by Mona Marple
My favourite is one of her standing in her garden back in Waterfell Tweed, a young mum to two beautiful little girls. Sandy, oh so serious, gazes at the camera, squinting against the sun, while Coral strikes a pose next to her. Sage, kneeling down to child height, wears a daisy chain as a headband and enormous ahead-of-the-times sunglasses. Her smile is genuine, I know, because her nose is crinkled in delight.
I wonder at the happiness of that moment, because I remember the first time I saw the picture. Attached to an eMail, a message from home, filled with tired expletives and cries for help that I ignored. I told myself that Sage was struggling to adapt as a mum, because she was so vain and so used to being the centre of attention. I rolled my eyes at her criticisms that I wasn’t there for her, wondering when she’d ever been there for me. I was in America then, high in the heady glow of romance that I’d never experienced before and haven’t since, and I guess I was a little smug, to have my sister reach out and show some weakness. My sister with the perfect hair, who always knew when to laugh at jokes and exactly how loud, who had been trailed throughout her life by a gaggle of adoring boys and then men. Let her struggle, I had thought, to my eternal shame. Let her realise that life isn’t all sunshine and buttercups.
She has no memory of sending that eMail. In fact, judging by the time stamp of when it was sent, in those mysterious pre-dawn hours where nothing feels quite real, I bet she’d already forgotten about it when she woke the next morning.
But I’ve never forgotten. I’ve never allowed myself to forget the one time when my sister reached out for me, and I didn’t answer. How I wish, now, that I’d been there, instead of here with a no-good man. He didn’t break my heart. Hearts don’t break, bones do.
Hearts just feel like they’re breaking.
“This looks incredible.” Atticus whispers, appearing by my side. To my surprise, I find myself reaching for his hand and squeezing it, the novelty of feeling his spirit skin causing me to shudder a little as I do. “You’ve done our lass proud.”
“I hope so.” I say. I check my watch just as someone knocks on the front door.
The guests are here.
“You are kidding me!” Sage squeals, her nose crinkled, smile wide, as we jump up from behind couches, the kitchen island, and anywhere else we could find to hide behind. Patton stands behind her and scans the crowd, nodding his head in recognition at the friends who have gathered together to celebrate.
“Happy birthday!” I repeat, and my own grin feels as though it spreads across to my ears.
Sage works the room like a pro, accepting compliments from everyone she passes.
Lovey and Lovell Lovegoode stand closest to the door, and Lovell lets out a high-pitched giggle at something Sage says. Mariam and Desiree stand, holding hands, smiling at each other until Desiree meets her son’s gaze. Troy rolls his eyes, faking upset at his mother’s public display of affection, but to my amazement, Desiree sticks out her tongue and squeezes Mariam’s hand closer.
Atticus shifts awkwardly next to me.
“Desiree’s a good woman, you know.” I whisper to him. “She’ll take good care of Mariam.”
“I know.” He accepts reluctantly. “I just can’t help thinking it should be me there looking after her.”
“You did.” I reassure him. “That’s why she’s grown into such a great woman.”
“No way!” Sage squeals, descending into laughter. She’s spotted the food. “Who catered? A rabbit?”
“Ha bloody ha.” I say, pulling her in close. She smells of vanilla and sunshine, just as she always has. “I’m trying to eat better, you know that.”
“Ooh dear.” Troy says, glancing through towards the salad bowls. “It’s like being at home. Mom makes me eat my vegetables still.”
“And you’ll thank me for it when you’re older!” Desiree calls across the room. Everyone laughs, but nobody moves towards the food.
“I brought dessert!” Lavinia Blackbottom calls out, making a late appearance. When she says that she brought dessert, she means that Finian is following her in, and he has brought dessert. In fact, you can barely see him behind the enormous tower of cake boxes. Cheesecakes, apple pies, chocolate chip cookies, peach cobbler, an ice cream pie that people jump on so quick it’s disappeared before it’s began to melt, snickerdoodles, carrot cake, Boston cream pie, sugar cream pie, coconut cake and smoked almond s’mores are laid out right on the floor, because the table is full of salad, and the crowd just dive in and take their pick.
“You didn’t have to.” I say with an awkward smile towards Finian.
“Darling, I saw y’all at Bill’s. When I saw your cart, I knew an urgent cake delivery was needed.” Finian says with a wink, and he holds out a s’more towards me. “Whiskey marshmallows. You gotta try ‘em.”
“I guess the diet could start again tomorrow.” I say with a self-conscious grin. It’s difficult, being overweight and still needing to eat. Like the world is ready to judge you if anything more than a carrot cross your lips.
Finian screws up his nose. “Don’t you dare. You’re perfect as you are!”
I roll my eyes, unable to accept a compliment, especially from someone as thin as a streetlamp like him.
“How’s Sheriff Morton?” Violet calls across the room, her eyes somehow managing to stay open under the weight of what must be seven layers of deep purple eyeshadow.
“I rang the hospital earlier.” I explain. “He’s going to be okay. They might even release him this week.”
“Does he know about that wife of his?”
“No.” I say, and I return to the night of the fire, the surprising memory of how cold the air could be while a fire blazed before me, and the moment the lead firefighter shook his head towards me. No words were needed. That head shake told me everything I needed to know.
“What a discovery to wake up to.” Violet says, lips pursed.
“If only you could cast a spell and make it all go away for him, eh?” Someone calls out.
“Oh, hush.” Violet says. She does nothing to encourage the rumours that she’s a witch and while I’m virtually certain that they’re true, and she is, her lack of interest in the subject makes even me wonder.
“Can I get a minute with the birthday girl?” I ask after everyone else has left. Even Patton has gone, perhaps sensing that tonight, I want the last minutes of the day to be just me and my sister. Sage lies on the couch, her hair spread out around her like a lion’s mane, her feet bare. She’s every inch the boho princess she always wanted to be, and I couldn’t love her more.
“Thank you so much.” She murmurs, sleepy.
“Hey, stay awake.” I say, prodding her gently. “I need to talk to you.”
“So… tired.” She says with a low smile.
“Trust me, you want to be awake for this. I’ve not given you your gift.” I say, feeling my stomach flip. I hope I’ve done the right thing, I think for what must be the thousandth time.
“You are my gift.” She murmurs, and I’m losing her to the irresistible pull of a good night’s sleep after a busy, fun day.
“I wrote to Sandy.” I blurt, and her eyes are moons, wide open.
“What did you say?” She asks.
“I wrote to Sandy. And Coral… one letter, to them both. I posted it to Sandy.”
“And?”
“And I told them… I told them that you’re here, that I still see you, that we’ve found this magical place where you can be around, and be seen.”
Sage sits up and swallows, and I see the emotions on her face. I see how she prepares herself, for them not believing. Because who would believe this crazy story?
Hey, your mom is dead but you can see her as a ghost!
Nobody would believe that. And so, I see her, prepare herself for their disbelief.
But then, that wouldn’t be much of a birthday present, would it?
And so I pull the letter out of my pocket, where I’ve been nursing it for days, wondering when the perfect mo
ment might be. I give the letter a little squeeze, and then pass it to her, and watch her debate whether she wants to read this or not.
“It’s Coral’s writing.” She says with a gasp, the concrete reality of holding her daughter’s handwriting bringing her to tears. “I can’t -”
“You can.” I say, and although she tries to hand the letter back to me, I push it back towards her. “Read it.”
And she does. Silently.
I know it word for word, I’ve read it so many times.
Dear Aunty Connie,
Thank you for your letter, which we were very surprised to receive.
We are glad to hear that you’re well. We are too.
We are confused by everything you’ve told us, and that’s why it has taken so long for us to reply. We didn’t know what to think, or say, about the things you are claiming.
We don’t believe in ghosts - you should know that. Of course, we feel mum with us sometimes, but doesn’t everyone who has ever lost someone? It doesn’t mean that she is really there. We don’t believe that she is really there, or anywhere, since she died.
However, we are curious. We’ll admit that.
And, we miss our mum terribly. If what you’re saying is a joke, or a trick, it’s incredibly cruel. But, if there’s even a tiny chance that you’re telling the truth, I guess we have to give it a go. We would do anything to spend one last day with our mum.
So, I guess we’re saying yes.
We will come.
We will come and see you.
And we are trying not to get our hopes up, but we really, really, hope to see mum.
With our best wishes,
Sandy and Coral
“They’re coming?” She asks, meeting my gaze and blinking at me. I nod.
“I suggested they come for Hallowe’en.”
“That’s just a few weeks away.” She says, eyes wide.
“I know.” I say with a grin. “Happy birthday, Sage.”
She shakes her head and stares off into the distance, then lies back down on the couch and, clutching the letter to her chest, slips into a deep, happy, sleep.
THE END
The Curse of Mystic Springs
A Mystic Springs Paranormal Cozy Mystery
Copyright © 2018 by Mona Marple
Cover Art by StunningBookCovers.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For all the ghouls who believe in Magic.
Stay spooky.
As an author, I rely on the help of readers to spot those pesky typos that sneak through on each book. Thank you to Nadine Peterse-Vrijhof and Susan Coletta for your help tracking them down in this book!
1
Sage
It’s still a week away from Hallowe’en and the whole of Mystic Springs is decked out in pumpkins; laughing mechanical ghosts strung up from every tree within a ten-mile radius.
The Baker House has been toilet-papered, soggy strands enriched with shea butter now hang from the veranda, looking pitiful but not pitiful enough for anyone to have tidied them away. It’s been at least two days since the college kids screamed through town on rollerblades, leaving this mess behind, and although I’m the least likely domestic goddess you can imagine, I take a deep breath and begin the clean-up operation.
You may be wondering how much I can feel, as a ghost. Well, let me tell you, I can feel enough to know that this paper is soaked through with rainwater and slimy from the mildew that coats the veranda out here. I try not to shudder too much as I collect each piece and dump it in an orange bucket with a damp plop.
The front door opens and Patton appears, casting a curious glance in my direction.
“Don’t ask.” I murmur, returning to the task before my motivation disappears.
He raises his eyebrows but says nothing. The man’s well trained, I’ll give him that.
“Yes, yes, I know all that, but it’s the perfect site, isn’t it?” A voice comes from the sidewalk. I’m kneeling on the veranda, hidden from view, but poke my head up to see Bruce Skipton and Hector Muscleton stand in front of the Baker House. I glance back towards Patton but he’s returned indoors.
“Great location. Truly magnificent.” Hector agrees, his voice stuttering out from under a wide-brimmed Stetson.
“I need you to sort the deal fast. I’ve - excuse me - already got the buyer on board.” Bruce says, pausing to belch then take a swig from a half-empty bottle of full-fat cola. I try to look away but I’m transfixed. I know both of these men, by name, and I can’t quite decide which one is the bigger bumbling idiot. Bruce turns to gaze up at the Baker House then, and I see his belly button, revealed in the gap where his shirt buttons strain over his stomach. He’s an innie, if you were wondering.
“Well we all know I’m the deal maker, but this place is tricky.” Hector says, and that’s when I realise they’re not just gazing up here at the sight of the remaining TP attack. Bruce Skipton wants to buy the Baker House? You’ve got to be kidding me. The last three places he bought were all knocked to the ground while his signature on the contracts was still wet. Turned into a parking lot, every single one of them.
“Tricky how?” Bruce asks, slug of a moustache dancing across his top lip as he talks.
“It’s kind of, mysterious, I guess. Not too sure who the owner even is. Ain’t never shown no interest in selling.” Hector explains, voice wavering. A deal maker? I can’t imagine this guy making his own bed in the morning.
“Just check the records.” Bruce says with a shrug.
“I could, but -”
“Oh, don’t be such a girl.” Bruce mocks, and I feel my temper flare at his use of my gender as an insult. I’m more Girl Power than WI, but I know darn well that being a girl isn’t a weakness. Bruce Skipton should watch his mouth and remember what decade we’re in.
“Quite.” Hector says with a nod of his head, hat tilting back and forth.
“This place isn’t for sale.” I say, standing and revealing myself. I watch Bruce as he looks me up and down as if I’m meat at the market. What a creep. When I glance at Hector, he’s taken three painful steps away from the house, recoiling from my presence.
“Hey there, little lady.” These are the actual words that come out of Bruce’s mouth.
“You must be kidding me.” I say, arms folded, hands prune-like from the damp toilet paper.
“Erm, let’s make a move.” Hector suggests.
Bruce bursts into a high-pitched laugh, much more feminine than he’d like to know. “Scared of ghosts, Muscleton?”
“Not scared.” The realtor says, carefully. “I just don’t think it’s natural for the living and the dead to mix.”
“I wouldn’t mind mixing with this one a bit more.” Bruce sneers.
“Ugh.” I say, my lip curled in disgust. “You two need to find another place to eye up. This house isn’t for sale.”
“Oh, everything’s for sale. It’s just a case of finding the right price.” Bruce says with a weaselly grin.
I purse my lips and wait for them to move on, but they’re awful at taking a hint, so I return to clearing the veranda. Trust me, I see the bad timing in me deciding to act like a domestic goddess on this one day. When I glance at the men, Bruce Skipton is watching my every move approvingly.
“I’ll see what I can find out.” Hector murmurs.
“Good, good. The supermarket will look great here.”
“A supermarket?” I call across to them, watching the sneer spread across Bruce’s face.
“The women like convenience.” He says with a shrug. “Low prices, longer opening hours, et cetera. You should know.”
“We have a supermarket.” I say. Bill’s sits across town, on Main Street; an independent supermarket that’s been in the town for
decades.
“The prices are too high in there. I’m talking a real supermarket. A 24/7 place. Low prices, more choice. And a big parking lot, of course.”
“You won’t fit that on this plot, even if you could buy it, which you won’t be able to.” I say. The Baker House is a sprawling old place, large even by the standards of Mystic Springs, but it certainly couldn’t be knocked down and replaced with a supermarket.
“You mean you don’t know about the land this place has?” Bruce asks, then releases another belch. I cover my nose. I don’t hate many things more than the smell of burps.
“Well…” I say, not wanting to admit I have no idea what he means.
“Maybe leave the work to the men, hmm?” He asks, flashing me a wink. I narrow my eyes towards him but whatever pleasure he was getting from me has passed and he marches onwards across the street. Hector doesn’t attempt to keep up, his speed affected by his peg leg. You can get amazing artificial legs now, artificial legs so good that you can run races and people can say your disability is an advantage - how crazy is that? Well, Hector Muscleton must have missed his alarm the day they were handing out those kinds of prosthetics. Cos, when I say peg leg, I pretty much mean the thing you’re picturing.
He makes a pretty pitiful picture, hobbling across the street as fast as he can, Stetson bobbing up and down as he tries to close the gap between himself and Bruce Skipton.
**
“Have they gone?” Patton asks a few minutes later, making his spirit self appear through the door instead of opening it. I roll my eyes towards him. The walking-through-doors thing gets old pretty quick after you die, trust me. It’s a strange feeling. But the alternative, actually touching things in the living world, is a skill you have to relearn as a spirit, and one that saps your energy pretty darn quick.
Maybe Patton’s just done enough touching for the day.
