Pumpkins & Poltergeists, Confessions of a Closet Medium, Book 1

by Nyx Halliwell

  Mama calls while I’m scanning the piece. She sounds chipper and tells me Aunt Willa would be proud of my efforts to save the Durham/Burnett wedding. As we chat, I text Brax and Winter.

  Imagining Aunt Willa being proud of me, and everything I’ve learnt the previous night, weighs heavy on my mind. Not blurting out what I heard through the hedgerow last night, and the entries I read in Tabby’s diary, sits on my tongue, wanting to break free. The curse was referred to in one entry but not explained, nor was there information on how to break it outside of performing a weird sacrifice that I’m so not doing.

  As I was hanging up with Mama, Rosie leaves to check on the flower arrangements and cake for the wedding. She wants to make sure everyone knows nothing has been cancelled. Persephone is nowhere to be found, and I grab some breakfast, replaying Prissy’s words in my mind as I return to Aunt Willa’s desk with a bowl of warm blueberry cobbler. Tabby does a languid stretch, jumps out of the front window, and climbs the stairs to the bedrooms.

  My temper rises hot again, recalling what Prissy and Mr. Uphill discussed. My stomach turns and I shove the bowl away. How dare she try to ruin my family? And he’s apparently aided her. Whatever the two of them have done, if it leads me to discovering either was involved with Aunt Willa’s death…

  The front door opens.

  I look up to find Logan peeking his head in and smiling when he sees me at the desk. “Is it safe to come in?”

  I sit back and raise my cup. “I’ve had plenty of caffeine, but not enough sugar. You’ve been warned.”

  He wipes his boots on the rug, a few damp leaves sticking to the wool runner, and holds up the town history book. “You left this in my car.”

  “Thanks for returning it. There’s a fresh pot of coffee if you want some.”

  “Actually, I’m heading to the winery to clean up the speakeasy. That is, if we’re still on.”

  I tap a stack of colored folders on the edge of the desk. “The proposal is ready. I meet with both families at eleven, and I’ll call you as soon as I have the official word.”

  He eyes the stack. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “A little.” No point mentioning my failure at meditating or the sleepwalking. “Mostly running on liquid fuel today.”

  His grin widens. He deposits the book on the desk and a kiss on my forehead. “See you later.”

  Once he leaves, I review the outline I’ve drawn up for the Durhams and Burnetts. Now, more than ever, I’m determined to keep them away from Priscilla.

  Still stewing, I hop up and grab a paring knife from the drawer. I head upstairs to the trunk and what waits inside.

  Tabby sleeps on top of it. I close the door and she slits her eyes open.

  “I appreciate you letting me read your diary,” I tell her, “but we’re not leaving this room until I have answers.”

  She yawns, stretches, and eyes me with a half-lidded gaze. I sit on the edge of the bed across from her and give her my stony face.

  If cats can roll their eyes, I’m pretty sure that’s what she does. Leisurely, she jumps off the chest, goes to the window seat, and begins to clean her whiskers.

  My stomach tight with frustration, I wonder if throwing her in a tub of cold water might make her talk. Maybe I can withhold food. Find catnip and drug her with it. There has to be a way to make her talk.

  For long minutes, we sit there eyeing each other, neither ready to give in.

  “Fine, I may not be the torturing sort, but I will figure out a way to make you help me.”

  She pauses in her cleaning to twitch her ears.

  “I guess I’ll leave you locked in here until you get hungry enough to talk.”

  Her eyes narrow but she stays stubbornly silent. She lifts a paw and begins to clean her face.

  Maybe reverse psychology? I dig out the locked book from inside the trunk. “I don’t want to ruin this, but if you plan to die here without talking to me, I have no choice. I’ll have to force the lock open. I’ll even remove the bed so you don’t have a comfortable space to lie down while you waste away in here.”

  Her tongue halts in midair. She glares at me as if suggesting I’m an ungracious brat.

  I’m pretty sure I know what she’s thinking. “I do appreciate your distraction with Prissy last night, and I know you’re doing what you can, but it’s not enough. I’m not kidding when I say I will keep you locked in here until you tell me what’s going on verbally with all of this, or you go…poof.” I make an exploding motion with my empty hand.

  She sets down her dainty paw. I swear, I hear her sigh. “The curse prevents it, lassie.”

  The lilt in her voice is soft, nasally from her snout, but hallelujah, I’ve finally gotten something out of her.

  “The curse that causes men to die if they marry a Holloway woman?”

  She starts to nod, and then her head snaps rigid as if frozen. Still, I see confirmation in her eyes. There’s also pain. Whatever the curse involves, it must control her somehow and inflict pain when she talks about it.

  Another thread of information though. This is good. “Okay, I get it. If you talk about the curse, it freezes you and inflicts torment. That makes sense about why you don’t—or can’t—answer my questions.” I fiddle with the paring knife, “Let’s try a game. Yes or no—is my name Avalon? Blink once for yes and two for no.”

  A gleam chases away the pain in the golden orbs. Slowly, she blinks once with extreme deliberation.

  This might work. “Is Prissy a witch?”

  Two blinks. That’s a no.

  “Did she kill Aunt Willa?”

  A long pause, hesitation evident, and then…

  One blink, followed by a second.

  A no, but it seems like it’s not actually a no.

  “Did Preston Uphill?”

  A second pause, less hesitation, before her lids dip twice in quick succession. Definite no.

  “Did Calista?”

  Anger sparks behind her eyes, turning them a brighter shade of gold. I hold my breath, waiting as she appears to struggle against the curse. Her body trembles, her lids dipping ever so slightly.

  Yes.

  “Thought so.” Grabbing both the book and the knife, I dig the metal tip into the lock and twist. It doesn’t quite fit and I jimmy it around. “Uphill wants this property, Priscilla wants to bankrupt the business because Aunt Willa is so loved in this community. They couldn’t figure out how to get rid of her, could they?”

  The metal lock fights me. The cat face on it looks like it’s glaring at me. I look up and see Tabby’s eyes dance. Blink.

  Yes.

  I remember the section of Uphill’s town history about the last of Samuel and Tabitha’s descendants—my family. Just as he and Prissy discussed last night, we’re nearly gone. There was a footnote in Uphill’s history, claiming Samuel’s children with his first wife flourished and thrived, spreading to various parts of Virginia, Tennessee, and here in Georgia.

  “Did Uphill steal Aunt Willa’s key?” I ask Tabby. “Is he the man you were referring to the other day?”

  This must have to do with the curse because Tabby’s body goes rigid once more.

  The tip of the knife snaps off. Releasing a grunt of frustration, I slam my hands on the book cover. “I need to read this, don’t I?”

  One blink.

  “Uphill took the key to keep me from discovering the truth about him?”

  Blink.

  My phone, resting on the bedside table, buzzes and lights up with Winter’s number. As I answer, she launches in before I can even speak. “A revenant needs a master to control it. This is serious magic, Ava. You need to be careful.”

  I assume from this she got my text and the information I told her Persephone offered me. “I know who the master is,” I tell her. “What I need to know is how to stop her.”

  “The master or the ghost?”

  “Both, either. If I break the connection, will Calista’s ghost move on and leave the rest of us
alone?”

  “Most likely, but not necessarily. She could end up in a kind of limbo and continue haunting this ex-boyfriend of hers.”

  Perfect. “Do you know any spells for opening a lock?”

  Winter half hesitates at the abrupt change in subject matter. “‘Open sesame’ usually works, especially if you have sesame seeds and are a witch.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  I laugh, but it’s without humor. “Seeds I can get.” I eye Tabitha. “The witch part might be tougher.”

  “No worries. I’m on my way.”

  She’s such a good friend, but this is my mess to figure out. Mine to clean up. It’s especially mine to revenge. “Halloween—Samhain—is only a few days away. You can’t leave the store and your sisters. They need you.”

  “I’m getting on the first broomstick out of here with their blessing. I’ll see you soon.”

  A joke about riding her broomstick dies on my lips as the connection is broken.

  I toss the phone on the bed and squeeze the book, as if I could somehow make it explode and release its secrets. The blue leather squeaks, quarrelsome at the treatment.

  “How does Uphill know about this book?” I’m only musing out loud, but Tabby’s tail flicks back and forth as if she wants to answer. Her head and body remain rigid, and I know that although she is fighting the restrictions of the curse, she desperately wants to tell me everything.

  I pick up the knife and strike the lock with the butt of it. Nothing happens, and I do it again, anger boiling in me. A ghost that Priscilla somehow raised and now has under her command killed my aunt.

  How am I going to prove that? More importantly, how am I going to find the key Uphill buried in his backyard? If I can’t get this book open, I may have to go digging for it.

  Bam bam bam. I take my anger out on the lock, swearing at it, and at the same time asking for God or anyone else who might have some power to give me a freakin’ break.

  The book sails off my lap as if yanked by invisible hands, and smacks into the closet door before flopping to the floor.

  Tabby jumps and looks at me. Slowly, I stand from the bed and stare at the book. Did I cause that, or is Calista here?

  No cold breeze or laughing—I believe the house is protected from her, somehow, but I’m jumpy enough to be worried anyway.

  Tabitha and I exchange another glance, and together we slowly approach the book. “You’re a witch, right?” I ask the cat.

  One blink.

  “Cool. I have an idea.” Bending down, I take her paw. Setting it on top of the book, I hold her gaze. “Aunt Willa, if you can hear me, I need your mojo. Persephone? You, too.”

  Persephone appears, her gaze floating between me, the cat, and the thick book. “What are you up to? Whatever it is, why don’t you wait until Winter gets here?”

  “There’s no waiting. We do this now.” Placing my hand on the book, I close my eyes and pretend I’m Winter. I can see ghosts and I understand talking cats—it’s really not hard to imagine I’m a witch. Aunt Willa seems to have had a few magical inclinations, and I’m sitting here with my shapeshifting ancestor and a spirit guide. It can’t hurt to try, right?

  “Open sesame,” I murmur under my breath.

  Without warning, the book shakes and trembles, the leather groaning under my hand and Tabby’s paw.

  My eyes fly open and we look at each other, the book.

  I demand louder this time, “Open sesame!”

  The book tries to jerk away and I press down on it, keeping it under our ministrations. It snarls.

  I snarl back.

  Persephone floats in closer and I feel the slightest warmth on my shoulder. I glance over to see her touching it, and even though she’s a spirit I actually feel the slightest bit of pressure. “Try again,” she says.

  Once more, I pour everything I have into my words and my touch. Imagining Tabitha, not as a cat but as my ancient grandmother. “Open sesame,” I say calmly.

  The book howls, gives one final shudder, and the lock clicks open.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Durhams and Burnetts arrive on time and I seat them around Aunt Willa’s desk. Rosie gets everyone a drink as I make small talk.

  The book is back in the trunk and I can’t keep from thinking about it, even as I launch into my sales pitch. I skimmed through pages and pages of spells, charms and hexes. There were journal entries stating the outcomes of various spells, ways to communicate with ghosts, and tips and tricks for keeping those around you blind to your magical gifts.

  The grimoire did not belong to my aunt, nor Tabitha. If I was to believe the hard-to-read flourishes on the inside of the title page, the book was, in fact, written by the most unexpected person in this whole scenario. I still haven’t wrapped my head around it and have no time to put the pieces together at the moment.

  Miranda looks three shades too pale, Ty’s fingers interlaced with hers. She won’t meet my eyes as I hand out the proposals. I make my voice as confident and upbeat as I can with all the chaos in my brain.

  Resuming my seat in Aunt Willa’s chair, I silently call on her spirit to aid me as I walk the group carefully through the details of moving the wedding and reception to the vineyard. There are numerous questions, mostly by the Durhams, and I answer them succinctly, squashing Myra Durham’s numerous concerns and assuring all that I can pull it off. With forced confidence and abundant smiles, I hope to convince them, as well as myself, that I have everything under control.

  My proposal to join the Durham candy empire with the Cross Winery is the final icing on the cake. At first, Mrs. Durham, with her silver blond hair and expensive Burberry suit, refuses the deal outright. Her husband, in John Lennon glasses and wool coat with patches on the elbows, pipes up for the first time. “The idea has merit. I’d like our VP of marketing to look it over and propose something more formal.”

  This earns him a glare from her.

  I direct them to the hastily thrown together spreadsheet at the back of the packet. “I’m not a financial wizard, but preliminary numbers for a joint venture of wedding packages combining specific award-winning boutique wines and your high-end chocolates suggest a ten percent profit increase in direct sales for nine out of twelve months next year alone.”

  “This is all hypothetical,” Mrs. Durham challenges.

  Mr. Durham uses a chubby finger to adjust his glasses. “I’ll have our CFO examine the numbers and confirm.”

  Another glare that nearly scalds me, and I’m only a bystander.

  “Aren’t all great business adventures hypothetical in the beginning?” I counter with another smile, thinking of Queenie and my mother. Both of them had a dream and did the work to make it a reality. “These numbers are based on the amount of weddings over the previous years’ averages, so they’re a decent predictive bottom line as far as the market goes. And honestly, it doesn’t take an expert to see the advantages both of your businesses will reap. The fact you’re in each other’s backyard, with the vineyard and the chocolate manufacturing warehouse within ten miles of each other, keeps overhead and transportation costs low.”

  Dead silence falls. Mrs. Burnett reaches out to pat Miranda on the arm. “Please, Myra, business aside, can’t you work it out with Helen so our kids can get married in a beautiful setting?”

  The candy empress presses her ruby red lips together, and her husband nudges her, pointing to my spreadsheet. “We could double this easily.”

  Another twitch of her lips, then a long-suffering sigh through her nose that reminds me slightly of Tabby.

  Ty leans forward to look around his father at her. “For me, Mom?”

  He’s really asking for Miranda, and her gaze flicks up to mine with hope. I subtly wink at her.

  Mrs. Durham’s eyes soften and she turns them on him. “Fine, we’ll hold the ceremony and reception at the winery,”—now her gaze turns to me and hardens—“but I withhold agreement on the business proposition un
til I see more in-depth investment proposals.”

  Relief swims through me. I glance at Miranda. “Are you happy with this change in venue?”

  The hope in her eyes has bloomed into full-on joy, a touch of her normal color returning to her cheeks. “Can you really pull this off?”

  Ty’s gaze asks me the same. He has hope, too, but like his bride he’s afraid it won’t work because of Calista.

  A warmth invades my chest. I love weddings, love the emotion of love. I’ve missed the event side of wedding planning, and the happiness I feel when I sketch a dress. I vow to do more of both. “Yes, Miranda, we’ll pull it off, but the final word is up to you and Ty. Is this what you want?”

  She squeezes Ty’s hand. He kisses her temple. “More than anything,” she says softly.

  “Awesome. We’ll get to work immediately.” A part of me is happy that Logan is already working on the speakeasy. As the parents rise, we exchange handshakes. Mrs. Burnett hugs me and thanks me profusely, asking if there’s anything she can do.

  “Just take care of our bride for me,” I tell her.

  “I can do that.”

  Seeing them to the door, I wish them all a good day and reassure them once more. Then I pull the bride and groom aside. “Would you two stay for a minute to go over a few tiny details?”

  Ty and Miranda look surprised but agree. After they say goodbye to their parents, they follow me to Rosie’s side of the first floor where a fire crackles in the hearth. Rosie hustles around, grabbing papers from her desk.

  Once we’re finally alone, she positions Ty and Miranda in front of the fireplace and gives them each a detailed list, as if this is actually what we are going to do—review everything. “We want to, um…practice the vows and make sure we have everything covered,” she tells them.

  “Isn’t that what the rehearsal is for?” Ty asks.

  On cue, Reverend Stout arrives.