Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead (Toad Witch Series, Book One)

by Christiana Miller

  He just blinked at me, this time, without saying anything. He was probably debating the merits of having an owner who said things like 'yippee' and forgot his crickets, but he had the good sense to keep it to himself.

  I was so happy, I had to call Gus and share it with him. The phone rang and almost immediately went into voicemail.

  "Gus, guess what? I have a phone. A landline. And cable. And internet." I said, almost laughing and checking my emails. "Look out, baby, 'cause I am back! Hey, is there something you forgot to mention about Grundleshanks? Like, for instance, that he can talk? Or is that another supplement side effect that you forgot to tell me about? Call me. I want to know if he's one talented toad, or if I'm totally losing my grip on reality."

  After I hung up, I googled 5-HTP overdose and found out that if you combine 5-HTP with St. John's Wort, you can wind up with serotonin syndrome, which leads to full-on hallucinations and difficulty walking. That would explain the other night. St. John's Wort sounded familiar. I looked through my supplement bottles. Sure enough, one of the sleep concoctions Gus had given me had Melatonin, Valerian, Kava Kava Root and St. John's Wort. Add an overdose of 5-HTP and it was one potent cocktail.

  I decided I was going to pound the crap out of Gus next time I saw him. No wonder my grasp of reality had gone so completely out the window. Gus was just lucky he was across the country.

  By early afternoon, my stomach was growling, so I put the computer away and went to the kitchen to make something to eat and call Gus. Like before, it went into voicemail.

  "Gus, you idiot. You better call me back and tell me how long it's going to take to get your supplements out of my system. This place is weird enough on its own, I didn't need your help to creep it out even more." Ehhh, that sounded kinda bitchy, even for me. But as I was about to apologize, the phone went dead.

  I looked around. I was standing in front of the cellar door. In fact, I had just stepped in front of the cellar door when the phone went dead. I stepped away from the door and I had a dial tone again. I took a step back towards the door and the phone went dead again.

  I stepped away from the door and walked around the kitchen. It was fine everywhere else. Everywhere except right in front of the cellar door.

  "Well, that's interesting," I muttered.

  I hadn't been in the cellar yet.

  I put my hand on the doorknob and it was ice cold.

  But just as I was about to turn the knob, I felt a hard push from outside the cottage.

  I ran to the front room to check it out. Anything to avoid going in that cellar. I looked over at Grundleshanks, but whatever was going on, Grundleshanks didn't seem too bothered by it.

  I climbed up on the window seat in front of the big bay window, to see if I could spot anything. The road in front of the cottage was empty, but I could hear the far-off sound of engines through the glass.

  Soon, an SUV and a pickup truck came into sight, hurtling towards each other. They were both driving erratically. One with speed, (slowing down and speeding up), while the other was swerving all over the road.

  "Oh, geez. This isn't going to be pretty."

  Grundleshanks blinked, still calm. I ran and grabbed the portable phone from the kitchen. But reporting that an accident is about to happen doesn't get you the same response as reporting one that's in progress. Especially when both vehicles are still too far away to read the license plates.

  The dispatcher said they'd send a car to check it out, but she didn't sound like it was at the top of the priority list. Although, she told me, if there was an actual collision, I should call her right back.

  I looked out the window again. The SUV's were getting closer and they both seemed oblivious that there was anyone else on the road with them. Were they drunk? Or were they so used to the non-existent traffic and the apathetic police force, they just assumed they could drive like stoned pre-teens and no one would pull them over?

  I thought about running out and trying to flag them down, but I really didn't want to get caught between two impaired drivers. My flesh was soft and my bones were no match for speeding metal. I called 911 again.

  As I was on the phone with the reluctant dispatcher, I heard the squealing of brakes and the high-pitched scream of tires desperately pushed beyond their limits.

  Then the sickening grind of metal on metal as they slammed into each other. The impact was so loud, the dispatcher agreed to send out a patrol car and ambulance, immediately.

  I ran outside. The SUV had spun off in the opposite direction and come to a stop in a maple tree. The pickup truck was still spinning, like a malevolent top. It was coming closer, fast, heading right for where I was standing, by the cottage.

  I hurriedly backed up, unable to look away, and prayed like hell that it wouldn't mow me down. But the truck was moving faster than I could and I was right in its trajectory.

  If I hadn't been looking, I would have totally missed what happened next.

  When the out-of-control pickup hit the cottage wards, instead of continuing on, there was a boom and the air glowed brighter for just a second.

  The pickup truck bounced off the wards, flipping over and spinning in the opposite direction. It skidded on its top until it came to rest on the shoulder of the road.

  Wow. The cottage had, literally, just saved my life. Although I was pretty sure it was just a by-product of it saving itself. Suddenly, the cottage turning an arsonist into a tree didn't seem like such a farfetched idea after all.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  There was a large, pasty-faced, soft-fleshed boy in the pickup that had flipped. He was hanging upside down, anchored by the seat belt. The top of the cab had been scrunched down, dangerously close to the top of his head.

  I opened the door, expecting the worst, but he was conscious and breathing, and his injuries seemed superficial.

  "Are you okay?"

  "How'd I get here?" He blinked at me, a foggy expression on his face.

  "Did you hit your head?"

  He bent his neck and felt his scalp and forehead, looking for bruises. "I don't think so."

  I wasn't sure if I should try to unbelt him or let him hang and wait for the paramedics. I didn't want to risk him falling on his head or neck, even though it wasn't that big of a drop.

  "I can't believe this happened again."

  "Again?" That wasn't good. How often had he flipped his car? "What's the last thing you remember?"

  "I had lunch with a friend and we drank a pitcher of beer. So I went home and took a nap. I dreamt about driving to a pig farm. And then, I woke up here."

  "Are you kidding me? You were sleep-driving?" I wondered if sleep-driving was the next step after sleep-hallucinations.

  "Don't judge me," he snapped. "Did anyone get hurt?"

  "Is this like a regular thing? Have you seen a doctor?"

  He blushed. "I don't like doctors. I usually just hide my car keys before I go to sleep."

  "But your mind still knows where they are."

  "How is my life any of your business?" he asked, oddly defiant.

  "Oh, for Pete's sake. You could have killed somebody. Even out here, in the middle of cow country." Irritated, I closed the driver's side door, left him hanging, and walked away.

  Sleep-driving. I shook my head. I hated irresponsible people. Gus aside. He might be irresponsible, but I was pretty sure he'd never intentionally put someone's life in danger. Their sanity, maybe. Their life, no. At least, not so far.

  I jogged over to the other car, which had crunched into the maple tree across the way. The front end was crumpled and a very sexy and slightly shaken Paul Raines was leaning against the back bumper, his cell phone in hand.

  "I already called. The police are on their way."

  "Oh, ah... thanks." He said, his face reddening. He flipped the cell phone closed and winced.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  "Yeah, just shaken up a little."

  "You're lucky you weren't in a convertible. Hitting a tree is wh
at killed Tillie."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "Don't apologize to me, you're the one who's going to be hurting tomorrow."

  Sirens grew louder. Two police cars pulled up, followed by an ambulance.

  He quickly shoved his cell phone in my pocket. "Hold this for me, okay? Our little secret." He gave me a charming smile and then limped over to talk to the police.

  After I filled the cops in on what I knew, I went back into the cottage. I pulled Paul's cell phone out of my pocket and looked at it, tempted to scroll through its history. There had to be a reason he didn't want the cops to find it. But then I looked up and caught Grundleshanks staring at me. I sighed and placed the phone on the table.

  "Okay, fine." I told the toad. "Snooping is wrong. I get it. But there are times..." I glanced out the window. There was a tow-truck hooking Paul's car up to a winch. The other guy had already left with the flat-bed that had towed his pickup.

  As the cops pulled away, I spotted Paul walking toward the cottage. Good thing I had decided against snooping through Paul's phone. I put the phone out of my mind and turned my attention to cooking.

  I had sausages in the oven and I was cracking eggs into a mixing bowl when Paul knocked and walked in the open door. "Just came to get my phone."

  "Have a seat. Wanna join me for breakfast?"

  He looked at his watch. "It's two o'clock. How late do you sleep?"

  No wonder I was starving. "I've had a busy morning. And then most of my day was taken up with these two idiots crashing into my property."

  "Okay, okay," he raised his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. Smells great in here." He started setting the table and I turned back to my eggs.

  My goal was to make tomato-cheese-basil omelettes, but, as usual, they came out looking like colorful scrambled eggs. I never did have a knack for flipping omelettes.

  But soon, everything was done and the small table was festooned with plates of eggs, honey-smoked sausages, buttered toast, coffee and orange juice.

  "Wow. Remind me to come over here more often." Paul whistled.

  "As long as you keep all four wheels on the road. Or walk. My cottage doesn't take well to speeding cars."

  "I don't blame it. It's a gem of a home. It definitely wouldn't have looked good with an SUV going through it."

  For someone who hadn't been hungry for breakfast, he was practically inhaling his eggs. He must have heard my thoughts, because he looked up at me and grinned, his smile lighting up the kitchen. "Normally, I don't eat like this. You're a great cook."

  I drank my orange juice and smiled.

  He sipped his coffee. "Even the coffee is good. You ever think about opening a cafe?"

  "Not really. My culinary accomplishments are pretty limited." I said. "So, what happened out there?"

  "We both got lectured and threatened with jail time. Sam had to turn over his car keys and agree not to drive for the next month."

  "I didn't know cops could do that."

  "They can out here. They're dispensers of homey wisdom and justice. Keeps the court docket at Trinity Harbor free."

  "Why were you threatened with jail time? And what was the deal with the phone? Are you some kind of rogue CIA agent?"

  He laughed. Then he looked at the phone, embarrassed. "Yeah. Thanks for stashing that. I would have definitely been chillin' in the pokey if they had caught me with it."

  "I didn't know owning a cell phone was a capital offense."

  He sighed. "It is when you get caught text messaging. Especially if this your third offense."

  "Are you kidding me?! Text messaging?! While you're driving? Are you an idiot?"

  "Okay, let me explain. I'm not used to texting. I haven't upgraded my phone in like, three years. So the first time someone sent me a text, I thought my cell phone was ringing. I kept trying to answer it. By the time I figured out what was going on, I had run into a parked car."

  I looked at him, shocked.

  He held up a hand. "Being a responsible kind of guy, I paid to fix the car."

  "And the second time?"

  "I wasn't going to text back, I just wanted to see what it was who was texting me. I was just looking. But Howie pulled up next to me while I was checking it out and gave me a ticket."

  "And today?"

  "I was actually texting. It was an emergency."

  I stood up and took the plates to the sink.

  "Hey, I wasn't done!" He protested, standing up.

  "You are now. Text messaging. While you're driving. That's almost as stupid and irresponsible as sleep-driving."

  "It's inexcusable, I know." He joined me, drying the dishes as I washed them. "But really, I'm not that guy who texts while he drives. It's just that my publisher was having some problems and then my publicist called, going nuts about some interview she wants me to do. I have a book about to hit the market and things are in the middle of chaos right now. And besides, it was ringing. I can't just let a phone ring and not answer it. It's not in me."

  I dried my hands and grabbed both our phones off the table.

  "What are you doing?"

  "You'll see." I uploaded a ring tone to his phone, then I downloaded it and set it as his text message tone. I added his cell number into my phone, then handed him his phone.

  "Next time you feel the need to text message, pull the hell over and park, okay? Me, the cows, the trees and my home, we would all appreciate it."

  "Yes, ma'am." He smiled and looked so sincere, I felt my anger dissipate.

  "So, you're a writer?"

  "Yeah. I guess it runs in the family. Teaching pays the bills, but writing's my passion. You still mad?"

  "You're just lucky you're cute." I quickly sent his phone a text.

  His phone buzzed and started the new ringtone, a voice saying "Do not pick up the phone. Do not pick up the phone."

  "There's your new text message ringtone. Think you can leave that be?"

  He laughed. "Okay. I can live with that." He slid the phone into his pocket. "So, you think I'm cute? There's a lot of places we could go with cute. How about 'hot'? Do you think I'm hot? A couple of days ago, you thought I was sexy. And possibly sweaty."

  "A couple of days ago, I thought you were gay." His hands strayed over to my side of the sink. I slapped at his flirty fingers. "Don't push your luck."

  After Paul left, I tried calling Gus again from my cell phone, just in case he was screening for numbers he recognized. But as I walked in front of the cellar door, I lost the signal. I stepped away from the door. Full bars. A step towards the door and it was completely back to zero bars. Just like before, with the landline. I took a deep breath, put my hand on the cellar doorknob and unlocked the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  As I slowly opened the cellar door, a cold breeze came up out of the darkness. Goosebumps raced my arms and across my scalp. I grabbed my big mag-lite to use for protection, and flipped the cellar light switch on. A single light bulb flared on, turning the utter blackness at the bottom of the cellar steps into a light gray.

  I carefully walked down the stone steps, one hand on the wall, the other clutching my flashlight. I couldn't see anything, but I could hear the scratching and rustling of small animals.

  Once I got to the bottom of the stairs, I could make out random white strings hanging down from the ceiling. When I pulled on one of the strings, another light bulb flared on.

  I heard something fall and my heart jumped up into my throat.

  Then I felt something small and furry run over my foot.

  I screamed and jumped sideways.

  Okay, here's the thing. As much as I'm not as afraid of things that turn normal people into jelly, like ghosts and supernatural bumps, I'm at a loss when it comes to rodents who want to live in my home. I don't want them there. I don't want to see them. I don't want to see their droppings. But I don't want to see their dead little bodies either. So I'm hopeless at setting out traps. What I'd like to do is just go away and come back to a magically
critter-free home. But so far, I haven't been able to figure out how to pull that off.

  And what makes it worse is that the creepy critters seem to love me. They'll run right up to me and stand on my feet. Or if I'm laying down, they'll curl up next to my pillow. It's why I don't go camping any more.

  I quickly jumped around, swinging the flashlight and making lots of noise to scare off any lurking critters. Then I yanked on all the overhanging strings, until the cellar was lit up like a police interrogation room. But at the edges of where the light could reach, it was still cobwebby, full of boxes and dark shadows, and haunted by feelings of rage and dread.

  Halfway through the room, I noticed another door. I opened it. An empty storage room. I could use it as a place to store essential oils, herbs and incense. Maybe even do some blending. That is, if I could find the courage to come down to the cellar on a regular basis. But I just couldn't see spending any more time down here than I had to. My goosebumps had goosebumps.

  As I walked through the cellar, I noticed that it didn't quite mesh, size-wise, with the house. It seemed to be quite a bit smaller. There was a wall blocking off the area where the mud room and part of the kitchen was on the upper floor. I pushed against the wall, wondering if it concealed some kind of secret room. Or if some human sacrifice had been deliberately bricked up in there, my subconscious prompted.

  "Get out of my home!" The ghostly voice echoed in the confines of the cellar and the hair on my neck stood on end.

  "Forget about it. This place is mine. I'm not going anywhere." I said, drawing my line in the sand.

  "Get out! Or face the consequences." The voice whispered, curling around me like a mist.

  A wrapped Santa Claus flew across the room, aiming right for me.

  I ducked and it smashed against the wall.

  "Leave here, now!"

  Box after box flipped open and the contents hurled themselves at me. Pictures, plates, glasses, books, ornaments, holiday decorations, all turned into ammunition and shrapnel. I weaved and ducked as fast as I could, using my mag-lite as a baseball bat, but it was all coming too fast.