“Welcome to Hypnotic, how may we assist you?”
I looked up and smiled as I saw my cousin, Clove, enter the main part of the store from the back room – which was set apart by some colorful green curtains.
“Oh, it’s just you,” Clove sighed.
“Good to see you, too.”
“Sorry, I’m just cutting herbs in the back. If I knew it was you I wouldn’t have stopped what I was doing. I don’t want to forget what I’m doing. It would be a disaster if I mixed up the Agaric and Ague Root.”
Since Agaric was for fertility and Ague Root was for protection, she definitely had a point.
Clove and I look nothing alike. While I’m fair and blonde, Clove has olive skin and dark black hair. She’s also a whole half a foot shorter than me. While I’m not tall at 5’6”, Clove is downright tiny at 4’11”. She was dressed in an ankle length skirt – which had sparkly flowers all over it – and a simple black tank top. She looked the part of a witch effortlessly. Since she was really a witch, though, I wasn’t that impressed with her clothing choices.
“Cool skirt.”
“Mom made it,” she said simply. Clove’s mother was my Aunt Marnie. She ran a bed and breakfast with my own mother, Winnie, and their other sister, Twila. They were all a lot more adept than we were when it came to sewing – and cooking – and meddling in everyone’s lives.
I threw myself on the comfortable couch in the center of the store. “How’s business?”
Despite the herbs in the backroom, Clove joined me on the couch. She could be easily distracted. I had a feeling she was looking for any excuse to get out of work – like always.
“Pretty good,” Clove answered. “This time of year is our bread and butter.”
“People like to be scared,” I said.
“We aim to please,” Clove said brightly.
“Speaking of, I like the new sign.”
Clove smiled mischievously. When she smiled, she had a dimple in her left cheek that came out to play. Her brown eyes sparkled as they turned to the window sign briefly. “That was my idea.”
“I figured.”
“Not everyone thinks it’s a good idea.”
I pondered it for a second and then shrugged. “As long as you’re not really cursing people, I don’t see what the problem is. I think it’s a good idea. It will bring people in – even if it’s just out of curiosity.”
“That’s what I said but . . . “
“Don’t encourage her!”
I shifted my gaze up to the curtains that covered the backroom again and smiled when I saw my other cousin, Thistle, step from behind them. While Clove and I looked nothing alike, Thistle was a whole other thing entirely. She was taller than Clove but shorter than me. We had a lot of the same facial features, but her hair was cropped short to her head – and dyed bright blue today. When I saw her yesterday it had been red.
“New color?”
“It matches my mood,” she said bitterly.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Thistle stomped around from behind the counter. She was dressed in a pale blue sparkly halter-top that showed off the bevy of tattoos that scattered across her chest and shoulders. I was particularly fond of the blue dahlia on her chest. It just matched her personality for some reason. She was wearing skin tight ripped jeans, though. She disdained skirts – and only wore them for special events at the store.
“What do you think is wrong with me?” Much like her mother, Twila, Thistle was prone to exaggerated outbursts. I was used to them. Instead of finding her grim demeanor intimidating, I found it endearing.
I noticed that Clove was steadfastly studying her fingernails – which she had painted black. Clove and Thistle are as close as sisters – which means they fight like cats and dogs.
“You don’t like Clove’s sign, I’m guessing,” I said. I was used to their little spats.
“What’s to like about it? It makes people think we’re evil.”
“No it doesn’t,” I protested. “Tourists will just think it’s funny. It will draw people into the store. And the town? Half of them already think we’re evil anyway. The other half aren’t going to be swayed by a sign.”
Clove smirked triumphantly at Thistle. Thistle shot her the finger. Ah, our maturity knows no bounds. “You always take her side,” she grumbled.
“That’s not true. I just don’t happen to think it’s a big deal.”
“The townspeople are going to think we’re doing horrible things.”
“They already think that,” Clove supplied.
Thistle threw herself dramatically in the chair across from us and leveled a dark glare on Clove. “We don’t have to encourage that type of thinking.”
“Since when? You purposely mess with them all the time.”
“I do not!”
“You do, too.”
“Whatever.”
I found it suspicious that Clove had been mostly silent during the argument. We were all equally close to one another – but since Clove and Thistle worked together, she usually got off on arguing with her. She knew a secret.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Thistle quickly averted her gaze. We’re masterful liars when dealing with strangers. When dealing with each other, though? We suck.
“You’re hiding something.” I can smell a story as mile away.
“Why do you say that?” Thistle made an effort to meet my gaze, but it was a weak effort.
“Answering a question with a question is a sure sign of guilt,” I offered.
Thistle met my gaze solidly. “I’m not hiding anything.”
Clove finally opened her mouth. “She doesn’t want Marcus to think we’re evil.”
“Who’s Marcus?” I asked curiously, grabbing a wrapped candy from the end table.
“He’s no one,” Thistle mumbled.
“He just bought the livery,” Clove said slyly. She really is evil when she wants to be.
“The livery? You mean the horse barn?”
“It’s not just a horse barn,” Thistle barked.
Ah, I knew where this was going now. “People go there to rent horses to ride around on the trails. It’s a horse barn. Is Marcus that good-looking blond I saw working there the other day?”
“He’s Mr. Richmond’s nephew,” Clove was clearly relishing doling out information now. “We met him the other day when we were buying feed for the horses out at the inn.”
“So, Marcus bought the place from his uncle?” I couldn’t help it. I liked watching Thistle squirm, too. She was usually so sure of herself; I couldn’t help but find the sudden reddening of her cheeks funny.
“Yeah,” Clove said devilishly. “When we went into the barn to pick up the feed we ran into him – and he didn’t have a shirt on.”
“Impressive sight?”
“You have no idea,” Clove giggled. “He looks like one of those guys on the fliers for the gym in Traverse City.”
“He looks gay?”
Clove snorted. “He’s definitely not gay. He about fell over himself when he saw Thistle.”
“He was very professional!” Thistle raged suddenly.
I bit my inner cheek to keep from laughing out loud. “Did he ask you out?”
Thistle started picking at her frayed jeans distractedly. “No.”
“Why not?”
Thistle shrugged.
“I think he’s shy,” Clove answered for her. “Of course, Thistle was so flustered she practically dragged me out of the store before he could really talk to us anyway. She didn’t give him a chance.”
“You think you know everything,” Thistle said malevolently.
“He was definitely interested,” Clove said.
“How do you know? Did you read his mind?” In certain circumstances, Clove can actually hear what people are thinking. That’s her “gift.” It doesn’t always work, but it is pretty accurate when it does.
“Let’s just say that the first thing he thought
about was what she would look like naked.”
I giggled despite myself. “What was Thistle’s reaction?”
“Pretty much the same as his. You could actually feel the temperature rise in the room. I was afraid all that hay would suddenly catch on fire.”
“You’re making that up!” Thistle argued vehemently. “You can’t read my mind.”
This was true. No matter how hard she tried, Clove could never ready the thoughts of other witches. I turned to her curiously. “How do you know what she was thinking?”
“You don’t need to be a mind reader to recognize the smell of sex in a room,” she snickered.
This is true.
Thistle looked uncomfortable. She kept shifting in her chair. I realized I hadn’t seen her this interested in someone in a really long time. She was more the love them and leave them type. I suddenly felt sympathy for her.
“You could ask him out.”
“Maybe,” she said noncommittally.
“You have a reason to go back. We always need feed. I think the aunts are using it for more than feeding the horses.”
“They’re probably using it for spells,” Clove agreed. “There’s no way four horses use as much food as they order.”
“Speaking of, we have family dinner tonight,” I remembered.
Thistle and Clove groaned in unison. I felt their pain. We all loved our mothers. We all loved our aunts. We all really loved our Great Aunt Tillie – even though we often wondered if she hadn’t went completely round the bend in recent years. Family dinners, though, were more work than anything else. The women in my family were witches also – obviously – but they were also spastic at times. Much like Clove, Thistle and I, they were ridiculously close. It didn’t help that they ran the bed and breakfast together – and were constantly on each other’s nerves – and at each other’s throats.
“I wonder what they’ll be fighting about tonight?” Clove wondered aloud.
“The same thing they always argue about. Who is the best cook, who is the best gardener, who is the smartest . . .”
I smiled to myself as I pictured the scene that was sure to unfold this evening. Utter chaos.
“We could say we’re too busy to go?” Even as I uttered the words I knew how ridiculous they were.
“Yeah, they’ll believe that. It’s a small town. They know we’re not too busy,” Thistle said.
“I like family dinner sometimes,” Clove admitted.
“I do, too,” I said hastily. “I’m just always so tired from the arguing afterwards.”
“It is exhausting.”
Thistle fixed a no-nonsense gaze on both of us. “There will be no Marcus talk tonight,” she said. It was a statement, not a plea.
“Of course not,” I agreed. It was one thing for the three of us to bag on one another. It was quite another thing for the aunts to do it. They would be down at the livery casting love spells before dessert hit the table if they had even an inkling anything was up. It had become the standard between the three of us: No lies for the younger crowd, but nothing but lies for the older crowd. These are wonderful women – don’t get me wrong – but they are the four biggest busybodies you have ever met. They never met a life issue they didn’t want to weigh in on. Or a romantic interest they didn’t want to horn in on.
“What time are you going up to The Overlook?” Thistle asked me.
“I still can’t believe they renamed it that after the renovation,” Clove muttered.
“We tried to tell them,” I said. “We told them that was the name of the hotel in The Shining, but that only made them more resolute. We told them to keep the old name, but you can’t argue with them when they make up their minds.”
“They think it will make tourists want to stay there.”
“It’s worked so far,” I admitted.
“Yeah,” Thistle blew out a breath “It’s still creepy. I expect to see ghosts around every turn, like a self-fulfilling prophecy.” She turned to me expectantly. “You’ve never seen a ghost there have you?”
“No,” I shook my head. “That’s been our family home since it was built in the 1600s. Witches don’t usually become ghosts.”
“I didn’t know that,” Clove said. “Why is that?”
“I don’t know either. I’ve just never met a witch that became a ghost and didn’t move on.”
“It’s probably because witches usually finish their business before they die,” I said.
“In the case of our family, it’s usually because witches finish everyone else’s business, too,” Thistle snickered.
I laughed pleasantly on the outside– but on the inside I shuddered. Wasn’t that the truth?
Three
I gossiped with Clove and Thistle for another half an hour before I made my way back to The Whistler. I had to file the holiday happenings roundup before dinner. It wasn’t exactly taxing work, but given the makeup of the town it was a lot of work. Every business had some sort of event happening over the next couple of weeks and if I missed one, then I would be accused of purposely omitting it.
It took me about two hours to do the write-up and send it to the layout people via email. The edition would be printed tomorrow, so I had gotten the article in just under the wire. I was happy to see that Edith had apparently forgotten her discomfort with the populace’s fixation on gruesome deaths and was back to being her usual snippy self.
Thankfully, I was alone in the office this afternoon so I didn’t have to explain to anyone why I was talking to thin air. Usually, I just told the handful of part-time workers that filtered through the newsroom that I was talking to myself and planning the latest edition of the newspaper. I’m not sure – given the stories that flew around the town regarding my family – if they believed me. I really didn’t care, though. I was beyond worrying what other people thought about me. The city had taught me that.
When I was sure everything was set – and I’d marked the mockups accordingly and left them on the paginator’s desk – I left the office. I had about a half an hour before dinner and if I wanted to make it to The Overlook in time I would have to hurry. Lateness was frowned upon in the Winchester house. So was swearing, burnt dessert and sarcasm.
I had walked to work that day. It was only a mile and I wanted to enjoy the fall colors and warm weather while I still could. When the snow hit, walking wouldn’t be an option. The town was beautiful in the winter, with all the twinkling lights and decorated Christmas trees, but even when plowed the roads were largely impassable.
The Overlook is the biggest house in the county. It’s an old Victorian that the Winchester family built in the 1600s. It has grown throughout the years, with each generation adding something new to the house. Now it boasts twenty guest rooms, a four-bedroom core where the family resides, a huge greenhouse and adjacent stables. There’s also a large guesthouse on the premises where Clove, Thistle and I reside together. It’s not technically part of The Overlook – but that doesn’t stop my mom and aunts from coming and going from the guesthouse whenever they see fit. We can’t really complain, either, since we live there rent-free. The lack of privacy is disturbing, though. Thankfully, the aunts only make their presence known about once a week – just long enough to comment on our housekeeping skills.
When I got to The Overlook, I stopped at the guesthouse long enough to drop off my purse. Thistle and Clove weren’t there, so I figured they had already made their way up to the main house without me.
When I got to the main house, I let myself in through the back door. A few months ago, the house had undergone a massive renovation to make the core of the house – where my family resided – more separate from the rest of the building. After the renovation, the aunts decided that they needed to rename the property. Hence, they now live in The Overlook.
The family living quarters are located at the back of the house and include four bedrooms, a living room, a library and a warm den where my mom and aunts take their evening tea – and gossip sessions. Th
e family living quarters are attached to the rest of the inn via a stairwell and through the large kitchen.
When I entered the house I couldn’t help but smile when the tantalizing smell of stuffed cabbage hit my nostrils. My favorite. My family may be out there – but there are no better cooks in the county. If you hear them talk, there are no better cooks in the world. They might be right. I never told them that, though. I didn’t want to encourage them.
I could hear the steady stream of chatter from the adjacent kitchen. Everyone must be in there, I figured.
“You’re late,” my mom admonished me when I entered the warm room.
I looked up at the clock on the wall and sighed. “One minute is not late.”
“It’s not on time.”
My mom, like her sisters, is short. She’s about 5’3” tall and still has the same blonde hair she had when I was kid. She claims it’s natural – but I have my doubts. I never voice those doubts out loud, though. I know exactly how that conversation would go.
Clove was sitting on the counter munching on a cookie. Her mother, Marnie, was standing on the floor in front of her with her hands on her hips and glaring at her disdainfully. “Who taught you to sit on the counter? That’s what heathens do.”
Clove sighed dramatically and hopped off the counter. Standing next to her mother, the resemblance was startling. Marnie was the same height as her daughter – and she had the same expansive bust. Like my mom, her hair seemed untouched by time. I knew for a fact she dyed her hair, though. I’d seen the empty dark dye bottles in the trash. Marnie owned her color jobs, though.
My Aunt Twila was stirring something on the stove as she talked to Thistle. “Blue dear? I don’t think it’s flattering to your coloring.”
I could see Thistle bristle at the comment. She was fighting the urge to argue with her mother. She knew it was a fruitless endeavor. We all knew that. That didn’t mean we didn’t engage in fruitless endeavors from time-to-time – or from minute-to-minute, for that matter.
I stifled a smile. My Aunt Twila’s hair had always come out of a bottle for as long as I had known her. A bright red Ronald McDonald bottle. She had the same coloring my mother and I had – and Thistle naturally had – but she never embraced it. She liked to be different. Her hair, much like Thistle’s, was cropped short. Marnie and my mom had chosen to keep their hair longer – and they often swept it up in messy buns to keep it under control. Twila never had that problem.
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