Witching Hour

by Skylar Finn

  As it was, I was both surprised and unsurprised: surprised that she might be alive and had simply crawled through the window into my bedroom for reasons unknown. Unsurprised that if she was, in fact, dead, she had inevitably appealed to me for help—somehow divining, through her ghostly senses, that I would be able to see her.

  “Bea?” I ventured. “Are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not all right,” she exploded. “First of all, I’m dead.” This laid to rest my first question. “Second of all, I’m dead. In case you didn’t hear me the first time.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “How is it that you can hear me, anyway?”

  “It’s just something I can do.” I sat down on the edge of my bed with a weary sigh. “How did you know to come here?”

  “I didn’t.” She got up and paced. Her feet made no sound on the carpet nor left any trace. “I’ve just been going around, yelling at people I knew, trying to get them to see me or hear me—which none of them could—when I saw you leaving Tamsin’s dorm. So I followed you.” She shrugged. “I don’t really know why. Just a feeling, I guess.” She eyed me beadily. “One which proved correct. Are you some kind of ghost hunter or something?”

  “It’s just something I inherited,” I said mildly. I didn’t want to elaborate. She’d be asking me to magic her back to life next. Which was not something I was capable of doing without some black magic zombie ritual that would probably result in trapping her between dimensions and unleashing a great evil or something like that.

  “So you can help me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. She didn’t exactly inspire sympathy, but what could I say? It wasn’t her fault she was dead. Plus, she was the only one who knew who was responsible. She could help me stop the person doing this, and I could help her avenge her death.

  “I can try,” I said. “Do you know who did this?”

  She shook her head. “One minute I was out shooting in Love Park, and then…” She glanced down at herself. “I was standing over my own body.”

  Oh, dear. I thought how easily that could have been Tamsin. Or me. Or anyone. “I’m so sorry,” I said, and meant it.

  “I was supposed to be the next Warhol,” she said. “Although I will say, being a ghost is something that’s never been done. I could do something with that. Maybe in performance art. I could still be the greatest artist who ever died.” She mused this for a moment. “Ideally, my parents will also show my work posthumously, which is certain to grant me eternal fame. What?”

  I was looking at her, appalled. “Wouldn’t you rather be alive?” I asked.

  “No one appreciates any living artist,” she explained, sounding exasperated by my ignorance of the art world. “All the really good people lived in obscurity until death, when their work was discovered after the fact.”

  This didn’t sound entirely accurate to me, but I certainly wasn’t going to take away her finest coping mechanism. “Well, then, it looks like you’ll be famous even sooner than you thought,” I said reassuringly.

  She gestured to the bag on my bed. “Where are you going, anyway?”

  “I’m staying with my boyfriend until the killer is caught,” I said. I thought quickly and added, “You won’t be able to follow me there.”

  “Why not?” She made a face that looked like she’d been sucking on a lemon.

  “The building was originally constructed as an old church and later converted into apartments,” I said. “It was blessed by a priest who ensured that no restless spirits could pass through its doors.”

  This was a complete lie, to the best of my knowledge. It was a little cruel, as far as lies go, and I didn’t even know if it would work—could you trick a ghost?—but I also didn’t care. I already had my mother routinely appearing in Peter’s bathroom whenever she felt like it; I didn’t need a ghost staring at me while I slept on top of it.

  “Well, when can we meet again?” she said impatiently. “I’m bored. I can’t drink wine or paint. It all feels very nihilistic and pointless.”

  “We can meet again when I come back here,” I said.

  “When will that be?” She looked deeply annoyed. I can’t say I blamed her. It was probably isolating, being a ghost. Without me, she’d have no one to complain to for the rest of the evening.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said. I wasn’t entirely sure that I would, but I had no doubt she could locate me in the world if she wanted to. Ghosts, in my experience, had a habit of doing so.

  She gave a noisy and exasperated sigh. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “Um.” I wasn’t prepared to answer this. She couldn’t turn the pages and read a book. “I could leave the TV on for you.”

  “I don’t watch TV,” she said haughtily. “Never mind. I’ll find something to get into.”

  This sounded vaguely ominous, but I reminded myself there was only so much trouble an invisible girl could cause.

  “Okay, well, see you tomorrow,” I said brightly. I zipped up my overnight bag and scooped up the cat, who was still sitting placidly on the carpet at my feet. I thought he might claw or bite me, but he seemed amenable to the idea of leaving with me.

  “Sam?” I heard Peter’s voice at the front door. “Are you okay in here?”

  “Gottagobye,” I said to the sulking girl in the corner. It was hard not to flat-out run to the front door.

  Peter glanced over at me in the passenger seat as he drove back to his building. “Where did that cat come from?” he asked. “I didn’t know you had a cat. You didn’t, right?” He seemed confused, as if this was a fact that might have gotten by him during the last few months of knowing me.

  “It’s a mystery,” I said. The cat purred in my lap. “Aren’t you? Are you a mystery?” I stopped talking to the cat and turned back to Peter. “No, I didn’t have him before. He just sort of appeared. In my house.” I didn’t elaborate on the fact that I’d seen what I was almost a hundred percent sure was the same cat in Mount Hazel, which was hours away. I’d heard of cats finding their owners across seemingly impossible distances, but never of a stray cat with no owner following an unfamiliar person miles away. I wasn’t entirely sure this was a cat, and I was certain that even if it was, it wasn’t ordinary. But that was definitely not something I was going to share with Peter.

  “You’re not allergic, are you?” I asked.

  “No…no, it’s not that. I mean, I never had a pet, because I don’t have time for one. I’m not, like, against them, just…” He seemed hesitant to articulate his next thought.

  “What?” I looked at Peter. The cat looked at Peter. He looked at the cat.

  “It’s kind of a weird cat,” he said. “Isn’t it? I mean, I’ve never had one before. Maybe they’re all like that. Something about its…expression.”

  “What about it?” I scratched the cat under the chin. He stared up at me, looking pleased.

  “Just the fact that it has one,” he said. “I find that odd. Don’t animals generally just look hungry or tired?”

  “Animals have feelings too, Peter,” I said. “Isn’t that right, Mystery?”

  The cat purred.

  I thought about asking Peter to stop somewhere for cat supplies, but first of all it was one o’clock in the morning, and secondly, I had a feeling that Mystery was not an indoor cat. I left the door to the fire escape ajar while we got ready for bed and he went right out.

  “Is he coming back?” asked Peter, glancing towards the door.

  “I don’t know,” I said thoughtfully as I brushed my teeth. “I would guess not? They’re nocturnal, so he’s probably going out hunting or something.”

  “Okay, well, I’m just going to lock this, then,” he said, nudging the door shut and sliding the bolt across. “What with the crazed killer on the loose and all.”

  “Do you think it’s a serial killer?” I asked, climbing into bed.

  “Looks that way.” Peter turned out the light on the nightstand. “I’m going to get a little bit of work done befor
e I go to sleep. Call me if you need anything.”

  Peter went into the living room. I punched the pillow and rolled over. I saw that Peter had left a glass of water for me on the nightstand. He was considerate that way.

  I wondered how I ever could have thought he would leave me for the barista downstairs.

  I stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows from the streets below create patterns. They all looked vaguely menacing. Even when I wasn’t worrying, I couldn’t shut my mind off long enough to go to sleep.

  Who killed Bea Wilson? Why did they take her heart? And who was next?

  By the time I woke up, I concluded that the likeliest candidates—that I knew of—were Lindy or Cristo. They were the two new and ominous presences in my world that I didn’t trust and suspected were up to something. Cristo’s connection to Bea was obvious, and it seemed likelier that it was someone Bea knew who was able to get close enough to hurt her than a complete stranger.

  Of course, it was entirely possible that it was a third candidate, unknown—someone I’d never met, a random lunatic making their way across the city. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all connected to the force my family said moved nearby to us. Who was responsible?

  What about the women from the estate sale, who harbored a connection to the clock? If they were behind the freezing of time, were they also behind the recent bad things that occurred? They seemed benevolent, but so did a lot of people who were bad. Maybe they just hid it well.

  Peter subtly hovered around me before he left for work in a way that seemed more protective than obtrusive, and I thought that maybe it might be okay to stop worrying about the past and tell him that I would move in when my lease was up. This didn’t feel any different from the time we normally spent together, anyway.

  But something in me held back. I still hadn’t figured out what I wanted to do with my life. In spite of recent suggestions, neither ghost hunter nor amateur sleuth really appealed. I didn’t want my whole life to revolve around a single person just because I had nothing else in my life to look forward to.

  “What are you planning on doing today?” Peter asked casually, biting into an apple. I knew he was just using the apple as a prop to seem casual; he never ate breakfast.

  “Going and helping Cameron with some things at the shop,” I said just as casually. I had no intention of informing an already-worried Peter that I was planning to go to a haunted mansion and interview two women I barely knew and had only met once regarding their connection to a magical clock.

  “Okay.” He mulled this for a moment before adding, “Will you text me when you get there? And if you go anywhere else? I’m sorry if this is annoying, I just…you haven’t heard the things I’ve heard.”

  “I’ll text you,” I said. Secretly, I thought it was nice that he was so protective. I also thought that I had less to worry about than someone like Bea, and more ways to defend myself than any regular person. But I didn’t want it to lull me into a false sense of security, either.

  “Okay. I’ll text you when I get out.” He tossed the undesired apple into the trash. “Um, did you want like…eggs, or whatever? Sorry, I’m not good with this stuff.”

  I made a face. “I hate eggs.”

  He looked relieved. “Okay, good. Well, I’ll see you later.” He left. I heard the door lock, then unlock. He came back in. I looked at him, puzzled. He kissed me on the forehead, then left again, locking the door behind him.

  Cameron held back a laugh when I described my morning to him. “What?” I demanded. “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s not funny,” he said, stifling a chuckle. “I think it’s just adorable. What ever are you going to name your children?”

  “We’re not having kids!” I practically yelled, dropping the dust cloth I was using to clean an old lamp . I bent over to retrieve it and straightened up, adding in a calmer voice, “We haven’t even officially, like…moved in together, or whatever. Why are you tormenting me about this?”

  “Because I think it’s funny to trigger your commitment phobia and watch you become hysterical,” he said.

  “That’s vicious,” I said, wiping down the base of the lamp. “Straight vicious.”

  “What would you do without me to tell you the awful truth?” Cameron swept his boa over his shoulder. “Why do you want to go talk to this old crone and her daughter, anyway? Do you think they’re witches or something?”

  The lamp slipped from my hands and tumbled to the thick carpeting where it bounced once and sat unbroken. Cameron glanced down at it. “Something I said?”

  “What do you mean?” I laughed. “Witches?” Inwardly, I kicked myself. I could not have been more obvious if I tried.

  “I don’t know, it just seems like that spooky old Victorian house in your neighborhood where everybody’s afraid to go trick-or-treating or do anything about it when you lose your Frisbee. You know? Because a witch lives there and she’s gonna give you an old monkey’s paw that grants you wishes, but you’ll live to regret them. That whole thing.”

  “Oh…no, I don’t think that. I mean, I definitely have some things that I’d wish for, but…probably not.”

  “Sam, that is the entire point of the story. You’re not supposed to wish for anything! What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know.” I carefully straightened the lamp and admired my handiwork before tossing him a glare. “Maybe I’d wish away my commitment phobia so my friend can’t torment me anymore.”

  “Fine, fine.” He held up his hands. “Truce. But when that strange old lady offers you a monkey paw, don’t expect me to get you out of whatever mess you get into.”

  16

  A Witch of Time

  The insufferable June humidity culminated in an afternoon thunderstorm. A knot of gray clouds gathered in the sky above the old stone mansion in Villanova. Thunder rumbled ominously as we pulled into the driveway. We barely made it to the little portico over the front door that sheltered us from the rain when the sky opened up and water poured down in torrents.

  “Let’s hope they let us in,” said Cameron nervously as he rang the bell.

  I listened as the chime echoed in the cavernous home: it was the same as the chime of a clock, tolling the hour. I clutched my bare arms and shivered. I thought of the grandfather clock, time freezing all around us. Why hadn’t we frozen, too?

  And who were Suki and her grandmother? What did they know? There was clearly something odd about them, and while they seemed benevolent, how could we be sure? I’d thought the same thing about Lindy, and look how that turned out.

  We stood on the front step as thunder rolled around us. There was no response. I sighed, discouraged. “Maybe we should come back later,” I said. I cast a dismal glance back over my shoulder. I wasn’t looking forward to running through the rain back to the car. It was the kind of torrential downpour that leaves you drenched in a matter of seconds, your clothes soaked through, leaving you shivering and uncomfortable until you can get home and throw them in a dryer while you change into something else.

  “Wait,” said Cameron. “I think I heard something.”

  I didn’t hear anything, but I paused on the step to humor him. To my surprise, the massive oak front door creaked open. Suki’s small face, framed by her dark bangs, peeked out.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Come in.”

  I couldn’t imagine more ominous words with which to greet us, but Cameron gladly jumped over the threshold. I reminded myself that he was still probably convinced that the events of the previous evening had been a shared hallucination, and this was just a benevolent old lady and her granddaughter who were maybe a little eccentric. But I knew that they harbored some kind of magic, magic that made them either our allies—or dangerous enemies.

  We followed Suki through the vast entryway towards the sitting room where we’d first examined the many clocks of the estate sale. What would I do if something happened? Could I protect both Cameron and myself? I tried texti
ng Tamsin to convince her to come with us, but she was MIA again. I reassured myself that I could handle it if things got weird. This was a blatant lie, of course, but like most lies we tell ourselves, it provided some reassurance in the interval.

  Suki, true to her word, had arrayed an elaborate tea tray of cucumber sandwiches and hot tea in a silver pot. Either she really had sensed we were coming, or just thoroughly enjoyed cucumbers and tea. I thought maybe we should be cautious about eating or drinking anything, but Cameron immediately set to consuming the contents of everything on the tray.

  When nothing happened to him, I reached cautiously for a mug and poured myself a cup. It was green, which I normally didn’t like, but it had a powerful and intoxicating smell—like mint, green grass, lemon, and something I couldn’t quite pinpoint. (My grandmother later told me that I could always tell a witch by her tea, which explained why the magically devoid imposter Magdalena made such awful undrinkable tea and why Suki’s was so heavenly.)

  “Welcome,” said Suki in her melodic voice. “I’m so glad you’ve returned. I was waiting for you. I would have come to you myself, but we had to be sure of you. Who you were.”

  She addressed Cameron and me, but her eyes looked deep into mine. We’ve been waiting for you, Samantha Hale, she thought. My cup clattered on the saucer as I nearly dropped it. She was a witch, and she had powers similar to my own. Had she known it all along?

  “Who we were?” asked Cameron. I suddenly realized that maybe bringing along my best friend, unaware of my secret identity as a witch, on official witch business hadn’t been the best idea. Would he believe any of this? Would he think that I was going crazy? Or that he was?