The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism
by those who have not got it.
-George Bernard Shaw


CHAPTER ONE

I had been thinking for some time that things weren’t quite right in my little Indiana town. Strangely enough it had nothing to do with the witches living practically in my back yard.

Let me back up. Maggie O’Neill here, at your service. I’m coming up fast on my thirtieth birthday, just your average small town girl, and I’ve lived all my life in the somewhat nondescript Hoosier town of Stony Mill, population 6841. For those of you picturing the corny hats-off salutes on Hee Haw, you’re probably not far off the mark. Life is simple here. At least on the surface.

For two and a half months, I’ve been working at Enchantments, an upscale gift shop located in the trendy string of antique stores down on River Street. That’s where the witches come in.

It’s not what you think.

The store is owned by Felicity Dow, an English expatriate and follower of the Old Ways--but please don’t hold that against her. I honestly have never met another woman like her. In a way, I owe her my life, though she insists she had nothing to do with it. But more than that, more than anything, it was Liss who opened my eyes and senses to the . . . unusual energy that could be felt in the area, hovering in the shadows, if one but paid attention.

For better or for worse. There would be no going back.

I am Maggie O’Neill, and this is my story.


December in Indiana is never predictable, and when Saturday greeted me with sudden temps in the fifties, I knew this day would be no different. I was opening the store that morning, so after my usual routine of a quick shower and a simple up-do with a giant hairclip, I surveyed my closet with an eye toward the weather.

Here unseasonal weather might best be compared to a fickle lover--it never sticks around for long. A Hoosier born and bred, I knew as well as anyone that the real key to comfort meant dressing in layers, so I threw on a pair of navy wool slacks, a thin mock turtleneck, and a nubby sweater in a medium peacock blue that brought out the green in my eyes before I grabbed my coat, purse, and the stack of receipts I’d been working on over the weekend, stuffed a bagel between my teeth, and headed out the door.

I was in a hurry. I’d almost come to terms with the strange things that had been happening in my three room basement apartment in the aging Victorian on Willow Street. Almost. Lately, the faint thrumming I heard all around me as I lay quietly in bed at night had grown so reliable that I no longer questioned whether it was real or imagined. I knew. Just as I now recognized all the other signs that I was not alone. The flickering lights. The sudden scent of lavender. The fingerprints that appeared on windows and mirrors from the inside after a good cleaning. The way the tuner on my old, beat up stereo always seemed to roll over to an oldies station best known for its big band sound, no matter that I preferred soft rock. This weekend, however, the highjinks had been so frequent that it had begun to eat away at my hard-won acceptance of my newfound powers as an empath. That’s right, people, I’m sensitive to the feelings of others, as well as a whole host of other phenomena that sometimes spooks me senseless. I closed the door to my apartment behind me that morning with the feeling that I had escaped.

Just. In. Time.

In time for what, I didn’t know. I could only hope that whatever was causing the increase in activity would find some kind of harmless release--and soon--so that things could go back to the way they were. Before everything started to go wrong.

Because then maybe I could go back to normal as well.

It was a lovely, impossible dream, and I knew it. And to be truthful, I couldn’t swear that was what I wanted. For it all to end. I sighed as I started up Christine—my cherished but slightly unpredictable 1972 VW Bug—and began to maneuver my way through quiet residential streets. That was part of the problem. I didn’t know what I wanted at all. Some days, I thought it might be better to be oblivious to the threads of magic I sensed weaving their way through my life, quietly and without fanfare. But a part of me thrilled at my newfound ability. A part of me wanted to believe that for some reason I had been chosen to receive this strange gift, and I could not deny a growing desire to know the why and how of it.

Patience . . .

The word floated into view inside my head, focusing my attention and soothing me at once. Yes. Patience. As Liss would say at her most Confucius, there is a time for everything, and everything a place. And I was learning. In the last two months, with my boss’s blessing and occasional guidance in the selection, I’d inhaled more than twenty books on the supernatural from the Loft. Yet in spite of all the unexplainable things I’d experienced myself, live and in person, I’d found the concepts ridiculous at first and still found myself snickering and rolling my eyes over some of the more ‘Out There’ notions. Until the morning I’d chanced into Felicity Dow’s world, high school science class had pretty much served to kill any vestiges of awe I felt for the workings of the everyday world. To go back to such an archaic way of thinking, that magic and the strength of a person’s will could affect the natural order of things, seemed so . . . backward. So superstitious. And yet, the more I read, the more I recognized bits and pieces of my own past experience. Little things. Things I’d never before thought to question.

So I wasn’t normal. I guess deep down I’d always known that. It was just that I thought it had more to do with the real me, the everyday me, than with experiencing the Otherworld. How was I to know that the two would turn out to be so intimately connected?

Shaking off the uneasiness that had settled down around my shoulders, I turned onto River Street and popped Christine out of gear, allowing her to coast downhill toward Enchantments. There were a few cars ahead of me, other shopkeepers making their way in to open their stores in preparation for holiday shoppers, but it was still too early for the marauding hordes. Thank goodness. There were a few finishing touches I wanted to put on the new window display before we opened, and then there were the boxes of new stock that had come in the day before yesterday that I hadn’t gotten around to unpacking. If last week was any indication, there would be still more unpackaged inventory by the end of this week. The Christmas season meant non-stop sales and return customers, as I was fast learning. Good for the store’s bank account, but awfully hard on the feet. Not that I was complaining. Felicity had been out for several weeks, taking some much needed and much deserved time off. For personal reasons, she’d said. Grieving was probably closer to the truth. Losing two members of her own family in such a terrible way can’t have been easy. If it meant working double shifts to see that things got done, I was happy to do it, so long as it allowed Felicity the healing time she needed.

I parked Christine in the usual place behind the store and stepped out onto the crushed limestone. A brisk wind picked up the instant I did, lifting my hair off my neck and pushing it in my face. I shivered in spite of the weather broadcast and clutched my jacket closed at the throat while I unlocked the back door and stepped inside.

The scent of cinnamon closed around me, spicy sweet as always. Breathing in deeply, I fumbled for the wall switch, blinking at the sudden transformation of the back office space from shadow to light. A light that also revealed a stack of corrugated boxes four deep and five high. Without further ado, I hung my coat and purse in the closet and pushed up my sleeves. Time to get to work.

Well . . . maybe a cup of English Breakfast first.

I deftly performed my morning ritual of filling the water vat in the industrial sized coffee makers at the coffee bar. Though our customers, many of whom worked in bustling downtown Stony Mill, favored the various specialty teas, lattes, and cappuccinos we offered, I took delight in the tried and true. Earl Grey, English Breakfast, Orange Pekoe. Simplicity at its best and most comforting.

While I waited for the water to heat, I wandered through the unlit aisles, straightening glossy papered books, plumping up frou-frou pillows, testing the many shelves for dust. Though I’d only worked at Enchantments a couple of months, I derived great personal satisfaction from tending to the store and its inventory. I couldn’t have felt more proud had I owned it myself.

Assured that the orderliness of the stock had not degenerated overnight, I wandered to the front of the store and gazed out at the nearly empty street. Directly opposite, Randy Cutter was out, sweeping the sidewalk in front of his antique store, Something Olde. He nodded when he caught sight of my upraised hand, but didn’t pause in his undertaking. If tea was my morning ritual, sweeping the sidewalk with all due diligence was Randy’s. Out with the old, and in with the new.

The only other person in sight was a boy, a half-block away, chasing after a giant red ball. I smiled to myself as I watched him. His baseball cap flipped backward off his sandy-blond head, falling unheeded to the freshly swept sidewalk, yet no matter what he did, the ball bounced along just out of his reach.

His laughter floated in on the morning breezes, audible even through the same closed front door that I’d fallen through just a few months back. Ah, to be eight again. He belonged to one of the shop owners, I supposed. Still, it was awfully early for an eight-year-old to be out on the street alone, wasn’t it?

I frowned as my heart suddenly chugged to life. Enchantments stood in a strand of reclaimed warehouses on the last block of River Street, the oldest thoroughfare in the county. River Street tee-ed into the Wabash River. The ball showed no sign of stopping, and where the ball went, the boy seemed to follow. What if he wasn’t paying attention to where he was headed? What if he chased the ball right into the river? My hand opened, splayed against the cool glass in supplication. Too quiet a gesture that would help no one. I thundered my knuckles against the glass, then my fist. Much better.

“Randy! Mr. Cutter! The boy! The boy!”

Cutter looked up at the sound. Too slow! I gestured frantically toward the boy. Cutter turned toward the river, then looked back at me, his brow furrowed. My heart in my throat, I looked myself. The boy was right there, still running, still . . .

He blinked out. The boy, the cap, the ball all just faded away, right in front of my eyes. And from the look on his face, Cutter hadn’t seen a thing.

Damn it.

Knowing I must look like the world’s biggest idiot, I gritted my teeth into some semblance of a smile and gave Cutter a sheepish shrug. He looked puzzled when he went back to his sweeping. As for me, I slunk over to the coffee bar and made myself the fastest cup of tea in the history of Enchantments. I drank it down even faster, my hands trembling.

It had been happening more often. The creepy sensation of being watched. That heartstopping, get-away-fast feeling. Trouble was, the episodes weren’t relegated solely to my apartment anymore. I couldn’t be sure that it ever had been.

And I wasn’t quite sure what to think about that.

Turning my back on my confusion, the front of the store, and the possibility of another unwelcome view of the disappearing boy (Neat trick! Impress your family! Wow your friends!), I made my way back to the storeroom-cum-office, determined to immerse myself in my work and, with any luck, distract myself from my otherworldly woes.

I had just found the box cutter when Evie Carpenter walked in the back door. A delicate blond with the face of an angel and a temperament to match, Evie was also the youngest member of the N.I.G.H.T.S., more formally known as the Northeast Indiana Ghost Hunting and Tracking Society, a group I had joined at Felicity’s urging. The N.I.G.H.T.S., with Felicity at the helm, had undertaken the burden of educating me in all things metaphysical.

Forewarned is forearmed, I always say.

Well, I say that lately, anyway.

“Morning, Evie. You’re here early.”

Felicity had hired Evie to help out during the holiday season, since she herself had been spending so much time away from the store. Evie was still in high school, so that meant after school until eight and Saturdays when the store opened at ten.

“I thought you might need help,” Evie said, hanging up her coat.

I smiled at her as I slid the razor carefully down the line of box tape on the uppermost carton and flipped the flaps open to reveal a treasure trove of newsprint wrapped mysteries. “Sweet of you.”

She shrugged and collapsed into the antique barrel-backed desk chair. “Not really. Mom’s having her church group by this morning. You know, the Ladies of Perpetual Devotion. Anything is better than that.” She stopped suddenly and bit her lip. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I love being here.”

“Of course I do.”

“Can I help you with that?” She gestured toward the carton.

“Dig in.”

In no time, the two of us together had made short shrift of unpacking, logging, numbering, and pricing of the delicate crystal that had come all the way from Ireland. We set them carefully to one side, in awe of their beauty. Most residents of Stony Mill would never think twice about the repeated spirals, knotwork, and beautiful silverwork adorning the goblets, bowls, candleholders, and plates that shot sparks in all directions in even the dimmest light. The spiritual symbols of Celtic-based Goddess worship simply wouldn’t register. To the initiated, however, the patterns etched into the glassware gave testimony to the religious leanings of the Irish vendor. Like many in the witching community, Felicity liked to patronize other witches whenever possible. Though it wasn’t something she required of her suppliers, the ones she did endorse were some of the finest artisans I’d ever seen, bar none.

“Once the holidays are over,” I mused aloud as I set the glassware out on an antique sideboard, “I think a window display of this crystal would be lovely. Look at the way they catch the light.”

“Why not now?”

“And abandon Santa Claus and all of his reindeer?” I asked, holding my hand to my heart in feigned shock and dismay. “Sacrilege!”

Evie grinned. “It’s nearly ten. Want me to unlock the front?”

“Is it? How time flies. Yes, thanks. I’ll just finish up here.”

When I had wiped the last glass clean of fingerprints and positioned it with the others, I stowed my cleaning supplies in the closet and headed back up front. Evie was standing by the front window, her arms crossed over her chest. Something about her stance, a tension I felt more than saw, made me veer away from the counter and head in her direction.

“Anything wrong?” I asked as I went to stand behind her. A shiver ran through me as I did. Easy, old girl, I told myself. You’re on familiar ground here. Nothing to be afraid of.

For a moment, Evie said nothing. Her eyes had that extreme unfocused look that I had come to associate with moments of the otherworldly. Unfocused on anything in particular, but seeing something. Her silence made me even more nervous. Suddenly my chest felt tight, constricted; the air, thin. My fingers opened and closed by my thighs, clawing at something unseen. I gasped once, twice. There was a light in the darkness, a mere pinprick, teasing me, taunting me. I couldn’t get air, I couldn’t breathe, the blackness was too much, too thick, it was smothering me . . .

Copyright 2006 by Madelyn Alt.