Bewitched
A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short
By Amanda M. Lee
Text copyright © 2016 Amanda M. Lee
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Author’s Note
Books by Amanda M. Lee
Several months ago
One
“This town is full of crazy people.”
I sipped my coffee and regarded Brian Kelly with weary eyes. He was a pain. There was no getting around it. His ego was bigger than his room-temperature IQ, and he thought far too highly of himself. When you’re the new guy in town, though, you can’t afford to be choosy.
That’s me, Sam Cornell. I’m the new guy in a town the size of a pinprick on a roadmap. Fitting in isn’t easy when everyone already knows absolutely everything about one another, so I’m muddling along the best I can. Sometimes I think it’s going well. Other times I think I made the biggest mistake of my life when I purchased a business in a witchy tourist town, intent on turning it into a haunted attraction. I guess the jury is still out … or perhaps the verdict is in, and I’m simply too blind to see it.
“I think you’re exaggerating,” I said, glancing around the small diner and watching Hemlock Cove’s denizens chat with one another with one breath and cater to their tourist base with the next. I’d been in town only a few weeks, but it was obvious the people here knew what they were doing when it came to their magical-branded business endeavor.
“Oh, I’m right,” Brian said, wrinkling his nose derisively as he forced a smile for one of the young women sitting at a nearby table. She wore striped stockings, a black dress with jewel adornments, and a purple witch’s hat. “This whole town is off its rocker.”
“I don’t think it’s wise to say things like that when you rely on half of these crazy people to put food on your table,” I pointed out. Brian inherited Hemlock Cove’s lone weekly newspaper – The Whistler – upon his grandfather’s death. Since Hemlock Cove boasted almost weekly festivals, many of the businesses ran ads for special events. Brian needed these “crazy people” to keep the newspaper running at a profit. “Besides, I think when you’re talking about this many people in a small space you’re probably safer going with the word ‘eccentric,’ at least if you don’t want them to spit in your coffee when you’re not looking.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” Brian scoffed, although the look he shot the waitress was dubious. “They wouldn’t do that, would they?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell Brian that if I were waiting on him I would not only spit in his coffee but lick his silverware for good measure. “Of course they wouldn’t do that,” I lied. “I was just messing with you.”
Brian’s smile was wide, but I couldn’t stop myself from internally chuckling as he studied his coffee before taking another sip. “So, how are things out at the Dandridge?”
I bought the Dandridge on a whim two weeks ago. Technically, I bought the building; the state still owns the land. Thanks to a deal I worked out with the historical commission, though, as long as I promise to keep the original structure and have updates approved by the commission, I have a lifetime lease for the property. It’s a win-win situation.
When I first came to Hemlock Cove it was because I was interested in witches. No, you read that right. I’ve always been fascinated by the occult. I’ve read so many books on pagan traditions I’ve lost count. My mother was a solitary practitioner, mostly directing her modest talents toward kitchen recipes and herbal remedies. My father looked the other way. He didn’t particularly care what my mother believed or practiced. As long as she didn’t broadcast her witchy ways to the neighbors, he was fine with whatever made her happy.
When I was a teenager, I realized I could see ghosts. In hindsight, I probably saw ghosts when I was younger but couldn’t understand what I saw. My first encounter was minor. I was walking home from high school, thoughts of asking Missy Brennan to the homecoming dance working their way through my crush-infused mind, when a figure appeared on the sidewalk in front of me.
My reflexes kicked in and I tilted to the side to avoid the figure, but instead of a smooth escape I tripped over my own feet and fell through a woman. I hit the pavement hard enough to knock the breath out of me, and when I swiveled to make sure she was okay I realized I could see through her.
It was a sobering experience, and after helping the woman realize that the house she was looking for burned down years before – that’s how she died and she was caught in an endless loop of confusion as she searched for her home – she disappeared. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother what happened. She wasn’t as thrilled with my new ability, explaining that her grandmother had the same gift and it drove her insane. She warned me to be careful, and then sent me on my merry way.
I learned to keep my ghostly visions to myself relatively quickly. While I thought it was cool, I earned a reputation as a weirdo when I told my best friend – and he used the information to steal Missy Brennan’s affection. It was a hard lesson, but I learned it well.
After college I kept to my reading habits, infusing pagan lore with Michigan history and stumbled across an interesting legend in the northwestern part of the Lower Peninsula. Supposedly a family of witches lived in a small town named Hemlock Cove, previously known as Walkerville. Their last name was Winchester – and I was immediately smitten with the idea of learning from real, practicing witches.
I asked my mother about the Winchesters, and when she said she’d heard of them I was intrigued. She said the family was known for being powerful – and weird – so I arranged my schedule so I could visit Hemlock Cove, selling my business services to Brian in an effort to increase circulation at The Whistler.
That’s where I met Bay Winchester. I knew she was gifted the moment I saw her, despite the fact that she was nervous and suspicious. I spent days watching her, enjoying the way she interacted with her cousins Thistle and Clove. Before I realized what was happening, I started following them. I was determined to catch them in the act – talking to ghosts, casting spells, anything really – but each time they saw me they became more suspicious (and in Thistle’s case belligerent and mean). I guess I don’t blame them.
In an effort to alleviate the tension – and the dirty looks Bay’s great-aunt Tillie kept scorching me with – I admitted I knew they were witches. Bay turned white … and then red … and then kicked me out of the Winchesters’ inn.
Even after that blew up in my face, I didn’t want to leave Hemlock Cove. Despite the tension, it felt like home. That’s when my love of history and business degree came together, and I purchased the Dandridge.
It was working out well – except for the endless hours of actual work. That’s why I was too tired to put up with Brian’s whining. I had whining of my own and only one option for a semi-sympathetic ear.
“It’s a lot of work,” I said. “I have a contractor working on the inside of the building, and it should be ready for drywall and paint in about a week.”
“How are you living out there?” Brian asked.
“I’m living on the main floor while they’re working upstairs,” I replied. “Then I’ll switch when they’re working on the main floor. I’ll probably have to find another place to sleep for three nights or so, but otherwise it should work out fine. It’s not like there’s a shortage of inns around this area.”
“You could go back out to The Overlook,” Brian suggested. “I’m sure the Winchesters wouldn’t put u
p a fight if you needed to stay there for a few days.”
I was the last person the Winchesters wanted to see. I’d kept that little tidbit from Brian because I didn’t want his suspicions about the Winchesters to jump to me. “I don’t think I’m their favorite person,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Aunt Tillie thinks I’m evil.”
Brian snorted. “Aunt Tillie thinks everyone is evil,” he said. “I ran into her in the hallway the other day – she was wearing a combat helmet, if you can believe that – and she told me she was hunting for squirrels.”
“In the hallway?” That sounded odd, even for an elderly curmudgeon who had more in common with a rattlesnake than a cuddly kitten.
“She had a pellet gun and she was whistling,” Brian explained. “She told me to watch my nuts … and then she laughed and said she didn’t mean that in a perverted way but was worried because squirrels like to hoard small things.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing, the mental picture almost too much to bear.
“Then she told me I should probably invest in an athletic cup because she was pretty sure she was going to come down with Restless Leg Syndrome and start kicking people willy-nilly whenever the mood struck,” Brian continued. “She’s crazy.”
“I think when you’re as old as Aunt Tillie it’s called ‘eccentric,’” I clarified. “Plus, if you slip and call her crazy, you’re going to see what a rabid squirrel looks like, because she’s going to be the one going after your … um … nuts.”
Brian shifted uncomfortably. “Let’s not talk about that,” he said, unconsciously shielding his groin. “Aunt Tillie … worries me.”
“I think you mean she terrifies you,” I corrected.
“She’s a little old lady,” Brian scoffed. “She’s harmless.”
I arched a challenging eyebrow. “This town is rich on rumors,” I supplied. “One woman – the one who owns that porcelain unicorn store – told me that Tillie Winchester sacrifices goats and can read minds.
“One of those freaky red-haired twins – the ones who look like real-life Chucky dolls – told me that Aunt Tillie told him she would curse his tongue to fall out if he ever called her a witch again,” I continued. “And that woman who sells caramel apples at the fairs? Yeah, she told me that all the Winchesters dance naked under every full moon and cast spells to make sure the town stays prosperous.”
“I’m not sure what all that means,” Brian said.
“It means that whatever she is, Aunt Tillie is not harmless,” I said. “She’s … .”
“Crazy,” Brian finished.
“I was going to say formidable,” I corrected. “You can make fun all you want, but you couldn’t pay me to take that woman on. She is … beyond messing with.”
Brian was unperturbed. “I think she’s crazy, and that entire family lets her get away with murder because they’re too sweet to put her in a home,” he said. “That’s where she belongs. She should be strapped down and medicated.”
The young woman in the witch hat tapped Brian on the arm, drawing his attention. “Are you talking about Ms. Tillie?” she asked.
Brian nodded. “She’s crazy.”
“You know that she can hear when people talk badly about her, right?” the woman pressed. “Annabelle Dickinson told Madison Wilson that Ms. Tillie had fake teeth, and the next day Annabelle’s pants wouldn’t fit.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” Brian said, exchanging a curious look with me. “Do you know what that means?”
“I think it means that Aunt Tillie cursed Annabelle Dickinson and made her fat,” I filled in.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Brian sputtered.
“Callie Mulligan once said that Ms. Tillie looked like an angry garden gnome and was just as smart – this was after Ms. Tillie refused to give her a bottle of her special wine because she was underage – and the next day Callie couldn’t do anything but bark like a dog.”
“Did you ever consider she was faking it?” Brian challenged.
“Actual dogs could understand what she was saying,” the woman countered. “She held conversations with them. I swear to God it’s true.”
“Uh-huh.” Brian shot me an “I told you so” look. “How do you know the dogs understood her?”
“You could see it on their faces,” the woman answered. “If I were you, I would beg Ms. Tillie for forgiveness. If you don’t, you’ll probably wake up tomorrow to find something horrible has gone wrong.”
“Like?” Brian obviously wasn’t convinced of Aunt Tillie’s evil prowess. I, on the other hand, thought she was probably capable of much more than most people gave her credit for. She’d earned her reputation for a reason.
“I heard that she made Dan Millikan’s thing shrink so small that he thought it was a pimple while he was dreaming and tried to pop it,” the woman replied, not missing a beat. “He left town to become a priest because he was so depressed.”
“Well … okay,” Brian said, squaring his shoulders as he turned back to me. “Do you still think the people in this town aren’t crazy?”
“I think they’re … colorful,” I said.
“Yes, that’s a great way to look at it,” Brian deadpanned. “They’re colorful … not certifiable at all.”
I shifted my eyes to the edge of the table, where the woman in the witch hat was back for more. She looked as if she was on her way out – which was probably a good thing.
“You might not believe me about Ms. Tillie, but you will,” the woman warned. “Dan Millikan spent two weeks being tortured by all the guys in town for the pimple incident. They put Stridex pads on his locker … and left Clearasil on his desk. I hear he runs screaming whenever he sees a Proactive commercial now. Think about that before you take on Ms. Tillie.”
The woman flounced off, leaving Brian to scowl and me to laugh.
“How can you encourage stuff like that?” Brian asked, incredulous.
“I find it funny,” I said. “Come on. You have to admire a woman who has convinced an entire town that arguing with her will cause them great bodily harm.”
“She’s crazy,” Brian said, digging into his wallet and drawing out a few bills to leave on the table as a tip. “There’s no getting around it. I don’t know how she’s snowed this entire town, but I’m not afraid of her. She’s all talk.”
For some reason I couldn’t wait until Aunt Tillie proved Brian’s assertion wrong. “I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree,” I said. “Are you going back to the newspaper office?”
“Yeah, I have to talk to Bay about a new idea I have for advertorial business pieces,” Brian said. “I have a feeling she’s going to put up a fight when I tell her what I want to do to boost revenue.”
“Have you ever considered letting Bay run the editorial division and sticking to the advertising?” I asked. “She seems to know what she’s doing.”
“I’m the boss,” Brian said. “It’s my job to lead her to the stories. It will be fine.”
I had my doubts. Bay was persnickety on a good day – and downright mouthy on a bad one. “Well, have fun,” I said, tossing a few more dollars on the table for good measure. The last thing I wanted to do was tick off the diner’s waitstaff. If they banned me I would have absolutely nowhere to eat.
I ran through my mental to-do list as I walked toward the front of the restaurant, so lost in thought I didn’t notice the door opening and a figure walking through it until I rammed into a tiny woman, knocking her to the ground and listing to the side as I struggled to retain my footing.
I opened my mouth to apologize and froze when I realized who it was.
“Hello, Clove,” I said, internally sighing. “I am so sorry.”
Two
“I … oh … I am so sorry.”
My cheeks burned as I leaned over to help Clove to her feet. Her face was flushed, and she looked at my outstretched hand as if it was covered in pus and boils before finally taking it and letting me help he
r to a standing position.
“I didn’t see you,” I said, brushing off the arm of her coat. It was spring, but it wasn’t yet warm enough to go without layers unless it was sunny. “I … are you okay?”
Clove’s dark eyes flashed as she jerked her arm away. “I’m fine,” she said, shooting me a hostile look. “I … you should watch where you’re going. You could’ve killed me.”
Despite my embarrassment, I couldn’t help but smile at the admonishment. “I could’ve killed you?”
“I might have accidentally hit my head when I fell,” Clove sniffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s a thing. I saw it on television. I could’ve gotten a closed head injury that went unnoticed for days and filled my head with blood until it exploded. That would’ve sucked.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. “Did you hit your head?”
Clove reluctantly shook her head, her long dark hair brushing her shoulders. She was tiny – even for a woman. If I had to guess, she didn’t clear five feet. Her nose was pert and upturned, a smattering of light freckles on her cheeks. Her eyes were the same color as a chocolate bar, and while her cousins often wore hostile expressions, she smiled more than the rest of her family combined. I liked that about her. I especially liked that her smile was never malevolent or indicative of mayhem. That was something I couldn’t say about the rest of the Winchester family.
“I really am sorry for running into you,” I offered. “I was thinking about everything I had to do out at the lighthouse today, and I was … overwhelmed. That doesn’t excuse almost killing you, but I really am sorry.”
“I’m fine,” Clove said, waving off my apology. “I shouldn’t have been mean to you. It’s not fair.”
If that was her version of mean – especially given those she shares genes with – she had a vastly different definition of the word than I did. “You weren’t mean,” I said. “You were … worried about the head wound.”
Despite herself, Clove laughed. It was a cute sound. Everything about her was cute. She was the least flashy of the Winchesters in her age group, and for some reason that made me gravitate toward her. Of course, Thistle and Bay once threatened to set me on fire, so I wasn’t particularly fond of them.
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