by Amy Casey
I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Yeah. Touché.”
“Touché indeed,” Steve said.
We ordered our mains. Steve went for a standard steak and chips, while I opted for a spaghetti bolognese—vegetarian style. But the longer the wait for our food went on, the more uncertain about everything I began to feel. It was weird. I was used to chatting with Steve. I was more than accustomed to the small talk between us.
But right now the silence was deafening. It was a struggle. A battle, like we were nervous kids on our first ever…
No. Don’t think “date.” Don’t even think that word.
Steve cleared his throat and made the first move. “Kind of weird, this whole dating thing, isn’t it?”
Bloody hell. He’d only gone and said it. “Mm,” I responded.
“I mean, we’ve known each other for how long?”
“Long enough.”
“And we bump into each other most days.”
“Mostly because you decide to come into Witchy Delights for a coffee and a cake most days. If you didn’t, we’d probably never see each other.”
I smiled. Steve looked confused.
Calm it, Stella. Calm your shit down.
“Right,” he said. “All I’m saying is… Ah. The food’s here. Great!”
He looked relieved that the food had arrived and to be honest I couldn’t blame him. Anything to save us from more awkward attempted conversation. It was weird. I knew what he was getting at. We’d spoken so naturally for so long, never letting anything get in our way. But now these walls had been erected around us—now we’d been ring-fenced into the idea that we were “on a date”—the whole thing felt a lot more difficult. A lot more… unnatural.
I only had to hope that it would pass, in time.
Steve tucked right into his steak. I looked down at my spaghetti and knew from the width of the pasta that I’d made a bad choice already. Not to mention they’d given me a fork and a spoon. A bloody fork and a bloody spoon. I always ate with a fork and a knife. I’d tried eating spaghetti with a spoon before—and it’d been a mess.
But I was too embarrassed to ask for a knife, so I had to persevere.
It couldn’t be that difficult, right?
Right?
I slurped up some spaghetti, dropping a load right away, splashing it back on my cream shirt. Good start.
“So,” I said, trying to break the inevitable attention Steve was paying to my eating habits. That’s what happens when someone who lives on their own and usually eats takeaways is brought out into the real world. “How’s policey stuff?”
Steve chowed down on a chunky piece of steak. “It’s… well. I’d love to say it’s eventful. I’d love to say I’m doing all I can to keep the criminals of Goosridge from causing mayhem and menace. But honestly, it’s quiet.”
I struggled some more with my spaghetti. Saw a couple on the table beside us giving me a real judgemental glance. “Isn’t quiet a good thing, really?”
“I suppose I should be grateful,” Steve said. “I could be worked off my feet every day with murder and mayhem. But instead, I get to help old ladies up when they’ve fallen and figure out who is littering the town square.
“But I dunno. I long for more, you know? I shouldn’t, especially because “more” usually means bad things happening. But I just—”
“Feel like you’re wasting your potential. Like there’s more you could give to this world.”
I caught his eyes for a second, realised I’d been talking about myself.
“That’s exactly it,” he said.
He looked away, then. And I could sense the next question that was coming from a mile away.
“Do you speak from experience?”
Did I speak from experience? Well, for one, I was a witch. I had abilities that I felt could be put to far better use than being stuck in Witchy Delights, as much as I took pride in that job and the business I ran. But I’d solved two murder cases. One of them with a supernatural slant, the other something different entirely.
I thought back to that fateful final conversation with my cousin, Thomas. The offer he’d made me. The offer to go over to Nightthistle, to make a bid to be the new town sheriff…
The offer had been so tempting.
And yet something had held me back.
So many things had held me back.
I cleared my throat, forced a smile. “I’m quite happy where I am, to be honest.”
“And so you should be,” Steve said, smile on his face. “I mean, you make a damn good macaroon.”
“It’s macaron.”
“What?”
“It… it doesn’t matter.”
We ate a little while longer. Well, mostly I ate because I was taking my spaghetti as slowly as I could. We ordered dessert—I had sticky toffee pudding, Steve went for a baked apple crumble. And it was nice. The whole conversation, the restaurant, all of it was nice.
But then something shifted.
Right at the end of the night, right when Steve asked for the bill, it shifted.
“So do you want to come over to mine for a coffee?”
There was nothing wrong with what Steve had asked. There was nothing but innocence to his words.
But something made me freeze up inside.
Something made my blood run cold.
I stood up. My chair fell down in the process, catching everyone’s eye.
“Stella?” Steve said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, turning away.
“But I thought—”
“Really, Steve,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I rushed outside of Sparling’s, all eyes on me and the mess I’d made of my shirt with the slurping of spaghetti.
And as I left, I couldn’t even bring myself to look back at Steve, my guilt was so strong.
Because I knew what was getting to me.
I knew what was tearing me up.
And once again, in a thick ball of panic, it was rearing its ugly head…
Chapter 4
After the incident with Steve at Sparling’s restaurant, I did the natural thing that anyone who suspected they’d acted rather rashly and irrationally would do.
What was that?
Well, I locked myself in my flat, television on as loud a volume as it would go without disturbing the neighbours, my dog by my side.
It was dark outside. I knew it was some time in the early hours, but I didn’t know when exactly. One thing was for sure—I was wired. So wired that I thought I knew exactly how Mary would feel when she struggled with her insomnia. I was tired but at the same time, I couldn’t stop my thoughts from racing, so I figured I’d just watch some inane stuff on TV. I still wasn’t sure what I was watching even though I’d been watching for hours. Just moving images and noises, one rolling into the next.
Rocky was snoring by my side. He’d been concerned about me when I came in, asking how I was, where I’d been, why I looked sad. Well, he’d been concerned about getting a treat first of course, which I’d duly obliged.
But right now, as I stroked his head, I was just so glad to have his company (especially cause Beatrice was being rude sitting on the other side of the lounge). I was so glad to have him beside me.
Because with him beside me, I could begin to distance myself from what had happened at the restaurant earlier tonight.
I tucked into some ice cream, which I knew I should really stay away from. I was just eating for comfort more than anything. And hey, it was delicious. But I was stuffed as it was. I thought about what’d gone down. The way the meal had gone… well, not so great, but without much in the way of hitches, anyway.
And then dessert. It’d been easier to eat than that bloody spaghetti with a spoon, that was for sure.
It was when the night reached its close that I’d frozen.
I thought of the way Steve looked at me, the way he’d asked me to go back to his for coffee. One, coffee at night was a stupid idea, although I couldn’t imagine I’d
be any more wired than my caffeine free self right now under any circumstances.
But it was just that implication. The way Steve had invited me back to his.
I couldn’t.
I just couldn’t.
I leaned back on the sofa and closed my eyes. Steve had tried calling a few times since. I heard the door a couple of hours ago too, but that’d gone quiet now. I couldn’t blame him if he’d had enough of me. It was irrational behaviour, to anyone on the outside.
But at the same time, I hoped he wouldn’t feel too bad. He’d done nothing wrong. He’d just invited me over for coffee. There was no implication to that.
And besides. Even if there was… was it really so bad?
I was in my late twenties. I was single. And Steve was a nice guy.
But just that thought of giving up my privacy. That thought of sacrificing the freedom that had defined me, all my life.
A knot in my throat when I looked at that real reason why I was so unsure about giving up an inch of my freedom to anyone else.
It all went back to my mum.
The way she’d died when I was younger.
That feeling like the person I loved, the person I was closest to, was going away for good; leaving me behind.
But there was something else, too. That revelation from my mum that I had abilities, and that she wanted me to embrace them and become who I really was.
In a sense, that moment had broken trust with my mum. Because I couldn’t understand why someone I loved so dearly—someone I was so close to—could hide something so important from me for so long.
And sure. There was the argument that at the time, I was too young to understand. There was even the perfectly valid argument by Dad that perhaps I’d be better off living a “normal” life, because powers meant problems and problems in the world of abilities often meant death.
But there was another thing. That uncertainty from Dad that Mum was dead at all.
And then what Thomas had told me.
“Your mum is alive, Stella.”
I thought back to the moment he’d told me. The way he’d announced it. I remember feeling like I was waking up from a bad dream. Like the one thing I’d wanted all along was coming true.
But there was something else, too. Something painful.
And that was the pain that I’d been lied to, all over again.
That all my pain over all these years was for nothing.
So I’d pushed Thomas away. I’d pushed him away and told him never to come back.
And in the two months since, I’d done everything I could to push away what he’d told me about my mother.
But it was finally rearing its head, coming to the surface…
I heard a bang on the door, and my eyes jolted open.
Rocky hopped off me and barked. I stood up. Kept still. Who would it be at this time? Not Steve, surely?
I ignored the knocks upon hearing some laughter outside. Probably just kids messing around. Anyway. Time I got to bed. Time I at least tried getting some sleep. I was a witch. An insomniac witch was an even scarier proposition. The baggy eyes would certainly add to the look.
I went to turn off the TV when I heard the knock again.
I looked over at the door that led down to my stairs. And as much as I didn’t like it, as much as I tried to deny it, I couldn’t ignore what was happening here.
There was somebody at my door.
This wasn’t just kids messing around.
There was actually someone here.
And judging by the knocks, they were pretty desperate to see me.
I patted Rocky. “It’s okay, boy. I’ve got this.”
“Have they got food?”
“I don’t know if they’ve got food—”
“They do?”
“I said I don’t know if they’ve got food. But if they do, I’ll be sure to bring it up to you.”
Rocky seemed to like this. Completely reassured him. Great guard dog.
I walked over to the door to my stairs. Stood there, right at the top. Usually, I could see a silhouette from here. But I couldn’t see a thing.
As I waited, I wondered if maybe whoever it was had gone. If they’d got bored of knocking and moved on. Maybe it was Steve. I’d put my phone in airplane mode so I wouldn’t be able to tell if he’d called.
Or perhaps it was Mary. Perhaps she’d caught wind of what’d happened and decided to come down here and see how I was.
But whatever the case, there was nobody at the door anymore.
There was—
Another bang.
I froze. My heart pounded. My lips began to dry.
And as I stood there, I knew I was going to have to investigate. I couldn’t just leave this. Even if it was somebody messing around, they needed a damn good lesson teaching.
I crept down the stairs. And as I moved, slowly, I activated my invisibility, body part by body part, step by step.
When I reached the bottom step, stood right by the door, I held my breath. I was completely coated in invisibility. I had a chance, now. A chance to maintain my disguise. A chance to figure out exactly who this was, once and for all.
I reached my hand out, heart racing, chest tight, waiting for any number of things.
And I remembered what my dad had told me.
The Pandora’s box.
How I had opened it.
I was a soldier in the war.
What if this was another soldier on the opposing side?
I shook my head. Cleared my throat.
I was in my home. I had the upper-hand of invisibility. And I had a shitload of powers I wasn’t afraid to use.
So I took a deep breath and I lowered the door handle.
Then I swung it open as swift as I could.
In that first second, I realised my mistake. I could’ve activated weightlessness. I could’ve drifted through the door and investigated without drawing attention to myself; handing over the upper ground.
But as soon as I saw who it was, I froze completely, and my invisibility dropped.
He was standing opposite me. He looked… pale. Almost translucent.
And that’s when I saw from the light glow surrounding his skin that there was a reason why he was translucent.
“Curtis?” I said.
My magic cousin looked up at me with fear in his eyes. “I need help, Stella. Your help. We all need your help.”
I frowned, heart pounding, still not totally understanding any of this. “What is it? What’s…”
But I already knew the answer.
I knew it when I realised why he was so pale.
Why he was almost translucent.
And why his skin was glowing.
“I’m dead, Stella,” Curtis said. “Somebody killed me. And I need your help.”
Chapter 5
I looked at Curtis—my cousin—as he stood at my door and I tried to remember a time I’d been more taken aback by a single event.
Trying…
Trying…
Nope. Nothing.
I was pretty shook.
The darkness outside was suffocating. The air was still warm and humid. In the distance, I could hear the laughter of a few teenagers messing around in the street. I knew I probably looked like a weirdo, standing at my door, staring into what would seem like space, to them.
Except I wasn’t staring into space, was I?
I was staring into the eyes of my cousin’s ghost.
My cousin who was claiming he had been killed.
“Well, aren’t you going to ask me inside?” Curtis said.
I frowned. The shock of the situation was still proving tough for me to wrap my head around. “I… You’re a ghost, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Well you’re a ghost. So technically you don’t actually need me to invite you inside. You could just, like, float through the walls and hover over me. That’s how it works, right?”
Curtis narrowed his eyes, like he couldn
’t quite believe what I was suggesting. “I mean I could but… well, that’d be rude.”
“Rude? So you’re a polite ghost?”
“And you’re an impolite human making me stand here on your doorstep. Invite me in. I’m bloody freezing.”
I stepped back, figured there was no harm in letting Curtis’ ghost inside. He was my cousin, after all. I’d only met him a few times. He hadn’t even been around much on my week-long stay in Nightthistle. But he seemed nice. Kind. Pleasant and laid back.
Who would want to kill him?
I watched him hover up my stairs, marvelling at his newfound transparency. “I always fancied being a ghost when I died. Figured I’d spend my time winding Thomas up. Alas, there are more important matters at st… oh my, there’s a creature in your house.”
I got to the top of the stairs and for a minute, I wondered what Curtis was referring to as he floated there, sheepishly.
Then I saw he was looking right in Rocky’s direction.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s Rocky.”
Rocky’s head rose. “Rocky? Food?”
Curtis looked between Rocky and me. Rocky clearly couldn’t see him. “That… that hound. You speak to it?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, walking over and patting Rocky on the head, something which seemed to make Curtis very uncomfortable. “But anyway. I’m guessing you’re not here to talk about dogs.”
Curtis nodded, clearly still not happy with this set-up. He hovered over to Beatrice’s side, like she could offer him some comfort. But as with everybody, whether she could see them or not, she didn’t seem fussed at all. “I’ve been murdered,” he said.
“You say that like I’d say ‘I’ve lost my keys’ or something.”
“Well, I don’t know how else you want me to say it, Stella. Do you want me to fall to my non-existent knees in hysterics?”
“I’d rather you started with what your murder has to do with me.”
Curtis shook his head. “Stella. Don’t put yourself down. You’re a good investigator. You have to see that at this point.”
“I might well be,” I said. “But again. I don’t know what you want me to do about your murder.”