The Case of the Love Spell

by Amorette Anderson

  I find him in my bedroom, lying sprawled out over my faded comforter. This isn’t like him. It’s quarter to seven in the evening. Usually, when I arrive home this late he weaves between my legs, reminding me that he’s ready for his deluxe canned cat food. Which, by the way, winds up costing me as much as my own groceries for the week.

  That’s right. I spend half of my food budget on people food, and the other half on kidney-sensitive, rabbit-flavored Finicky Feline Feast.

  Oh, the things we do for our pets.

  I walk up to the bed talking softly. “Hey there, Turkey werky... how’s my kitty? You feeling okay?”

  I’m about to perch on the bed when my senses kick into high gear. The smell has gotten worse suddenly. A lot worse. I glance down at the edge of the bed I’m about to sit on and spot—oh, yuck! A cat-dish-sized puddle of slimy vomit.

  “Turkey! Honey, did you throw up?”

  I choke back a gag again, and circumnavigate the puddle so that I can scoop up my little love. He’s limp in my arms. He looks up at me with woeful eyes as I snuggle him into my chest.

  “Oh, my poor baby,” I coo. “You’re sick to your tummy wummy? Here, come with mommy, you need to drink some water.”

  Before I can cart him into the kitchen, he begins hacking, retching, and coughing in my arms. Then, with a final sputter, he spews out a spout of smelly, yucky cat vomit—all over me.

  “Ahh! Turkey!” I hold him out while the warm throw up drips down my front.

  I’m disgusted, but at the same time I don’t want to let go of my precious kitty. I imagine this must be how mothers feel when their newborns burp up. Turkey is pretty much my baby.

  Holding him out, in case a second round comes over him, I begin shuffling towards the kitchen. I need to strip out of this dress and toss it, along with my comforter, into the washing machine. But before that, I need to make sure my poor sick baby gets some water into him. He’s so limp and weak, I’m sure that he’s dehydrated.

  As I place him down with a light thud by his water dish, there’s a knock on the door.

  Who could that be? I take three steps to my left, out of my little kitchen and to the front door. A quick peek through the peep-hole gives me an answer: Chris.

  “Shoot!” I whisper under my breath.

  I’m covered in cat puke. I start pulling my dress up off of my head, envisioning a quick clothing change before I open the door.

  As I pull the dress up over my head, carefully holding the soggy material away from my face, Turkey decides that he’s feeling stronger. The water must have helped him regain his energy, because suddenly he jumps up, perhaps aiming for my arms so that I can squeeze, hug, and pet him like I love to do.

  The only problem is, I currently have a sundress over my head.

  My dress plasters against my face, and I give a strangled scream of shock and disgust.

  Scared off by my yell, Turkey nimbly hops from my shoulder to the top of my head and then off of me entirely.

  That’s when I hear the door open.

  “Penny?” Chris calls out as he bursts in. I’m trapped inside my dress; half in and half out of it. “Are you okay? What the...”

  I yank the dress from my head, my eyes squeezed shut and sputtering like I’m possessed.

  “Arg!” I cry out.

  I just got practically suffocated by my own cat’s puke! Never mind the fact that I’m standing in front of my hot ex in just my underwear—I might have cat throw up in my mouth!

  Hunched over and still sputtering, I make my way quickly to the bathroom, where I fire up a steamy hot shower. I slam the bathroom door behind me before stripping off my undies and stepping under the scalding stream of water. After a few moments of decontamination, I step out and brush my teeth—thoroughly.

  Then I wrap myself in my bathrobe, which is hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door, and step back out into the apartment.

  Chris is sitting on my couch.

  “Are you... okay?” He asks.

  Oh—did I mention Chris is my neighbor? The apartment unit that I inherited from my mother—Blackbear Apartments Unit G—is situated right next to Chris’s place, Unit H. Being neighbors with Chris makes him even harder to avoid.

  That doesn’t mean I don’t try.

  However, when the guy stops by your house unexpectedly, it’s hard to get away.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I ordered the autopsy for Claudine Terra. Then I heard you scream, and...” He smiles mischievously, clearly amused by the fact that he caught me in my skivvies when he walked through the door. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt. But what were you...”

  “Part of being a pet owner,” I say carefully, “Is dealing with their... bodily functions. If you don't have pets, you wouldn’t understand. Turkey has been having some... GI issues today.”

  I decide to leave it at that.

  Chris chuckles.

  “I fail to see how this is funny,” I say with a scowl.

  “You do? Penny... you should have seen...” He meets my eye and I shut him down with a simmering glare. He clamps his mouth closed, and stands.

  “Okay, well, since you’re not hurt or anything I should be on my way.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “You should. I’m guessing Nathalie wouldn’t appreciate the fact that you’re over here.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

  “Hunh. Nathalie.” Chris looks sideways, avoiding my glare. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know. Nathalie and I haven’t seen each other in over a week.”

  Over a week? As far as I last knew, the two were pretty much living together.

  I swallow. “Is she... out of town?” I guess.

  “Nope. She’s still here. For now. It’s just—we’re—things aren’t going so well.”

  His words hit me like a horse-kick to the gut.

  I can’t speak. Chris and Nathalie are on the fritz?!

  “Oh,” I say lightly, as if this information means very little to me. “Well, hopefully things work out for you two. Maybe this is just a bump in the road.”

  “She’s moving to Alaska,” Chris says. “She got a job offer—a promotion, actually. She’ll be head of the Equestrian program at Alaska State University.”

  “Okay... A big bump,” I say.

  “It’s a road block,” Chris says. “A dead end.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Chris shrugs. “It hasn’t been going so great between us, for a while now.” He reaches the door and looks over his shoulder at me. “The whole time I was with her, actually, I spent a lot of time thinking about you, Penny.”

  He says it so quickly, so nonchalantly, that as he steps out the door and closes it behind him, I’m left wondering: did I just imagine that?

  Did Chris Wagner really just say what I think he said?

  My heart is hammering in my chest.

  Oh no. Oh, no, no, no.

  For a moment I stand frozen, staring at the closed door. My heart is hammering in my chest.

  Then, unable to stop myself, I do a little dance right there in my bathrobe, pumping my fists into the air and shimmying my bare bottom back and forth inside my thick terry cloth robe.

  The door swings open. I freeze, arms in the air and hips jutted out to the side, a goofy grin plastered on my lips.

  Chris walks right past me, to the coffee table in the living room. He reaches for his radio, which is resting on the table top. He lifts it up. “Forgot my walky,” he says, smirking as he makes his way back to the door.

  I’m still frozen; a statue of a girl doing a victory dance, draped in a bathrobe studded in puffy white moons and stars.

  Before closing the door, he winks at me.

  I spring into action just as soon as the door closes. I march up to it and yank it open.

  “Why don’t you try knocking next time!” I call out angrily to his back as he walks away.

  In answer, he simply lifts
his hand in a silent wave.

  I slam the door closed and cross my arms over my chest.

  Sensing my distress, and perhaps wanting dinner, Turkey begins weaving around my bare ankles.

  I look down at him. “This is your fault,” I say.

  He looks up at me apologetically. It’s impossible to stay mad at my calico friend. I scoop him up and plant a kiss on his little nose.

  “Okay,” I say. “It’s not your fault that you’re sick. Mommy will get you an appointment at the vet, okay? You sure you want dinner tonight? You better not vomit again, if I feed you.”

  He gives a plaintive yowl.

  “Yes?” I guess. “Is that a yes, you want dinner?”

  He yowls again, confirming my guess.

  “Okay, pumpkin,” I say.

  After feeding Turkey, loading my clothes, comforter and sheets into the washing machine, and eating a bowl of cereal, I reach for the mysterious green book.

  Now that I have some time, I can’t wait to read some of it. It looks interesting, and I’m hoping that it might give me some insight into who Claudine Terra was. Even though I’ve lived in this town with her my whole life, I actually know very little about her.

  She was a very private person.

  A private person interested in witchcraft, apparently. Whatever that means.

  I flop back on my couch, still in my terrycloth robe, and place the book on my lap and flip it open.

  ‘The Art and Science of Becoming a Witch’ says the title page.

  There’s no author listed. In place of a publisher or author credentials, I simply see a mark. It’s a sketch of three hills. A road winds up the middle hill, disappearing over the top of it.

  I flip to the first page.

  Before I start reading, I take out my phone.

  How rare is this book, exactly?

  A quick Google search brings up only one result. It’s a post from a ‘Dr. S.’, posted in a comments thread on www.rarebooks.com. In the post, he mentions the book only briefly, saying that he is searching for a copy. I type a quick reply on Dr. S’s comment: “I think I have a copy of this book. Who wrote it? What is it worth?” I write.

  There. Maybe he or she will get back to me with some details. Hopefully, the book is worth quite a lot.

  Once that’s done, I return my focus to the book. I turn past the title page and copyright, and reach an introduction of sorts. It’s formatted as a letter. I begin to read.

  Dear One,

  Welcome. If you are reading this now, you, my dear, are destined to become a witch.

  Wherever you are, whatever you might be doing, the silvery, silken threads that weave the tapestry of your destiny have brought you here—in this moment, with this book in your hands.

  Know this.

  Feel this.

  You can feel it now, can’t you?

  Goosebumps erupt over the flesh of both of my arms. I take a deep breath. So what? I’ve just caught a chill because my hair is damp and the window is open. No big deal. This book is silly.

  I keep reading.

  Now that you are here with me, Dear One, we will progress through the thirteen cycles that will bring you to your place of power. You, my wonderful, precious one, are going to become a witch.

  Right. Sure. I snort and look at Turkey.

  “This is one cuckoo book,” I say, shaking the book in my hands.

  Turkey winks at me.

  My goosebumps grow more pronounced. I feel my eyes widen. Did my cat just wink at me?

  So what? He had something in his eye. He blinks all the time, why wouldn’t he wink, every now and then? One eyelid closed, and one didn’t. It happens to everybody.

  I take a deep breath before turning the page and keep reading.

  Before You Begin: Casting a Love Spell

  Dear One, I know that you are lacking of love in your life. As a powerful witch, oblivious to your powers, your relationships are completely and utterly one massive mess.

  Well, the author didn’t get that wrong. I read on.

  Before you begin progressing through the cycles of magic, you must align with the love in your life. It is time to clear up the mess that you have made. As you learn the magnificent, magical remedy for your lack in love, you will be creating a ripple effect that shall emanate over the entire Earth Realm, and Beyond.

  The Love Spell is one of the most powerful tools that you will take with you on your magical journey, so it is challenging to learn it so early on your path. However, it is necessary. Learning the Love Spell takes complete focus, one hundred percent of your efforts and attention, and all of your soul’s witchy magic-making juices.

  Once you learn the Love Spell, there is no going back. You will be on your way to becoming a witch. If this is not what you wish, close this book now, because—

  I slam the book shut, without reading another word.

  Though Turkey is my only witness, I give a little nervous laugh to play off my abrupt action.

  “Ha! Ha-ha. Seriously, cuckoo,” I say, looking at my cat while twirling a finger around my temple, making the universal sign for crazy.

  Turkey meows.

  I reach forward and pet him. “I’ll call Buttercup first thing in the morning. She’ll give your little tummy a good check-up. For right now, let’s get to bed. I think both of us have had quite a day.”

  I place the book on the coffee table and hold out my arms to Turkey. On cue, he jumps into my arms and I carry her like a baby into the bedroom.

  I’m greeted by a bare mattress. Right. My sheets and covers are in the wash. I release Turkey and he lands light-footed on the springy mattress and starts kneading it. “I know,” I say. “It just won’t do, will it? I know... I’ll grab the sleeping bag.”

  I drag my sleeping bag from the closet and spread it over my full-sized mattress. Once I slide into the bag I close my eyes and wait for sleep to come.

  Goodness, that moonlight is bright.

  I open my eyes and stare out the window at the almost full moon.

  It’s shining right into my bedroom.

  I huff and puff, extracting myself from the slippery nylon bag so that I can pull down my blinds.

  Back in my bag, with Turkey at my side, I squeeze my eyes shut.

  It’s no use.

  I’m buzzing with energy. It’s like my finger is in a socket and I’ve got electricity coursing through me. What has me so fired up?

  Hm. Maybe the fact that as of this afternoon, I’m involved in a murder case?

  Or could it be the fact that my ex-boyfriend just saw me in my bra and panties, right before telling me he’s now suddenly back on the market?

  Or is it the creepy, hundred-plus years old book currently sitting in my living room, telling me that it’s my destiny to become a witch?

  I flop over to my other side, squeezing my eyes shut with more effort.

  It’s no use.

  The perfect trifecta of stressors have attacked me from all sides like a three-pronged pincer, and I can’t escape. Frustrated and sleepless, I wander back out to the kitchen area and put the tea kettle on. Once I have some lemon lavender tea in my favorite mug, I settle back into the couch.

  If I’m not going to sleep, I might as well read.

  Despite my initial reaction to the book, I now find myself strangely drawn to it. It’s like part of me wants to get rid of it immediately—and never see it again. Another, stronger part of me is drawn to it like Marley to wine and little cubes of cheese.

  I can’t not read this book.

  Hungrily, as if I’m possessed, I pick up right where I left off.

  The words suck me in as if they’re forming a whirling vortex in my mind. I’m hypnotized by the words as they string together and form sentence after sentence that seem to sink deeply into my consciousness. I lose all track of time, and the next thing I know, I’m closing the back cover, after having read the final page.

  Immediately, as soon as the back cover closes, I flip to the front and star
t reading again. Compulsively. Manically. As though I can’t help myself. And then I repeat this pattern ten more times. After the tenth time reading the book through, cover to cover, I look up as though I’m just waking up from a dream.

  My tea is cold.

  The sky is silver with dawn.

  My eyes are heavy with sleep.

  Exhausted and feeling strangely peaceful and satiated now, I heave myself off of the couch and shuffle to the bedroom, where I crawl into my sleeping bag like a caterpillar crawling into a cocoon. With any luck, I’ll wake up in eight hours feeling like a butterfly. A witchy, transformed butterfly.

  Chapter Four

  To: Knitting Circle

  From: Cora

  Re: Meeting on Wednesday, July 25th

  Good morning, ladies!

  It was so wonderful to see you all yesterday at the Death Cafe’s grand opening. Annie, I am so happy for you that your re-branding of the cafe went over so well. I, for one, was very impressed with your interior decoration. I am sure that you are happy to be done with the remodel, and to have the cafe once again open for business. Which brings me to my next point.

  Are we all set for meeting up on Wednesday, July 25th (tomorrow) at 5 PM for Knitting Circle? I have a bag full of new yarns and I am eager to do some pattern swapping. It’s been a whole month since we last met, and I’ve been missing you all!

  Let me know what you think,

  Sincerely,

  Cora

  To: Knitting Circle

  From: Annie

  Re: Meeting on Wednesday, July 25th

  Hello, fellow knitters! Yes, Cora, I’d be delighted to host our get together this Wednesday at five. As usual, I can provide tea and light refreshments. If someone else wants to bring a few nibbles, that would be wonderful too.

  If I remember correctly, it is Penny’s turn to choose our reading material. Penny, did you mention that you had a book in mind for the group? I thought you said that you were going to email us last night with the title information, but I didn’t receive any messages. Did I miss something?

  Thanks again for your support yesterday at the opening. I agree with you, Cora... I do think it was a great success.