Hocus Pocus and the All-New Sequel

by A. W. Jantha

  “Pray tell, Mathilda,” Winifred says to the poshest of the newly resurrected witches, “how dost thou feel about terrier?”

  “It’s a touch stringy when stewed,” the witch replies in a rich English accent. “But roasted, it’s quite lovely.”

  “Yes, Sister,” Winifred answers, her smile growing. “I thought you might say that.”

  The horizon has gone hazy, but the edge of the sun hasn’t cracked it yet. The blood moon has reddened.

  I’m standing on Winter Island’s shore by the lighthouse and its boathouse where we stashed our bikes. In the daytime, the lighthouse is quite striking—a dizzyingly tall white column with rust-streaked sides and a black 360-degree balcony at the top, just outside the glass windows housing the light. It overlooks an outcrop of huge cracked boulders and the ocean, and there’s the small empty boathouse not far from its base, where I stand now.

  Elizabeth’s ghostly image levitates above a bucket of cemetery dirt—sort of like the ghostly version of teleporting. Isabella stands beside her, casting bolts of lightning around the grounds, trying to gather enough energy to destroy the moonstone in one blast.

  The plan is relatively straightforward, if a little cobbled together: We’ll put the moonstone in the small boat on the dock and wait for it to be carried away from shore. Then, from the top of the lighthouse (and what we hope is a safe distance), Isabella and Elizabeth will strike the stone with lightning and, with any luck, destroy it without hurting anyone.

  It’s simple, but it also means we only have one shot at making it work. If the moonstone isn’t destroyed, the chances of finding it at the bottom of the bay are pretty much zilch.

  “How’s it going?” I ask Isabella gently.

  “Could be better,” she groans. “I don’t think I have enough power. I’m just not...” she trails off.

  “Hey,” I say, taking a step closer to her. “You got this.”

  She looks doubtful.

  “I mean, you’re Isabella Richards,” I say, smiling. “That moonstone will rue the day it crossed your path.”

  Isabella laughs a little at that, then takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Poppy,” she says. Then she casts another bolt, and I swear it’s a little stronger this time.

  I look out over the dark, choppy water, trying not to think about how little time we have left to fix this mess. Adrenaline pumps through my veins and goose bumps prickle my skin. Jeans and a sweatshirt aren’t nearly warm enough for such a cold night.

  Er, cold morning, I guess.

  I look to the sky and see a flock of birds.

  No. Not birds.

  Witches.

  “Uh, guys?” I say. Isabella and Elizabeth turn to look at me, taking a moment’s rest from what looked like their ultra-condensed version of Lightning Casting 101. Katie leans around the threshold of the boathouse, a bit disheveled from what sounded like a lot of rummaging through metal objects, and sporting a Spit it out, Dennison expression.

  Travis is working on the circuit breaker, trying to fix the fuse that blew when we’d tried to turn on the lights, but he stops fussing with the wires long enough to give me roughly the same look.

  I point up to the sky. “Witches incoming,” I say.

  Katie steps out of the boathouse, wielding an oar. “Looks like it worked, then.” She looks to me. “You ready, Dennison?”

  I nod, hoping that my expression doesn’t betray the doubt that’s settling in my stomach. “Not much choice,” I say.

  I clench the blood moonstone tighter in my fist.

  Then a menacing crackle fills the air, followed by the sound of Travis’s voice.

  “Ow!” he yelps, jumping back from the circuit breaker, which is now emitting a small stream of smoke.

  I’m about to ask what’s wrong, but the words die in my throat as the light in the tower a few dozen feet above us flickers on, casting a blinding beam into the sky.

  “What the—” Katie begins, but she trails off as we watch one of the witches, caught in the beam, waver and then fall from her broom. The light stays on a moment more, then flickers out.

  It isn’t much, but we’ll take any advantage we can get.

  “Travis,” I say urgently, turning to him. “Can you get that thing working a bit more...permanently?”

  “I-I don’t—”

  He sees the look on my face that clearly says, Do. Or do not. There is no try.

  “I think so,” he says.

  “Good. Isabella, you and Elizabeth get to the catwalk up top. Katie and I will be right behind you,” I say. “Travis, we’ll buy as much time as we can, but if you can get that thing working, we might be able to turn the tide in our favor.”

  “What’s your plan here, Pops?” Travis asks.

  “Light,” I say simply. “They’re no vampires, but it ain’t easy trying to fly a broom with a thousand watts in your eyes. Hopefully it’ll annoy the hell out of them long enough for us to come up with a plan B.”

  “Good enough for me,” Isabella says. Without hesitation, she picks up Elizabeth’s bucket of dirt and ducks into the lighthouse, clamoring up the metal spiral steps within.

  “What have we here?” says a now-familiar persnickety voice.

  I look up to find Winifred Sanderson hovering above us on her cordless vacuum. “A wayward beef-witted miscreant. You called?”

  I stiffen when I realize Winifred is not joined only by her sisters.

  Five additional women appear in the sky behind Winifred, along with her sisters, and all of them look dangerous. One uses a lace parasol to fly, reminding me of Mary Poppins, but deadlier. Another wears what looks like armor made from snakeskin: she seems to be able to walk on air without any help at all. A third, who hovers perched on a rake, seems to have a moving tattoo around her neck, but then I realize it’s a live snake, twisting as it circles her neck and shoulders, restless. So they’ve begun to exchange more innocent lives for their nasty friends.

  “I have something you want,” I say, narrowing my eyes at Winifred.

  Winifred sniffs primly. “Where is my scruffy little niece?”

  “Don’t worry about her,” I say.

  “It seems rather like a runaround if I don’t.”

  I hold up the blood moonstone.

  My hand is sweaty, and for a brief second, I’m afraid I’ll drop it and ruin the plan.

  I feel all eyes on it.

  Winifred advances on me herself, raising her left hand to signify for her coven to hold back. She levitates a dozen feet or so above me, tucking the spell book into her robes.

  This next part is important.

  Winifred’s eyes are wild and frightening, gleaming in the dim glow of the blood moon, and her talons are outstretched.

  When she’s close enough that I can see every ghastly detail of her gravity-defying hair, I turn and sprint toward the lighthouse tower.

  I open my mouth to shout at Katie, but she’s two steps ahead, literally taking the spiral steps two at a time.

  “Mary,” I hear Winifred bellow behind me, “follow them. Don’t let the miserable little snobs out of your sight.”

  I pick up speed, chancing a glance over my shoulder to see Winifred soaring higher, approaching the balcony of the lighthouse, where Isabella stands in Elizabeth’s pale, ghostly shadow.

  Mary tumbles onto the ground, lifting her Swiffer and the hem of her heavy plaid purple skirt and taking off after me, grumbling indistinctly, but she’s still thirty yards behind me as I close in on the tower. Behind Mary, Sarah glides over on her Roomba to where Travis is working on the breaker.

  I’d be worried about him if I didn’t know that he’s more than capable of outsmarting the witch, who’s a long way from the coven’s sharpest—even by seventeenth century standards.

  Ignoring the burning ache in my muscles, I enter the dark, muted quiet of the tower and bound up the steps, vowing to do more cardio if we survive this. I can hear my own heart beating in my chest. And before I even reach the deck, I hear the sound of
Katie taunting Winifred and the crackle of several bolts of homespun witch lightning.

  One way or another, this ends here, with Travis, Isabella, and me fighting alongside Katie Taylor and a ghost to save Salem from the wicked reign of a coven of long-dead witches. I guess Mom was right—the blood moon really does have a way of wreaking havoc on the status quo.

  I reach the balcony and squeeze my eyes closed for just a moment, summoning something that I hope is strength. Then I burst through the door and enter the cold, whipping winds at the top of the tower, joining Katie, Isabella, and Elizabeth, the blood moonstone in hand.

  Ican hear Mary making her way up the stairs behind me as I slam the door to the deck, then brace myself against the thick glass of the balcony.

  Just beyond the railing of the tower, Winifred and the newest additions to her coven are circling in the air.

  Isabella and Elizabeth attempt to hit the witches with bolts of lightning, but they’re moving too quickly, spinning in tighter and tighter circles as they become emboldened.

  “So much struggle before certain death,” calls Winifred over the wind. “Just as well. A painful ending is always more fun.” Winifred regards Elizabeth. “Good to see thee again, Sister! Though you’re looking a bit pale!” She howls with laughter.

  “Oh, Winifred,” Elizabeth replies, “sincerity was never your strong suit.”

  On the other end of the deck, Katie raises her oar like a giant softball bat, swatting at the witches as they pass just barely out of reach.

  “I appreciate thine heroics, dear,” says Winifred, clearly patronizing. “But even thou must realize that the game is lost before it’s begun. Hand over the stone, and we may spare one or two wretched souls tonight.”

  “Not a chance,” I say through gritted teeth, tightening my grip on the moonstone. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the witches pull the oar from Katie’s hands, very nearly pulling her over the railing with it.

  “That’s it,” I hear Katie growl in a tone that, just four hours ago, would’ve had me running for the nearest emergency exit. “Hope you’re ready for a good old-fashioned witch slap.” With that, Katie picks up a piece of sheared-off railing from the deck, wielding it like a weapon.

  “Very well,” Winifred says, drawing my attention once again as she feigns boredom. “Then thou shall lose everything here tonight, dear.”

  Then she lowers her body to the handle of her cordless vacuum and barrels toward me with impressive speed.

  I lunge out of the way, narrowly escaping her clutches, but she banks hard and comes at me again moments later.

  “Give up, girl,” Winifred cackles, rushing toward me again. “I’ll burn thee like a plague-ridden corpse!” Her windswept hair and forest-green cloak billow around her like angry flames. Her face is twisted into something even uglier and more vengeful than before.

  Isabella and Elizabeth are still casting errant bolts of lightning with limited success, both beginning to look exhausted from the strain of it. Katie delivers a swift kick to a passing witch’s broom, but is very nearly caught by another.

  It’s looking bleak. We’re outnumbered and considerably outmatched, considering we’re up against eight witches with centuries’ worth of experience in evildoing.

  Then the light flickers faintly at our backs.

  Katie, Isabella, Elizabeth, and I turn to look at it in unison.

  It’s not much. Just a few sputtering flashes of light.

  But here, with witches circling and everyone I care about staring down the barrel of eternal damnation, it looks an awful lot like hope.

  “Isabella,” I shout over the commotion of the witches’ cackling and the wind kicking up in the wake of their aerobatics. “Can you use your powers to kick it into high gear?”

  I’m no expert electrician, but I’m hoping that a shock to the lighthouse’s old system might be enough to kick-start the light and, with any luck, give it some next-level juice.

  Isabella nods, and then she and Elizabeth turn their attention to the light, communicating silently before they lift their arms and send two bolts of lightning into the base of it.

  Before I can find out if it did anything, I gasp at the sight of Winifred charging me again.

  This time, though, there’s nowhere for me to go.

  I back up against the railing, trying to put as much distance between me and her as I can without falling.

  Winifred sees that I’m cornered, though, and a wicked smile spreads across her face as she picks up speed. She doesn’t bank or waver, and I know well before she raises her hand and sends a wave of energy straight toward me that this isn’t going to go the way I planned.

  It hits me square in the chest with enough force to push all the breath from my lungs. Behind me, the centuries-old railing of the lighthouse balcony groans, its rusty metal no match for an especially windy day, let alone a burst of supernatural energy.

  With an ominous crack, the railing gives way.

  There’s a funny thing that happens when things take a turn and suddenly the worst gets worse. Everything turns to pure instinct, to a sense of self-preservation so strong that it overrides every thought and impulse that’s not immediate survival. It’s instinct that has my hand reaching out, even as I fall and the only thing I can really think to do is panic, and stubbornly, narrowly, triumphantly, I grab hold of the element-battered metal of the deck, the blood moonstone still clenched in my other fist.

  It’s not exactly a decisive victory. I’m holding on by the tips of my fingers, and as the witches continue to dive, soar, and swirl, I know it’s only a temporary stop on the way to certain death, which is a pretty permanent problem.

  “Poppy!” I hear Isabella shout moments before I see her face above me. She reaches out toward me. “Give me your hand!” She puts one hand over mine on the deck, as if trying to keep it from slipping.

  Behind her, the light flickers; then it surges to life, bursting forth with illumination.

  I nearly laugh with relief.

  “What demon is this?!” Winifred cries, carefully dodging the beam, somewhere between gleeful and annoyed as she circles above us. “Hast thou no regard for luminary discipline?!”

  Please let this work, I think, willing the light to do something.

  And it does.

  It flickers...then it goes dark once more.

  “Poppy!” Isabella cries again. “Hand. Now!”

  Though I’m focusing nearly all of my effort on hanging on, I swing my hand overhead. “Take the moonstone!” I shout.

  But as I go to pass off the stone to Isabella, I feel it slip between my fingers and fall away. I reach out to grab it in the same motion, but I miss, and the force of the movement almost tugs me from Isabella’s grasp.

  Isabella leans farther over the side. “Take my hand,” she says.

  “But the moonstone!” I say, glancing down. The stone landed on a ledge of the lighthouse. If I just reach down, I could maybe grab it. I go to reach for it. My fingertips almost touch it, but I can feel my other hand slipping from Isabella’s hand.

  “Leave it,” Isabella says. “You have to. We’ll get it back, I promise.” Even from this angle, I can see the tears pooling in her eyes. “You’re the thing that we can’t lose. That I can’t lose.”

  It’s hard to tell if my heart’s hammering away at jackhammer speed because I’m dangling a few stories above jagged rocks and dark water that looks angrier than Principal Taylor on senior prank day, or because of the look Isabella’s giving me right now—a signature blend of incredulity, fear, and unmistakable tenderness—but somehow, it’s getting harder to hear everything that’s happening outside of the two of us.

  “This might be it,” I say, not sure if I mean for me, or for the plan if I don’t get the moonstone back.

  “It’s not.” Isabella shakes her head. “Poppy, give me your hand.” She takes a deep breath and looks me right in the eyes. “Trust me.”

  Something about the way she says it settles t
he question.

  Suddenly, leaving the moonstone and taking her hand is the only choice.

  Keeping my eyes on hers, I reach up and take her hand.

  With one swift motion (and more strength than I expected), she pulls me back up onto the solid metal of the deck.

  I take a moment to catch my breath, slumped against the part of the railing still intact.

  Isabella cups my cheek in her hand. “Poppy?” she says. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  I look at her for a long moment, trying to place something in her voice that I’ve never heard before. “I’m okay,” I say. “I’m good.”

  She looks like she’s going to say something else, but she’s cut off by an earsplitting squeal of satisfaction that pierces the air. Winifred rises on her cordless vacuum just beyond the railing, the blood moonstone in her palm and a look of pure menacing delight on her face.

  “ ’Twas a noble effort, dear,” Winnie trills, tone patronizing.

  I pull myself to my feet and see that the ground below is alive with activity now.

  It seems as though everyone from Salem is emerging from the trees, cell phones at their ears as they put one foot in front of the other, entranced. Even from a distance, it’s unnerving—like a slow-moving zombie horde on hold with customer service. They stand like sentries among the trees in a wide semicircle around the lighthouse, awaiting orders.

  “Too bad it was all for naught,” Winifred says as she pulls the spell book from inside her robes, balancing it impossibly on the cordless vacuum. “First we shall bring back all our sisters. And then, I shall be on my way to plunk this stone into my everlasting life elixir. And there’s nothing you twerps can do about it!”

  She clears her throat. “Surely there’s at least one nonbeliever in this pitiful horde,” she says. Then she begins an incantation that’s becoming all too familiar. “‘Some inside and some without. One believes and one holds doubt!’” she cries.