“My brother is a better person than all of those jackasses rolled into one,” said Vera. “And I want Chloe to have control of her own body and health and be free to love whomever she pleases! Not that she’s shown any sign of being gay yet.”
“You are totally right,” I said.
Melanthe Cadwallader’s house loomed before us, Victorian Italianate style, built in 1870. “There simply must be ghosts,” I said.
“Undoubtedly,” said Vera, clipboard in hand and already climbing out of the car. I had to unwind to get out myself as I am five foot nine and it appeared that Focuses were built for the petite, like Vera. “But we’re not here for that,” she said.
The stone steps had smooth dips worn in from thousands of feet passing over them. The inside of the house was surprisingly well-kept—no draping cobwebs, no creepy statues. Brass candlesticks and fireplace implements gleamed and a tall Chinese vase glittered in the morning light. Either the old lady herself or hired help had kept the place shining.
The real estate agent and the auctioneer leaned on the fireplace, sipping coffee and softly flirting while we were allowed free run of the house. We kept the agent on retainer for this purpose and she’d learned to trust us. Besides, during their inventory of the contents, all expensive jewelry and important small objects would have already been removed.
“Pretty stuff, but nothing for us,” said Vera, dismissing the entire first floor, then changing her mind about an elaborate coat rack in the kitchen. “Okay, this,” she said, high handing it back to the parlor to park in the vestibule.
We clomped up the long stairway to the second floor. I found a funky Chinese bureau, old fireman’s hat, Indian screen inset with mother of pearl, and one brightly painted Indonesian mask. We climbed to the attic, part of which had been turned into a spare room and sewing room, the other part raw rafters.
“No ancient dust-covered trunks,” said Vera, clearly disappointed. “What good is a witch without them? One hopes for a skeleton in the wedding dress or something.” She scanned the area, brushed off her slacks and headed back to the stairs.
I lingered. “I’m going to check around a little.”
“Why?” said Vera. “Rusty iron bed, fiberboard vanity, fly specked mirror, rag rug. Nothing of interest.”
“Just want to look around,” I said, as she disappeared down the steps.
Not sure what made me stay. Vera was right, all junk. But I opened the drawers on the vanity and in the second one down was one of those old-fashioned essay books, white speckled, dark blue cover. It was filled with old-fashioned, faded handwriting. Scanning through, I saw the words, “change into” and “spell is permanent” and “silencing a man” and I thought, whoa.
Neither of us had ever broken the trust in our deal with the realtor, but now I crossed that line. They might have just let me keep the thing, but I wasn’t taking any chances and slipped it into my bag. My criminal heart pounded as I made my way down the narrow steps and on to the first floor. Vera noticed my red face and asked if I was okay.
“Probably the hormones,” I said.
Back at our office, I was terrified that she’d rip me a new one for breaking protocol, but I couldn’t lie to her. “I did a bad thing,” I said.
Oddly, she wasn’t angry.
“What is it?” she said, half laughing. “And where did you stash it?”
I showed her and she flipped through it. “Oh, a bunch of nonsense, but hey, you read it and if it has any spells on how to get a good husband, let me know, will you?”
I’d like one of those myself.
That night I crawled into bed with a cup of tea and read ‘til three in the morning. By the time I got to work, my eyes were threatening to fall out, but I was so revved up, I hardly felt any fatigue.
“There is something very interesting in here,” I whispered to Vera, tapping on the notebook. The secretary was head to head with the bookkeeper in the next room, but I couldn’t take chances they’d hear.
“Go on,” said Vera, a slightly crazed expression in her eye. I liked that look; it usually signified an exciting spree ahead.
“Well, there are the usual spells to make someone fall in love with you, help someone get pregnant, heal certain afflictions, you know…”
“Yeah…?” she prompted.
I glanced around and leaned close. “Well, she….she has this really weird spell on….on turning a man into a woman.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Shhhhh!” I said.
“I can possibly believe something might work in the herbal healing area, but that’s pretty ridiculous. She must have just listed…”
“No,” I said. “She wasn’t just listing. She commented after the entries as to whether they worked or not, or how to make them work better. And after this one, she made this notation.” I opened the notebook to the page I’d marked and handed it to Vera.
She read in silence, then read it again, this time whispering. “Could not get Miles S. to change. Nor Peter W., Emory J., nor my imbecile of a cousin. However…it certainly worked on the most Reverend Jonathan Blondell, did it not? Suddenly up and left town, no believable explanation to the congregation, tra la! And school board president, blowhard, cement-brained, Wilson Brady—another sudden disappearance, again a hem-haw explanation by his wife and then she leaves town herself. Well, the apparent answer to this mystery is: while the spell does not work on young men, it does on the old! I can only surmise that the intense hormones of the young protect them from succumbing. In spite of this, there remains much use for spell number 51. The wise witch will use it carefully and sparingly.”
“Holy shit,” Vera said.
“You haven’t read the instructions yet. Read them.”
She did. “This has to be a pile of crap. Maybe Melanthe was really a fiction writer. Probably she left this just to tantalize her heirs. I’m not saying I don’t believe in the possibility of witchcraft actually working—mind over matter, psychokinesis and all that, but this….well, it’s just not believable. It’s like, you hear of spiritual healers curing rheumatism or something not totally visible, but did you ever hear of one instantly mending a broken leg?”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” I said. “Some Catholic priest who was famous years ago, can’t remember his name. They said he instantly healed someone’s broken leg, right in front of people in a courtroom.”
“They say a lot of things,” said Vera. But I noticed she didn’t contemptuously toss the notebook aside as she would have most other things paranormal. Instead she held onto it with what looked like more than her usual grip.
“What do you plan to do with that?” I asked, with some alarm because I wanted to take it home and study it further.
“I want to look it over a bit. Just check it out. That’s all.”
“Well, finders-keepers and I want it back. Tomorrow.”
She saluted me and shoved it into her briefcase.
* * *
(Continued)
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