by Morgana Best
“No, I’m fine,” I said, trying to convince Thyme as much as I was trying to convince myself.
Thyme hesitated for a moment. “All right. Well, I’ll head on in. Call me later, okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.” I sighed deeply and sat on the edge of my bed. From where I sat, I could see into the hall and see the door that led to the mysterious new room.
I wasn’t going crazy, was I? I knew I hadn’t simply missed that room in the days since I had moved in. It was so close to my own bedroom. I had walked by that section of wall a hundred times already, and there had never been a door there. Besides, the library was missing, too.
The truth of the matter was that the whole ordeal was really unsettling. I suddenly found myself frightened to be in the home. But what else could I do? Where could I go? If I talked to anyone about the room, they would think I was insane.
A thought occurred to me. Perhaps it was a haunted house, if such things existed. I did believe in the paranormal. It’s just that I’d never experienced it before. Maybe I could find someone who knew the history of the place. I could get some information on the house. If there were stories about weird things happening, someone would know. I could ask general questions, and wouldn’t have to say anything specific.
That was a good plan, and I felt somewhat better. I was awfully shaken, but managed to shower and get dressed, and then make a piece of toast and jam in the kitchen. The only problem with my plan was that I had no idea who I could ask.
I thought a good place to start would be the local library. Small town libraries always had some old newspapers, or slim books written by local historians. At least, it was as good a place as any to start.
I snatched up my purse and was in such a rush to leave the house that was now making me feel so uneasy, that I didn’t notice the mail woman right by my front door. Later, I would realize how odd it was for the woman to be up by the door, considering the mailbox was at the front gate of the house, but when it happened, I simply felt bad about hitting the woman with the door.
“Watch it!” the mail woman yelled as she staggered to the side, placing a hand on the veranda post to keep herself from being bowled over.
“I’m sorry!” I said, hurrying to seize the woman’s arm to steady her.
“Let go!” the woman said, jerking her arm from my grasp.
I was a little shocked at how angry the woman seemed. I looked her over. She was wearing baggy gray shorts and a blue shirt. She had a gray mail bag slung over her arm. Her hair was wildly curly and cut to just above her shoulders, and the woman was what I would call chunky, a little more weight on her frame than she needed.
“Sorry, it was an accident,” I said quickly.
“Well, that doesn’t keep me from getting knocked over, does it?” the woman snapped.
I had heard enough from the woman to know I didn’t like her. She was just so rude and angry.
“I understand that, but it was an accident and I’m sorry.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time,” the woman said. “Do you live here now?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m Amelia.”
The woman broke into a grin. “Kayleen,” she said. “I’m the mail lady.”
“Nice to meet you,” I lied, wondering how much a ten foot fence with spikes on the top and an electronically locked gate would cost.
“Mail’s in the box,” Kayleen said, hitching a fat thumb over her shoulder. And then she turned and took a short cut across the flowers, leaving a trail of crushed pansies in her wake.
I watched her go before I moved down to the mailbox and pulled open the little door. Inside were a few envelopes, all of them marked with my aunt’s name. Oh dear. I would have to return them to sender, along with a note that my aunt had died, or “crossed over” as the locals seemed to call it. I took the envelopes with me to my car, and climbed behind the wheel.
I drove to town, hoping I would find the town library easily enough. As I drove, I tried to convince myself that I had simply missed the room. The door had been there the whole time, but I had just missed it. And perhaps I’d had too much wine last night, and had missed the library room as well. It was certainly the most believable explanation, although it just wasn’t one I could buy. I just couldn’t sell my own mind on the fact that I had walked by a door so many times and had never registered it, or that the library room had vanished.
Thinking about the fact that there was simply no way for that room to exist or the library room to vanish made me squirm in my seat. I was frightened, and growing more scared by the minute.
I finally found the library down a side street. To my relief, it had an ‘Open’ sign outside. I parked the car and hurried inside. It was a small place with a long counter to the right, and shelves of books along with tables and chairs to the left. There was a tall, older woman behind the counter, and I tried there first.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
I smiled politely, and pressed my hands against my sides to stop them trembling. “I’m new in town. I just moved in, and I was wondering if I could find some information about the town,” I asked. I could hardly tell her that my house was growing rooms that shouldn’t be there and deleting other rooms.
“Yes, we have the historical society here,” the woman said. She had a name tag which read ‘Marilyn’. “But you might just want to go talk to Joe.”
“Who’s Joe?” I asked.
Marilyn smiled. “He’s the local historian, so to speak. He knows everything about this town. You’re in luck. He’s in the back right now doing some research.” She pointed to a door at the back of the room.
“Thanks,” I said, and walked over the door.
I knocked on the door, and then poked my head around it. “I’m looking for Joe,” I said.
An elderly man looked up. “That’s me,” he said. “What can I help you with?
I walked over to his desk. He was surrounded by old, yellowing sheets of parchment. I looked at the closest one. It had the words, ‘Certificate of Title’ with ‘New South Wales’ written below in a flowery font. Next to that were the words, ‘Canceled. See Auto Folio.’ It was dated February 4, 1902.
“Wow,” I said. “What a lovely old document.”
Joe appeared pleased by my words. “Local history is fascinating,” he said.
I nodded, and realized I hadn’t answered his question. “I’m Amelia Spelled,” I said. “My Aunt Angelica recently died and left me her house in Salisbury Street.”
“Oh, yes,” Joe said. “I was sorry to hear about your aunt. You must want to ask about her house. Well, I guess it’s your house now.” He stood up, and crossed to some ancient, gray filing cabinets. He pulled one open and rummaged around in it for a while before producing a document, which he handed to me.
I looked down at the document. The first paragraph said, “This is an original colonial style late 1880s timber house with Arts and Crafts style gable added in the center of the earlier street elevation. It is the steep slope of the barge boards over a flying decorative gable, designed to intersect with the original veranda eaves lines, that leaves a striking impression of the building.”
This was all very interesting, but how was I going to segue to matters of moving rooms?
“I can make you a photocopy of this,” Joe offered.
“Thanks, that would be great,” I said. “By the way, have you ever heard that it’s haunted, or anything like that?”
Joe looked at me strangely. “Have you heard stories of strange events?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
I nodded. “Yes.” It was either that or say that I’d experienced it for myself.
“Oh, you’re asking if there’s some sort of story? A woman died there or some such thing, and now she haunts the house? No, there’s nothing like that, not to my knowledge, and I don’t mind telling you that I know a lot about that house, and every other house in town. There’s no big tragedy or scary story. Well, people have just claimed to see peo
ple, figures, walking on the lawn, peeking out of windows, but that’s the case with most of the older houses in this town.”
I nodded, disappointed that I had drawn a blank.
“Of course, there were the robbers,” Joe said.
“Robbers?” I asked.
Joe shrugged. “The robbers must’ve been on drugs. Two men broke into that house, some years ago,” he continued with a chuckle. “They were going to rob the place, and they came running out hours later. They turned themselves in. They said the house had trapped them, that they couldn’t find their way out of the house. They said that rooms appeared that never existed before. It scared them straight. I bet they never tried to rob a house again.” He laughed.
My mouth fell open, and I tried to cover the fact that I was shocked. “Are they the only stories about the house?” I asked.
Joe nodded thoughtfully, his finger on his chin. “Well, there are rumors of all kinds of strange things happening in that house. And I suppose you’ve heard the rumor that your aunt was a witch?”
“A witch?” I screeched. “A witch?”
Joe looked surprised by my reaction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that you hadn’t heard. Of course, there’s no such thing as witches, or ghosts for that matter. Don’t let it trouble you. Small country towns are full of idle gossip. Everyone knows everyone else’s business, and what they don’t know, they make up.”
I forced a smile onto my lips, but the words that were coming out of Joe’s mouth were making me uneasy.
I was not the first person to experience the moving rooms in the house.
My aunt was a witch.
What had I gotten myself into? I thought I was going to pass out.
Chapter 12
I lingered in the parking lot as I stared at the cake store. It was way too early in the morning to be dealing with eggs and milk and other flammable objects. I definitely needed to get some practice in before opening time, especially while business was slow.
Indeed, business was worriedly slow. Sure, the house and store were fully paid for, but there were still utilities and food to think about. Rumors were spreading around town like wildfire that Brant McCallum died after eating the cake. Never mind that the police had said otherwise. Until the cause of McCallum’s death was found, people were going to assume it was from the cake he ate, right here in the cake shop. It was human nature.
I took a deep breath and tried to think of the bright side. There was no rent. My picture wasn’t in the papers over McCallum’s death. I even had Thyme to help me get on my feet. Things would work out eventually, right?
Still, the shop used to have two staff members, my aunt and Thyme. Now there was only Thyme. At some point, I would have to pull my weight and learn how to bake.
I made my way to the back door. First things first. I needed to wipe down everything, mop and clean. After all, the last thing I needed was an off-chance customer coming in and seeing a glass counter covered in fingerprints or something. No need to become known as the messy cake shop where someone died.
To my surprise, I found the door unlocked. Had I forgotten to lock it the night before? No, I was pretty sure I had locked it. I was paranoid like that, especially with the big-city neighborhood I had lived in not so long before. Thyme had a set of keys, but I hadn’t asked Thyme to open early today.
I thought about calling the authorities to check it out just in case. It would probably be the most logical thing to do. Then I thought again, and realized that was the last thing I’d need. A man dies, and then the police come days later? No, I’d never get this place running. People would avoid it like the plague.
I carefully opened the door and peeked in. If there was nothing amiss, there wouldn’t be a reason to raise a fuss. I would just do a good check and then have the locks changed or something. I should have done that on day one anyway. There’s no telling how many of Angelica’s old helpers were out there with a copy of the key.
Suddenly every hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Everything looked just the way I had left it the day before. I didn’t see a mess or any signs of being pilfered. There was even a pleasing scent of spices and sugar wafting in the air. It reminded me of the spice cake I had tried to bake the day the fire department came by. Yet there was a sound that definitely did not fit in. There was a soft voice whispering something in a flickering light just out of my sight. I didn’t recognize the words, but at the same time there was an odd familiarity about it.
I carefully peered around the door to the kitchen. To my surprise, I saw Thyme standing at a counter. She looked normal enough, wearing slacks and an embroidered blouse. Her features looked vague in the early sunlight and the flickering candle in front of her. A candle! Why were the lights out? Ruprecht, as executor of my aunt’s will, had assured me the bills were taken care of for this month. Surely I shouldn’t have a problem there?
Thyme was staring at the candle in deep concentration, chanting something as she seemed completely engrossed in the flame. Her right hand slowly moved around the flickering candle as she sprinkled some sort of powder around it in a circle. What in the world was she doing?
“Hey, Thyme,” I said as I opened the door.
Thyme jumped back with a start, spilling everything into a haphazard mess on the counter.
“Oh! I didn’t expect to see you so early.” Thyme was clearly flustered as she snuffed the candle and tried to hide the mess behind her back. “I thought you said you were coming at the usual time today?”
“I thought I would start getting used to the place,” I explained as I studied the mess on the counter.
“You really startled me. I thought you’d broken in. Serves me right for not locking the door behind me, huh?” Thyme’s conversational tone seemed a little strained as she reached for an odd iron bowl I had never seen before.
“Sorry,” I said. It wasn’t like Thyme to be so skittish. Nothing about the stuff on the countertop made any sense to me, either. “Um, what about you? What’s all this first thing in the morning?”
“Oh. It’s just, you know, a spice mix,” Thyme said with an apologetic smile. “I was going to clean it right up. Experts say that filling a place with kitchen smells makes it more welcoming. It’s good energy. We need welcoming, right?”
I could not argue with that part. But still, that didn’t explain what she was doing. “What’s with the candle and chanting thing?”
“Good luck?” Thyme responded in an oddly questioning tone. She looked, well, worried wasn’t the right word. Anxious? No, I couldn’t quite put my finger on the word. Something had made her quite uncomfortable, though. It was obvious by the way she was acting.
“Oh, the others are going to be so mad at me.” She sighed in resignation as she waved her hand in a counterclockwise motion over the scattered mess. “It was a spell. Just a little one.”
I was taken off guard. What was all this about spells and energy and stuff? “Thyme, please slow down and tell me exactly what’s going on.”
Thyme winced as she held the odd bowl in her hands and studied me. “I’m in so much trouble.”
* * *
A few minutes later, Thyme was leading me the few doors down to Ruprecht Foxtin-Flynn’s shop. I didn’t know what to make of it. I tried to ask her several times, but she just kept saying that Ruprecht was better at answering these kind of questions than she was.
I had been preoccupied the last time I had been in here. It was an amazingly quaint little shop. It looked like something out of a story book. Antiques and stacks of books were scattered everywhere. There were desks and tables of solid wood, and the atmosphere was decidedly quirky. Yet I didn’t see any talking owls or crystal balls, and definitely no brooms or giant cauldrons. There was nothing to suggest that Ruprecht would have any idea what this stuff was about.
Ruprecht was waiting for us with a kindly smile on his face. His knobby fingers were interlaced in front of him as he regarded the two of us. As always, his cats were watching us w
ith keen interest. “Welcome, ladies. May I offer you both some tea? I didn’t expect this conversation to happen for quite some time,” he said, as he turned toward his back office.
“Sorry about that,” Thyme said sheepishly. “I was careless. I just wanted to help.”
“Always with the best of intentions, my dear,” Ruprecht replied as he paused in his trek and shook his hand, waving off the apology. “All things happen with a purpose.”
I watched the interaction, not having a clue what was going on. I consoled myself with the fact that I was about to find out. I looked around the room, and then at the cats as they watched me with their amber eyes from which shone an almost human-like intelligence. No, that was silly. Thyme’s weird ramblings were infectious. “I think I’m misunderstanding something here, Ruprecht,” I said. “Thyme was saying something about a spell and energy. Well, I had trouble following it, to tell the truth.”
“All in good time, my dear. There’s no need to rush,” Ruprecht responded.
* * *
“I am a what?” I demanded as I nearly dropped my tea.
“A witch,” Thyme replied cheerfully before taking a generous sip of her tea. She seemed to recover her usual cheerful demeanor as soon as Ruprecht took over explaining the situation.
Ruprecht cleared his throat and gave Thyme a stern look, which was met with a small apologetic smile. The older man looked back over to me. “Yes. You have inherited the legacy of your father and aunt. Your father, of course, rejected that part of himself. And, naturally, we respected that decision. It was always Angelica’s hope that you would eventually grow to embrace your heritage. Our bloodlines have dwindled over the past few generations. Heirs tend to be a precious few.”
I gasped. “My mom was head of the women’s mission group! There’s no way she was married to a witch.”
Thyme sighed and shook her head. “It’s like being better at math, or a faster runner. It’s just something you are born with.”