Witch You Were Here (Nightshade Paranormal Cozy Mystery Book 1)

  Witch You Were Here

  Lori Woods

  Copyright © 2017 by Lori Woods

  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.

  Contents

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Description

  Suzy knows she's no longer in Pennsylvania when the dwarf says, "Is she dead, or is she dead dead?"

  After a voice lures her and her cat through the gate at the old cemetery and into a world of magic, Suzy discovers she’s the new and powerful white witch of Nightshade. At first she doesn’t believe it. But, is it really just a coincidence all along that she collects brooms?

  Suzy faces three major problems. First, the previous white witch who could help her find her way home, is found murdered. Secondly, the being who lured Suzy to Nightshade wants to kill her next. Thirdly, she’s trapped in the new world and doesn’t know how to get back home.

  In the face of danger, Suzy has no choice but to embrace being a witch, find the killer, and learn how to use her new powers.

  1

  “Ouch, Snowball!” I call out sleepily as I feel my black cat sink her claws into me. “Gee, why can’t you sleep on the bed or floor like a normal cat?” I ask as I lift her off my stomach. As I hold the big ball of jet-black fur, light scuffling sounds reach my ears from downstairs.

  Rats! God, I hate rats.

  But living way out in the country, I have come to expect the varmints to find a way inside the house with the first frost of October. Snowball was supposed to be the answer to my annual rat infestation that seemed to occur just before Halloween.

  “Go downstairs and do your duty,” I say, letting go of Snowball. “If you don’t start catching rats, it’s back to the pound!” I whisper, not wanting to frighten the rats into scampering into some hiding place before Snowball can get downstairs.

  However, from the faint glow of the nightlight in the hall, I see Snowball sitting just outside my bedroom door, cleaning her paws in total distain for my wishes. Even when the faint sounds come again, the big black cat just pauses a moment to listen before returning to the more important matter of gathering material for a big hairball to deposit later on my bed.

  Okay, I can’t have rats nibbling on any of the expensive herbs I gathered yesterday. I throw my feet over the side of the bed, feeling for my bunny slippers with my toes, not wanting to touch the cold oak floor. My toes find the slippers. A moment later I’m standing beside the bed, cocking my head to the side to hear better.

  The sound comes again. Rats or footsteps? I’m not sure. The thought of a human intruder sends a chill down my back. Suddenly I am questioning moving so far out from town.

  Decisions! Should I call 911 or go down and investigate?

  “No! No! I can’t dial 911!” I mumble under my breath. I mean I could. My cell phone is on the nightstand beside the bed. But if I did, Charley Morton would rush out and tell me for the thousandth time why I should move back to town instead of living out here in these spooky old woods. Which really means, come live in town so I can see you more often and ask you for a date every day instead of only when you come grocery shopping.

  It isn’t that Charley is ugly or anything like that; it’s just that I don’t like people in general. To me it’s as though I am a cat and other people are dogs; friendly dogs, but still not the same species as I am. Okay, I’ll admit I’m a tiny bit weird.

  The sound again! I glance over at Snowball. She seems to know I’m looking at her because she pauses and glances up at me with a sorry I can’t be bothered look. Rat or intruder, I’m getting mad. I walk over to the clothes closet to grab a broom—the best weapon for a nasty rat.

  I turn the handle on the closet door, knowing how loudly it squeaks, and finally get it open without it sounding like I’m opening a rusty gate. What greets me is my collection of unused brooms. The reason they are unused is that I can never choose one. It’s as though each time I open the closet to get a broom to sweep up some mess I’ve made, I can never pick one of the two dozen that are stored there.

  Okay, it’s something I’m working on, this fetish with brooms! I got a stack of books on psychology from the library to prove it. I haven’t ever told anyone about the broom fetish. People in Potamca think I’m strange enough as it is, and I’m not going to add wood to that fire.

  I hear the sound again.

  Just reach in and grab one! That way you don’t have to make a choice! Only my eagerness to confront the rat/intruder gives me the determination I need to close my eyes and reach into the closet. My fingers touch the smooth handle of a broom. No, not that one! I move my hand, my fingers brushing lightly against the handle of another broom. “Just grab one!” I mumble.

  I reach out blindly and close my hand around a rough, unpainted handle. It’s my favorite, I think as I open my eyes and see the homemade broomstick I bought at the flea market. It’s the one I put on the porch along with the jack-o-lantern at Halloween.

  The sound from downstairs, louder this time, causes me to grab the antique broom with both hands and creep toward the door. Snowball glances up but refuses to move so I have to step over her.

  Armed with the broomstick, I slowly make my way to the stairs, listening intently as I walk. I place my foot on the first step. The squeak sounds like a gunshot to my ears. Good! Whatever it is will be long gone before I get downstairs, I think as I descend, taking exaggerated steps like a cartoon character in a creepy cartoon. I feel silly walking this way, but it does keep the stairs from creaking so much.

  Where is the sound coming from? I ask myself once I have both bunny slippers on the solid oak floor at the bottom of the stairs. Library! Good! At least the rat isn’t after my expensive herbs. I don’t care if he munches on my stack of Regency romances. I buy them by the box at the flea market.

  I pull the broomstick back, ready to strike as I approach the library. The door is wide open. I’m sure I closed it, I think. I keep it closed all the time because once Snowball peed on the overstuffed Queen Anne Chair beside the lamp, where I usually sit to read, and I have tried everything known to humankind and still can’t get the scent of cat pee out of the chair.

  Knowing that a rat couldn’t have opened the door to the library, I pause at the threshold. To do or not to do?

  I decide I’ll reach in with my free hand and flick on the light, which I hope will startle whoever it is. This will give me a chance to bang them with the broom.

  From thought to action! I move forward, reaching inside with my left hand, searching for the light switch. My fingers locate the switch. I take a deep breath and turn on the light.

  The shadow of a man is holding my grandmother’s tin drinking cup in his black hand as he examines it.

  I scream!

  The shadow turns his head toward me. Red glowing eyes stare at me. Goosebumps race down my spine as I feel an evil presence m
ore powerful than any I’ve ever encountered. But suddenly I’m filled with anger. A part of me is horrified as I run toward the shadow man with my broomstick raised like a baseball bat.

  The figure seems shocked that I would dare confront him. He takes a step in my direction and then suddenly seems to notice my weapon raised to strike. As I swing the broomstick like I was taking batting practice, the shadow shrieks in terror and runs toward the far wall. I expect to hear a thud. Instead, I am shocked to see him pass right though the wall and disappear!

  Suddenly my anger is replaced by fear. I try to wrap my mind around what just happened as I slump down in the Queen Anne Chair. I reach down and pinch the hand holding the broomstick hoping I will suddenly wake up.

  “Ouch!” I cry out.

  Oh God! It’s not a dream! It really happened.

  “Help me! Help me!” a tiny voice calls out.

  I spring out of my chair with my broomstick raised, ready to strike.

  “Who said that? I know someone is there. I don’t like people playing jokes on me! Who’s there?”

  Still holding the antique broomstick, I run around the house, flicking switches until every light in the house is burning. I look in every room but don’t see the shadow man. I examine the wall that he vanished into but see no signs that something passed through it.

  I see Snowball leisurely walking into the library as though to check out what’s causing all the fuss. Suddenly, her back arches and she screeches pitifully before she races out of the room. Her cowardice is infectious. My knees are shaking so much I have to sit back down. I find myself hugging the broomstick and am astounded that I suddenly feel protected.

  “This is too much,” I say aloud and try to lean the broomstick against the lamp table, but can’t make myself let go of it. “Wow, I’m going to have to buy more psychology books next time I go to town. I’m losing my mind.”

  2

  I pull out of my driveway and onto the tarmac without even looking for oncoming traffic. It’s a bad habit I have. Not that it matters much since maybe one car a month passes my house. The road dead-ends five miles farther on, and since there are no houses between me and the dead end, there’s little reason for anyone except me to use the road.

  No traffic! That’s what I like about living in the woods. The God who rules the roadways and I are not friends. I swear if I’m late, every stoplight is red or I’m stuck behind some little old lady who thinks twenty is the speed limit. Okay, I’ll admit that another one of the reasons I hate city traffic is that I am a terrible driver! How do I know this? It seems that at least once a day someone shouts it out to me—with and without their raised middle finger. That, and the fact that I failed the driving test six times, which I think gives me the county record. At least that’s what Charley keeps reminding me when he offers to drive me home. Sometimes I think I should just get a horse and carriage like the Amish use instead of driving my rattling, red Ford Escort station wagon that’s missing its front bumper. Besides, the way the back bumper is shaking, I expect it to depart for the junkyard any day now.

  As I drive, the thought that I have to stop by the police station and report the intruder weighs heavy on my mind. I have already decided not to tell Charley that the man was just a shadow and vanished through the wall after taking an old silver drinking cup belonging to my grandmother. First, he’s not going to believe me. Heck, I wouldn’t believe it myself. And second, he’s going to start reminding me that I’m single, living way out in the woods. And how much safer it would be if I moved into town.

  Snowballs meows. I glance at her. “I told you last night I was going to take you to the vet, didn’t I?” I say as though I’m talking to a person instead of my cat. What I don’t tell her is it’s time for her rabies shot. But by the way she was pouting all morning, I suspect she knew that it’s that awful time of the year again.

  I also see the broomstick lying in the back seat. I shake my head. It is illogical for me to bring it along, but there it is in the back seat. I actually took it upstairs to the closet in my bedroom to put it away with the rest of my broom collection. But the moment I stuck it into the closet I had a sudden dreadful feeling, as though I was abandoning my best friend to a pack of cannibals with a huge cooking pot of boiling water. Okay, so I have an over-stimulated imagination, but I just couldn’t put it back. So there it lies in my back seat, making me feel secure.

  The only thing I dislike about living out of town is that I have to drive by the old cemetery. The word spooky comes to mind every time I pass by. I always try to come home before dark as I have an especially eerie feeling when I have to go past it at night. I think my dislike for it comes from its look of total abandonment; seems every noxious weed known to humankind grows inside the rusty iron gates. I usually accelerate as I approach the place and am fixing to do just that when I hear a voice, the same tiny voice I heard last night.

  “Help me! Help me!”

  I slow down and stick my head out the window to try to catch which direction the voice is coming from.

  “Please, he is evil.”

  I know immediately that the tiny voice means the shadow man.

  “Help me!”

  Oh my God! The voice is coming from the cemetery!

  “No way, Snowball!” I say, even though I know she isn’t listening, and even if she were, she wouldn’t know what in blazes I’m talking about. “I’m not getting out of the car and going walking among those creepy graves. My clothes would be covered in beggarweed in an instant, and I see poison ivy!” No, nothing is going to entice me to get out of my car and snoop around in that cemetery when the voice might not even be real.

  “Please help me!”

  The tiny voice tugs at my heart. Who could it be? A child? But I didn’t see a child when I saw the shadow man. He was just holding the silver cup. Oh no. Now I am getting worried about my sanity. A silver cup is an innate object. It cannot speak—not in this world or the next one.

  “Please.”

  In my head or not, something is speaking to me from the cemetery. Could it be the strange shadow man from last night? Could he be trying to lure me out of the safety of my car?

  Drive through it, you twit!

  I feel dumb for not thinking of driving down the overgrown road that runs through the middle of the cemetery. So what if some of the weeds are taller than the car? One more scratch, or a dozen for that matter, will go undetected, as my paint job is so bad. And losing the final bumper will just save me from having to drag it to the junkyard.

  With that thought in mind, I turn off the road and onto the grass. The big, iron gate at the entrance of the graveyard is wide open. Down in the distance, I see the arched exit. Why the exit has an elaborate iron arch over it and the entrance doesn’t puzzles me for a moment until it dawns on me that the cemetery is probably older than the road. Maybe the back was actually the entrance at one time.

  Whatever. Entrance, exit, it makes no difference, I think as I pull slowly through the gate.

  Snowball lets out a loud meow that makes me jump.

  “Yeah, I’m not too happy about entering it, either,” I call back to her. “I’m just going to drive through and then ‘get out of Dodge’ as they say in the old westerns, tiny voice or no tiny voice.”

  I admit that I usually enjoy cemeteries. Just not this particular one. I don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I visit the cemetery in Potamca when I’m depressed. For some strange reason, walking among the graves always cheers me up, makes me feel close to my parents who passed away when I was a small child. I can barely remember them, or my grandmother.

  Stop! I tell myself! Thinking about my grandmother always brings up the burning question of my life. Why did she leave me on the steps of the orphanage when I was barely two years old? But that isn’t the issue I want to deal with at the moment when a tiny voice is calling me into a creepy, old cemetery where that shadow character might be waiting. Grieve over being abandoned some other time, I scold myself as I drive throug
h the tall weeds that have long since taken possession of the old road.

  I listen so hard my ears are ringing as I slowly knock over monstrous-sized weeds with the front of my car. Too bad I’m not pulling a mower; I could charge the county for this, I think to lighten the tension I feel. I’m expecting the shadow man to pop out from behind a gravestone at any second.

  I glance back at the broomstick and feel a sense of security, knowing that last night the broom seemed to have put the fear of God or something into the shadowy figure since upon seeing it, he had screamed and fled the room like a banshee. Hmm, maybe that’s what it was—a banshee. I shake my head. “You know there’s no such thing, Suzy,” I say out loud.

  Yet no matter how hard I listen, the only sound is the weeds slapping against the front of my car as I drive deeper and deeper into the cemetery. Then I am through it and approaching the arched rear gate, which is also open.

  I look up at the inscription written in Latin on the archway. “Nequit introeuntibus.” I frown, trying to remember what the words mean. Those that enter cannot leave, I say the words silently to myself. I find them appropriate, just on the wrong side of the arch. At least I hope the dead can’t leave the cemetery. The thought that one of the dead in the cemetery is the shadow man sends a chill down my spine and I push the gas pedal, suddenly wanting to get out of the graveyard and back on the road.

  Snowball lets out the loudest meow of her life as I pass through archway. I glance back at her, thinking that something must be wrong. She glances through the front bars of the carrier and meows again. “I’ve never known you to be in such a hurry for your shot!” I say. When I turn back to glance through the windshield, I slam on the brakes.