Ghostly Garlic

by Ami Diane

  Libby shook her head. “What?”

  “Dark.”

  Libby’s face scrunched in confusion.

  Across the circle, Shelly called out their names. “I’m sorry, is there something more interesting we should be discussing?”

  Libby sank in her chair, feeling like she was back in elementary school and had been properly scolded by a teacher. Maybe it was the fact that the bookstore owner had that librarian look, but the woman could level a sharp gaze that turned blood cold.

  Libby was saved by the doorbell chiming upstairs. Whoever was at the front door must have been antsy because they pressed it multiple times in a row until the notes coalesced into one long hum.

  “Alright, alright.” Gladys struggled out of her chair, specks of brownie showering to the floor.

  “Maybe it’s Bea,” Marge suggested.

  “I don’t know why she’d be ringing the bell. I left the door unlocked.”

  The ringing abruptly abated. The sound of heavy, rapid footfalls on the porch could be heard all of the way in the basement.

  “There’s no way Bea could move that fast,” Libby said.

  Gladys climbed the steps, her bones creaking along with the wood. The room fell silent as all ears strained with curiosity to hear who had interrupted their meeting.

  A scream pierced the air.

  Chapter Four

  THE SCREAM ECHOED, standing Libby’s hair on end.

  She jumped to her feet and bolted for the steps. Others followed suit, but her young limbs and joints put her in first.

  “Gladys?!” Libby hollered up. Her shoes pounded up the wooden boards.

  “Hurry!” Gladys yelled, her voice fraught. “Oh, my porch!”

  Libby smelled it before she saw it. As she flew into the entryway, nearly bowling over poor Gladys, dark smoke curled through the open doorway.

  She coughed on the acrid stench, but the after-note on the smoke caused her to gag. Excrament. It rode on the air like a horrible afterthought.

  Flames the height of her knees burned on the porch, emanating from a crumpled, brown paper bag that was rapidly shriveling in on itself.

  “Oh, my gosh! I can taste it.” Libby doubled over, hacking up what was probably both lungs.

  Behind her, Shelly hollered, “Don’t just stand there! Put it out!”

  Gladys marched towards the flame and lifted her foot high into the air.

  Before she could stomp down, Libby jerked the potionist back. “No, wait! Don’t you smell that? You’ll send poop everywhere.”

  She was jostled aside as the entire Potion Masters Society filed onto the porch and surrounded the fire, gagging and covering their noses.

  “We can’t just let it burn.” Gladys waved wildly at the fire. “It’ll ruin my porch.”

  The blaze was growing, spreading from the bag to the dry wood, underscoring the need to take action.

  “Oh!” Caroline’s voice carried across the smoky air as she dug through her jacket pockets. “I’ve got a potion that can help.” Her hand whipped out a hot pink vial. “It’s so I don’t need to refill my water bottle—”

  “Just pour it on!” Gladys gestured at the fire.

  The other potionist sniffed. “No need to get snippy.”

  Tilting her hand, Caroline let a single, quivering drop fall. It glowed like a brilliant sunset. The moment it touched the fire, a gust of wind swirled up, spiraling the flames up and out like a tornado.

  Libby’s hair whipped about, and she shielded her face from the onslaught of heat. Between a slit in her eyelids, she watched the fire tornado become a pink tornado.

  “Oops, wrong one.” Caroline’s voice was nearly drowned out by the ensuing roar.

  As the storm grew, the force of the gale sent them all scattering to the ends of the porch.

  “Do something!” Shelly shouted. It was unclear to whom she was speaking; perhaps all of them.

  Libby thought the small cyclone would’ve blown out the fire, like breath over a birthday candle, but instead, the added oxygen fueled it, sending the flames spreading.

  “I got something!” Marge had brought her purse along during the mad dash up the stairs. From its depths, she produced a spray bottle. A fine mist of pastel purple spritzed over the flames, bringing with it the smell of lavender and something Libby couldn’t identify.

  The flames roared as if the apothecary had poured propellent on them. Someone screamed, and several members plunged over the railing that enclosed the porch.

  Libby vaulted over the side and tumbled to the soft grass below. With a thud, Marge landed in a heap beside her.

  “What in the blazes did you spray on the fire, woman?”

  “My homemade hairspray.” Marge struggled to her feet. “Must be reacting with Caroline’s potion.”

  After a quick headcount, all of the members were present and accounted for in the front yard. Heat from the porch forced them further back. A few feet away, Stacy was arguing with Shelly about how best to put out the inferno currently turning Gladys’s porch into charcoal.

  “My Spot Remover has endothermic properties.”

  Allison joined the circle, flipping her blonde hair. “I think the best option is to just get rid of the porch. I have my Quantum Entangler downstairs in my bag. It’s not perfected yet, but it should displace most of the porch.”

  “Displace it to where?” Shelly motioned for Marge to intercept Gladys who was running towards her porch, arms held high, a war cry on her lips.

  Libby joined Marge in lunging for the homeowner. Although she’d had a head start, it was easy enough to nab the elderly potionist, as her run was more of a light jog—a brisk walk, really—and her guttural yell, a garbled cough.

  “And both of you have these potions on you?” Shelly was asking Allison and Stacy.

  They nodded.

  “Okay. I saw daylight windows in the basement around back. Break them, climb inside, and retrieve your potions. It can’t hurt to try both. Unless they have a negative reaction to interacting and blow up the entire block.”

  Nodding, the two ladies ran out of sight through the smoke. With Gladys still struggling in Libby’s grip, she watched this exchange, her mouth agape.

  “Are you all nuts or something?”

  Shelly’s eyebrows climbed her forehead in bewilderment.

  Shaking her head, Libby pushed Gladys into Marge’s arms and marched across the lawn. The outdoor faucet squeaked as she turned it with force. Seconds later, the garden hose hissed as it filled with water.

  Quicker than she could call them nut jobs, she scooped up the nozzle and fired water at the blaze. The liquid shot out like a jet. As she focused it on the concentration of flames where the bag of excrement had been, the smoke turned to steam and completely obscured the porch from view.

  Still dousing the inferno, she looked over her shoulder to see a row of clapping potionists.

  Marge nodded approvingly. “Water.” As if the word was a revelation. “How about that.”

  “Yes,” Libby replied. “Who would’ve thought of spraying water on fire?” Under her breath, she muttered about how it was a miracle the members of PMS had survived this long.

  The next several minutes were chaotic as Marge and Shelly coordinated the cleanup. With most of the porch still smoldering, there wasn’t much they could do except continue dousing the boards.

  Libby considered running to the store to grab a bag of marshmallows, but she felt making s’mores over Gladys’s front porch might be in poor taste. At least, that’s what Marge had said when Libby had floated out the idea.

  Another hose got snaked from the side of the house, and Allison and Stacy argued about who got to run it. In the end, Stacy won. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Allison huffed and seemed to be gearing up for round two of their argument, when Libby cut in.

  “Hey, I spotted hot dogs in Gladys’s fridge. Want to help me find something to roast them with?” She caught Marge’s expression. “What? Gladys won’t mind.
I’ll buy her another package.”

  “Go make yourself useful and see if anyone needs help inside, Red.”

  Libby grumbled all of the way into the house. Instead of grabbing the hot dogs, though, she scrubbed her charcoal-stained hands from when they’d touched the porch. Gladys stood in the kitchen, her ear pressed to her phone. Her mouth turned down in a crescent moon-shape.

  “Still no answer.”

  Marge sauntered in. “No answer where? By the way, your push broom’s dirtier than a sailor on leave. I left it on the front porch.”

  Gladys thanked her before proceeding to inform the apothecary that there was still no answer at Beatrice’s place.

  “She probably fell asleep in front of the TV,” Marge said matter-of-factly. She paused and seemed to give this another thought. “But that’s never stopped her from missing a meeting before. You think we should check up on her?”

  “It would make me feel better.”

  Libby wiped a kitchen towel over her hands, grimacing at the dirty streaks left behind. “Marge and I can pop over to her place. I drove us here, so she’s at my mercy.” She let out a hollow, evil laugh.

  After gathering their belongings and parting, Libby pulled out of Gladys’s driveway. The car wound along the road through blue shadows and puddles of light cast by streetlights. To the west, the last remnants of a blood-colored sunset bled across the ocean horizon, the breathtaking display at odds with the sinking feeling in her gut.

  Chapter Five

  ONCE THE SUN disappeared, the cold air sweeping in from the ocean displaced the day’s warmth. The chilly breeze broke through the thin layer of Libby’s sweatshirt as they mounted the short stoop to Beatrice’s door.

  Marge ran her hand over her short, gray hair before pressing the doorbell, and a muffled melody sounded from inside. Neither of them spoke, and Libby wondered if her counterpart wasn’t having the same fears flit through her mind.

  After waiting an appropriate amount of time, which wasn’t long given her lack of patience, Libby pressed the doorbell this time, listening to the short, musical notes bounce around on the other side of the door, empty and unanswered.

  “Alright, I think that’s long enough.” She saw her fear reflected in Marge’s eyes. “If she could’ve come to the door by now, she would’ve. Know another way in?”

  Reaching out, Marge jiggled the doorknob, and the door swung in freely.

  “That works,” Libby muttered.

  “Maybe she got called away to her daughter’s for a family emergency.”

  Inside, the air smelled musty, a common theme in most coastal homes, Libby was discovering. Her eyes grew wide as she stepped into the living room. It was decorated with more chachkies than a flea market.

  “I didn’t know she had a daughter,” Libby said between calling the home owner’s name.

  Marge nodded. “And two sons. The daughter lives in Idaho.” Her voice penetrated the heavy silence as she, too, called Beatrice’s name. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Me too.” Libby’s breath caught in her throat when light flickered from an open doorway down the hall. Soft voices flowed out, the sounds of a television. When she poked her head in, she let out an audible breath at seeing the room empty.

  “You thought she was dead in there, didn’t you?”

  “What? No, of course not.” Two steps later. “Don’t tell me it didn’t cross your mind, too.”

  Marge didn’t respond.

  “What about a husband?” Libby asked as they continued to check the other rooms.

  “He passed a couple decades ago. She got lucky if you ask me.”

  The stairs creaked under their feet as they mounted them to the second floor.

  “I take it you’ve been giving Bruce a hard time again.” When it came to terrorizing ex-husbands, the apothecary took the cake. Libby wouldn’t be surprised if the man slapped Marge with a restraining order any day now. Maybe he already had.

  “If by a ‘hard time’, you mean stink bombing his car so he has to get it professionally cleaned out, then yes.”

  “You’ve got issues.”

  Marge grunted. “Anyway, Bea’s late husband was alright when he wasn’t drinking. Which wasn’t very often. And he was a mean drunk, let me tell you. On several occasions, Bea slipped a sleeping potion into his beer to put him out.”

  The first floor of the house had been packed full of furniture and odds and ends, a lifetime of living. The second story was another matter. Libby stilled when her shoe bumped an overturned end table. Shards of a shattered vase lay strewn all over the floor.

  “I’m guessing it doesn’t normally look like this?”

  Marge’s face paled. “Bea!” she called again with more urgency.

  The heavy silence that followed sent ice settling into the bottom of Libby’s stomach.

  They lapsed into silence and quickly parted, Libby heading in one direction, checking rooms, while Marge went the opposite way. Their footfalls grew more frantic as they darted from room to room. Libby found no more signs of distress, but she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, seeing as how they still hadn’t found the woman.

  When they met back in the second-floor hallway, the worry lines creasing Marge’s face deepened.

  “Maybe she broke the vase and hadn’t gotten around to cleaning it up,” Libby suggested. “If there was a family emergency, she wouldn’t have had time. She could’ve broken it while running out the door.”

  “Maybe she left a note on the fridge,” Marge said.

  Libby’s eyes snagged on the ceiling. “We haven’t checked the entire house yet.”

  “She didn’t have a basement, Red.”

  “Maybe you need to take an eyesight elixir, old woman.” Libby stabbed a finger up. “What about the attic?”

  Reaching up, she tugged a string hanging from the ceiling. Stairs slid down as the door opened, revealing a steep climb into a dimly lit room.

  She hesitated. “You want to go first? Age before beauty and all that.”

  “Yeah, beauty goes last which is why I’m going last. Move that caboose.”

  Huffing her breath through her nose, Libby ascended, making sure to stomp her feet on each rung. With any luck, dust would rain down on the apothecary’s hair.

  As her head broke through the attic floor, all dark thoughts of the potionist behind her fled.

  She’d been bracing herself for clutter and dust—which the attic did have in spades—but she hadn’t expected the expanse of burners, the shattered glassware, and the ginormous chemistry setup in various stages of disarray that spanned the entire length of the house.

  “Holy nutty professor. I think we found Bea’s laboratory.”

  “Well, move aside so I can see. Your big butt’s in the way.”

  Libby shuffled a couple of steps to the side without bothering with a retort, too enraptured by what lay before her.

  In the corner sat a large cauldron, a cobalt blue brew bubbling inside. Beneath the cast iron licked blue-white flames that appeared to not need a vent. Or a fireplace.

  Marge let out a small gasp as she took in the room. “That woman has been busy.”

  Stepping deeper into the room, Libby called Beatrice’s name again. An ingredients pantry stood before her. The doors were ajar, and bottles were strewn about as if a struggle had taken place. When she took another step, her shoe crunched on dried lavender and garlic cloves.

  “What do you suppose happened?” she wondered aloud.

  Ahead was a table with cloves of garlic and dandelions scattered across the surface, as well as a mortar and pestle, an opened bottle of water, and two empty vials.

  Both vials were uncorked and tipped onto their sides. She sniffed one, her eyebrows raising in Marge’s direction.

  “They’re still wet inside. She used these recently.”

  Marge’s brows furrowed. “A defense potion would be my guess.”

  “Defense from what?”

  “That’s the ques
tion.”

  Libby scanned the rest of the dimly lit room, a dread settling into her bones. Something was off. And Beatrice was nowhere in sight.

  From the far corner came a whimper, causing both of them to start. Libby crept towards the noise with Marge hot on her heels. As she rounded the table, she tripped and landed with a heavy thud—mostly because Marge tripped and landed on top of her.

  Libby massaged her right elbow which had taken the brunt of the fall. “Why’d you land on me?”

  “Why do you have to be clumsy?” Marge bit back.

  Libby asked herself the same question every day. As she climbed to her feet, joints popping, she searched for the reason she had tripped, a source to blame to get Marge off of her back.

  She frowned, not spotting so much as a raised floorboard. Before she could investigate further, the whimpering noise came again, this time much closer.

  Something wet brushed her hand, making her jolt and spin.

  “Relax. It’s just Max.”

  “What’s a Max?”

  “That.” Marge bent and petted the black and tan fur of a dachshund. The dog licked the apothecary’s hand before turning his doleful eyes on Libby and whimpering again.

  “Hey there, buddy.” She dropped to her knees and noticed the dog was shaking. “You scared, bud? Did something happen?” His tail tucked under him as he licked her hand.

  She and Marge exchanged glances.

  The older potionist’s voice came out soft. “Bea would never leave him behind.”

  “Think we should call the police?”

  Marge nodded.

  As they strode back to the center of the room, Max followed, his nails clicking over the boards. When they reached the table where Libby had tripped, she noticed that the bottle of water had overturned during her graceful tumble.

  Liquid dripped over the edge of the table in a miniature waterfall and pooled onto the floor. Only, between the waterfall and puddle, it made a strange detour in the middle of the air.