Witch Haunted in Westerham

by Dionne Lister

  Damn, she’d noticed me. “Well, what are you doing just standing there? Can’t you see I need to move this silly lounge?”

  Ethel sat on the windowsill and cawed, “Silly lounge, rawrk! Silly lounge.” More like silly Mrs Soames, but I wasn’t going to go there.

  “Um, why are you moving it?”

  She rolled her eyes, then planted her hands on her hips. “I’m having the girls over for bridge later. Mayble’s son and his friend are going to bring my dining table across and put it just there.” She pointed to the space I assumed was going to be created between the Chesterfields and the armchairs at the other end of the room when she’d managed to move everything.

  “Can’t you just use the table in the kitchen?” She was complicating things that didn’t need to be complicated. The more time I spent living with her, the more I realised that was her forte. Some people were talented at organisation, some cooking, some horse riding, and some, well, they were awesome at making everything harder. It was usually the people around them who suffered the most.

  “It’s not big enough.”

  Huh? “But it’s the same size. They both seat six people, eight at a pinch.”

  She narrowed her eyes, and her head crept forward, zooming in on me. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  Wow, that escalated quickly. “Ah, no.” Okay, technically yes, but…. “I just think that maybe your estimating skills are out of whack.” I was pretty pleased with how polite I’d managed to put it.

  She stared at me, and I could practically see the little mouse wheels turning, trying to find a way to twist my words so she could have a go at me. She folded her arms, probably deciding she couldn’t take this any further. “So, are you going to help me or not? It’s not like I asked to be kicked out of my house by a ghost, you know.” She sniffed, but the “poor me” effect was ruined by the crankily folded arms and sour expression on her face.

  That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? Hmm… I knew Angelica wouldn’t care—it’s not as if it was a permanent change, but something about pandering to Mrs Soames irked me. If I agreed to help with this, how far would she take it? Would she soon be moving all Angelica’s stuff out and hers in? Argh, all right, stupid conscience; I’ll do it. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and moved to the Chesterfield. “Okay.”

  She smirked. Gah, the bitter taste of regret flooded my mouth. Note to self: next time, say no. As we finished moving the couches—well, when I’d finished moving them since she had the strength of a sparrow—a scratching noise tickled my ear. Oh my God! The cockatoo was sharpening its beak on Angelica’s windowsill. “Ethel, stop that!”

  The bird ignored me while Mrs Soames huffed indignantly. “How dare you speak to Ethel like that. Apologise!”

  I stared at Mrs Soames, my face slack. You have got to be kidding me. “Please make your bird stop that, or I will. She’s ruining the paint.”

  Her eyes snapped wide. “How dare you threaten my Ethel! If anything happens to her, I’m holding you accountable.”

  As if I’d hurt an animal. I was more thinking of getting the stupid bird back in its cage where it couldn’t ruin anything except my sleep-ins. “I’m not going to hurt your cockatoo, Mrs Soames. Just make it stop ruining Angelica’s house. I’m pretty sure she won’t want you staying if you can’t respect her house. It’s not too much to ask.”

  She scowled at me and narrowed her eyes as much as she could without them actually closing. Then she huffed again and grabbed Ethel off the windowsill. She scratched her under the chin. “There, there, baby. It’s okay. I won’t let the bad lady hurt you.”

  What the actual hell? I gave up. This was too much for me to deal with BC—before coffee. I hurried to the kitchen, made my coffee, then took it up to my room. I wanted to check out Smith & Henderson real-estate ads to get a feel for the style they wanted. I’d found it was best not to reinvent the wheel when working for agencies. They all had their branding figured out, and anything that didn’t fit inside that, no matter how awesome, was going to result in rejection.

  After ascertaining they had a clean, simple style with natural lighting and little clutter in rooms, I shut my laptop and stared at the wall. It was only six thirty; my coffee was finished, and I had nothing to do. Stupid bird. How much longer were they staying? And had she done anything to banish the ghost? Surely there were priests who did that sort of thing. I opened my laptop again, typed “How do you banish a ghost” and hit Enter.

  Who knew there were so many things you could do? To keep them out, you could put salt across your doors, and to get them to leave, you just had to ask firmly. I laughed. Yeah, that hadn’t worked. There was also smudging with a smudge stick, although, how that would force a ghost to leave, I didn’t know. It might give a living person an asthma attack though. Ooh, Wiccans and Pagans could make a circle. Were Wiccans actual witches, or were they non-witches who thought they could make magical stuff happen? I’d have to ask Imani since she believed in ghosts. Angelica scoffed at our account but refused to go and see for herself. Typical.

  The last resort, according to Summer Stream—cruel parents or was she a victim of her own making?—was to consult religious people who specialised in disruptive-spirit banishment. Ha, disruptive was one way to put it. Was that what happened to those kids in class who were always causing trouble? They grew up, died, and forever annoyed the hell out of other people. That would explain a lot.

  I wrote down all the information, plus a small list of potential banishers—priests from local, and in two cases not so local, churches. Look at that; it was only quarter past seven. Argh. So long to wait until I could leave to go to my appointment. With nothing left to do, I grabbed my iPad and read. Okay, so maybe having nothing to do wasn’t such a bad thing.

  Finally it was time to pack and go. I’d called Imani last night, and she was going to quietly tail me—it would look weird if I turned up with a bodyguard or an assistant. As far as I was concerned, she didn’t exist, and I probably wouldn’t see her if she was doing her job properly. That made me kind of sad because I liked Imani, but when she was on duty, she didn’t want distractions, and we didn’t need the snake group knowing I had protection. Maybe they’d show themselves if they thought I was by myself. Being a decoy was not my favourite thing to do, but I was almost used to it. Living in fear had become second nature. Maybe that’s why I’d been crabby lately—the constant stress, which I thought I could ignore. It seemed everything caught up with you eventually. Poop.

  I grabbed all my equipment and changed into my standard photographer outfit: black jeans, shirt, and boots, plus a black winter coat. I crept downstairs, to avoid Mrs Soames hearing me—I did not want to get into another conversation with her. The TV was blaring, so it was an easy no-notice exit, and I hadn’t even needed a spell.

  It was a picturesque three–four-minute drive to Brasted, a village just to the east of Westerham. Farmland filled most of the distance between locales, with pretty Tudor terraces and early 1900s brick homes lining the main road into the village centre. I turned left, off the main road, and followed the road up a small hill. The home was part way along, on a block that sloped to the side, framed by a white picket fence. Cute.

  I parked across the street from the two-storey sandstone house, took out my gear, and walked over to knock on the front door. My palms were sweating—damn nerves. What if the agent hated me? What if they were really difficult? Argh. Stop thinking. I finally worked up the courage to knock.

  The agent opened the door. Dressed in a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and dark tie, his grey hair cut neatly but not too short, he was rather distinguished. His accent matched the look—refined in a very English way. Maybe distinguished should be changed to distenglished. I clamped my teeth together to stop my nervous laughter. Bad time to make a joke with myself.

  I placed my gear on the small, uncovered tiled area that acted as the porch so I could shake his proffered hand. “Welcome to Brasted, Lily. I’m Oliver Smith, owner of
the Sevenoaks office. Lovely to meet you.” He smiled, his greeting genuine and not at all salesy, but then, I wasn’t here to buy anything.

  “Lovely to meet you too, Mr Smith. Thanks for giving me a chance to show you my work.”

  “Call me Oliver, please. Our other photographer is setting up in the back garden, so if you want to get some front shots, that would be good. Then we want all the normal internals: bedrooms, sitting room, dining, kitchen, bathroom. If you can get a few of each so we can pick the best ones later. I’ll have you do your back-garden photos when you’re done.”

  “Sounds good. And is it okay for me to move stuff out of the picture if it’s cluttering things, like from tables and kitchen benchtops?”

  “Ordinarily, yes, but we’ve had this house styled, and the owners have already moved out, so it’s always tidy. We’ve kept the clutter to a minimum, and we want to keep the recipe book that’s on the kitchen bench.”

  “Okay, great. Why don’t I get started?”

  “If you have any questions, let me know. I’ll just shut this door, and when you want to come in, just come on through, but take off your shoes—they’ve just had the carpet cleaned.”

  He left me to do my thing, which was awesome. I hated working with people looking over my shoulder, especially if I didn’t know them. It was nerve-wracking enough doing a job for a new client without being judged from close quarters the whole time. I set up my tripod and took photos from two different positions—one slightly down the hill looking up, and one straight in front. When I was done, I took my boots off and went inside.

  I looked through each room before I went back and set up to photograph them. At least the agent and current photographer knew their stuff: all curtains and blinds were open, and the lights were mostly off. I had my extra flash to bounce off the ceiling if I needed more light. Because I didn’t know this client, I took shots with and without flash in each room. I gathered my boots from the front door and carried them through the house to the back so I could finish up with the yard and back-of-the-house shots.

  After I’d photographed the backyard, the agent met me outside. “Mind if I have a look at what you’ve done?”

  I smiled and ignored the way my heart sped up. I set my camera up so he could scroll through the photos. “Here you go.”

  After looking through about half of them, he said, “These are great, Lily.” He kept scrolling in silence.

  The lack of conversation gave me hives. I didn’t know where to look—if I looked at him to gauge for a reaction, which I couldn’t help doing, it would be creepy, and if I wandered around looking at random stuff in the yard, it would also be strange. So I did what any awkward Lily did: I made inane conversation. “How’s the market going? I noticed you guys have a lot for sale around Westerham.”

  He handed the camera back, but his pleasant expression had turned guarded. “The market is generally stable, but around here, it’s dropped in the last month or two. Supply and demand. We’ve had a lot more stock than usual.”

  “Oh, why is that?” I wasn’t sure if I really cared or if I was still talking for the heck of it.

  “Are you in the market to buy?”

  “Ah, no. I live with my aunt, and she’s got a big place.” A little white lie wouldn’t hurt, and Angelica was practically an aunt to me.

  “She’s not looking to sell in the near future?” He cocked his head to the side as if encouraging me to say yes. Weird. I mean, why would he need to encourage more sales if they had too many properties as it was? Although, they probably didn’t care what price the owners sold for—as long as they agreed to sell to someone, the agent would get their commission.

  “Um, not that I know of. She’s been there for a long time.”

  He handed me his card. “If she changes her mind, just give me a call.” His smile was carefully constructed to be pleasant yet not desperate, or maybe that was his normal smile, and I was reading too much into things. “You’d be surprised how quickly things can change.”

  I drew my brows down. What was that supposed to mean? Should I ask? No, that would seem rude, or would it?

  “Hey, Oliver, I’m done. See you at the next one.” The other photographer, a short, slim guy about my age was half in, half out of the French doors to the garden.

  “See you there, Rob.” Oliver turned to me. “I like your work, Lily. Edit those shots and send them all to the email I sent earlier—it’s not the same as what’s on my card. We like to keep all advertising-related emails in the one spot, or things can get missed.”

  “Of course. I’ll do that tonight.”

  “Great. We do have a twenty-four-hour turnaround time on all photographs, so best to get on board with that from the get-go. And thanks for coming out.”

  “Thanks for giving me a trial.” I bent to undo the zipper on my boots in preparation of walking back through the house.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. You can use the side gate.” Well, that was easier. Lugging my boots, tripod, and camera bag would have been a struggle.

  I picked up my things and let myself out. There was no sign of Imani up or down the street. Maybe she had a no-notice spell on the car, and my lack of powers meant I was virtually a non-witch? I sighed and pouted. I never thought I’d be in a position to want my powers back. But here I was.

  Two things I was grateful for today: a plate of freshly baked scones with jam and cream was in the fridge waiting for me for afternoon tea, and the job had been easy. The agent had been pleasant enough, but things did get weird at the end. What did he mean by “things can change”? My unsettled stomach grumbled all the way home, and it wasn’t because it was hungry. “What are you trying to tell me?” It gurgled a couple of times. “Is a boy stuck down the well? Is his leg broken?” I snorted. Being stupid was better than stressing the whole way home. It was just a shame that my stomach couldn’t articulate actual words; then I’d never be lonely.

  When I got home, I turned into our driveway… and slammed my foot on the brake. The seat belt dug into my chest as I jerked forward. “Ow! What the hell?” Four cars took up all the space. Four cars I’d never seen before. Had something happened? Adrenaline shot through me, unsettling my stomach even more. Until I rememberd Mrs Soames and Ethel were having a bridge party. I rolled my eyes—boy, were they getting a workout. Would her friends be as hostile as she was? Had they all brought their pets? The universe wouldn’t be so cruel… would it?

  I was about to find out.

  Chapter 4

  I walked in the door to classical music and the loud chatter of a tableful of old ladies playing cards. I was quiet and only stuck my head in quickly. No one noticed, well, except for Ethel, who was back on her perch on Angelica’s damaged windowsill. She spread her wings and screeched, “Intruder, intruder!” Stupid bird. I managed to flee up the stairs before anyone saw me, but I’d had time enough to see they were using Angelica’s best china tea set. It had been handed down from her mother. She was not going to be happy.

  Safely in my room, I edited the photos for the morning, my stomach tense, waiting for Mrs Soames to knock on my door and ask for a four-course lunch. Thankfully, lunchtime came and went without incident. I considered calling Angelica, but all the bad news could wait till she got home, and who knew—by then, I’d probably have more to tell her. Might as well do it all at once.

  By two thirty, I’d pressed Send on the real-estate stuff, and I was starving. Scones with jam and cream repeated in my head. Mmm. This time when my stomach growled, it was all about the food. Clearly, the trip outside my room couldn’t be put off any longer.

  Fingers crossed, I slowly opened the door. I held my breath and listened. Classical music and the murmur of voices floated up the stairs. Yep, her friends were still here. What time would they leave? Maybe it was a good thing, as Mrs Soames would be too busy to listen for me. I took a deep, fortifying breath and stepped out to commence Operation Eat All the Scones.

  I slowly crept downstairs, avoiding the creaky
tread. I’d have to be quick near the bottom of the stairs, as I’d be visible from the lounge room. Although only someone sitting at end of the table would be able to see me, it was still risky. Oh, how I wished for my magic back in its entirety. Straining for an hour to do something as simple as light a flame depressed me—it used the least amount of energy. God knew when I would be able to do anything meaningful again. I swallowed my forlorn sigh, just in case any of the oldies had supersonic hearing.

  Okay, this was it. Time to run. I quietly sped down the remaining stairs and flew past the door—silent running was harder than it sounded. I made it to the kitchen and headed straight for the fridge. A spurt of saliva drenched my mouth at my proximity to the scones, jam, and cream. There was only a fridge door separating us. I grinned as I opened it.

  Middle shelf: not there. Top shelf: not there. Bottom shelf: nope. I scrunched my forehead. Maybe someone had put them in the vegetable drawer, which would be weird but not impossible. I slid it open. Tomatoes, celery, and carrots, but no scones. I frowned, shut the fridge, and turned to survey every bench. Nothing. Where the hell had my scones gone?

  “There you are, Lily. Elizabeth said she saw someone dash past, so I thought I’d check and make sure it was a person and not a ghost.” Gah, busted.

  “Ah, yeah. I was just coming down to grab something to eat.”

  “I’d offer you some of our refreshments, but they’re all gone. Beatrice brought the most delicious tea cake, and I found some scones in the fridge, which was fortuitous—it saved me a trip to the shops.” She smiled. Was there satisfaction in that grin, or was I just imagining it?

  I gnashed my back teeth together as anger sizzled from my toes up through my stomach to my fists, which I clenched until they ached. She. Ate. My. Scones. My stomach growled.