground. I thought it was just a tree branch. I won’t let it happen again now that I know you live there. I promise. Can I take you out this weekend? Someplace fancy. Do you like steak?”

  It sure would be awesome to stare into those dark eyes, wide like a puppy’s, across a dinner table.

  “I want to get to know you better, Aggie.”

  I didn’t know how to get out of this predicament. Scorching hot sun energy raced along my spine. I stared at Jancie, trying to convey my need for help. Her root gave me more than I wanted. Or did I really want to date Eric, and the root encouraged him to ask me out? Faced with real dangers, my mind couldn’t separate truth from the root’s magic.

  Her eyes widened so much, I could see white all around her irises.

  I mouthed the words, “Help me.”

  “I’ll be happy to help you, Aggie.” Eric placed a hand on my shoulder. “Just name it.”

  Jancie covered her mouth in a bad attempt to muffle a string of giggles.

  Through my haptics, I sensed Eric’s sincerity, but nothing I could use to escape his advances.

  Cute dimples showcased his perfect white smile. “Aggie, your hair is glowing. It’s so beautiful. Please. I’d love to hang out with you.”

  With my hair shorter, I could only see the front strands curving under my chin, but that was enough. Sparks threaded along the hairs like a filament fountain.

  “Thank you, but you’ve already paid for my lunch. That’s enough.” Desperate, I checked the beryl at my wrist. Still the same golden translucence. I placed a hand over the amber in my skirt pocket and detected heat. But then, my leg and hand were just as hot with my witchcraft boiling to the surface. I reached into my backpack and touched the wand. Maybe it could transmit as well as receive. Cool and smooth. I sent energy into the wand, intending to add a directive. I’d used the technique to try to teach Cerise’s sons for turning a stone into a frog. I grimaced, not knowing how the fueled wand would behave. Horrified that poor Eric might become a frog, I hurled the image from my thoughts. After checking him for any amphibian characteristics, I sent a clearer message to the wand, “Eric, I release you from the spell of the devil’s shoestring.”

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Whoa. I feel dizzy all of a sudden. If you two need anything, holler at Jeannie.” With a hand on his forehead, he staggered to the kitchen.

  “Will he be all right?” I asked Jancie.

  She raised a single brow and scooped up her calzone. “From the devil’s shoestring, yes. From whatever you did, no idea.”

  With a shaky hand, I forked some lettuce, trying to decide what to do next.

  Chapter Seventeen: Fire Spells

  While Cerise drove me home after lunch, I used her cell to call Logan’s. I typically used his home number during the day, since mobile phones weren’t permitted among coven members. But what I’d learned from Eric must be discussed as soon as possible.

  “Cerise, what’s up?” Logan asked quickly.

  “It’s me. Aggie. Cerise is driving me home from lunch with Jancie. I needed to call you right away. Eric told me that Dulcie Quinn, along with other women at the haunted carriage house, encouraged him and his friends to find a real zombie at my place. That’s why they were there. Eric claimed he didn’t know I lived there, which may be true. I never told him.”

  Logan blew out a sharp breath. “Did they see a zombie? Or anything else that spooked them?”

  “Eric said two of his friends saw an undead body, but he thought it was only a tree branch. Is Dulcie in her right mind again after whatever happened to her that night the banshee wailed?”

  “That was a week ago. I checked with her when she started back at the attraction Sunday. She was still a bit dazed and out of it then, but got through her act fine. Since then, I’ve only seen her in passing. The actors don’t always come in during the week when we’re closed, just the folks doing maintenance. I think I saw her Tuesday. She was working out details of the show with three or four other actors. Did Eric mention or describe anyone else?”

  “No. Just that there were others with her who told them to check it out.”

  “Have you seen any undead around?” Logan asked.

  “Seriously, I would’ve told you about that. Zombies freak me out.” I shook my head, wondering what he was thinking. “But Fenton might qualify. Not sure about him.”

  “Who knows. Maybe he’s the zombie. I hope it’s that easy. The attraction’s open tonight, so I’ll talk separately with Dulcie and then her friends. See if I can play one against the other to learn more. Don’t forget, I’m having staff guard the entire property continuously during operating hours. I’ll come over to check on you, but it may be late, once the rush dies down.”

  “I’ll be glad to see you.” I disconnected, handed the phone back to Cerise, and relayed Logan’s end of the conversation.

  She parked on my driveway and hopped out. “I’m going to tell Mama about this. See if she knows more.”

  Inside, I did a half-hearted check of windows, doors, behind chests and under furniture, then slumped onto the upholstered parlor settee. I dropped my purchases for Shireen and some trendy clothing for me on the floor. I’d wanted to show Cerise my new things, but now my head ached too much.

  I massaged my temples and stared across the room at a curio cabinet. Depression glass figurines arranged according to color—pink, green, and milk white—filled three shelves. Three distinct types. Like the three paths Keir had read from his bones and stones. And certainly reflecting the three groups who were after me: spirits of deceased local witches like Botilda Murdock, Fenton, and possibly Cerise’s mother Margaret; some coven members, including the old biddies of the high council and Dulcie’s group of actor friends; and the curse-wielding banshee. Similarities were obvious among the three collections of figurines. But what bound those who were against me? No answer came. Only sharp pains
throbbed at the base of my skull.

  Cerise joined me, perching on the edge of a straight-back chair. With her thumbnails, she flicked the undersides of her other nails. “Mama didn’t know anything…or didn’t want to say. I couldn’t tell. I think she’s hiding something. Protecting some spirit would be my guess.”

  “Seems likely.” I walked to the display cabinet, hoping the glass collections would reveal more. “I can’t figure out how so many different people are against me. There must be a connection.”

  “Maybe they aren’t really after you at all.”

  “Hmm?” I tilted my head. “It sure seems that way.”

  “True, but maybe it’s about the curse instead. Though I’m not believing it’s for real yet, some might. And from what it sounds like, both in Cyril’s riddle and in Waapake’s vision stream, you’re destined to break the curse. Some folks don’t want the curse broken. Others do. Seems like a reason for folks to fight if you ask me.”

  I let her hypothesis sink in as I opened the glass door. I examined the figures, then looked back to her. “Yes. I think that could be it. And the only choices I have are to stay and break the curse, or slink home to New Wish. Cerise, you’ve been so good to me. Since this is your homestead and you are family, I have an important question to ask you.”

  She faced me, her groomed brows pinched together.

  “Do you want the curse broken?”

  She burst into laughter. “I hardly believe it exists and have no idea what it’s about, so it sure doesn’t matter to me. But what I do want is for you to stay here in Coon Hollow and meet your goals. Helping you find happiness is what’s important to me.”

  “Thanks.” I shot her a grin, then selected one object from each shelf. “Then I’ve got work to do.”

  ***

  As soon as Cerise left, I raced upstairs and changed from the binding pencil skirt and fitted sweater into my most comfortable jeans and a flannel shirt. With only a few hours until dark, I needed to use my time wisely. I transferred Gran’s amber to a jeans pocket and snatched my backpack, which still contained my wand. My boots clomped up the short flight to the attic.

  Dozens of old steamer trunks plastered with stickers and smothered in layers of dust lay scattered and stacked in all directions. Between them leaned discarded picture frames, some filled with moth-eaten photographs, their once sharp black and white values faded to sepia mid-tones. The keepsake had to be here, but where?

  I stared at the number of storage containers in the huge room and placed my hands on my hips. Searching would take days. A systematic approach seemed the best way to begin. Moving counterclockwise from the door, I unlatched a small trunk topping a stack of three. I lifted the lid, which creaked enough to awaken every house spirit on that floor. The box contained nautical supplies: a compass, calipers, a retracted spyglass, and other assorted map reading tools.

  “Well, hello there, lassie.” Fenton’s voice from behind caused me to flinch.

  “Hi, Fenton. I didn’t see you last night.”

  “You’ve been quite the social butterfly of late. Must’ve gotten home long past when I turned in to me hatbox. Enjoying the company of the high priest, I assume?” He sneered.

  “Are you here to help, or just cause trouble?” I passed a hand over each object in the trunk, but didn’t detect anything unusual.

  “Aye, mostly help, an’ a little mischief.” He lifted strands of my new haircut and gave a low wolf whistle.

  I jerked my head away. “Good enough.” I secured the trunk lid, lifted it to the floor, and started on the one below. “If you can, hoist the top trunks from the stacks to the floor.”

  “Sure ’nough.” He glided around the space, floating trunks in all directions.

  I worked methodically going from trunk to trunk along one wall, wheezing from the mildew on an endless assortment of Victorian dresses. With their intricate laces and draped bustles, I could understand why no one could part with them. I checked pockets for any bit of jewelry that might be the keepsake but found nothing of use.

  When dusk dimmed the lighting, I switched on the two bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling rafters. One flickered and died. With only one full window and a round transom in the eave, I wouldn’t get much further today.

  Dismayed at my lack of success, I checked each of my magical tools, hoping for a clue. The beryl sat silent on my wrist, as did the amber from my pocket. When I uncovered the wand, Nannan’s wood invited my touch, and I took hold of it by the base. With my fingers wrapped tight, the terminal tip bent down for an instant. “Whoa! Fenton, I think my wand pointed at something.”

  He flashed to my side. “At what?”

  “It isn’t doing it anymore. But, it seemed like that trunk along the wall.” I secured the wand, picked my way across the room, and sped through the contents of what seemed the designated large trunk. My hand contacted a hard object with magical vibrations, a gold pocket watch that hummed with its owner’s magic, still keeping time. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “Aye.” His cheeks rose in a handsome grin. “Belonged to me pa. Ma kept it with her to remember him.”

  “How long ago did he die?”

  “October tenth, 1922. The year before we came over from the old country.”

  I brushed my thumb over the gold burnished with a rich patina that conjured images of his parents in my mind. “Amazing, it still triggers my haptics. But I don’t feel any special sensation like I’d expect from something sought after by the death servant. Let’s take this downstairs to have a better look.” I couldn’t imagine how magic could remain viable for so long.

  When we gathered in the kitchen, I opened the watch. On the inside of the cover, was inscribed ‘Paddy O’Mara.’ I handed it to Fenton. “Keep it safe in case it’ll help us. It still has your dad’s magic.”

  “It does? Sweet mother in heaven.” He cradled it in his palm and drifted away, staring at the watch.

  I tilted my head and watched him leave. Had I done the right thing giving him the watch for safekeeping? The longevity of its magic made the piece unique. I puzzled about its significance and value in my quest. Fenton wouldn’t damage something possessing so much family sentiment. Or would he?

  Unable to dwell on the question longer, I switched my attention to the wand. Even unfinished it detected magic and gave useful but weak signals. Like Keir said, I believed it could be a great tool once fully powered. I looked forward to his help with consecration. Right now, I wondered why it pointed to that pocket watch? Was there a reason for me to find that timepiece? I needed answers. And the wand might provide them.

  Over the kitchen sink, I completed the final sanding, wiped it down, and rubbed it with lemon oil. The dry wood lapped up the nourishment and would require several more coats before our ceremony next week.

  I washed up and, while standing, ate bites of whatever leftovers remained in the fridge. With work accomplished toward finding the keepsake and on my wand, one more task remained. Empowering myself. If I was destined to fight a banshee, I must hone my gifts. My mother had taught me how, but I usually relied on the easiest way to recharge by absorbing sun energy.

  I took a glass bowl from the cabinet upstairs and filled it with water from the bathroom. In my bedroom, I placed the bowl on the dresser and located the set of colored candles and holders I’d brought from home. Red maintained physical and mental strength as well as promoted defensive magic. I held it in both hands and visualized finding the keepsake’s location.

  I lit the candle. “Illuminate the darkest parts of my path.” Keeping my focus, I watched until wax puddled around the wick, then dripped the melted wax into the bowl of water. I placed the lit candle in a holder. The wax contorted under forces of both the cool water and my request. I studied the twirling forms. Fragments undulated into final shapes. Among scattered debris, two resembled rods. One with a globular end and the other, a pointed end, which seemed to follow the other through the water as if the two were linked. I turned the
bowl around but no thin extension of wax connected the pair. I leaned my face close to the glass, trying without luck to apply the figures to anything I’d seen in the house or barn. From my nightstand, I located a notebook and drew the two shapes from various angles.

  I wet my thumb and index finger with saliva and pinched out the candle flame at the wick’s base, while I recited a charm. “Though your flame is quenched in the physical, you still shine in the astral.”

  People’s voices drifted from across the lawn, and I checked outside. Actors on the carriage house rooftop riled the crowd. From this distance, I couldn’t determine if the woman playing the role of a banshee was Dulcie. Car headlights streamed in and out of the parking area. I searched the darkness all around for patrolling guards but saw no one. Given their job, I didn’t expect them to advertise their presence with flashlights. Trusting Logan to keep his workers on task, I took the book of house spirit stories, Tales of Yore, and went downstairs to make a pot of wintergreen tea. I needed to pass some time before I could work outdoors with both the moon and an open fire. Doing so now would only attract unwanted attention. Besides, the midnight hour would strengthen my spells.

  Seated in the parlor with book and tea, I looked forward to another movie-like tale about a person who once lived in the homestead. I opened to the chapter about Margaret Flanagan, Cerise’s mother. While the illustration drew and painted itself, I read the short passage:

  Margaret Rose Flanagan, born March 13th, 1930, passed her mortal body to the earth October 31st, 2009, preceded by her husband, Thaddeus James Murray. Her grandmother was Dorothy (Dodie) O’Mara, her mother, Eleanor Eileen O’Mara Flanagan, and her father, Jude Flanagan. Her uncle was Fenton Patrick O’Mara. All three O’Mara family members were from the old country and didn’t advance their witchcraft skills sufficient to empower their souls. Margaret continued oneiromancy dream magic studies begun with her mother, and she gained empowerment in the afterlife.