Frog Hollow
Witches of Sanctuary Series
Book One
Savannah Blevins
Frog Hollow
Copyright © 2015 by Savannah Blevins.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: January 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-414-1
ISBN-10: 1-68058-414-6
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For Delilah and Gracie:
Allow your imagination to set you free.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 1
SANCTUARY
Hot. I’m not talking about California hot, where you sit next to the coast as the majestic spray of the Pacific Ocean cools your heated skin, giving you that just-off-your surfboard glow. I’m referring to the kind of hot that causes a hazy film in the air and my usual long waves to kink into sweaty ringlets as I pant like a rabid dog to catch my breath.
The temperature gauge in my rusted Explorer reads a mocking one hundred and one, despite the fact that I parked it in the supposedly cool shade of the looming mountains. In mutiny, I scavenge out my horrendous, fringe bikini from my tightly packed U-Haul. I impulse-bought the fashion tragedy in Cozumel during my first and only spring break extravaganza. Without the copious amounts of tequila in my system, I realize my mistake, but I adamantly refuse to conform to social outerwear standards until the U-Haul is empty. That, or the electric company decides to give in to my pleas of desperation and turn on the air conditioner a couple days early.
Resigning to my fate of becoming the first human shish kebab, I turn up the gallon jug of sweet tea I bought at a sketchy roadside market this morning and revel in the ice cold sting it sends to my stomach.
Cross-country move—one.
Sweaty and miserable me—zero.
I wasn’t prepared for a move of this magnitude. I barely manage to wear matching socks and locate a semi-clean coffee mug most days, let alone drop everything to switch coastlines.
If I had any sanity at all, I would have sold this gnat-infested place and stayed in Sacramento. Who lives in a place called Frog Hollow, anyway?
However, I’m here, half naked, hopped up on sweet tea, and too impossibly bullheaded to ever admit defeat. I’d successfully hauled in seven boxes, all amply labeled kitchen, before I noticed the treacherous spiral staircase and realized that maybe I should have sought out reinforcements. Big and brawny reinforcements.
An ill feeling washes over me. It’s not the tea. It’s too familiar. Always present, bubbling right beneath the surface. The sting of loneliness never really goes away. I have a slew of friends back in Sacramento, even some who were nice enough to help me pack and call to make sure I hadn’t broken down in Death Valley or gotten caught in that round of tornados terrorizing the plains. I don’t have anyone I would call family or who I can count on to show up in middle-of-nowhere Appalachia and help haul a bed frame up a flight of stairs.
I set the jug of tea on the front step and stare back at the Victorian monstrosity that is now my home. Sure, I’d seen pictures of it in the paperwork the lawyer sent me, but they hadn’t done it justice. A photo could never capture the life this house projects in its chipped bricks, ivy-clad chimney, and crescent moon carved in the rustic front door.
I feel like Marty McFly, transported through time, back to its prime. I imagine it perfectly, a clandestine retreat, tucked away from the rest of the world. When I pulled in the driveway this morning, I was instantly mesmerized. A billowing fog lifted through the carved valley, like souls escaping to the heavens. It was quiet. Peaceful. The house stood like a rock amongst sand, powerful and everlasting. This place held secrets like a love note clenched tight to your chest. That’s when I knew the gnats and heat would never matter, because this place, jaded by so much loss and pain of its own, is where I belong.
My long mess of blonde hair grows damp against my shoulders, and my brow, sprinkled with perspiration, starts to burn. The heat is only getting worse at this point in the day. Heaving a sigh, I straighten my worn shoulders, ready to face the daunting task in front of me. Having grown up in California, I’m accustomed to heat, but there is something about the air here that makes it so much worse. Maybe it’s the elevation, or maybe it’s the crippling fear of the unknown that causes the heavy feeling in my chest.
I see the staircase through the open door, and it mocks me.
A fresh start. A pilgrimage for sanity. I used every cliché in the book to convince myself to accept the offer supplied to me by the pudge-nosed lawyer governing my mother’s will. If I’m going to do this, finally seek out the mystery to my very existence, then it’s time I stop pretending I’m just another sun-kissed California debutante who got lost in the woods.
I, Wilhelmina Daniels, am something more.
I may not understand it yet, but I venture to think I’m even special. It’s a difficult thought to swallow, especially after bouncing from caregiver to caregiver in the scathing Los Angeles County foster care system, where they stamp expletive adjectives across your folder like they’re Cadbury eggs at Easter.
This opportunity, a house and land to call my own, is a sign. I’m meant to come back here and find closure on all the unanswered questions. It saddens me that it was brought on by the death of the mother I never knew, but it is finally something.
It is a beginning.
Emotion swells inside me, and I curse at the staircase. I promised myself I was finished with the tears, but they brim my lashes anyway. I spent two weeks alone in a car as I caravanned my way from the west coast to the unruly, eastern mountains, crying it out of my system. I allowed myself that time to hurt, to be red faced, beat-the-crap-out-of-the-steering-wheel kind of angry, and most of all, to let go of the crippling fear that always held me back from everything and everyone.
It’s time I Dr. Phil myself out this depression and finally figure out why I was abandoned like a used candy wrapper on the side of the street. The answer has to be more complex than I originally thought. If I was never wanted, or loved, then why was I remembered in a will? Why would my mother leave an unopened letter with my name on it taped to a giant cabinet in her house?
The thought of that letter, what it might say, haunts me. I should open it. I know I should open it, but I can’t.
Not yet.
I turn back to the U-Haul, my resolve hardening. Of all the questions I want answered, I want to
know why I don’t actually need those brawny reinforcements to help me unload that steel-framed bed and heave it up the stairs.
Having mustered my courage, or maybe been driven a little insane by the heat and my jaded heart, I narrow my eyes, and with a quick flick of my wrist, I watch the bed frame gingerly elevate from the ground and move toward me in midair.
The words engraved across my ragged social work file flash in my mind.
Damaged. Mental health risk. Disturbed.
I suddenly regret not showing those judgmental turtlenecks how right they were about me. I can almost imagine the screams and my damaged, mentally disturbed smile.
With a renewed determination, I brush off my hands after I watch the frame come to a gentle rest on the porch. I trot back toward the trailer, a smile twitching at the corner of my lips. I take the black band wrapped around my wrist and twirl my gangly hair into a bun on top of my head as I develop my new plan of attack. This time I step back, grinning as two heavy boxes rise in the air and drift out the back of the U-Haul. As I turn around, my attention wavers. There is movement on the empty porch, and it’s enough to send the boxes crashing to the ground with the distinct clash of breaking glass.
I don’t flinch. I don’t even cringe at the knowledge of the destruction of what are surely my favorite wine glasses. My gaze darts across the porch in the direction of the flash, only to find a giant cat. A Russian Blue with piercing green eyes. It stares at me atop the porch railing. I hold a shaky hand over my heart, my breath coming out in choppy jolts. “You scared me.”
It prances along the railing. Its back legs are exceptionally longer than the front, which causes its bobbed tail to bounce as it winds its way down the steps, where it happily wraps itself around my ankles, purring contently.
My annoyance vanishes as quickly as it came, because I know that reaction too well not to sympathize. The cat is lonely too. I bend down and hold my hand out to allow the cat to stretch up and run the fluffy fur of its spine across my palm. I wonder if maybe this cat belonged to my mother. There isn’t a collar. But this house, nestled almost eight miles down a dirt road, in the deepest valley of what feels like a forgotten place, isn’t exactly bustling with neighbors.
“Is this your home?”
The cat nuzzles itself against me. Even if the cat could tell me no, I would offer him a place to stay anyway. I never had a pet in Sacramento. The city was too busy and my life in college hectic. However, now I will have plenty of time on my hands, at least until I find a job, and there is definitely plenty of space. The cat purrs against my hand again, as if knowing I am making a decision about it. “You can stay.” I look down my nose with a stern expression. “Just don’t scare me like that again, all right?”
The cat happily weaves between my legs as I stand up, and I silently hope it will stay. The company would be nice. I’ve always felt alone in life, but here, seclusion would be too easy. Maybe I could forget my lifetime search for answers and become a crazy cat lady. I could give them all ridiculous names like Clooney to the lady-killer tomcat and Kanye to the crazy one I don’t really like but refuse to ignore because he’ll scratch my eyes out.
At least now I have options.
Snorting at the absurdity of the thought, I ease away from my new friend. He takes the opportunity to find a spot on the top step to watch as I inspect the boxes, which now I’m sure hold some form of broken items inside them. I deflate at the thought of the wine glasses. I’ll have to return to getting buzzed with my set of Ryan Gosling meme mugs.
I wipe the sweat reforming on my brow and readjust my bathing suit top, deciding not to worry about the state of my belongings until air conditioning is involved.
By the time the sun starts to set that afternoon, the trailer is empty. I push the doors of the U-Haul shut with a loud boom, which causes the cat to awake from its nap by the front door and scurry across the porch before coming to a halt under a wooden bench at the end. It peeks cautiously out at me, and I laugh as I lock the doors. “That’s what you get for sleeping while I worked all day.”
He ignores me, stretching out his lopsided legs and yawning. I climb the porch to look through the front door at the mounds of boxes and furniture, admitting half-heartedly that the work has only just begun. Everything is officially inside the house, but it will take days, or in my particular case of procrastination weeks, to unpack everything. My stomach takes the opportune moment to point out its neglect as it roars impatiently. I easily agree to its demands, knowing the dry Cheerios breakfast and half jug of sweet tea can’t be expected to last forever.
I dig through the bags in the back of my SUV, gathering the necessities I bought this morning. By the time I carry it all upstairs, I feel like I’ve jumped headfirst into a pool of boiling water. I quickly devour my stash of food, add sheets to the mattress that takes up the middle of the bedroom floor, and prop my fan in the nearest window. After filling the cooler with drinks and ice, I plop down on the mattress with a heavy thud.
The weight of the long journey bears down on me, and my eyes close. The sun has long set, leaving only the dim light from the burning candles to pierce through the surrounding darkness. I dig deeper into the mattress, completely satisfied to call it an early night. Tomorrow will bring a whole new set of challenges, along with a new day of radiating heat. Maybe if I go to sleep right now, there is a slight chance I might wake up early and get some unpacking done before the mid-day heatwave. The thought is enough to convince me, and my mind starts to doze without instruction.
Except I’m not alone—and this time, it isn’t the cat.
Chapter 2
AWKWARD INTRUSIONS
Sleep finds me easily, but my mind remains constantly aware. I am, after all, in a foreign environment, so my senses are naturally on high alert. A natural habit formed from too many encounters with ill-intentioned roommates. No one ever liked the weird kid, and I made the weird kids popular.
I wake in approximately thirty-minute intervals, sitting up to inspect the room, only to reluctantly admit nothing has changed. I don’t know what I expect to find, maybe another homeless feline with twelve of his swashbuckling friends, but it makes me feel more secure to check. I groan at the clock on my cell when I realize it has only been two hours instead of six. I resign that it will be a long night and settle back in for another round.
When I wake not ten minutes later, it isn’t due to my regularly scheduled checkup. Something is off, and it causes me to crawl out of bed. The sensation of spiders prickles down the back of my neck as I wander around the room, allowing my eyes time to adjust to the dim glow of the candlelight. Nothing appears different. The room is still empty. The same bare walls stare back at me. I walk over to the window and peek outside.
The window overlooks the back yard, which is overgrown and deserted like everything else. In the distance, just beneath the shadowed light of a paling moon, I can see water reflecting the light. I hadn’t even noticed the lake earlier today, but again, I wasn’t brave enough to explore beyond the front yard yet.
Leaning back inside, I wonder if maybe my paranoia is due to the novelty of trying to sleep with the window open. It isn’t exactly something someone with a sane mind attempts in the city. I convince myself it’s only my imagination. My sugarcoated brain cells having a little fun.
Just to be safe, I make a quick sweep of the hallway, the closet, and the bathroom down the hall before returning to my mattress. I lie there, allowing the silence to sink in. The chirping is just a cricket. That bellow is just a bullfrog from the lake. I close my eyes as I continue to dissect and process each minute sound like a strange lullaby.
Click.
My limbs fly into action. I spring off the mattress like a panther. Scrambling, I grab the nearest weapon I can find, clutching a heavy-duty flashlight to my chest.
That sound isn’t a bug, and I didn’t imagine it. Something, or someone, is on the front porch. I immediately consider the cat I watched slink off into the woods before coming
inside, but I’m positive cats can’t shake doorknobs.
Oh, how I wish cats could shake doorknobs.
I hastily reposition the flashlight in my hand, transforming it into a pummeling device. I shuffle over to the door and peek outside, checking the hallway. The coast is clear. I tiptoe James Bond style down the stairs, instantly regretting not having bought a can of pepper spray.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, listening again. When nothing counters the singsong chirping of crickets, I slip my way through the living room and into the kitchen. I poise myself behind the archway to set up surveillance on the front door.
The doorknob jiggles.
I nearly climb the wall as a high-pitched squeal escapes my lips. In that instant, all bravery and confidence abandons me, and I’m left with nothing but a flashlight and shaky knees.
I huff sarcastically to myself. People always talk about crime in the city, but I managed a lifetime there without a single incident. Here I am, in the middle of the mountains for no more than six hours, and I am officially being invaded like a bad episode of Cops.
I wonder if I will get the chance to enjoy my new home, or if maybe this burglar has more on his mind than just taking what is left in the shell of my mother’s memories.
Anger fuels me as the door shakes again. This is my house. It’s my history trapped within the walls. I suddenly think of the letter taped to the cabinet, my name written in perfect, spiraling letters. By damn, I will read that letter. I didn’t endure a childhood of neglect and ridicule to end up a statistic. Especially a statistic that didn’t read the stupid letter when she had the chance.
My hand steadies as the door starts to creak open. I expect it to burst into life, the person to barge in ready for attack, but the door moves slowly. I use it to my advantage. Their caution will be their downfall. I ready my flashlight and stampede the door. The intruder steps across the threshold, and I hit him straight on, knocking him off his feet. We slam onto the floor. I waste no time continuing my assault, bringing down the hard metal of the flashlight with a vengeful force straight across the top of his head.
Frog Hollow (Witches of Sanctuary Book 1) Page 1
