Witch Myth Super Boxset: A Yew Hollow Cozy Mystery

by Alexandria Clarke

  The back of my neck prickled as I drove. I rubbed it with my fingers, but the gentle massage did nothing to alleviate the feeling. The odd energy spread, trickling down my spine like a drop of sweat. I rolled my shoulders, ignoring the buzz that took hold of my muscles. As the navigation counted down the minutes to my destination, things grew weirder. The first thing I noticed was that the farther I drove, the less lively the world around me presented itself. It was late October. At my father’s house, the woods were full of color-changing trees. It was my favorite time of year. The world looked different in autumn. The red, orange, and yellow hues made me feel vibrant and alive. The air always smelled like woodsmoke. People wore boots and scarves and jackets as they shopped on the Avenue, shuffling through a kaleidoscope of fallen leaves. Here, not two hours away, it should’ve been the same. Instead, the trees looked frail and brittle. Most of them were bare, but some sported gray or brown leaves, quivering like hopeless baby birds that had flown the nest too soon. The air was dead. No hint of a breeze rustled the brown grass on the shoulder of the road. I rolled down the window, but even the gust created by the movement of the car felt empty. It smelled odd outside. There was no scent of pollen or flowers or anything else. It was just… nothing. I pressed the button to roll up the window, disturbed, but the car didn’t respond. I jabbed the control. It whined pathetically, and the window remained in place.

  “Great,” I grumbled, settling for the heavy air that clogged my nostrils and filled my lungs. It thickened into a solid gray fog. I let my foot off the gas pedal and fumbled around for the dials that controlled the headlights. The lines on the road were visible for two feet in front of the hood before they disappeared.

  The navigation cut out. The melodious instructional voice squeaked and went silent while the interactive map flashed once like a strobe light before blacking out. I tapped it experimentally, but it remained blank.

  “What is going on?” I murmured.

  Suddenly, the radio blared. I winced at the abrupt change in volume as the bass pounded through the car and made the windows shake. I recognized the song. It was one of Nora’s favorites. She sang along to it so often that I knew the lyrics now. I reached for the volume dial, but when the radio didn’t respond to my touch, I wasn’t all that surprised. Something else was going on, and it didn’t have to do with Nora’s luxury sedan.

  As though this realization triggered a knee-jerk reaction, the autopilot engaged, yanking the steering wheel out of my hand. The car trundled off the road and bumbled over the dirt in the shoulder. My fingers gripped the handle, ready to throw the door open and bail if things got dangerous, but the vehicle slowed to a jerky halt beneath a familiar blue-and-white sign before powering off completely. Welcome to Yew Hollow.

  Despite the fact that the car appeared to be dead, Nora’s voice powered through the radio. “Come find me.”

  For good measure, I pressed the start button. The car whined and groaned, so I kicked open the door, stepped out, and stretched. Then I took my backpack from the passenger seat, swung it across my shoulders, and looked down the road toward the murky gray ahead.

  “I guess I’m walking the rest of the way.” I made sure Nora’s car was far enough off the road to avoid damage from passing vehicles before pressing the key fob to lock it. It beeped feebly, like it had all but given up on life. I rolled my eyes, turned my back on it, and stepped past Yew Hollow’s welcome sign. I swallowed hard. For some reason, it felt as though I’d passed through a wall of warm water.

  The farther I walked, the more I felt a shift in the atmosphere around me. The shiver in my spine radiated through me, the familiar feeling that someone was watching me. I kept my eyes on the yellow line that marked the edge of the road. Looking around made you appear unsure. It gave the watcher a sense of satisfaction, knowing that they’d unsettled you. I was afraid to peer through the trees to find another pair of eyes peering back. I kept my shoulders down, gripping the straps of my backpack tightly. When I finally looked up, it was because the road had diverged from its linear path, splitting to form two right angles to my either side. I stopped short, my breath caught in my chest.

  “Whoa,” I huffed.

  Yew Hollow was dead, though it wasn’t quite like my nightmare. The town was still intact. A spired hall sat at the top of the road, gray and silent. Privately-owned businesses and small homes bordered the square, indistinguishable save for the signs that read Dover’s Fresh Market or Ms. Winning’s Antiques or Palumbo & Sons Shoe Repair. A modest church sat next to the tiniest of all police stations, as if they had joint custody over Yew Hollow. It was a place meant for passing pleasantries and friendly neighbors and bustling weekends, like Windsor but on a smaller, more authentic scale. Instead, it was a ghost town. There was no sign of anyone or anything alive. Not even a squatter. Not even a rat. Not even a flower. If the leftover landscaping was any indication, Yew Hollow once bloomed with color. Now, everything had withered and died, despite the fact that winter wasn’t due for another couple of months. The grass was dry and crunchy, the shrubs were stripped clean of leaves, and the gray broken trees would look more at home along the pathway to the world beyond this one than in Yew Hollow’s town square.

  One tree in particular caught my eye. It was the yew that sat directly in the center of the square, bordered by a collection of dead wildflowers and white stone benches. The tree itself was barely taller than a basketball hoop, a baby in comparison to the photo I’d found of it during my search last night. A pang of guilt washed over me for no apparent reason. This tree had stood firm for several hundred years. It was a stern symbol of protection and serenity, and yet a fault of nature had burned eons of growth to the ground in one fell swoop. The tree was a fraction of what it had once been, and its smaller stature was a swift reminder that nothing, nothing at all, was permanent.

  Without thinking, I stepped over the curb and approached the tree. My fingers found the pendant hanging around my throat. It was cold, even though it had been lying against my skin this entire time. With every foot forward, the eerie murmur that had begun on the back of my neck at the entrance to Yew Hollow spread through my bones. It was different than my own energy, foreign and uncomfortable, like an itch I was unable to scratch. Something unspoken urged me to continue forward. I reached out for the trunk of the modest tree, but someone tossed a hood over my face and drew it tight around my neck.

  13

  I panicked, drew in a deep breath, and inhaled the fabric. My hands flew to my throat, struggling to free myself from the hood. I stumbled blindly and toppled off the curb, torquing my ankle at an uncomfortable angle. My attacker remained cool and collected. As they steered me around with one firm hand on the hood to prevent me from taking it off and the other on my backpack, I realized they were trying to tire me out. I planted my feet, bent my knees, and dropped my hips, bringing the game to an immediate end. It was almost impossible to move someone in such a stable position, something that my attacker wasn’t aware of. They tugged on my backpack, but I brought my shoulders up to my ears, keeping myself in place. Without conscious thought, I accessed my inner energy and lashed out. I acted with the intent to protect myself, but like that first day in Chad’s apartment, the power that I unleashed was unbridled and violent. It burst out in a wave of fire. This time, I felt an odd sense of satisfaction. Whoever tried to pull one over on me had it coming. That kind of energy would knock them clean on their back.

  Except that wasn’t what happened. Though my attacker gasped in shock—a surprisingly feminine sound for such a forceful grip—their hand remained strong and steady on my backpack, rooting me in place. Then, in the moment following my release of power, another blast of energy ripped through the square. Forest green met my fiery orange, muting the color and its effect. I doubled over, weary and nauseous, as the green essence came over me like a fast-moving fog. I braced my palms against the ground, gritted my teeth, and tried my luck again. The resulting boom knocked my attacker off their feet, putting a stride
’s worth of distance between us. I didn’t have time to rip the hood off my head, so I honed my focus, recognizing shapes through the threads of the fabric, located my target, and lunged. I locked my arms around the knees of this person with the mysterious forest power and held on fast. They kicked out, jarring my shoulders, but I tightened my grip. Another wave of green washed over me. I fought against bile rising in my throat and retaliated with a shot of my own energy. Sweating, I spat cloth out of my mouth as I tried to dislodge the hood without my hands. The attacker shoved my shoulders. When that didn’t work, they yanked the hood tight against my face.

  I blacked out. Survival mode took over as adrenaline surged through me. Instinctively, I shot forward, straddling the other person at the waist. We were roughly the same size, but I weighed a little more. They bucked their hips, but I sat down and pinned one arm against their windpipe. They wheezed, their grip loosening on the hood. At this angle, it slid forward, and I shook it off the rest of the way, gasping for air. Finally, I looked my attacker in the face.

  It was a girl. A woman. I was sure I’d been fighting a guy, albeit one of average strength and stature. Automatically, I lessened the force of my hold. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. We were similar in build. Even on the ground, I could tell that she was only an inch or two shorter than me, with broad shoulders and a solid jaw. She had black hair, cropped short at her chin, and dark, deep set green eyes the same color as the energy she’d used to deflect mine. This was the woman I’d seen in Nora’s vision. Her expression rested somewhere between impressed and surprised. She was not afraid that I’d pinned her to the ground while blindfolded. This last observation alarmed me the most. Anyone in a vulnerable position should exhibit some type of anxiety, but she looked confident and reassured, like she knew she wasn’t in danger. Or like she had something else up her sleeve.

  She took advantage of my momentary distraction and released an extra burst of power. It punched me in the gut with a force twice as impactful as a champion boxer’s fist. I groaned, cradling my stomach as I doubled over. She rolled free, putting several paces between the two of us, and got to her feet. I folded in on myself. The pain was fading, but so was my energy. My opponent, on the other hand, did not tire. Though her shoulders rose and fell with the force of her breath, her entire body glowed with that peculiar dark green color. Her predatory lope unnerved me. I lifted a hand in defeat.

  “Enough,” I gasped, upping the dramatics. It was times like these my athleticism came in handy. Maybe I’d expended all of my inner power for the time being, but it would take a lot more than a supernatural fist fight to wear down my physical energy. “I’ve had enough.”

  The younger woman stalked forward, halting just beyond my reach. I bided my time, waiting for an opportunity to present itself. She knelt down to study me. Then, as if she had come to a silent decision, her fingers began to dance and swing through the air, drawing patterns with her sparkly forest light. She didn’t have the time to finish whatever incantation she started. As soon as her attention wandered, I rocketed toward her and drew my elbow back as if pulling a bow. My fist was the arrow. She ducked, but not quickly enough. My knuckles landed on the outside edge of her left brow bone, splitting the skin. The woman staggered and fell, landing on her butt in the dirt, dazed but conscious. Before she could regain her wits, I sprinted off.

  I vaulted over a row of dead shrubs, the soles of my shoes demolishing the brittle branches, and landed neatly on the opposite side. Then I ducked around the corner of a small house, made a sharp turn, and clambered over the picket fence that walled in the backyard. I kept the yew tree at the westward point of my internal compass as I used the space behind the houses to cover my trail. When I was certain that the young woman had no hope of visually locating me, I crept around to the front of one house, flattened myself out on the ground, and scooted forward to peek through the sparse branches of the yard’s landscaping.

  I was near the north end of the square now, closer to the spired town hall. Down the way, the young woman sat at the base of the feeble yew tree. She pressed her palm to the wound near her eye. It came away red. I flexed my hand. My knuckles were pink and swollen. I had meant to daze the woman just long enough to make my escape, not cause her long-lasting harm. She tenderly prodded the side of her face, moving her neck this way and that, as if to gauge the extent of her injury. When she was good and ready, she pushed herself to her feet and stumbled up the hill. Toward my hiding spot.

  I pulled up the hood of my jacket, tucking my hair into its depths and tugging the drawstrings tight. It would do me no good to take cover in the gray plants when my flaming head of hair drew attention at every angle. I scooted closer to the side of the house, pressing myself in a long straight line against the foundation. As the woman staggered past, I held my breath. Her green eyes were tired but alert. She kept up a constant visual sweep of the landscape around her, as though she expected me to come hurtling out of the bushes in a poorly planned sneak attack. I remained still and silent. I didn’t want to hurt the woman. I wanted to follow her.

  In the deserted town of Yew Hollow, her presence stood out. Something had happened to drive the residents away, so why was one magically-endowed woman lingering in the aftermath? Furthermore, why had her immediate reaction been to blindfold and strangle me? I’d done nothing to warrant such a disturbing welcome. Then there was the matter of her green glow. I wasn’t naive; she wielded it the same way Nora and I used our own powers. Admittedly, she did it with an effortless finesse that I envied. The woman was well-practiced, as though she had trained in the art of scientifically impossible energy. I’d gone so long thinking that Nora and I were the only ones in the world able to harness our abilities like that, but if I had been more practical, it might have occurred to me that maybe my little sister and I weren’t so special after all.

  I let the woman get a head start up the road. Then I darted up from my hideaway and trailed her at a distance, leaving enough room to allow her the illusion of safety. As we made our way upward, the town gave way to residential properties separated by acres of land, but it wasn’t like Windsor Falls. At one time, the land here served a purpose. Perhaps the original settlers of Yew Hollow favored growing their own crops or raising animals. The land spoke of hard work and history, unlike the rolling green lawns of my home town that served as ornate declarations of wealth by hosting polo matches and bocce ball tournaments. The longer we walked, the fewer the properties, until I began to wonder if the younger woman lived in the woods that bordered the horizon. Every once in a while, she glanced behind her. Each time, I dove for the nearest cover available, skinning the knees of my jeans against the curb as I curled up behind burly tree trunks and thickets of thorny overgrown weeds. Finally, as the land crested and leveled out, a three-story house with a gothic exterior came into view. It was large for the town—nothing in comparison to my father’s house though—complete with turrets, a wraparound porch, and a swinging bench. The porch creaked as the young woman stepped up to it, as though the warped wood had grown weary of supporting countless visitors’ feet over the years, and she let herself inside.

  I waited a moment, letting the details settle in. The yard was quiet. The house was still. I kept an eye on the windows, but there were no signs that anyone else occupied the residence. I dashed out from behind one of the pine trees that hugged the property, pelting across the yard in long steady strides, and hunched beneath one of the windows on the side of the house. Voices floated through the open glass. The young woman wasn’t the sole survivor of the town’s desolation after all.

  “Gwenlyn!” someone gasped in horror. “What happened to your eye? Who did that to you?”

  Gwenlyn, I assumed, was the name of my attacker. She replied in a weary tone. “Never mind that. Where’s Morgan?”

  Footsteps fell in a pattern that suggested someone was descending an old, squeaky staircase. “I’m here. Laurel, mix a healing salve for her eye. Tell me everything, Gwen. Did you take care of
it?”

  Chair legs rasped against the floor. I gained the courage to peek over the windowsill. The young, dark-haired woman sat at an ornate mahogany dining table, her back to me as she probed the tender spot on the side of her face. Beside her, at the head of the table, was a woman I recognized from the photographs that I had come across the night before during my Internet search on Yew Hollow. She had the same golden-brown hair and green eyes, but there was something different about her. She appeared ill. Her face was drawn and pale. Despite this, she sported a hard look of determination that was present in every picture I’d seen of her. This was Morgan Summers, the supposed head witch of the infamous Summers coven. The blurry pictures from Yew Hollow’s website didn’t do her justice. She was younger than I expected, maybe thirty-nine or forty. In my mind, I pictured the leader of all witches as some kind of wizened hag, although my imagination was supplemented with stereotypes from fairy tales. I had drawn an image of Morgan in my mind that didn’t flush with the woman sitting at the dining room table. She was petite with a giant’s presence, beautiful without vanity, and sharp without noticeable edges. Even sick, she exerted a sense of supremacy, but she maintained it so that it did not overwhelm or make others uncomfortable.

  “Not exactly,” Gwenlyn replied.