Something Wicked_A Witch Cozy Mystery Series

by Freya Darcy

  SOMETHING

  WICKED

  Any Witch Way but Murder

  Book One

  Freya Darcy

  https://tinyletter.com/Freyadarcy

  Something Wicked

  Copyright © 2018 by Freya Darcy

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Something Wicked (Any Witch Way but Murder)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  For my son and daughters

  You pushed me to write what made me laugh & laughed with me.

  Chapter One

  “GUESS I KNOW WHERE I’m getting murdered tonight.” Tipping my head, I squint up at the familiar mansion through my rain-blurred windscreen.

  The rhythmic swish click swish click of the wipers offers less comfort than usual and the constant pitter-pattering on the roof is like pins pricking at my nerves.

  It’s weird how the house feels smaller than I remember even as it looms high above me, like some slumbering giant.

  What kind of person would live all alone in a house like this?

  “What kind of person indeed,” I murmur, because I am about to become that person.

  It genuinely pains me to admit it, but it’s possible my stepfather, Barry, was right when he suggested I sell.

  Actually, his advice was to let him sell the place, you know, since he’s an estate agent and all.

  The expression on his stupid mug when I announced that I planned to move into the house myself, was priceless. Totally worth every hour of the drive here.

  But is it worth living in a creepy old house that’s probably haunted?

  A smile pulls at my lips and I know the answer. Oh, sweet spite, you are my real soulmate.

  Above my head the pattering rain becomes more of the thumping drum solo.

  Crap.

  No umbrella, of course.

  The run from the car to the house was going to suck. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of seconds but in this downpour that was more than long enough to leave me soaked through. Then there would be the fumbling for the right key. Wise Odin himself couldn’t predict how long that would take, even if he sacrificed his remaining eye.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter. “You’re not the Wicked Witch of the West. A bit of water is not going to make you melt.”

  But it looks cold.

  With a final sigh I grab my overnight bag and the keys. Most of my stuff is in the back but that can all wait till morning. Right now, all I want to do is find a dry warm place to curl up and sleep for at least a week.

  Shoving the door open, I jump out, slam the it shut, and run for the house. At the front door I try the first key, but it doesn’t even enter the lock. The second does but won’t turn. My dark auburn hair is freezing on my face and neck and I can feel cold droplets sliding down my spine.

  “Come on, come on!” It’s like the wind is blowing the rain right at me, grabbing great handfuls of icy water and hurling one after another at my shivering back.

  The third key enters and turns so easily I actually laugh as the door swings open and I fall inside. Immediately, I drop my bag and try to shut the door, but the rain and wind are forcing it open, shoving as hard as I am.

  It’s like the elements have decided that I may never be warm and dry again.

  But screw that!

  “This is my house,” I growl, shoving the door an inch. Rain slapping my face, wind howling so loud it’s like it’s actually yelling at me. “I will be warm...” Another couple of inches closed, shutting my eyes against the pinpricking rain. “I will be dry...” Another couple of inches. “You are not the boss of me!” Those last words come out a battle cry and the door shuts with a satisfying SLAM.

  I fall against the door, breathing hard and feel a silly giddy laugh bubbling up as I catch my breath. It’s like my anger gives me energy.

  After a moment of giggling like an idiot in the dark, I fumble for the light switch by the door.

  Immediately the space around me transforms from a warm shroud to a cavernous foyer illuminated by dim milky light. My breath catches in my throat and my back presses coldly against the heavy door.

  I suddenly feel this insane need to open that door again and flee. Is there a word for being afraid of wide open enclosed spaces?

  Agoraphobic claustrophobia?

  Awesome. As if I don’t have enough crazy going on in my head right now.

  The foyer is so familiar and yet not. Familiar from a distant past, a time mostly forgotten and overshadowed by one vivid memory that I wish I could forget.

  The rain outside has settled and now I stand alone in this space that feels like it’s repelling away and crushing me at the same time. I wrap my arms around myself and shiver, cold again, freezing, all alone.

  IT’S RAINING MEN! My phone screams and I shriek with it, slapping at my pockets as it continues singing about big sexy men, obscenely loud. I find it and press the green button.

  “I hate you,” I say in greeting as the ringtone is replaced my Frankie’s cackling laugh. “You promised.”

  “I know,” she gasps, clearly fighting against more obnoxious laughter. “I’m sorry, Kizz.”

  Kizz is short for Kismet. Thanks for that, mum.

  “That’s what you said last time,” I growl at my oldest friend.

  “But this is the last time I play with your phone, I promise,” she says. “You can’t see, but I’m crossing my heart.”

  “You said that last time too.”

  “I know but hear me out. In my defence, I thought it would be really funny.”

  “Well it wasn’t funny. I’m standing here absolutely soaking wet.”

  Another peel of laughter makes me pull the phone away from my ear.

  “It’s not funny!” I snap. “What if I’d been driving.”

  “Kizz.” This time she sounds a little offended. “You know I’d never call you while you were driving.”

  Anyone else might have found that statement odd, but Frankie and I have been friends for over a decade. The backbone of that friendship is the fact that we both possess almost interesting but mostly useless gifts.

  Frankie can always tell if someone she wants to call is busy. I, on the other hand, dream the present.

  Yep, you read that right. I dream the present happening anywhere in the world as long as I’m asleep when it’s happening.

  It’s usually people I know but sometimes it’s someone I pass on the street or whatever, and usually big moments: Love, death, breakups, meltdowns. But I ca
n’t control it or choose who I see and since it’s happening in the present, I can’t do anything about it either. All I can do is act surprised when someone tells me the news.

  Oh, and as an added bonus—forget the free steak knives—more often than not, when I have these dreams I wake abruptly either laughing or crying or screaming. And let me tell you, my stepfather loved getting woken up in the middle of the night three times a week and apparently so did my now very ex-boyfriend Craig.

  “Earth to Kizz,” Frankie chimes. “Did you hang up on your best friend?”

  “No, I didn’t hang up, I haven’t finished scolding you yet.”

  More laughter. “Okay well I just wanted to check in and make sure you made it safe, but it sounds like you’re in a mood for some unknown reason.”

  Okay, that earned a smile. “I wish you were here. This foyer is bigger than the apartment I shared with Craig.”

  “So, pretty small then?”

  “Ha-ha. You know what I mean. I feel like I’m going to get lost if I take even one step into this place.”

  “You lived there as a kid though, didn’t you?”

  “Not since I was ten. I remember my room when we came to live here after my father died and that’s about it.”

  “Do you remember where it is?”

  “Second floor, third door on the left.”

  “How many floors are there?”

  “Three, I think,” I tip my head remembering. “Plus, the attic and I think a basement.”

  Frankie whistles through her teeth. “Damn. What are you going to do with all that?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I might pay a visit to the local real estate office in the morning. Even a quick sale would give me enough to buy a small house more to my size.”

  SLAM!

  I jump and drop the phone as the three doors from the foyer slam shut at once.

  “Kizz? Kizz what’s going on? Kismet!”

  I can just hear Frankie’s voice yelling through the tiny speaker and pick up the phone.

  “Everything’s fine. A couple of doors slammed shut and I guess I spooked myself.”

  “Look, you know how much I hate to disagree with your delightful stepfather,” she says and we both snicker. “But don’t rush into anything. Your aunt left you some money too right?”

  “Some.” A lot.

  “So maybe this is just what you need. It’s been a pretty stressful couple of months for you. What with breaking up with Lord Douchely, losing your job, moving back in with your folks. What if you just took some time. Do some painting, sleep in, give yourself some space to think about what you want.”

  “It is peaceful here,” I concede.

  A door at the side of the massive staircase slowly swings open with a creak to reveal a stack of fluffy towels.

  That’s weird. “Have you ever seen a linen closet in a foyer?” I ask.

  “No, they’re usually for coats and shoes, aren’t they? Maybe it rains a lot so your aunt just started keeping a couple of towels there too.” She chuckles. “Damn, girl, you’ve been there all of three minutes and you’re already rifling through the closets?”

  “Shut up, it opened on its own.”

  “Well, maybe the house is sick of you dripping all over its lovely polished floor.”

  The door bumps slightly against the side of the staircase, as if in agreement.

  “And I think I might be going mad.”

  Frankie laughs. “What you are, is tired after hours driving. Dry off, get some food in you, then find somewhere warm to sleep. Call me in the morning. Love you, babe.”

  “Love you too,” I’m gripping the phone now, dreading the end of the connection. “By the way I’m changing your tone to Ice Ice Baby.”

  “Don’t even joke about that!” She sounds genuinely disgusted and I’m still laughing when I end the call.

  Alone again, I move to grab a towel from the closet and say, thanks, before laughing at my own silliness. The towel is warm and so soft. Frankie is right, I need to get dry and crawl into a bed.

  Looking in the closet again I find a slightly more used towel and spread it out to soak up all the water I’d managed to drip on the floor. Then, I pick up my bag and make my way upstairs to my old room.

  IT’S EXACTLY AS I LEFT it. Flowery walls, my name in wooden letters over a small pink bed covered in lace netting, an almost doll-like duchess pressed against the far wall, thick cream curtains. I feel tears prick my eyes as I remember how at home I’d felt here, how loved to have such a special room decorated just for me.

  Aunts Judith and Harriet had been devastated by my father’s death, he was their baby brother after all, but at the same time they’d been so happy to have us come to live with them. Neither had married or had children and I believe they enjoyed the company of my mother and me.

  Of course, as it turned out, Harriet hadn’t remained unmarried by choice. I never really understood why, but she hid a desperate unhappiness, and just before my tenth birthday, she walked the edge of the cliffs behind the house and jumped to her death.

  That was the first time I dreamed the present.

  My mother moved us away and remarried soon after and I didn’t see my Aunt Judith again, until I dreamed her death too.

  I can’t sleep here. It’s a child’s room and the bed’s too small. I look across the hall to the bedroom that my mother had slept in. Nope.

  I walk down the hall and try the next guest room. Locked. I try all three keys but the door has one of those old locks that take the big keys.

  “Maybe I should just go find a motel,” I say, suddenly grumpy.

  A door creaks on the third floor and I know exactly which door it is. It’s the door to the main bedroom.

  The thought of sleeping in there makes me uncomfortable. It’s silly, I know. I mean this is my house now. I own it, I am the lady of it, so that main bedroom is technically mine.

  Still, I feel like I’m intruding.

  Slightly annoyed I try my mother’s door, or the door that used to be my mothers. It opens into a warm looking room, all creams and browns. Thick chest of draws, large four-poster bed, heavy black curtains.

  I remember running in here in the mornings to snuggle in her much bigger bed and we’d giggle and talk in whispered tones so as not to wake the aunts.

  Smiling I sit on the edge, running my hand over the soft comforter. Remembering that she wanted me to call when I arrived safely, I pull out my phone again and find my mother’s number in the contacts. I want to tell her about my room being exactly as I left it, about remembering our early mornings, about how it feels to be sitting here in her old room in this house that I own now.

  The phone rings twice before Barry’s harsh tone erases the smile from my face. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “This is my mother’s phone.” I don’t bother with a greeting either.

  “It’s eight-thirty.”

  I take a breath and count to five before saying, “Mum asked me to call when I arrived. She said she’d worry if I didn’t.”

  There’s a sound on the other end, pretty sure it’s an annoyed sigh. You’d think I was calling from the lockup by the way he’s acting.

  Quieter, I hear. “It’s your daughter.” Before a shuffling sound that must be him handing over the phone.

  “Hey, sweetie. You arrived safe?” My mother’s voice is familiar, but Barry’s jerkiness has ruined any comfort.

  “Alive and well.” I take a breath do another silent count to three before continuing, “This place hasn’t changed at all, even my old room is—”

  “I thought that kid finally moving out would put an end to these midnight interruptions.” I hear Barry’s voice grumbling somewhere in the distance and everything inside me goes cold.

  I wait for my mother to reply. To say something, anything in my defence.

  “That’s lovely, dear,” my mother says, seeming to not even hear her husband’s words. “Your aunt always did run a tight ship when it came to th
at house. Not a speck of dust was ever allowed.”

  Here’s the thing, I have never tried to make my mother take sides or choose between me and Barry. When she said she was remarrying, I was happy for her and, I’ll admit, a little excited to maybe have a father again. But that hadn’t been how it worked out.

  Right from the start it had been clear that Barry saw me as nothing more than an unwanted reminder of his wife’s past marriage. He’d made it his mission to let me know at any and every opportunity how in-the-way I was, how I was somehow cramping their style no matter how small and quiet I tried to make myself.

  Even now, I would never ask her to choose between me and Barry. I would never ask her to take sides or even stand up for me. But would it kill her to put in a good word occasionally? Maybe ask him to cut me some slack, call him out when he’s genuinely being nasty for no reason?

  I can hear her still talking about some memory she had of our time here but I’m not listening any more. Something cold and hurt and ... and angry has settled in my chest.

  “I have to go, Mum,” I say so suddenly, her words cut off. “I’m sorry I annoyed Barry again.”

  “Oh, Kizzy,, don’t be...”

  But I’m done being told that I’m imagining things. My ex, Craig, had been good at telling me I was crazy too. Not anymore.

  “Goodbye, Mum.” The words sound final in my head and my chest aches.

  I end the call and blink away the sting in my eyes.

  “I will not waste one more second of my time, on people who don’t like me.” It’s simple and the words aren’t complicated, but I feel the truth and the energy of them.

  Grabbing up my overnight bag, I shut the door and climb the stairs to the third floor. The double-doors to the master bedroom are open and the room looks warm and inviting.

  I guess I’m moving in.

  Chapter Two

  I’M RUNNING.

  Rocks and twigs and pine needles cut and jab my bare feet. Leaves and branches whip at my face and slash at my arms. But I can’t stop running.

  Why am I running?

  Why are you doing this to me?

  You’re so stupid and weak. Where are you going to go?