Witch's Mystic Woods

by Marsha A. Moore

  She’d said too much. Her breath grew shallow and heat surged across her face. She rose, desperate to run from that vision. “I have to leave.”

  “Thanks for the visit.” Her brother stood as she headed toward the door. “You can always come live here if you want.”

  Sibeal reached up to span the distance to his six-foot-four height and embraced his bony shoulders. She loved him for his simple understanding of the world and his big heart. If only she could see life that way. As she pulled away, his face transformed into a network of deep wrinkles, a nest that imprisoned him with a blank, lifeless stare. She gasped, and his face returned to normal. Without a word, she slipped outside and hurried to her car.

  On the drive home, her mind raced to formulate a plan that would drive Larena to submit. Fueled by fear beyond that of bankruptcy, she sparked with ideas.

  She pulled into her drive, past the massive red brick home to the unattached garage and hopped out. After she pushed the sliding door open, a ray of sun touched the back wall where decades ago she and Gil had decorated the window casing with paint handprints. His blue, with fingers spread wide and free. Her’s smaller, fingers tight, and in a vivid red. While she’d seen those prints thousands of times, now they were blackened, like a sign or omen of the paths they would follow. The paths they were following. She gritted her teeth, refusing to accept the omen.

  After putting the car away, Sibeal dashed inside the enclosed back porch, eager to consult all her usual reading techniques and a host of others she’d considered attempting for years. She unlocked and opened the back door. It creaked a raucous welcome that had grown louder every month. She bit her lip, waiting for Uncle Herbert to criticize. He lived on as an empowered spirit occupying all the house doors.

  “Sibeal, how many times do I need to tell you? Get these door jambs fixed before winter hits hard.” He smacked the door closed on her wide rear end.

  In the back hall, when Sibeal tossed her keys onto a narrow table, her fingers grazed the wood, a warm golden-finished oak. The touch brought Larena and her family to mind as it had many times before. The table had been purchased from Lockwoods’ Antiques. Strangely, this time pain shot through Sibeal, laced with sadness and frustration of a caregiver to a terminally ill relation. She doubled over and felt her way to a nearby bench. If this was what Larena endured and still managed to keep the family business afloat, she was tough as steel. And it wasn’t the kind of steel Sibeal intended to know directly. She’d fight that off, no matter the cost.

  She rooted through her purse for the Hasselwell law office phone number to report Larena’s reaction.

  The house shutters flapped and the striker on the front door clanked, then called in Aunt Evelyn’s lovely singing voice, “Guests are here, wanting to see the house seer.”

  Sibeal groaned and stood. “Be right there, Aunt Evelyn.” Massaging a new knot in her stomach as she walked, she peeked through the leaded glass side light at Estelle, her skinny, steel-haired neighbor who Sibeal and Oscar utilized for an accurate supply of gossip. She flung open the door, unconcerned about her twisted skirt or associating with fellow perpetrators. “Come in. We have work to do.”

  Chapter Three: The Competition

  Reid checked his sleek chronograph watch, a present from his father for meeting Peterson company requirements for promotion. Although he’d reached that goal, he barely squeaked past his father’s standards. His brother Ben, three years younger, easily excelled in their family corporate farming business—a constant source of frustration for Reid. Every time he looked at the watch, he envisioned his father’s scowling mouth and heard his deep voice saying, “Not sure you deserve this.”

  Heat crept up Reid’s neck and he stepped on the accelerator, determined not to be late. His father had called a morning meeting, not their normal Tuesday routine. Punctuality was a virtue, one of many Reid needed to work on. Not that he wasn’t usually on time and efficient, just not perfect like Ben.

  He sped along the state road south of Columbus, Indiana, too fast for the skim of ice on the asphalt. Luckily, the deep tread of his Silverado’s tires grabbed hard and didn’t skid as he took a sharp turn onto a field access lane. A familiar route he’d timed more than once. Sure of his plan, in under three minutes, he connected to the county road, and in five minutes more he pulled into the company’s headquarters. He recognized the trucks and cars belonging to his father, cousins, and coworkers. Ben must have arrived early to park his BMW X5 SUV in the spot next to Dad, who always arrived promptly at seven in his old red Cherokee.

  With three minutes to spare, Reid parked, grabbed his travel mug, and hurried toward the flat-roofed sprawling building at one side of a dairy farm. He glanced at the limestone ranch house. Additions spidered from the original simple home that their parents built on Grandpa’s acreage. The dozens of maples on the wide front lawn had lost all but a few straggly leaves. As kids, Reid and Ben raked leaves into huge mounds, dove in, and swam through a sea of gold to bury each other, laughing and showering each other with armfuls. And in summers, they’d raced dirt bikes on the rolling pasture hills. Best buds, they were serious about their competitions, then laughed together afterward. What had happened to those good times?

  Somehow they’d been replaced with cold avoidance marred only by vehement competition that ended with hard feelings rather than jokes. Marriage had changed his brother, made him vie to become their father’s favorite. Ben’s wife Melissa wanted the best of everything: new house, new cars, expensive clothes, high end furniture, and every possible indulgence for their two children. Reid shivered. Nothing he was going to get caught up in. He pulled the front of his brown leather jacket closed across his flannel shirt. Life as a bachelor suited him fine.

  In the reflection of the double glass doors, he hand-combed the sleep-tousled mess of dark red bangs aside. He kept the back clipped off his collar, as his father expected, but couldn’t handle the maintenance of his brother’s buzzed sides and gel-controlled top.

  Reid entered the building, put his coat on the rack, and nodded to the plump middle-aged secretary who’d worked there for decades. “Hey, Rose. How do you do these early hours every morning with Dad?”

  She let out a knowing laugh, which allowed her pink earrings to escape from their prison of hair-sprayed-blonde curls, and put a hand out for his mug. “Lloyd and I are used to it. But you look like you need a refill.”

  He unscrewed the lid and handed the cup over. “Thanks.”

  Rose topped off the contents and gave it back as her eyes moved toward his father’s office door, as if sweeping Reid there to keep him on time.

  As the wall clock struck eight, Reid stepped into the head office. He moved around Ben to take a stiff vinyl arm chair, farther from where their father sat behind a nicked, glass-topped black desk.

  Lloyd nursed his coffee mug. Rising steam called attention to his thick, gray mustache, which, along with his bass voice and tall height, reminded more than a few people of Sam Elliott. A complement Reid always liked to hear since he took after his father, even sharing his unusual golden eyes, while his brother had their mother’s brown straight hair and eyes.

  Mike Hasselwell, the senior attorney that represented Peterson Corporation on most legal matters, sat near the opposite desk corner. Acknowledging Reid, the counsel twitched a gray brow, which, once set in motion along his prominent forehead bore a remarkable resemblance to a wooly-bear caterpillar. “Looks like we’re all here,” he said and rose to shut the door. Upon resettling his angular frame into the chair, he started the meeting, his voice so tinny and piercing it always surprised Reid, no matter that the man had served their business for over two decades. “It seems my first attempts to get Irene Lockwood to sell her family property have met with resistance. My liaison, Sibeal Soot, a witch within the coven, reported Larena verbally stated her refusal of the offer.”

  Ben whistled through his teeth. He pushed up both the arms of his burgundy sweater and white shirt cuffs, loosening his p
reppie appearance, as he replied, “How could anyone from ‘round here turn down half a million?” Reid smiled at his brother’s folksy dialect, which embarrassed Melissa. Despite her efforts to change Ben, the country wouldn’t budge from his tongue. That down-home talk was all that seemed to remain of the good-natured, easy-going boy Reid grew up with. Like a window to his brother’s soul, which was buried deep inside. Too deep for Reid. He worried about Ben, then shrugged it off. His brother had gotten himself into the mess.

  Reid’s own Hoosier dialect had mellowed during his college years out east at Wharton. By second semester, he’d decided to pursue an urban corporate career. Considering the effort it took his father to break that dream, he wised up and kept Ben under his thumb at Indiana University in Bloomington.

  Lloyd, cagey as ever, had put it to Reid, at the end of his junior year, that he needed help running the business. Reid couldn’t believe this request from a man who’d always been financially rock-solid, a man who he sought for advice during his business courses. After grinding through tight-lipped arguments that resolved nothing, Reid perused the company’s books.

  He discovered a paper trail of recent debt his father hadn’t mentioned. He’d overextended in order to buy out Cousin Tom’s pig farm. Battling cancer, Tom couldn’t run the place and struggled with medical expenses. Lloyd, always big-hearted, couldn’t turn away, even though it put his own business in jeopardy. Helping others was his father’s weakness, although it had never cost him this much before. Usually, he’d just lend a hand, his own or the sweat of his hired men. Never much money.

  When Reid had confronted his father about the bad transaction, Lloyd never lost his cool, except for a twitch that claimed one side of his squared jawline. With fire in his golden eyes, he said, “I need you with me, Reid. I know you wanna be in the city with some big firm, but you know damn well, you owe me for your college. Four years. Give me that much. One for every college year I paid. Work for me that long to get us in the black.”

  Put that way, Reid couldn’t refuse. His college expenses had been a burden. He considered offering a cash repayment he could easily repay from his future income at a real job, but the set of his father’s eyes advised him not to barter.

  That four-year term had passed a year ago. And Reid still remained at Peterson Corp., no strings attached. Why? He didn’t know. Clearly, his father doted on Ben, not him. In contrast, Reid received tough love with an emphasis on “tough.”

  While sipping his coffee, he scanned his father’s office filled with worn vintage furniture from the seventies, when Peterson Corp. had been founded. Faded olive shades drooped over orange glass lamps as if exhausted from years of service. Perhaps hoping for escape, vinyl floor tiles peeled at their corners. The macramé owl wall hanging Mom made might look in style again if not for its heavy coat of dust. What was he hanging around this dump for? With his magna cum laude degree from Wharton, he could have his pick of Wall Street jobs.

  Lloyd Peterson’s fist pounding on the desk brought Reid back to the present. “I won’t stand for that outta that Lockwood woman. Their land originally belonged to your mother’s family. Clem always wanted it back, but didn’t have the balls to face them witches. Now that he’s passed, the Kilfoyle Corporation belongs to your Momma and her brother, both signing it to me to manage under the Peterson name. We’re gonna have to step in an’ help Mike out.” He eyed Reid, who turned away, not wanting to get stuck with the same take-responsibility-for-your-kin card plastered to his father’s forehead. Not in his future.

  “Matt and Jim, your other two supervisors, might be able to help since they’ve got family in Bentbone near the coven,” Mike suggested.

  “I didn’t invite them to this meeting, did I?” Lloyd’s gaze seemed to pierce the attorney, who shifted in his seat.

  Ben leaned forward. “Let me have a go at changin’ her mind, Dad.”

  Lloyd rubbed his chin, a grin crooking the corners of his mouth. “Thanks, but I’m thinkin’ this deal might require Reid’s skills.”

  Ben’s head snapped toward Reid, brows raised, pupils wide and wild in his brown eyes. “Why him?” Ben perched on the edge of his seat and faced their father. “I can do as well as Wharton-boy.”

  Reid stretched out his jeans-clad legs and rubbed a calf, pretending a muscle cramp to avoid his father’s stare that bored through him.

  “Reid,” his father boomed, commanding attention. “I’m countin’ on you, you hear?”

  Unable to look away, Reid gave a nod.

  Ben huffed. “Dad, gimme a chance. We’re workin’ on commission, and I got a family to feed. He don’t.”

  Lloyd cocked his gray head and looked from one son to the other. “All’s I know is this agreement needs done ASAP, before year-end. The first of you two to persuade the Lockwoods and get a signed contract will get a ten-thousand-dollar bonus.”

  Reid’s blood simmered as he tasted the thrill of competing with his brother. His gaze locked on his father’s. With the size of that sum, he clearly pitted them head to head. What was he up to? They’d done business close to the coven before, and he didn’t seem afraid of witches. Stood up to them like anyone else. It was hard to believe he was just trying to get the contract before the end of the year. Maybe the competition would bond Reid and Ben like when they were boys. That’s what Reid wanted out of this match, not the money. He rose and extended a hand to his father and nodded to Ben. “You’re on.”

  Ben followed suit, the tips of his ears red as fire. He blustered out, yanking his navy wool jacket on as he headed toward the door.

  Reid turned back to his father with a half grin. “What’s this all about?”

  “You best get started. He could beat you.” Lloyd shot a knowing look and a chuckle at the attorney.

  “You wily old dog,” Reid said. “You’re up to something. I’m going to learn more than how to score that contract.”

  “And I’m countin’ on that, boy.” He jerked his chin toward the door.

  Reid followed the prompt and gathered his leather jacket from the entry’s coat stand. He took a step away, then looked over his shoulder at the secretary. “Rose, what’s the address for the Lockwood place?”

  She planted a pink-nailed index finger on an open notebook. “I have it right here. 10940 Fox Valley Road.” She scribbled the address on a sticky note and handed it to him with a wink. “My bet’s on you.”

  “Thanks, Rose. Anything about the Lockwoods I should know?” He stuffed the note in his pocket and refilled his coffee mug.

  “They’re witches. From what Clement always said, they put spells into furniture and wood crafts. He once bought a chair from them that skittered sideways every time he went to sit on it.”

  “Okaayy, then. This should be fun.” Reid took a sip and headed outside.

  She called after him, “Don’t forget about your second cousin Sheila in Bentbone. She’s near enough to Coon Hollow that she might be of some help.”

  “Already on my list. Thank you, Rose.” He paused in the open doorway to give her a wave, then hurried to his truck.

  Chapter Four: A Blue Glare

  At twenty minutes before closing, Larena helped a customer leave the antique store with a set of four kitchen chairs, their seats caned with magic to make food tastier for whoever sat in them. A popular spell among coven members through the holidays and a big moneymaker for the shop. She had a backlog of chairs to adjust according to clients’ Yule dinner menus.

  Larena waved to the happy patron as he drove away. His 1935 Nash’s off-kilter amber headlights danced across the ironwood trees that lined the lane.

  She checked the parking lot for High Priest Logan Dennehy’s green Nash sedan. No luck. She’d called and reported Sibeal’s accusations. He intended to drop by the shop today or tomorrow.

  A cold gust slashed Larena’s cheek. She scurried through the open double doors and struggled to close them against the sharp wind. It blew from the direction of the adjacent vacant Kilfoyle farm. Did
it contain magic intended to take over Lockwoods’ Antiques even though she’d refused to sell? The doors rattled in her hands. Frightened by the blast’s intensity, she stared across the dark expanse to the distant farm’s partly visible buildings to determine more.

  A sharp blue glare from modern-style headlights ripped through the scanty woods that normally separated the properties in summer. The Kilfoyles weren’t witches, and this wind carried no magic. The lack of enchantment made it more sinister, frightening. Magic she knew and understood. Fighting Sibeal would be hard, but Larena was used to hard. Fighting the unknown was another matter, and dread prickled her skin. She pushed her shoulder into one door, then the other, until she could close and latch them. She faced the “closed” sign to the outside.

  While working on a refinishing project earlier, she’d taken off the dense Shetland cardigan she kept at the shop. Cold crept through Larena’s thin flannel shirt and cotton skirt. She rubbed her upper arms and headed to the sales counter to close down the register. Shivering deep inside, she hurried through the shop to complete the day-end routine: lock the records books away, turn out the showroom lights, lower the thermostat. With a hand on the window blind cord, she froze. Across the driveway, one shutter on the dining room’s bay window whipped in the wind, smacking the house with a resounding thump. It hadn’t been broken earlier. Mom was sleeping there. Or trying to sleep, in a daze between the dementia and the meds. That banging could terrorize Mom.

  Now on high alert, worrying about her mother, Larena glanced at the store’s quivering double doors. Rather than take time to wrestle with them again, Larena scurried toward the workroom exit. But that required agility, which she lacked after a twelve-hour workday. Thankfully adrenaline took over and she cut a quick path around an obstacle course of customers’ dining chairs, a bed frame to bespell for a couple about to marry, and three Hoosier cabinets to refinish for retail. She slid the garage door open. Once outside, she secured the door, then ran toward one of the ironwood trees.