Once Wicked_A Paranormal Cozy Mystery

by Cindy Stark

  “Thank you.” Despite what Chief Parrish had said about how the town could be unfriendly, she hadn’t found that to be the case except Mr. Winthrop. And maybe Mrs. Jones.

  The librarian started to walk away and then stopped. “We also have a special section we keep locked that can only be viewed at the front desk in my presence. A collection of old books and diaries, some dating back to the town’s original settlement.”

  She widened her eyes and her pulsed kicked up a notch. “Really?” She tried to sound as interested as the average person. “I’d love to look at those, too.”

  He nodded, his smile smug. “Thought you might. Start here first, though. This will give you an overview of the town’s history and its residents. Then the other books will have more meaning.”

  Disappointment rolled through her as she glanced at the section of books before her. She wouldn’t get through those in a day. “Sounds like a plan.”

  With that, he left her. She knelt, ensured she was alone in the aisle and closed her eyes, trying to use her senses to help decide where to start.

  When nothing came to her, she picked, “Stonebridge: An Accounting of the First Inhabitants”.

  She spent an hour reading about the town’s original inhabitants including the moral and righteous John Henry Parrish. A distant relative of Peter’s? Did his roots go that deep?

  The book went on and on about John’s wonderful works and the things he did to help the town grow into a prosperous community. He seemed like a good chap.

  She flipped a few pages, read the chapter title, and lost her breath.

  A Blight on the Community.

  Her frown grew larger as she read about the fear and disgust of discovering miscreants among the residents of their township. Witches. Monsters of human society. Those who would confuse the minds of good people, steal their ability to worship God in all his glory.

  She licked her dry lips and kept reading. The discovery of more witches. The hatred.

  A copy of a written document outlining how they planned to rid their town of this blight by trying and condemning these witches. By binding their hands, filling their pockets with stones, and pushing them off a boat into the deepest water of Redemption Pond.

  She paused and closed her eyes as a wave of nausea rolled through her.

  They’d murdered those poor, innocent people. All because of fear of something they didn’t understand. Something they didn’t want to understand.

  The Named.

  She sucked in an audible breath and then quickly checked to ensure she was still alone.

  As fast as her eyes would allow her, she scanned the list of names which included whether they’d been found guilty or innocent, and if guilty, their punishment.

  Clarabelle Foster Hardy. Guilty. Death by drowning.

  She clutched her stomach and tried to breathe.

  This town had murdered one of her family. No wonder her mother had been so adamant that she not come here. But if she knew what had happened, why hadn’t she told Hazel?

  Images of women, bound and frightened, sitting in a boat as it was rowed to the deepest part of the pond slammed into her mind like a bird flying full speed into an unseen window. Fragments of fear, real or imagined threatened to bring her to her knees.

  She closed the book. Tried to breathe.

  Slowly, she filled her lungs, exhaled, and repeated the process several times until her emotions steadied. When she felt she could hold her demeanor, she pulled two more random books from the shelf and headed toward the front.

  At the counter, the librarian glanced up expectantly. “Find what you were looking for?”

  She forced a lighthearted smile. “It’s all very interesting. Am I able to borrow these and read at home?”

  “Sure.” He pulled a form from under the counter. “Fill this out with your information, and I’ll get these ready to go for you.”

  Hazel wrote her information and watched Timothy pull cards from the back of each book. He stamped dates on similar blue cards and replaced the original cards.

  “You’re not computerized?” she asked.

  “Nah. The town considered it a while back, but we’re a small library in a small town and function just fine the way we are.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind. Sometimes I wish I was born in a different era. In some ways, things were better three hundred years ago. Simpler.”

  She snorted in disagreement and then covered it with a smile. “Unless you were a witch.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “But the town managed to take care of that infestation and haven’t had many problems since. Good, old-fashioned pest control.”

  She blinked, doing everything she could to keep from screaming as she gathered her books. If she didn’t find fresh air soon, she’d likely combust or curse him. “Thanks for these. I’ll make sure to have them back on time.”

  “Sounds awesome, Miss Hardy.” He paused and glanced at the books in her hand. “If you read far enough, you’ll learn about a witch with the last name Hardy.”

  Blood drained from her head and left her dizzy. She fought through the fog for an acceptable response. “Really?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s another witch with my last name, too.”

  A relieved laugh burst from her. “Oh, good. For a moment, I was a little panicked.”

  “In fact, the town’s most haunted house belonged to a witch named Clarabelle Hardy.” He tilted his head as though waiting for her reaction.

  No wonder it was haunted, with the way they’d killed her. “Here, in town? I haven’t heard of a haunted house.”

  He grinned. “We have a few. Stick around long enough, and you’ll learn more.”

  “Does someone live in her house? Maybe one of my customers?” she asked with lighthearted curiosity, working to keep her disdain in check in case he was sensitive to that sort of thing.

  He snorted. “People move in and out. The last was over a year ago, but they got spooked and relocated after a few months.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She snorted. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Some in town would argue otherwise.”

  She shrugged, playing along. “I guess if I get the opportunity, I’ll have to look for myself.” It was the perfect excuse to get inside her dearly-departed one’s house. If Clarabelle really was there, she’d sense her.

  “Take a left on Vine until you reach Hemlock. The house is just after you cross the old bridge. You’ll know it when you see it. Gorgeous First Period home. I’d love to get my hands on it and restore it to its original glory, but I doubt Clarabelle would like that.”

  She drew her brows together. “Why’s that?”

  He puffed his chest. “Direct descendant of John Henry Parrish.”

  The hairs on her arms stiffened. No wonder she’d gotten a negative vibe from him the moment she’d walked in even though he’d been perfectly nice. “Any relation to Chief Parrish?”

  He gave her a smug smile. “Not that I can trace.”

  Tainted family blood could be cleansed, but only if a person was willing. Timothy obviously was not.

  She’d need to be careful whenever she was in his presence. Which led her to wonder who else in town might be a threat if they knew her heritage. Perhaps, in time, they might come around.

  She smiled. “I guess I know who to ask if I have questions about the town.”

  “Always at your service.” He bowed, the act tugging more of his white shirt from his pants. “You have a good day, now. Enjoy that beautiful weather.”

  “Thank you. I will.” She turned and strolled from the library, wishing she could take a shower and wash off the horrible feelings that covered her like sludge.

  Warm sunshine radiated on her as she emerged from the old building and placed the borrowed books in her bike’s basket, but she shivered.

  Peter was right. Stonebridge had a dark side that wasn’t noticeable at first glance, but had the potential to be dead
ly all the same.

  Ten

  Hemlock Street. Just off Vine.

  Only a few blocks from where Hazel stood in front of the library.

  She glanced at her watch. It wasn’t that late in the day and shouldn’t take long to cruise by and get a glimpse of her ancestral home.

  Decision made, she hopped on her bike and pedaled faster than normal down Main, hanging a left at Vine. With all this cycling, she’d surely drop a few of those pounds that seemed determined to remain lifelong friends.

  She hoped.

  She wound along Vine Street, over the picturesque stone bridge with water drifting beneath it, and continued until she reached the street sign that said Hemlock. With excitement bubbling inside, she turned onto that road and directed her gaze farther down the road, just past the bridge.

  A large grove of trees nearly cloaked the white house huddled beyond them.

  As she drew closer, a wave of euphoria caught her by surprise. She glanced toward the elms and birch trees and inhaled. So much beautiful, untainted energy. Like nothing she’d encountered before, and she couldn’t ignore the powerful invitation. It filled her heart, as though it was calling her home.

  “Blessed Mother,” she whispered, awed and bewildered by the experience.

  The house came into view, and she smiled. She rode until she stood before the two-story white home with pitched gables and a black roof. Round windows had been placed in both gables, and a small covered porch sat to the right of the front door.

  A weathered, crooked sign announced that it was for sale and appeared to have been for a while. Time and neglect had chipped away at the exterior but still couldn’t hide the beauty of the home. If she had the money, she’d make an offer on it right now.

  A soft breeze picked up and whispers of welcome whistled through the trees. She closed her eyes and opened her heart to whatever was in the area.

  There. That was it.

  The familiar urge that had burned in her for months before she’d moved to Stonebridge emerged. She hadn’t recognized it as more than curiosity about her family at the time, but this was the siren’s call that had brought her here.

  As for ghosts?

  Oh, yes. She definitely sensed a female presence, but not the malevolent one the librarian had spoken of. This entity was warm, yet powerful. Inviting and more than a little interested in her.

  She parked her bike behind a bush on the side of the house so that it wouldn’t draw attention and walked to the front porch. After indulging in a quick glance around the quiet area, she tested the doorknob.

  Locked.

  She grumbled beneath her breath. “How am I supposed to learn more about you if I can’t get inside?”

  Prepared to leave, she jerked on the doorknob one more time and gasped when it turned. She’d been around witches and wiccans all her life and had seen some amazing things, but this freaked her out a little.

  She took one more glance over her shoulder, stepped inside and closed the door.

  Eerie sensations mixed with something familiar drew her farther inside the dust-infested home. A fine layer of soot on the once-polished wooden floor showed that no one had come inside the home for quite some time. Because they were afraid of a ghost.

  Clarabelle’s ghost.

  “Hello?” she called.

  When nothing answered, she laughed at herself. What had she expected? An apparition welcoming committee?

  The sound of something crashing to the floor brought her gaze around sharply, and she cast an eye toward the ceiling. If she hadn’t continued to sense that warm presence, she would have fled.

  Instead, she carefully made her way to the narrow staircase. Step by creaking step, she ascended until she arrived on the second floor.

  The house had a total of four rooms upstairs. She spotted the two round windows she’d seen from outside, one in each room at the front of the house, and then two more rooms, one on each side of her.

  She investigated the rooms at the back of the home first, finding nothing more than a few pieces of old, broken furniture and more dust.

  When she stepped into one of the rooms at the front of the house, something to the side of her moved. She screamed and whirled toward it.

  A ginger-colored cat hissed in response and arched as it backed away from her.

  “Oh my gosh.” She brought a hand to her heart where her pulse thumped wildly, and then she gave a soft laugh.

  She knelt so she wouldn’t appear as threatening and held out a hand. “I’m so sorry. I scared you as much as I did myself.”

  The cat, a male she sensed, eyed her with quiet disdain and made no move forward.

  “Really, I’m sorry,” she tried again. “How did you get in here?”

  The cat must be able to access the house some way because he looked a healthy weight, and she was certain there weren’t enough mice in the house to sustain the feline if he’d somehow been left or locked in.

  She took a cautious step toward it. The cat crouched down and then suddenly glanced to the side of him, enough of a reaction that Hazel did the same to see what he looked at, but nothing was there.

  Then the ginger feline bolted from the room.

  “Sorry,” she called after him, feeling bad that she’d invaded his home and frightened the poor thing.

  She turned to leave and then found the cat in the doorway to the bedroom watching her with intense green eyes. For a quick moment, an odd feeling passed over her but then dissipated.

  “Don’t worry,” she said as she moved toward the doorway. “I won’t be here long. I just wanted a look around.”

  He backed away as she slipped past.

  Feeling more and more like an intruder, she took a quick peek in the remaining room, found nothing, and headed for the stairs. Disappointment washed over her.

  No ghost other than a feeling. Nothing but empty rooms and an irritated cat.

  She had gotten that familiar feeling upon entering, but nothing like what she’d received when passing the grove of trees next door.

  She’d almost made it to the bottom of the stairs, when the ginger cat rushed between her legs, the surprise causing her to misstep. The back of her heel grazed the edge of the stair below her, and she lost her balance.

  The wooden steps bit deep into her flesh as she flailed and tumbled the rest of the way down.

  She landed at the bottom with a hard thud that stole her breath.

  She lay there for a moment in disbelief.

  Carefully, she moved each limb, testing for anything that felt like a break. When all seemed in passable condition, she moved to a sitting position.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the ginger and found him sitting on the second step.

  “You!” She pointed a harsh finger in his direction. “You tried to murder me.”

  He only stared.

  After a long showdown, the cat turned his gaze toward the stairs where he sat. Then he glanced back at Hazel. When he did the same thing a second time, a tingle rippled over her.

  The sensation that he wanted something overwhelmed her.

  She scooted on her bottom closer to where the cat sat. When she was within striking distance, the feline dashed up the stairs.

  “Yeah,” she called after him. “Don’t think I’m going to forget this anytime soon.”

  With the cat out of the way, she looked closer at the step that he’d seemed so interested in. One side sat higher than the other, and if she compared it with all the other steps, she could see where it might seem a little out of place.

  She grasped the lip of the step and lifted. It didn’t move easily, but it did move. With a little more effort, she opened it.

  She found the hinges on the inside quite ingenious, but it was the plain wooden box sitting inside that set her heart to beating faster. She lifted it out, causing a thick layer of dust to scatter into the air. She sneezed and sent more flying.

  Her fingers sizzled with excitement as she lifted the lid. In
side lay a tome that, from the looks of it, she knew Timothy would love to get his hands on. Worn brown leather with tooled symbols protected whatever was inside, and she knew darn well that people didn’t hide ordinary books.

  With gentle fingers, she opened the cover.

  Elaborate handwriting had been scrawled over the first page. Book of Spells. Clarabelle Foster.

  Beneath her name was a quote. Better to follow your heart, or you’re already dead. Wow.

  If she’d thought falling down the stairs had knocked the wind out of her, that was nothing compared to this.

  Her hands shook as she carefully turned a few pages. How could it have remained hidden all these hundreds of years? Had her family been afraid to remove it after the town had drowned Clarabelle? What had happened to Clarabelle’s husband?

  Obviously, she’d been married and had at least one child or Hazel wouldn’t be alive.

  “Meow.”

  She lifted her gaze to find the mischievous feline only a few steps above her. “This doesn’t forgive what you did.” She had no doubt of the reason behind the cat’s antics now, but that didn’t mean her whole body didn’t hurt like the dickens.

  “Meow,” he said louder, his tone seeming more urgent.

  “What? I’ve found what you wanted me to and now you want me to—”

  Go! Now!

  An ethereal voice echoed through the house or through her head. She didn’t know. But it was adamant that she leave immediately.

  She didn’t question. Her mother taught her better than to doubt her senses. She winced as she climbed to her feet.

  With shaking hands, she tucked the tome beneath her shirt and into the waistband of her jeans. Her ankle screamed in protest as she hurried toward the front door, but she couldn’t slow.

  A quick peek out the window assured her no one was close by, and she slipped outside, closing the door behind her. She didn’t slow to check to see if it locked.

  She strode to her bike, ignoring the pain of each step. Blocked by the bushes, she removed the tome and tucked it amongst the other books in her basket. She slipped a leg over her bike and pushed off.