Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3

by Marsha A. Moore

  “Not likely, since the magic it’s giving off is familiar to me.” He cocked his head. “But it might give some clues about where the keepsake might be. Worth watching the vignettes.”

  “Good idea. I’ll study this in bed tonight.” I closed the book and clutched it close to me as I stood. Goosebumps raised along my arms. “I’m freezing. Let’s get out of here.” Staff secure in my dominant hand, I looked both ways down the hall before exiting. “It seems warmer out here than before, but I’ll go down and check the furnace.”

  With unexplainable facts clogging my mind, my feet, under direction of my growling stomach, led me from the humming basement furnace to the kitchen. I made a quick sandwich and scarfed it down with a tall glass of milk. Scared about the evening’s events, I reached for the phone on the kitchen desk. I glanced at the clock beside it and hesitated. Ten o’clock was too late to call Cerise. Instead, I dialed Logan’s number from the notepad.

  He picked up on the second ring. “Aggie, is everything all right?”

  “I’ve been hearing loud noises outside at night. I thought it was just people from the haunted carriage house having some fun. But the place isn’t open tonight. I heard banging when I returned from a walk.” My words spilled out, and I gasped to get a breath. “I searched the house following the noise but—”

  “Are you okay?” Logan asked, voice raised.

  “Yes.” I moved a curtain aside and scanned the backyard, then eyed the hallway to the stairwell in case Fenton lurked nearby. “I think the banshee got in. I accidentally left the backdoor open while trying to look for intruders. Cold wind swept through the house, like the spirit left it behind.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “No. I’m safe. There’s a ghost here who’s been helping me secure the house and look for what the banshee might be after.”

  “A house spirit. Good.”

  “Not exactly, from what I can tell.” I searched for the correct way to describe differences between spirits and near-spirits. “His name’s Fenton, and he used to live here with Cerise’s mother before he died. I guess he didn’t have the right magic to become a house spirit. He’s some sort of ghost.”

  Logan’s silence worried me.

  A creak sounded from the wall opposite me as a figure in a black and white photo of one of Cerise’s ancestors turned to look my way. I flinched, then let out a slow sigh. Only a house spirit. And that meant no banshee.

  “Hmm.” Logan’s tenor hummed in my ear. “Where are the house spirits? Have you seen them?”

  His hesitance worried me. I clutched the phone closer, checked the hall again, and lowered my voice. “No. After the cold hit, the house went dead quiet. It’s just coming to life again now. The beams are creaking.”

  He let out a loud exhale. “Good. Quiet house spirits means they’re scared. The house should be safe now, but I think I should still come over. I don’t like the sound of whatever Fenton is. Ghosts, unattached spirits, can be bad.”

  “No. I’m okay. It’s late. I want to talk to Cerise tomorrow, to see what she knows. Can you be there? I don’t know much about banshees…or any spirits.”

  “Yes. I’ll meet you at Shireen’s dress shop at nine. Or does Cerise drop you off earlier?”

  “Usually eight-forty-five.”

  “I’ll be there. And call me tonight if anything happens.” His strong tone reassured me. “Can you keep a phone in your room?”

  “Yes. Thanks. I appreciate that.” I unplugged the portable phone and took it with me as I crept up the steps while watching for any sign of Fenton. I saw nothing, but the door to my bedroom stood open. Had he been listening to my conversation with Logan?

  When I entered, he looked at me with wide eyes as if startled. “The fire’s banked. The hot coals should drive out the last of the chill so you can sleep.”

  At the suggestion of sleep, tiredness seeped through my muscles and my witch’s powers sagged. Fenton’s surprise seemed fake, but exhaustion from a long day made my judgment unreliable. If there was a way to actually touch his filmy mass, my haptics might reveal at least a clue. Perhaps his words about sleep carried a spell, but I dismissed the idea. Keeping my magic poised to strike the elusive banshee or intruder had drained me without any action on his part.

  I plugged in the phone and set it on my nightstand.

  With a sidelong glance at my precaution, Fenton smirked, gathered his hatbox, and moved toward the door.

  The bed called my name, and the last flame of the fire reminded me to recharge my energy. My eyelids drooped. Maybe I could recharge in the morning. I twisted to look first at the soft comforter, and then at the smoldering blaze.

  “Is something the matter, lass?” Fenton hovered in the doorway.

  Pain trembled around the area of my cat bite and shot up my leg. Recharging couldn’t wait. I ran a hand through my hair. “Can you heal injuries from hexes?”

  He shook his head. “’Fraid not. Like I said before, only physical damage. I can’t counter another’s magic.”

  I nodded. “That’s okay. I’ll use the fire. Thanks for that.”

  “I’ll be across the hall in my box if you be needin’ me.” He tipped his fedora and said a soft goodnight as he closed the door after him.

  I stared at the door, then locked it to make myself feel better. Though I doubted the flimsy thumb lock could keep out anything, Fenton or banshee or house spirit. Having the phone nearby, a way to contact Logan, gave more reassurance. I undressed, slipped into my nightgown, and leaned against the bed. I focused on the last flicker in the fireplace. While the tiny flame settled and a sea of red-orange coals spread before me, my breath calmed. Through half-closed lids, I emptied my mind and followed the pulsating and changing embers. Their energy, fused with my own, filled my reserves with a satisfying warmth. Satiated, my limbs grew heavy.

  I crawled into bed with my staff and the book of house spirit stories. I sank into the featherbed with the Tales of Yore open to a page about Eleanor O’Mara, and watched figures come to life on the page until they skipped through my dreams.

  Chapter Thirteen: A Mother’s Revenge

  Sun streaming through my bedroom windows woke me. A vague memory of a dream remained. A lady wearing a starched housedress cranked a wringer washer. She hung the wet clothes on a clothesline behind this homestead cabin, the one I lived in now. A well-tended garden of hollyhocks and common witches’ herbs lined the familiar back wall of square-hewn logs. Not even a hint of that plot remained now.

  In my room, wallpaper lilacs blossomed on their trellises and cast a cheery lavender glow. Robins twittered from the gutter along the tin front porch roof. The book of house spirits, my prize find from last night’s search, lay open on my bed.

  Curious whether my dream matched the story, I rolled toward it, but a jab cut into my side. My walking stick bundled in a wad of blankets. I moved the tree branch aside and studied the book.

  The female character in the illustration tucked stray, dark curls into her bun, flashed me a smile, and resumed her laundry chores. No clues about the keepsake there. I nodded to her and closed the cover.

  I dropped onto my back and listened. The house murmured and creaked with its familiar white noise. Warm air blew from the heat ducts with a soft whir. No traces of the banshee’s chill remained. I listened again for signs of Fenton. Nothing. Had I just dreamed him up, along with the death spirit’s icy gusts? Maybe neither really existed. And the Raccoon King, Cyril? Had he been real? Animals back home didn’t talk, other than a couple witches’ familiars, and then only a garbled word or two. I eyed the book and staff. They were proof of some Coon Hollow magic I’d discovered last night. Magic I didn’t understand. Lines here blurred between life and death, dreams and reality. Witchcraft of Coon Hollow lived and breathed through souls of the dead.

  I sat up and stretched my arms above my head. One thing was certain: if I remained safe and sane in this house through Samhain, I’d become what I intended, a strong and independent wit
ch.

  Anxious to make sure the house had remained safe through the night, I padded barefoot downstairs across wood floors that shone with a rich patina from generations of use. A pair of blue jays chased among the pines near the shed, taunting each other with shrill cries. In and out, the homestead seemed alive with a happy hum. Like nothing I witnessed last night had happened. I tried to smile inside, but couldn’t. I’d not found the keepsake. I feared what might happen to both Fenton and me.

  I scurried back to my room and dressed for my workday in a black pencil skirt, white blouse, and black flats, a basic outfit Shireen had put together for me from her ready-made garments. I brushed my hair and smoothed it into a low ponytail. After a slick of rosy lipstick Cerise had given me, I surveyed my image in the bureau mirror and liked what I saw. A woman rather than a girl. Hopefully, the change would please Logan. I wanted to know him better. People relied on his responsible character to protect them as their high priest. I admired that…and he was cute, too. He seemed interested in me, but I couldn’t tell for sure.

  Staff in hand, I shouldered my backpack and winced, wishing I had a purse instead. I headed down the stairs. Still no sign of Fenton. On the landing, my hexed calf cramped. The ankle buckled and twisted me onto the next step. I grabbed the railing, and my staff clattered to the bottom. Heat flooded up my neck into my face. I gasped for air, bracing my body against the banister while I regained composure.

  This shouldn’t be happening. I’d restored my sun energy last night while meditating on the fireplace flame. Then I remembered what Jancie and Vika had said about my own internal fire. It could harm my body while trying to protect me against the hex, like a vicious autoimmune disease. Foolishness churned my stomach; this was my own fault I’d fallen out of balance. I’d not replenished my stores of moon power for at least twenty-four hours.

  Breath ragged, I limped to the kitchen and brewed a cup of wintergreen tea. Too feverish to eat breakfast, I took my mug onto the front porch while I waited for Cerise. I carefully placed only my affected leg in the sun, hoping that would limit the battle between my witchcraft and the hex to my limb.

  The tea soothed my burning throat, and the minty aroma relaxed my airways. I took a deep breath and eased back into the bentwood rocker.

  Across the road, Mr. Murdock lurched toward his mailbox, leaning heavily on his cane. The silver in his grizzled beard glinted, but his stringy, white hair hung dull and limp past the collar of his faded red-plaid shirt. He placed an envelope in the box, raised the flag, and then straightened in my direction. “Mornin’,” he croaked with a crooked, toothy grin.

  I set my mug down and waved. “Good morning, Mr. Murdock.” I hoped my attempt at being cheerful would rub off.

  He lumbered to my side of the road, a strange yellow hue creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. “It is at that. I slept like a baby. These quiet, foggy nights are right good fer sleeping…at least fer some.” Bracing himself against the smooth trunk of a maple, he stretched back and ran a hand under one suspender. A laugh grew from low in his barrel chest into a mocking guffaw, and his dark eyes set hard on me.

  His manner unhinged me, and I squirmed under his gaze.

  The old man shifted his weight onto his cane and took a step in my direction.

  For a reason to dart inside, I grabbed my empty mug that needed to be put away. But at that moment, Cerise’s car turned onto the homestead’s driveway, and Murdock stopped.

  With a smirk and shake of his head, he stumped back toward his own place.

  I waved to Cerise and set my mug on the inside hall table. Before leaving, I double-checked the lock.

  As soon as I opened the car’s passenger door, she blurted, “What’s that all about? He’s not causing you trouble is he?” Her eyes followed the old man until he entered his house.

  “No. He’s the least of my troubles.” As we drove off, I rubbed the back of my neck to work out knots.

  ***

  When we reached Shireen’s dress shop, Logan had already arrived. He and my boss sat on the porch drinking coffee. Dark puffiness circled her eyes, and she kept her cup close, inhaling the steam.

  Logan dressed in a rumpled suit without a fedora. His hair hung in confused waves, as though each strand fought for supremacy.

  Cerise marched onto the porch, heels clicking across the wide boards, bobbed hairstyle bouncing high with each step. “We need to talk.” She perched on the edge of a bench, torso leaning forward.

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Logan nodded her way and motioned me to sit beside him on the vintage metal glider. He set his cup down, his gaze fixed on me. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, although my leg’s bothering me.” I limped to the seat and massaged the ache, my face twisted in a grimace. “Nothing much happened after I talked to you last night.”

  He pushed my hand aside and his warm, strong fingers did better than mine ever could. Pleasant tingles surged through my body, and I melted back against the glider.

  “Must be helping.” He smiled.

  “Tiber’s been caught.” Shireen spoke slow and flat, as if the words pained her. “He’s in a cage in the barn.”

  “Well, that’s something.” Cerise clamped her hands together in her lap and pursed her pink lips.

  Shireen looked down and moaned, “My poor baby possessed by another witch for evil’s sake.” She set her cup down and honked her nose into a rose-embroidered handkerchief. “You ladies wantin’ some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” I attempted to smile. “Let’s hope Vika can cure Tiber.”

  Cerise snapped her head toward Logan. “Will you follow up on Tiber?” Her voice raised in a question, but no doubt intended as a polite, Hoosier-style order.

  Logan released my leg and sat back. “I’m due at Vika’s, soon as we finish here. Aggie, go through the details of last night, what happened both outside and in the homestead.”

  I told them about the bang I’d heard on the front porch Sunday night. “I didn’t think much of that. Could’ve been some townies having fun after going to the carriage house. But then, when I returned at dusk from a walk last night and the haunted house was closed and heard the same noise…” I sucked in a full breath and recounted as much detail as I could remember.

  When I finished, Shireen pushed her weight up from the squeaking rocker and headed inside. “Lord, girl. You do need some coffee. By the looks of you, all dressed like a working gal, I’d not of thought you’d been through so much.”

  As the bell on the door tinkled, and the screen door slammed, Logan leaned into me and whispered, “You do look nice today.”

  I flashed him a smile and shifted in my seat as Cerise shot me a sidelong grin. I averted my eyes for a second, and then shared her grin. I fingered the smooth surface of the walking stick leaning against my leg. “I don’t get all this about spirits. I know about Nannan, the tree matriarch in the forest. She receives her powers from the Mother. Magic from nature—earth, air, fire, water, stars, sun, moon—those make sense to me. That’s how New Wish magic works. But these others like Cyril, Fenton, banshees, house spirits. Where do their powers come from?”

  Shireen returned carrying two large steaming mugs, handed one to me, the other to Cerise, and then retook her seat. She smoothed her flowered housedress closer to her knees, which were wrapped in more layers of support hose than I’d seen her wear before.

  Cerise took a sip. “Basic magic possessed by a Coon Hollow witch comes the same way through nature’s elements. But if he or she works hard to polish those skills, their soul takes on the magical abilities, and stays active here even after death.”

  “Some say that’s owing to magic in the special Salem limestone from the local Bedford quarry.” Shireen grinned like a Cheshire cat. “One of the Hollow’s perks.”

  Cerise nodded and continued. “So house spirits of passed on relatives can stay with us. Fenton, as he said, failed to embody his soul with his craft.”

  “Does that happen often?
” I asked and savored the coffee’s rich taste on my tongue.

  “It does.” Logan leaned forward, elbows balanced on his thighs. “There’re plenty of hedge witches here who don’t gain enough skills to remain as spirits.”

  “All’s I know is, their bodies don’t usually get buried in the coven cemetery.” Shireen looked to Cerise. “Most’re in plots on their home-places, so they can at least be near to kin in that way. I expect Fenton has a grave on your fambly property?”

  Cerise tilted her head. “I don’t know. He died when I was little.”

  Logan stared at his hands and pressed his fingers together. “So the research Keir and I did was right. A banshee is linked to the O’Maras. But this bit about activating the bond when an O’Mara marries a Flanagan is new to me. Did Fenton explain that?” He faced me, his eyes changed to the blue-gray color of an approaching storm.

  I shook my head. “Not exactly. It seemed like it’s connected to the banshee trying to take his soul. Cerise, do you know anything about that?”

  “No, but banshees aren’t too unusual.” She sipped her coffee. “Common death servants. It makes sense that one is after Fenton.”

  “Aggie, try to find out more on that from him,” Logan said.

  “Sure. Does the riddle from the Coon King tie in somehow? Does Cyril really exist, or did I dream him up?” The disorienting situation gave me a sense of whirling out of control.

  “Sakes, no.” Shireen slapped her thigh. “Most have run onto Cyril at least once. He’s older than them hills.” She waved a hefty arm at the incline across the road. “Some critters in these parts possess magic and can talk. Usually witches’ familiars, which are commonplace since most of us want to advance in our craft enough to stay ’round in the afterlife. It takes a keen witch to be granted the right to have a familiar. Word is that Cyril was once a familiar empowered by his mistress’ spell to outlive her, keep her magic alive for generations. Some say forever.”