Paranormal After Dark: 20 Paranormal Tales of Demons, Shifters, Werewolves, Vampires, Fae, Witches, Magics, Ghosts and More

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “But I still wished you would have told me.”

  “I’ve made so many mistakes with you over the years. I’m sorry.” Mom stands and grabs her purse from the coffee table.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get us some goodies from the bakery.”

  Our ritual. Whenever one of us has a bad day or is depressed or needs a pick-me-up, we always devour delectable baked goods.

  “What about your diet?” I ask.

  “One day won’t ruin it. I’ll be back as quick as I can. Then we can finish talking.”

  Guess she needs a little breather. I do too. “Thanks.”

  The door closes behind her. I appreciate the gesture, I do, but I realize something. Patricia isn’t my mother. A mom wouldn’t have left in the middle of such an important conversation, not for anything.

  I’ll call her Aunt Patricia from now on.

  Chapter 14

  TO KEEP MY mind occupied and to avoid thinking about whatever horrible thing Marian agreed to, I do my homework until my head starts to hurt. The advil’s in the kitchen, and I spy the oven clock as I get myself medicine. A half hour has passed since Aunt Patricia left.

  Maybe she bumped into Officer Wallace.

  From my perch on the love seat, I return to my work, but I’m too distracted now. Every few minutes, I peek out the front window to see if Aunt Patricia’s walking up the sidewalk.

  Finally, I throw my books aside, grab my purse, and walk toward the bakery. The entire way, I tell myself I’m overreacting, but I still pray that she’s all right.

  A large crowd has gathered out front, and I push and elbow my way through, murmuring half-hearted apologies. Through the window, I spy Aunt Patricia crying beside the glass display of baked goods.

  I fling the door open so widely it bangs against the wall and rush inside. “What happened?”

  “I was mugged!” My aunt pulls me close. “I don’t know what the world is coming to,” she whispers. “First the car accident, now this.”

  I stiffen. Why would anyone go after my aunt? And for money? No, the mugger couldn’t have been a shaman. It doesn’t make any sense.

  From the corner of my eye, I see a police officer climb out of his car. “Back it up, people,” he directs. “Unless you saw the incident, I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

  Most of the crowd outside the store leaves, but two women and a man follow the officer inside the shop.

  “Are you the one… Ms. Miller.”

  “Please, call me Patricia.”

  I grab the last napkin in the dispenser on the counter and hand it to my aunt, who rubs off her smeared makeup. Sure hope Officer Wallace is better at police work than he is at dating.

  “Well then, Patricia.” He gestures to the only table in the bakery. After we sit, he removes a notepad from inside his jacket. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was walking here because I wanted to get my… Crystal and I some cupcakes.”

  I wince. It’s as if my aunt already knows I want to think of her as my aunt and not my mom.

  “You know the alley right before the shop?” she continues.

  Officer Wallace nods.

  “He jumped out from there, grabbed my purse, and ran. I screamed and thought about running after him, but he was so fast…”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  Aunt Patricia shakes her head. “It all happened so quickly.”

  “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  She closes her eyes. “He had one a black winter hat, which I thought was strange. A dark shirt, dark pants. Um, he was wearing sneakers.”

  “Did you see any distinguishing marks? How tall was he?”

  “He was tall, over six foot.” She rubs beneath her left eye, wiping away the last of her ruined mascara. “No, no tattoos or anything like that, at least not that I saw.”

  “Did he say anything to you? Did you struggle?”

  “He yelled, “Hey,” when I walked past the alley. I turned to see who was talking, to see if he was talking to me or someone else. That’s when he jumped forward and grabbed my purse. The strap broke, and he ran away.”

  “Is there anything else you can think of?”

  She fiddles with the napkin and tears it into small pieces. “This is going to sound silly, and it won’t help you at all…”

  Officer Wallace reaches across the table and touches her hand for a brief second. “You can tell me anything.”

  “His eyes. They were dark, black. There was so much hatred there, but I swear I never saw him before. Why would he hate me if he doesn’t even know who I am?”

  Goose bumps cover my arms. The hit-and-run driver had the same look in his eyes. Are the mugger and the driver one and the same after all?

  Officer Wallace turns his attention to me. “When did you get here?”

  “A minute or so before you did. When… when Aunt Patricia didn’t come back home, I got worried and came here to see if anything had happened.”

  He shoots Patricia a confused look.

  “She adopted me when I was a baby. She’s biologically my aunt,” I explain.

  Patricia gives me the tiniest of smiles. She understands. Thank you, God. I breathe out a sigh of relief.

  “Ah. Weren’t you involved in a car accident last night, Crystal?”

  I have to give him credit. He has to be curious. Maybe he’s hoping Patricia’ll tell him the whole story soon.

  Why am I focusing on my aunt’s love life right now? Probably because I want there to be something good in her life right now.

  The police officer is staring at me, and I think back to his question. “Yes, there was a car accident last night.” Had it only been last night? So much has happened since then it feels like a lifetime ago.

  “I’m going to have to talk to the officer handling that case,” he mutters as he writes in his notepad.

  “You think it’s related?” Aunt Patricia cuts in. “Why would it be?” She looks at me, her eyes sharp and clear, completely unlike the fragile woman I hugged when I first arrived at the shop.

  She knows they’re related.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “Aunt Patricia wasn’t in the car.”

  “True, but it is suspicious that you and your aunt were both involved in crimes in such a short period of time.” He stands. “Stay here, please. I want to talk to the witnesses.”

  He walks over to the women and men and starts interviewing them.

  “Well?” I whisper.

  Thankfully Aunt Patricia doesn’t beat around the bush, at least not with this. “He said a lot more than just “hey.” He said that if I knew what was good for me, I would leave town. I said I would never leave you here without protection, and he laughed. Laughed! Asked what a wannabe witch could do. Then he saw them.” She nods toward the witnesses. “He grabbed my purse and ran, as if he was nothing more than a common mugger.”

  My skin crawls. Just by being my aunt, she was involved in this whole mess. “How did he know so much about you?”

  “I have no idea who he was or how he knows so much about us. I can only assume he knows the circumstances of your birth and—”

  “Yeah, Aunt Patricia, about that…” I have no choice now. I have to tell her the truth about myself.

  Officer Wallace approaches. “I need you to show me where exactly the mugging took place.”

  Aunt Patricia and I stand.

  He shakes his head. “You can stay here, Crystal. Don’t worry. Your aunt’s safe with me.”

  I smirk at their backs as they head toward the door. “Just ask her out already.”

  Whoops. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

  They slowly face me, already in sync, scandal on her aunt’s face, surprise and then happiness in his.

  “After I finish investigating, I’ll do just that. A police officer always keeps his word.” He smiles at me and winks at my aunt before they, and the other witnesses, leave.

  Now’s
the perfect opportunity to figure out the connections between the crimes, but I can’t concentrate even though my headache is gone. The aroma of desserts makes my mouth water. I wander over to the baked goods display. Decadent brownies, huge cupcakes, decorated cookies stare back at me as if begging to be eaten.

  “Go ahead and pick one.” Mrs. Pullman approaches the counter from the back room. “And one for your mom too. It’s on the house.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I protest, but my stomach picks that moment to rumble.

  Mrs. Pullman smiles, and I hope she didn’t hear my noisy belly. Although she’s in her fifties, she looks much younger. She bakes all of the desserts herself, and her daughter does most of the decorating.

  “I wasn’t trying to overhear, but it sounds like you and your mom have been through quite a lot lately. Chocolate always helps.” Her flour-coated finger points to a huge brownie with chocolate icing. “I know you love chocolate and peanut butter.” She nods toward a marvelous-looking chocolate and peanut butter pie topped with Reese’s peanut butter cups around the edges.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “There’s too many choices!” I complain.

  Mrs. Pullman chuckles. “From where I stand, that’s a good thing. Should I box up the pie?”

  In the end, I choose a red velvet cupcake for my aunt and a triple chocolate for myself. She hands me two boxes.

  “The pie?” I ask suspiciously.

  The baker tries to look innocent, but the corners of her mouth tug upward.

  “At least let me pay for the pie.”

  Her full lips purse. “You can pay for the cupcakes.”

  The cheaper of the two options. I pay the eight dollars and drop the change into the cancer jar. Mr. Pullman died of cancer several months ago.

  “Mrs. Pullman?” I ask.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Did you know my parents?”

  She stops wiping the counter. “Patricia finally told you?”

  “I know the truth.” There’s no point in going into all the details.

  “Marian was a sweet woman. Completely devoted to her husband. Would have been a wonderful mother. Not that Patricia hasn’t raised you well. You’re a fine daughter, and everyone here is proud of you.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” It’s so bizarre that all of the adults knew while I’d been in the dark for so long.

  “It wasn’t our place to.”

  Just like Father Joseph said.

  “Besides, blood isn’t what makes a family. Love is. Patricia might be your aunt, but she’s also your mom.”

  Tears wells in my eyes. Patricia would do anything for me. She was even threatened and mugged because of me. And how did I repay her? By wanting to reduce our relationship to mere labels.

  I’m an awful daughter.

  “Roger had been your father’s football coach in high school, and they became close friends. Your mom would often come over and help me bake or decorate before my Jillian was old enough to. Your dad and Roger used to watch sports or throw the football around. We often had cookouts and picnics.” She smiles wistfully.

  “Mrs. Pullman? Do you need help with the shop?”

  To do something my mother did, even if it’s as simple as baking and decorating cupcakes, would mean the world to me. I try not to get my hopes up high; after all, Jillian already works there.

  “We can work something out, dear. I’ll give you a call sometime this weekend, and we can iron out a schedule.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pullman!”

  The baker reaches beneath the counter. “And so you know that there really is a position available…” She lifts a “Help Wanted” sign. “I was going to put this in the window tomorrow. Now I don’t have to.”

  The bell jingles, and my mom and Officer Wallace walk in.

  “Thank you for your time and cooperation,” he says to Mom.

  “Thank you for helping.”

  Mrs. Pullman bustles over. She’s shorter than my mom, maybe five foot, and she’s pleasantly plump. “Can I get you two a cup of coffee or interest either of you in something sweet?”

  Mom glances at me, and I hold up the bag. “I’m good. Thanks.”

  For the moment, I just want Mom home safe and sound. But tomorrow…

  I glare at Officer Wallace.

  He blushes. “Another time, Patricia?” he asks softly.

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Pullman beams. “I do hope, Officer, that you are going to walk these ladies home?”

  I giggle as his blush deepens and travels down to his neck.

  “Of-Of course. If you’re ready, ladies?” He gestures for us to go ahead of him as he holds open the door.

  Before I leave, I hug the stout bakery owner.

  “Take care, dear.”

  “You too, Mrs. Pullman.”

  Chapter 15

  THE WALK HOME is uneventful. I feel bad for the couple. It’s obvious they care for each other—they both stare at the other when they think the other won’t notice—but their conversation is awkward, now that they aren’t talking about the mugging. I try to help them along, but worry nags at me that they’ll have nothing to talk about whenever they finally go out on their date. To some extent, it feels ordinary to play matchmaker. I need a little normalcy in my life.

  To let them say goodbye in private, I hurry inside the house, but Mom follows me in immediately. “Good night and thanks again,” she says, and she shuts the door.

  I place the boxes on the coffee table then cross my arms and flop onto the love seat. “I thought you liked him,” I complain.

  “I do, but now is not the time to start a relationship. Crystal, I’m concerned.”

  “Mom…”

  Her face breaks into a wide smile, and all of her frustration and anxiety melt away. All from a simple word.

  “Mom, do you trust witches?”

  She sits on the couch. “Not all of them, not blindly, no. Do you trust everyone in your junior class?”

  “No.” Of course not.

  “I do trust the witches I sent your mom to, though.”

  “Sapphire Belladonna, Silver Tiger, and…”

  “Scarlet Blood.”

  I rub the back of my neck. Belladonna makes sense. It’s a flower. Tiger, an animal. But blood?

  “There are ranks within the witches. The animal and the plants are beneath the element class. There are six elements in the world: earth, air, water, fire, metal, blood,” Mom explains.

  “So only the most powerful of witches are within the elemental ranking?”

  “Exactly. There are only ever six in that ranking. I do not know who the new Blood is.”

  Some of the puzzle pieces are beginning to fall into place. “Scarlet Blood died.”

  “Yes.”

  “When I was born?”

  She shakes her head. “When you were conceived. Powerful magic brought up into this world.”

  A sudden chill sweeps over me. “Dangerous magic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Black magic?”

  “There is no such thing as white magic or black magic or good magic or evil magic. Magic itself is amoral. How magic is used is all that matters.”

  If magic is amoral, does that make me amoral too? What about my religious beliefs?

  I’m far from perfect, though, and sin all the time. The lying, the sneaking out, cutting school… I can hardly be considered righteous.

  Speaking of righteous, I still need to reschedule my appointment with Father Joseph.

  “You started to say something at the bakery,” Mom says. “Something about your birth, I think. What was it?”

  Here it goes. Unable to look at her, I stare at the taupe carpet. It hasn’t been vacuumed since before my birthday. “The witches… Sapphire Belladonna and Silver Tiger… they told me that I am magic.”

  Her face oddly blank, she stands. “That explains everything.”

  “What does it explain?” I wri
nkle my nose and frown.

  Mom walks back and forth in front of the coffee table. “So many times when you were growing up, if you had a temper tantrum, if you really wanted something, you got it.”

  She never paces unless she’s aggravated. “What else?”

  “There’s nothing else.”

  “Mom, no more secrets,” I plea, desperate for us to work together to rebuild our relationship.

  She pauses then starts up again, even faster now. “Elizabeth Mitchell and I first met at summer camp after the fifth grade. We became very close. The camp was next to an old cemetery, and we used to sneak there at night, hoping to see ghosts or spirits. As we grew older, Elizabeth started to experiment with magic to try to connect with the ghost of her dead mother. She came from a long line of witches, and her mother had died before teaching Elizabeth. She never did find a way to communicate with her, at least not that I knew of.”

  “Elizabeth Mitchell?” Mom’s never mentioned her before.

  “She goes by Silver Tiger now. She was the one who introduced me to the world of magic and witches. I wanted so badly to be just like her, but all of my attempts at magic failed.”

  “Why?”

  “Magic, from my limited understanding, is a kind of energy. It’s within everything and everyone.”

  “And in all the elements.”

  She nods, and her pacing slows to a halt. “Yes. There are some who believe God used magic to create the world. Magic and faith don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Science and faith don’t have to be either.”

  This I can readily understand. After all, I believe God used evolution to change His creations.

  “Magic can’t be taken lightly. It comes with remarkable authority and even greater accountability.”

  Mom still hasn’t answered my question, so I try again. “Why can’t everyone use magic?”

  “It’s hard to explain. Magic cannot be tapped by one who lacks the capacity to.”

  “Basically, you don’t know why you can’t use magic.”

  With a groan, she sits back down on the couch again. “You’re right. I don’t know why exactly. All of my attempts failed. Nothing happened. When Elizabeth was first trying, sometimes her spells backfired. I couldn’t get any results at all.”