Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  I clenched my teeth, but couldn’t force my gaze away. “Go ahead.” The words leaked out, despite my locked jaw.

  He flashed a sly smile and lowered long lashes, the sort women would die to have. He was hot, and he knew it. “Very well then. My story goes back a good long way, to when my sister Eleanor married into this clan. Or even earlier, according to rumors I heard from my ma and grandma. They brought me and Ellie over from Ireland after our pa died, along with others like us who had special gifts.” He studied me and grinned. “I see you’ve got some o’ your own, lass. What manner would they be? With fire jetting from your hair and fingers?”

  “I’m not from this coven. I was raised in New Wish.”

  “Aye, New Wish. Down south way, along the river.” Fenton tipped his hat again. “Those be the witches who can draw bliss and bane from the smallest slip of nature. Strong, old ways.”

  “Thank you, but tell me why you can’t leave me in peace in this house.” My fingers pressed into the wood of my staff, leaving a soft, ashy residue.

  “Aye. You best sit yourself down.” He motioned to the bed beside me.

  I leaned against the mattress but didn’t sit. I had no intention of welcoming this as a friendly chat.

  He crossed his legs the other way and twisted to face me. “Our little family struggled in New York for close to a year, working hand to mouth, begging, and what not to stay alive. On one miserable, hot summer night, Gran put on her best clothes and went out. Case be, she decided to work a fortune booth with a touring carnival that’d set up shop blocks away. That night, she came home with a fistful o’ bills, and we ate like kings the next day. Until then, Ma and Gran had been too afraid to use magic, but it was plain there was no other way. We’d all lost so much weight. It was only a few nights later when a lady approached Gran at her booth. The woman knew folks from our village back home, people who shared our gifts. She said a group from our homeland was gathering in the central hill country of Indiana. Before the carnival moved on, Gran had made enough to see us all on a train headed west to this here hollow.

  “When we got here, life was good again, better than New York. Folks in charge o’ this coven were strict. Damned strict. Rules, rules, rules. I always seemed to be breaking one or another, in school, in coven meetings, and at friends’ houses. The biggest problem was, I didn’t spend time honing my skills as I should. Oh, I can do some fascinating spells and incantations from the old country that few know. But to gain approval here, I needed to set myself to a witch’s career path with what I’d inherited. Ellie did well to take up Ma and Gran’s craft of oneiromancy, dream magic. At least Ellie tried, though she didn’t get empowered. Either stupid or a rebel, I didn’t heed the warnings. While I lived, my spirit didn’t gather enough insight into that skill to keep hold of it after death.”

  “And here I am, not able to remain as a house spirit in any form.” He let out a long sign and lifted the beads from his chest. “These pearls belonged to Ma and hold some old-world powers. Only when I wear them, can I take physical form. Truth be, according to Coon Hollow rules, I’m not allowed to be here. Should be pushing up daisies. Well, as an old man that didn’t sit well with me, no. While Cerise’s mother Margaret lived, she took pity on me since we’d been dear friends in life.” He winked and grinned. “Having a way with the ladies never hurts. She saw fit to cloak my dead body in her magic. Kept the reapers at bay.”

  I leaned forward, drawn into his story. “But she passed five years ago. How have you remained here? Does Margaret still protect you?”

  “Sadly, no. I sense her spirit from time to time, but she’s on a different plane than me. We can’t interact. Without Margaret, I didn’t dare leave this house. With it all closed up, the otherworld must’ve been fooled. They didn’t catch onto me until you and Cerise opened up this place again. I was mad at first, and plenty scared, too. But that’s not right to blame either of you. My fault entirely.” He cast his eyes down. “Now that wretched banshee is on me like stink on shit, pardon the expression.” He rolled a few pearls between his long fingers. “This be all the luck I have now.”

  “Maybe not.” As ideas jolted together, I jerked from my slumped perch against the bed. “I might have to help you, whether I want to or not. The banshee may be after me too, according to an old legend someone just told me that goes like this: The near homestead has a spirit and a keepsake, both wanted by the dark beyond. Find use of them before October’s second first quarter moon comes awake, and you’ll gain the notch you wish in your wand. Fail and your powers will break, under curse of the dark bond.”

  The strand slipped from his hand. He leaned forward, eyes wide and piercing but without seductive magic this time. “Who told you that?” he snapped.

  “Cyril the Raccoon King.”

  “I see.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry for you to be tangled in my web. Must be the rumors Gran and Ma talked about were truth. An old Irish legend, from back so far no one knows the start, says that an O’Mara who marries a Flanagan will strike a curse. Ma was dead set agin Ellie marrying like she did into this clan.”

  I rested my walking stick against my side. “According to the rhyme, it might not be so hard to break the curse. You’re obviously the spirit the banshee is after, having cheated death by remaining here without an empowered soul. We just have to find the keepsake. Do you know what that might be?”

  Fenton shook his head. “I surely wish I did. I’ll help turn the place upside down with you.”

  “Thanks.” I stretched my legs and stood, considering what should be done next. When my hand touched the door, I remembered the outburst that sent me to find him. “Were you the one who made the loud bang on the front porch?”

  His angular chin jutted out. “Me? No, lass. I’ve been in this room for hours.”

  “Oh crap!” I raced down the stairs, through the kitchen, and slammed the outside door shut against an icy gust and set the deadbolt. My fingers left burn marks on the wood. I spun back, my gaze darting into every corner.

  Chapter Twelve: Tales of Yore

  If the banshee had gotten inside, I needed help to fight it. I opened my mouth to yell for Fenton, then snapped it shut. Even if he could help, calling his name might tip off the otherworld specter.

  I clamped a sweaty palm around the end of my walking stick, which I might have to trust as a wand sooner than I’d like. I readjusted my grip, not knowing whether that made a difference. I didn’t know anything about using a wand. My temples throbbed with my pounding pulse. “I’m a strong witch,” I reminded myself under my breath. “I am a strong witch.” And, my New Wish magic might disorient a banshee who could be tied to the O’Mara family of Coon Hollow. I grasped onto those ideas. Still, frozen with fear, I had to force myself to check the rest of the downstairs.

  Pockets of icy air hung in the parlor like invisible frozen cobwebs. I bumped into one, and a gust spun me off balance. Last night’s frigid breeze had brought on a heavy fog. Tonight might be the same. The door I’d left open had likely let frosty autumn night air seep inside, nothing more. Or so I told myself. But being a sun witch, I was especially alert to the balance of energy in living things. Death contained no energy, no heat, only pervasive cold. Like the chill surrounding me.

  Another gust swept me through the hall and against the backdoor, which rattled in its frame. Fingers trembling, I rechecked the dead bolt and scanned the twilight through the half window. Distant pine boughs beyond the barn lifted like ladies’ skirts caught by a sudden wind. Moments later, all lay still, outside and in, completely motionless. If the draft had signaled the entry of a specter, was it now gone? Or did its icy death snuff the life force from all it touched while lying in wait for its intended prize? There was only one way for me, with my limited knowledge of spirits, to find out.

  I took hold of the pantry cabinet’s metal handle. Coldness shot up my arm. I bit my lower lip and yanked the door open. A squeaking field mouse hopped out. My heart shot into my throa
t.

  Steadying myself against the countertop, clammy sweat soaked my palms and beaded in a line along my brow. When at last I was able to regain my composure, I looked under tables, behind doors, and in dark corners. Everything seemed normal, but I didn’t trust appearances. I headed upstairs.

  I listened for Fenton, but all was quiet. Too quiet. Probably on guard from my mad dash out, no banging came from where I’d left him in my room. What did surprise me was the extreme stillness of the house itself. The stair treads didn’t creak under my weight, nor the wooden floorboards in the upper hall. In the time I’d stayed there, I’d gotten used to the moans and murmurs of the old square-hewn logs as they shifted and settled with autumn’s extreme temperature swings. The melodies of the home’s aches and pains formed a comforting white noise in my mind. Their absence sent me into a panic. I clutched the stair rail with a white-knuckled grip. What if the banshee had taken Fenton? The death spirits might label me as an accomplice acting to hide him from laws of nature. If the old raccoon’s riddle was right, I could be stripped of my ability to use sun energy…or worse…pay with my life.

  Staff raised, I crept to my bedroom door. Again, the metallic chill of the brass handle made me flinch.

  “Looking for someone, lassie?” Fenton’s voice came out of the darkness at the end of the hall.

  I jumped and sputtered, “You’re okay!”

  His thin mustache curled. “Glad you’ve come ’round, worrying about me and all.” He glided behind me and cooed over my shoulder, “I’ve still got it. Death didn’t tarnish my charm with the ladies.”

  “Stop that,” my shouted whisper rasped against the lining of my throat. “Did anything come up here?” I took a step away and faced him, a bit calmer since he’d not been harmed.

  “Only your pretty face. Like I said, I can’t see spirits since I’m a ghost and not exactly one o’ them.”

  It was colder upstairs, almost frigid. I pulled my arms close to my sides. “It’s freezing up here. Warm air always rises. Why is it colder than downstairs?”

  His smile faded to a thin line. “Though I don’t see them, I can feel spirit-kinds. A blast o’ ice-cold air shot through. A demon for sure.”

  I grabbed his arm, and my hand dropped through his vaporous form. “Was it the banshee? Is she gone?”

  He gave a single nod. “As soon as you left, a gale shook through all the rooms, passed right over me where I hid inside Ma’s hatbox. When I poked out, the wind had laid.”

  “Everything’s too quiet now.” I peered into the darkness at the end of the hall.

  “Even house spirits fear a death messenger.” He shrugged his padded shoulders. “If I were a bettin’ man, I’d say with no wind, that demon’s done gone.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’m guessing it was looking for the keepsake and didn’t find it. But why didn’t it take you?” I went into my bedroom and rummaged for my hand-knit sweater.

  Fenton followed. “The chill, it did swirl all around this closet. I’ve placed some old magic on that hatbox, where I keep hid, which might ‘o kept the demon at bay.”

  I popped the sweater over my head. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  “Again, you touch me heart, lass.” He cupped his hands to his chest and gave a silly grin that curled the ends of his pencil mustache.

  I rubbed my hands together. “Don’t get all cocky. I’m only protecting you because it saves my skin, too. I need your help. The riddle said if I don’t find both you and the keepsake before the banshee does, my powers will be broken by the dark world’s curse.”

  “Oh, lass, what a blow. I thought you truly cared.” He chuckled and kneeled at the empty fireplace. With a wave of his hand, he lit a roaring fire and motioned me over.

  I extended my numb fingers to the warmth as the bedroom filled with the sweet scent of smoldering maple. “Thanks.” I shot him a curious glance.

  “The least I can do since you’re trapped in me curse.” He lifted his hat and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Best we work together, then.”

  “Where should we start looking for that keepsake?”

  “Once you’re warmed up a bit, I’d suggest we have a go in the coldest parts o’ the house, where the demon searched.”

  “Just a minute.” I nodded and set a meditative gaze on the flames to take advantage of the moment to strengthen my element. Pain in my hexed lower leg had increased. Without time to perform a proper fire spell, this would have to do for now.

  Fenton rooted in the closet.

  More than his curious actions, the house, still shrouded in unnatural silence, pressed upon my concentration. Dark magic hung heavy in the air and weighed upon my chest as I tried to inhale the fire’s powers. I shook my head in a futile attempt to free myself of the impinging force. “This is almost no use. Let’s get started.” Feeling only a little better, I ignored the hex pain and pushed on. I opened the door and gestured to him. “Lead the way.”

  He glided down the hall and paused outside each of the two shut-off guest rooms, ear pressed against the doors. At the last one, the child’s room, he pointed inside. “The demon’s afterglow lingers the most here.”

  I shivered, hoping not to meet any death servants inside. I laced my hand with my sun energy until my fingernails sparked.

  Fenton looked me over and turned the knob. “Relax. Afterglow is all. Not the actual specter.”

  When only cold air greeted us, I exhaled through chattering teeth. “It can’t be this cold outdoors. Death really is the absence of energy.”

  He moved through the room. “Is that so? Makes sense. Sometimes, I wish I were a skilled witch and things like that.” He stopped at the bookcase and waved me over. “Strongest here.”

  With out-turned palms, I scanned the shelves top to bottom: model cars; tops; toy trains; soldiers. After a quick pass that identified nothing, I began again, pausing to touch each toy and read whatever unusual magic I could with my haptics. Intense cold left by the banshee sucked heat from my hands. When I brushed a blue-striped top, the metal stuck to my moist skin. Sun power drained from my fingers, and I peeled them free with a grimace and a groan. The skin red and raw, I shoved the hand into the warmth of my jeans pocket.

  “Are you okay?” Not waiting for my answer, Fenton held out his hand. “Lemme have a look.”

  With my aching fingers in his hand, he passed his other palm overtop. My curled digits opened to reveal healed skin.

  I examined my repaired injury. “Oh gosh. That feels so much better. I may keep you around after all.” I resumed my readings along a row of coupled train cars. “Wow! These are like ice. Maybe one of these is the keepsake.” After determining which of three linked cars held the least energy, I picked up the middle one. Turning it at every angle, nothing seemed unusual other than traces of icy darkness. Every wall, coupling, and wheel were intact. “I don’t see or feel anything odd.”

  “No? Look closer.” He pointed at the car’s windows. Tiny passengers wore expressions of wide-eyed horror with mouths open in frozen screams.

  I leaned in for a closer look. “Oh! Is this the keepsake?”

  Fenton gave a slow exhale. “I don’t reckon. With your strength, you’d know the keepsake’s feel. It’d have magic that would unlock connections to unspeakable powers. True, this train had magic left from its previous owner. Likely just enough to let those wee people distress when the death hand passed o’er them.”

  I tried to replace the car on its shelf, but my hand stuck to it.

  Fenton tried and failed to loosen the bond. “My magic can only repair physical damage, not break asunder another’s spell. I’m dreadful sorry.”

  “Then just plain yank it off me.” I squeezed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth.

  He popped the railcar off, and skin from my fingertips peeled from the underlying tissue. “Shit!” I screamed and tried to reflexively yank my hand close to me, but Fenton cupped it. A second later, he healed the wounds good as new.

  I stared at my
hand. “Amazing.” No marks remained on my flesh, but deep inside my witch’s powers had taken a toll. With a deep breath to bolster me, I continued to the next affected toy.

  We continued working as a team, testing the coldest objects in the room: a family photograph newly askew on the wall; a rocking horse with fresh splinters in its wooden saddle; a pogo stick with a handle bent loose. Close examinations on my part caused considerable injuries, which Fenton healed straight away.

  My powers drained into each toy and my body shook from enduring so much. I slumped onto the bed, and while massaging my aching hexed leg, surveyed the nightstand items.

  “You’re tiring.” Fenton tilted his head to one side. “There’s harm done to you I’m not able to repair.”

  “It’s okay. I want to go on.” A pronounced chill surrounded a book on the maple bedside table. I flicked on the lamp, and a cloud of ice-fog crystals hung in the air below the shade. In faded gilding, the title, Tales of Yore, embossed the burgundy leather. I braced for the expected energy-sucking chill and traced the words. Instead, although the cover was cool, the volume emanated its own warmth. “Fenton, come here! This book has more magic than the other toys. Like it’s still alive.”

  In a flash, he bent over the nightstand as I opened the cover and turned the yellowed, dog-eared pages. I paused at the contents, comprised of dozens of first names, both male and female. Among the last, I recognized two: Eleanor and Margaret. “These are Cerise’s grandmother and mother.”

  “All the kin who once lived in this house.” A smile crossed Fenton’s face. “I didn’t know this homestead kept a book of spirit tales. I haven’t seen one since I was a lad back in the old country.”

  “Are these stories about the lives of people who once lived here?” I turned to the start of the first chapter, which literally sprang to life before us. Lines of an ink illustration penned across the page’s upper half. As details filled in, the outline of a man stood tall, head high with a hand shielding his eyes and a shotgun at his side. A hound looked into the distance. Colors bled across the page and filled the lines, the hues of his green wool hunting jacket and tall, black boots rich and vivid. The man lifted the gun to his shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger. He nodded to the hound, and the two ran off the page. Moments later, he returned, pheasant in hand and wagging setter at his feet. “How cool is this? I’ve never seen anything like it. Are you sure this isn’t the keepsake?”