Writing Wrongs: Crow’s Feet Coven, Book One

by Gael, Christine

  Frigging Greg.

  I leaned forward and rested my head against the smooth steering wheel, trying not to cry.

  Why did I keep hitting dead ends? I was experiencing the craziest, scariest, most confusing thing I'd ever experienced in my life, and it felt like the more I tried to get to the bottom of what was happening, the more elusive the answers got.

  "Do you offer some sort of payment plan or?"

  As I said the words, it struck me that, even if they did, I couldn't take advantage of it. If something was wrong and they discovered it, even if I got insurance after the fact, none of the treatment would be covered because it was a pre-existing condition.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, we don't, but there is a credit card that--"

  "It's fine, I'm good. Thank you."

  I disconnected the phone and tossed it back into my purse with a groan.

  It was par for the course, really. Just another scene in the shit-show of my life right now.

  Bright light flashed, illuminating the inside of the car a second before a loud crack rent the air. A second later, the skies opened and the rain came down in heavy sheets, sluicing over my windshield.

  "Excellent," I mumbled, self-pity closing over me like a wet blanket. I was Eeyore, the depressed donkey from Winnie the Pooh with the tail that kept falling off.

  I was staring out the window at the Golden Lantern, weighing my even more insistent need for Chinese food with my desire to stay dry, when a strange clippety-clopping sound caught my attention.

  I craned my neck to peer through the back window, and nearly choked on my own tongue at what I saw.

  There, trotting down Main Street through the deluge of rain, was a real-life, honest to goodness giraffe, in all her glory.

  "Well, hello, Dolly,” I whispered through numb lips.

  Chapter 6

  "Don't freak out. Don't freak out."

  If I had a dollar for every time I said that between seeing the giraffe and pulling up to Connie’s Curiosities on Exeter Street an hour later, I'd have been able to pay cash for my MRI, no problemo. Only, now, I wasn't sure I needed one. Because, while the sheaf of papers in my purse were now blank, with no mention of Dolly the giraffe to be found, the pictures I'd taken of my story the night before were a whole other story.

  I turned off the ignition and glanced down at my cell on the passenger's seat, almost afraid to touch it.

  "Just check one more time, to be sure," I whispered under my breath.

  I lunged for the phone, anxious to get it over with, and stared down at the now-backlit screen. Staring back at me was an image of a typewritten page, the words too small to decipher without my readers. I used my index and middle finger to enlarge it, and nodded slowly as the title font came into focus.

  Dolly's Day Out.

  I had it, right in my hands. Proof that I wasn't crazy. Proof that I'd actually, somehow, managed to either foretell the future…

  "Or create it."

  That thought was so chilling, I shuddered before stuffing my phone back into my purse.

  I should be thrilled. I didn't need a doctor after all. Downside?

  I might need an exorcist.

  On a mission, I shoved my way out of the car and paused to lug the typewriter from the backseat. I’d managed to sneak it past Mee-maw, who was too busy watching Walker, Texas Ranger to worry about what I was doing. I’d figure out how to explain its absence later. For now, I had one goal, and that was to either figure out what was going on, or get rid of the cursed thing.

  Rain pelted my hair and face as I scurried up the pathway. By the time I got to the front door of the shop, it was clear it had closed for the day. The interior lights were off, and the sign on the window said, "Sorry we missed you, we'll be back tomorrow!"

  I squeezed my eyes closed and swallowed hard past the lump in my throat. Tomorrow wasn't going to cut it. I needed answers, and I needed them now.

  A bolt of lightning set the sky ablaze and, for a split second, I could just make out a shadowy silhouette in the store's interior.

  "Hello?" I called, balancing the heavy typewriter on one knee and using my free hand to rap sharply on the door. "Connie? Is anyone there?"

  I pressed my face against the cool glass and strained to see more clearly. Sure enough, there was some movement near the back of the store.

  "Connie!" I howled, louder now as I banged on the door. "It’s Cricket Hawthorne. I need you to let me in, this is an emergency.”

  The figure stopped moving but didn’t approach the door.

  “If you don't open the door, I'm going to stand out here making a ruckus until the police come to cart me away," I warned, desperation making my voice crack.

  My fists were starting to throb and I was considering the wisdom of breaking the door glass when the older woman's face appeared behind the pane of glass.

  "We're closed," she called, scowling at me.

  "I see that, but you're just going to have to open again because I'm not leaving until you do," I called back.

  She must've seen the determination on my face because, a moment later, the locks tumbled and the door swung open.

  "What can I do for you?" she asked, blocking the doorway with her trim form.

  "What you can do for me is explain why the hell you sold me a--" I broke off and peered around before dropping my voice to a hiss, "possessed typewriter. How about that?" I demanded, pushing my way past her and through the doorway.

  "Keep your voice down!" she shot back, closing claw-like fingers over my forearm and dragging me the rest of the way inside before closing the door with a snap. "Geez Louise, do you want people to think we've lost out marbles?"

  "Honestly, I've had such a stunningly terrifying few days, I'm not sure I even care what people think at this point."

  I held the typewriter clutched to my chest as she led me through the shop to a staircase.

  "We can talk about it in my apartment upstairs," she muttered.

  I followed her up the steps, counseling myself to stay calm the whole way. The fact that she hadn't contacted an ambulance or called the police on me already sealed the deal. Something was fishy about that typewriter, and Connie knew about it.

  We stepped into her tiny living quarters and she gestured to the kitchen table. "Sit. I'll get you a towel and make tea."

  "Forget the towel and the tea," I whispered miserably, setting the bulky typewriter on the table and flexing my aching forearms. "Please, just tell me what the heck is going on. I feel like I'm taking crazy pills right now."

  A strange look passed over her face as she opened her mouth, and only a strangled squeak came out.

  "Connie?" I said, cocking my head as I stared at her.

  I hadn’t realized it in the dim light downstairs, but she looked weird. Off somehow, but I couldn't put my finger on how. Her even, pretty features were the same, but her luminous skin had taken on a grayish pallor and her fiery ringlets burned a little less bright than the day we’d met at the community center.

  Her throat worked and she let out another squeak.

  "Are you okay?" I pressed, wondering if she was choking on a butterscotch or something.

  The worry crease in her forehead smoothed and her lips tipped into a sudden smile.

  "Fine, dear, yes. I'm sorry I was short with you. It's been a bit of a day. I'm sure it has been for you, as well. Please, sit. I can't tell you much, but I'm happy to share what I'm able to."

  Still confused by her strange behavior, but too relieved she'd agreed to talk to dwell on it, I sank into the kitchen chair with a groan.

  "Just please tell me this thing isn't going to come to life and kill everyone in the town or something," I murmured, raking my hand through my rain-soaked hair.

  She let out a tinkling chuckle and I glared at her.

  "You laugh, but a man was devoured by a shark because of me. I fail to see the humor in this situation. I thought I was buying a typewriter and you sold me an instrument of murder and mayhem."

>   "Not murder, dear," she corrected with a shrug as she took the seat across from me. "The man would've died whether you had written about it or not. It's very...complicated."

  "Make it simple, then. Use small words, because my brain is fried right now. What's the deal with your crazy typewriter?"

  She tucked a curl behind one ear and blew out a sigh. "It's not my typewriter. It's yours."

  "Now," I corrected. "But up until a couple days ago, it was yours."

  "Not entirely true. It's always been yours, child."

  A strange sensation skittered through me and I stared into her too-green eyes as she continued.

  "We all have a destiny, and, I hate to sound dramatic, but this union with the typewriter is yours."

  "So, then, you know what it can do?" I whispered.

  "Not 'it', Cricket. You. The typewriter is just a tool. A way for your gifts to reveal themselves."

  Her words only brought more questions bubbling to my lips. "How? Why me? Where did you get it?"

  She shook her head slowly and shot me a rueful smile. "All questions I cannot answer for you, dear. This isn't my journey. It's yours. The best thing to do right now is embrace that journey. Lock yourself in a room with the typewriter and spend some time allowing yourself to explore its abilities." Her nostrils flared and a prolonged squeak gurgled from her throat. "Run."

  I blinked and squinted at her. "W-what did you say?"

  She opened her mouth again but promptly flew into a coughing fit that seemed to wrack her whole body. I reached out to tentatively pat her back, still reeling from our strange talk, but also concerned. When the coughing continued, I stood and rifled through the cabinets until I came up with a mason jar that I filled with tap water.

  "Here, drink this if you can," I murmured, pressing the glass into her hand.

  She took it with a grateful nod and downed its contents in one.

  "Thank you, dear. I think I swallowed a moth or something."

  I wrinkled my nose. "Ew. Sorry about that. But what was it you were saying at the end there..."

  She shrugged, looking perplexed, but then her face cleared. "Ah, yes. I was saying that you should run along now. The sooner you allow yourself to truly bond with the typewriter, the better."

  “Connie, please. You’ve got to give me more than that--” I begged, but the coughing resumed and I stopped short. Her skin was chalky and she clearly didn’t feel well. “Do you need to go to the hospital?” I asked gently. I already felt like I had one death on my conscience. I couldn’t handle another.

  “I think I really just need to lay down, dear. My ticker isn’t what it used to be,” she said with a wan smile. “If you can let yourself out, I’ll contact you in a few days, once you’ve had a chance to let this all settle in and when I’m feeling more myself.”

  Everything inside me railed at the injustice of it. I had two options. Continue to badger an old woman who clearly wasn’t well, or walk away with half answers and even more questions than I’d come with.

  I sucked in a breath and let it out in a rush, cursing my own soft ticker. “Okay. Take my number. Call me if you don’t feel better and I’ll take you to the hospital to get checked.”

  “I’ll do that, dear.”

  She grabbed a pen and jotted down my number as I scooped up the typewriter hesitantly.

  “Just one thing. Are you sure I didn’t do it?”

  She stared at me, nonplussed.

  “Are you sure I didn’t write that shark attack into existence?” I clarified, throat aching again with unshed tears.

  “I’m sure, dear,” she said softly as she led me to the door and pushed it open. “You aren’t that powerful.”

  I was on the other side of it when her lips tipped into a smile.

  “Yet.”

  Chapter 7

  That final word haunted me as I pulled away from Connie’s Curiosities. It haunted me deep into the night. It haunted me up to the very moment I wrapped the typewriter in a black plastic bag, drove to the local landfill, and tossed it over the fence.

  I won’t say that I slept well. In fact, the nightmares were some of the worst I’d ever had, vague but rife with violence and fire and screams. But when I woke to the loud clanging of pans as Mee-maw threw breakfast together, I felt a sense of relief. Life could go back to the way it was again.

  Boring.

  Predictable.

  Safe.

  I ignored the dull throb of longing in my chest, jerked the covers off me, and rolled out of bed. What I saw next immediately made me wish I hadn’t.

  There, sitting on the desk on the far edge of my room as if it had never left, sat the typewriter.

  Goosebumps sprouted on my arms and I swayed in place, gripping the wall for purchase.

  “Okay. Okay, this is fine,” I mumbled, swallowing back the wave of nausea.

  Not only did it have powers, apparently I’d gotten my hands on some kind of boomerang typewriter. Even as my brain buzzed with a mix of shock and confusion, my fingers tingled and I had to suppress the urge to type something.

  “Think it through, Cricket.”

  Was it possible that I had just imagined throwing it in the dumpster last night? Whatever the case was, I couldn’t look at it for now. Not until I’d come to grips with some of this. I marched over to the desk and carried it to my closet, opening a door with my free hand. I almost set it on the floor but realized there was no use putting it away if I still had to look at it every time I got a change of clothes. I reached up and dropped it with a thud on the top shelf, pulling a shawl off of its hanger and draping it over the typewriter.

  I knew even as I did it that it was useless to hide it; now that I’d failed to rid myself of the typewriter entirely, I wasn’t going to get it out of my mind without figuring out what this was all about. Operating under the assumption that I had, in fact, purchased a magical typewriter, what was the next logical step?

  Research.

  Connie had been acting so strangely the day before, and there was little doubt she knew far more than she was letting on. Time to go back to the library and do some digging on the Bagshaw family.

  An hour later, I took a final pull of coffee from my to-go mug and set it in the cupholder. Trudy the stickler librarian had strong feelings about people drinking in the library.

  I tossed my purse over my shoulder and bustled toward the entrance of the ancient library. Trudy spared a brief glance away from her frantic typing to nod a silent greeting. I responded in kind, respecting the numerous signs around her desk reminding visitors to keep quiet, as I shuffled quickly—but not too quickly—toward the bookshelves.

  I wandered around the library for a long while until I found the section I was looking for. Birth records. Connie had mentioned living in Rocky Knoll from the time she was born until she was in her thirties. Once I figured out how old she was, maybe I could see if there were any strange events during that time period.

  I grabbed the volumes marked “1921-1940” and “1941-1960” and made my way over to a small reading nook in the corner. The old chair squeaked loudly as I sat on it, in a way that almost felt like a personal attack. I pulled the oldest volume in front of me and leafed through it, searching for the “B” section. It only took a brief scan through the first and second pages to realize there was nothing listed for Bagshaw.

  I closed the first book and pulled the second one open with little hope. It only took about a minute to confirm that she wasn’t listed in that book, either.

  After re-shelving the books, I made my way over to the marriage records. There had been no sign of a man at her apartment, and I found myself crossing my fingers in a morbid, guilty hope that she was a widow or something.

  Twenty minutes later, I let out a sigh as I closed the final volume of marriage records. She’d never married. At least, not in this town. So now what?

  I made my way back towards the entrance of the library, walking right up to Trudy’s desk, waiting silently for her to finish bin
ding the book she was working on.

  “Can I help you?” she asked as she pulled the last string through.

  “Yes, I’m looking for some history on a local family and I was wondering if I could look through some microfilm with old newspapers and the like,” I said, enunciating clearly and standing straight up. Something about her made me feel like I was back in grade school, trying to avoid getting yelled at by a strict teacher.

  She paused for a second before nodding. “Certainly, come right this way.” She stood up from her desk, pushing her chair in and gesturing toward the back of the library.

  I followed her, a low banging sound reverberating through the wall as we approached. The library must be having some repairs done, or else Trudy’d have been after the perp like a shark on… well, Brett Copeland.

  I winced and shook my head at the macabre thought, but a second later, I couldn’t think at all. In fact, I did a double take as we passed a handsome man with tousled dark hair perched precariously on a ladder, hammer in hand. He gave me a nod and a smile as we passed and I felt my heart skip a beat. If Zoe were here she’d have ditched old Trudy right away to chat him up, but I had a job to do. I pried my eyes away from his chiseled features and continued after the librarian, speeding up to catch her.

  We took a right and she led me down a dimly lit hallway and into a large room filled with modern-looking cabinets that seemed to be the only items in the whole place that were less than forty years old. The antique-looking computer desk and old school microfilm readers that sat just to our right were no exception.

  “What’s the family name you’re looking for history on?” she asked, sliding into the chair in front of the desk and pressing the power button on the computer. “We modernized our filing system for these a few years back so it shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  “Bagshaw.”

  She tapped in the name and the dinosaur-age computer did its best to prove her wrong, but we found a result to check out after nearly ten minutes of letting it load. She slid out of the chair, gliding purposefully over to the filing cabinets and opening one.