Pumpkins & Poltergeists
Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 1
Nyx Halliwell
Pumpkins & Poltergeists, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 1
© 2020 Nyx Halliwell
ISBN: 978-1-948686-28-0
Print ISBN: 978-1-948686-26-6
Cover Art by EDH Graphics
Formatting by Beach Path Publishing, LLC
Editing by Trish Milburn, Patricia Essex
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Please Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
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Dear Reader
“Built into you is an internal guidance system
That shows you the way home.
All you need to do is heed the voice.”
~ Neale Donald Walsh
Chapter One
The summons to “come home” to Thornhollow arrives on a cloudy, drizzly day in October.
These types of missives normally come from Mama, but the scented lavender envelope is addressed to me in my Aunt Wilhelmina Rae’s handwriting.
In her sixties, she is a spitfire of a woman, and her wild penmanship is beautiful in its bold strokes. I can almost hear her voice as I tap the envelope on the table and wonder what’s inside.
It’s been a long day at the bridal salon and my feet are killing me. Setting the rest of the mail on the table, I turn the tea kettle on. Then I kick off my high heels and rub my toes.
Arthur and Lancelot, my gray tabbies, emerge from their hiding places to greet me with meows and chin rubs against my bare calves. I scratch each behind his ears, fill their bowls with kibble, and shrug off my sweater, hanging the damp garment on the back of a chair to dry.
As the water heats, I head to my bedroom to shed my business attire and replace it with my favorite flannel pajamas. There’s no one but me and the cats, and they don’t care if I’m in my comfy clothes at six o’clock on a Friday night.
Back in the kitchen, I absentmindedly tie my fuzzy robe around me and make a cup of mint tea. A slice of leftover pizza calls to me from the fridge, and I settle down with both to sort through the bills and junk mail. Once again my eye catches on the lavender envelope. Mama has no doubt recruited her sister to convince me to move back home.
Being an executive bridal consultant at Southern Bridal Flair Salon pays well and I enjoy the work, but every once in a while I wish I’d followed my dream to be a wedding dress designer. To live and work out of my aunt’s old Victorian house with its warm woodwork and welcoming open rooms. I long thought I’d one day become a partner in her event planning business, The Wedding Chapel.
Running my finger over the edge of the envelope, I feel the tug to return to Thornhollow and the comfort of my childhood. I have good memories there, but also the pressure to live up to my mother’s political and social aspirations. At least here in Atlanta, I’m surrounded by designer and couture dresses every day and not plagued by small-town gossip. Maybe one day I’ll get up the courage to show Darinda, my boss and the owner of the entire Southern Bridal Flair chain of stores, my sketches.
The scent of Aunt Willa’s perfume drifts up from the stationary as I tear open the envelope and slide out her letter.
The Wedding Chapel is embossed in flourishes at the top, with her business address, phone number and website underneath. Merely adding a website this year created enough drama with her that I nearly let it go. But convincing her to move into the modern age and reach beyond Thornhollow for customers was a good step. She’s already increased business ten percent since I set up the website in April.
Her Southern graces are evident even in her penmanship.
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My Dearest Avalon,
I’m afraid it’s time for you to return home. Danger is afoot. Innocent people are getting hurt.
* * *
I sip my tea and frown, rereading those words before continuing. What danger could there be in our sleepy town?
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I’ve done my best to protect our family and Thornhollow from the curse, but I’m afraid I cannot do it on my own for much longer. It’s time for you to stop pretending you’re normal and use your gifts in the way in which the universe intended.
All my love,
Aunt Willa.
* * *
Perhaps it’s the shadows of the evening closing in or the quiet of my apartment, but I find myself pulling my robe a little closer. While I scrutinize the letter several more times, it doesn’t make her message any clearer. What danger? A curse? Why has she been protecting the family and the town from it? What gifts of mine is she referring to?
Okay, I know that answer, but no way I’m delving into the ghost world.
Most importantly, why the heck didn’t she just call me?
I sip tea, rub my temples, and feel a smidge of frustration at the cryptic note. She and Mama have a definite flair for melodrama.
In the foyer, I dig my cell out of my purse and see that I’ve missed a call from my mother. My tired frustration vanishes for a second. Protecting the family. Is our family actually in danger? From what exactly?
My mother is mayor of Thornhollow, and while she’s had her share of people who dislike her politics, she’s on friendly terms with everyone. Plus, she typically calls
me twice a day, so seeing a missed call from her shouldn’t trigger panic.
It does. I carry the phone back to the kitchen and plunk it on the table, debating whether to jump into my family’s craziness again or not. It’s one of the reasons I had to leave Thornhollow—they were making me crazy, too.
Aunt Willa is probably the least crazy of any of them, even though my mother claims the opposite. “Willa Rae is vexed,” she used to proclaim. She then would spin her finger around her temple indicating mental instability. “You can’t believe a thing she says.”
I resume my seat, finish off the pizza, and open the rest of the mail. The kitchen grows dim, and I get up to turn on the light.
When I flick the switch nothing happens. The kitchen stays steeped in darkness. That’s when I realize the lighted numbers of the microwave clock are out, and the living room ceiling fan has stopped spinning.
Stupid wiring. I’ve complained to the landlord multiple times about the fluky electricity, as well as the plumbing that bangs and rattles at all hours of the day and night. The house is a hundred years old and some of that is to be expected, I guess, but it’s extremely frustrating when this stuff happens.
I reach for the phone and feel a breeze pass over my hand. Aunt Willa’s letter sails off the table, the breeze rocking it gently back and forth, like a leaf falling form a tree, before it lands on the floor.
Goosebumps race over my skin. Pressure and a high-pitched ringing starts in my ears. I look around for the cats, but they’ve disappeared.
“Avalon…”
The voice sounds like it’s right behind me. I whirl but see nothing except shadows.
Shaking my head, I pick up the letter, returning it to the table. As I reach for my phone, it rings, the sound blaring in the kitchen and startling me.
It’s my mother again. “Hi, Mama,” I answer, forcing a deep, calming breath. “I just got home from work. Can I call you back in a few minutes?”
I swear I feel that breeze again tickle the back of my neck. My gaze falls on the letter and the words danger is afoot.
“Oh, Ava,” Mama sobs, her voice shaking with tears. “You have to come home.”
The hair on the back of my neck shoots straight up. “What happened?”
Another choked sob. An audible intake of breath. “Willa Rae is dead.”
Chapter Two
The usual three-hour drive to Thornhollow is dark and rainy, filled with road construction and a washed-out bridge, causing it to take nearly five. Arthur is bedded down in the passenger seat, Lancelot in my lap. I focus on the road and give into my grief, listening to a variety of late-night radio talk shows, while I weep.
As I turn off the highway populated with signs for peaches, boiled peanuts, and the various wineries in the area, the sorrow comes rolling back. My chest tightens, hot tears build in my eyes. I haven’t been home in months, but it feels like years.
Victorian era street lamps softly illuminate Main Street, the numerous buildings from another time period, stately and regal, as I wind my way north to Mama’s. At the far end is the crossroad where The Wedding Chapel—Aunt Willa’s home and business—occupies the corner. She owns over an acre, the ground sloping toward the creek at the back, with limestone hills and woods on the side.
As I pass her large painted lady, I see light seeping from an upstairs window—the bedroom I used to call my own.
Another spasm hits my chest, and a tear slides down my cheek. It’s as if Aunt Willa has left a light on for me. Silly, of course, and yet I almost stop to see if someone is inside. Probably Rosie, her assistant, accidentally left it on.
I don’t think I’m ready to go in and see my beloved aunt’s things, smell her perfume, or speak to anyone yet, so I keep going, chilled and exhausted.
Arriving at Mama’s, all the lights are on. She lives in a mid-century craftsman. This is not the house I grew up in, but it suits my mother. She thrives in this space filled with thick oak, stained glass windows, nooks for her endless books, and multiple beautiful fireplaces. The deep front porch showcases stately rocking chairs, pumpkins, and fall mums.
Since she’s mayor and my aunt’s death is big news in our town, reporters—all two of them—are camped outside wanting a statement. As I exit the car, both speak to me on my way to the front door, offering sympathy since they knew Aunt Willa as well.
They don’t ask me to make a comment, but I see the way they take in the pajama legs under my trench coat, my red nose and swollen eyes. I did nothing more than throw a few clothes in an overnight bag, grabbed the cats, and headed here. Thankfully, neither of these two is interested in taking my picture.
The front door flies open as I climb the steps, and Mama grabs me off the porch. My hands are full of the cats, so I’m not able to hug her back as she embraces me, crying softly. Once inside, with the door shut, I put down Arthur and Lancelot, and Mama steps back to look me over.
“Why Ava,” she chastises, “what in the world are you wearing? Your picture will be all over the Thornhollow Tribune tomorrow.”
Even at this time of night, she’s dressed in conservative attire, somewhere between a casual suit and silk pajamas. I can’t quite decide which. Her hair is in a perfect coif of graying blond curls, and her makeup is demure but perfect.
“I imagine the Trib has more important news to report on than the state of my clothes in the middle of the night after my aunt has died.”
She clucks her tongue, and that’s the message that the state of my dress could affect her upcoming campaign. I’m not sure she even realizes she’s in that mode all the time, even when her sister has just died, because running for office has become her life.
Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose chapped. Her voice hitches as she talks a mile a minute while directing me to the kitchen. She doesn’t even ask if I would like a cup of tea, simply starts heating the water and pulling cans of loose flavors from the cabinet. As the cats roam, getting reacquainted with her house, I shed my coat.
“They think Willa’s heart stopped and she fell into the creek,” Mama says, dashing at the tears springing to life again and rolling down her cheeks.
Dropping dead from a heart attack is not the worst way to go, I think, but of course I can’t speak it out loud. Wilhelmina Duchamp was too young to die. Falling in the creek, though…
I shiver, thinking about my poor aunt.
“She was having a few issues, you know, but Doc thought it was angina. Panic attacks.” She places a cup on a saucer and digs out a flowery sugar bowl from the pantry to place on the table. “Ever since we were kids, she fought with buckets of anxiety. I just don’t know.”
I pull out a chair and sit. “Don’t know what?”
She waves a hand through the air as the kettle whistles. She doesn’t ask what flavor I want, picking one for me. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
I can tell there’s more to this, but Mama’s having a dose of understandable anxiety herself and that’s why her mind isn’t tracking straight. “I never realized Aunt Willa had heart problems.” I try not to sound annoyed no one bothered to tell me. “When did this start?”
She brings the tea and sets it in front of me, steam rising. “You haven’t been home in a while.”
This is an accusation, a condemnation, and an explanation all in one. She fiddles with her fingers, rubbing each in turn, her gaze skittering around the kitchen. “I was there.”
“What?”
Her eyes bounce to me then away. She peers into her lap. “I think I heard her arguing with someone right before it happened.”
I reach over to still her nervous finger twitching. “Mama, what are you talking about?”
She grips my hand like a steel vise and sighs audibly. “We were going out for an early dinner. I had a city council meeting and Willa had a bridal appointment, but she wanted to talk to me about something. Said it was important. When I arrived, she wasn’t in the house. I figured she was out back, prepping something for the bridal appointment. Yo
u know how she loves to show the place off, so the bride gets a feeling for what it would be like to marry in the gardens. I went out on the back porch and…”
The tension in her body washes through me. I see fear in her eyes. Her grip grows stronger still.
“It’s okay, Mama,” I cajole. How many times in my life have I had to do this? Talk her off the ledge so I can get into her head long enough to figure out what’s going on in there. “Just tell me what happened.”
“I heard her voice, and it was that argumentative tone that she likes to take. I figured someone was already back there with her. They were too far away to actually hear what was being said, and it seemed to be coming from the old Thornton Homestead.”
The homestead is the original home of Sam Thornton and Tabitha Holloway built on the creek bank. My distant ancestors founded this town. The home is a historic landmark at the edge of the property but fell into disrepair long before I was born.
Mama’s tension seeps into my central nervous system. I gently urge her to continue again.
Another deep breath racks her body. “I didn’t hear the other person. It was odd, but like I said, I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Really, all I heard was Willa Rae. She was upset, though. And then I got a phone call from Queenie and went back inside to answer it. When I was done, Willa Rae was still outside, so I went to look for her. I never saw anyone…and then I found her.”
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