The Witches of Merribay (The Seaforth Chronicles) Read online

  The Witches of Merribay

  By B.J. Smash

  © 2013 B.J. Smash

  All Rights Reserved

  Edited by Kelly McGough

  Cover Design by B.J. Smash

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced intro a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to my son, Brent. Thank you for your inspiration and all of the walks in the woods of Maine. To my daughter Chrissi, thank you for your proofreading and encouragement. To my dear husband Dave, thank you for listening to me ramble on about book ideas. And to my mother and father, who have always listened to my ghost stories.

  Chapter One

  There comes a time in one’s life when one just has to stand back and realize that things are not as they seem. For me and my sister, it wasn't a simple process; it was terrifying. We had come to realize that what we thought may be harmless was never really harmless at all.

  It would have been better for us if we had never done what we did. And as I sat at the kitchen table watching my sister, Zinnia, blow her nose and wipe the tears from her eyes, I knew it was just the beginning of something worse to come.

  We had just received the news, and we were both in quite a state of shock.

  Three weeks ago, my sister and I had visited the sea witch. It being summertime, we were staying with my grandmother while our father and grandfather were on a hunting trip for two weeks. We had spent the day in town down by the ocean, browsing what shops were there. Some shops were new, and some had been there since we'd been coming to visit our grandmother in Maine.

  We finished our shopping. Zinnia bought crystal earrings at the Waning Moon store, and we decided to eat at the last restaurant on the row of shops, which happened to be our aunts’: Clover and Cora's Cafe'.

  We'd picked out our favorite desserts. Mine was the chocolate fudge cake, and Zinnia's the lemon bars. Aunt Clover seemed to be in an ecstatic mood that day and topped our coffees with extra whip cream and chocolate sprinkles.

  We sat at an outside table in the farthermost corner, closest to the bay. You could almost jump through the opening of the deck into the cold, dark water. The setting was perfect, like that of a postcard, with blue skies, sailboats, and jagged rocks. The breeze was cool, smelling of saltwater. People were happy and content, chattering among themselves while eating the best food for miles.

  Ruining the moment as she often did, Zinnia spooned her extra whip cream into my coffee and on top of my already too full cup, making it spill over the sides and dribble onto my white shorts.

  “What did you do that for? It's not like I didn't have enough in there already,” I said, wiping my shorts.

  “I don't need the calories. Plus, it's not like you watch what you eat,” she replied, rolling her eyes and giving me an uppity look. I felt like rubbing my fudge cake in her face; I refrained.

  “Why don't you do something with that scraggly hair of yours, Ivy?” She intended to pick a fight this afternoon.

  “I like my hair.” I lied. My long layers had grown out, and it did look scraggly. I should have had it cut months ago, but I'd been too lazy to get it done. I didn't mind the color, though; it was a nice golden blonde. It's the only aspect that I liked about my looks.

  “No you don't,” she said.

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  “No, you do not.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “If my hair looked like that, I wouldn't like it.”

  “Whatever. You're such a brat,” I informed her.

  It seemed as though we were arguing more than usual, and as we sat arguing over her thoughtless ways, we noticed a small houseboat down by the dock. It hadn't been there moments before and we should have seen it coming, but it had slid in unnoticed.

  The boat’s appearance had silenced us. We sat there watching, waiting for someone to tie the boat up to the dock. No one ever did; it just floated perfectly by the dock.

  It appeared old, and the blue paint was chipping away. A mermaid with the most hideous face and long blonde hair adorned the side, her green tail ending at the bow.

  “What does that sign say?” Zinnia squinted, leaning closer to the boat.

  “What sign?”

  “That sign, right there in the window. It's pink,” she said. “You can't see that?”

  “I see it now but I can't read it. It's the size of a note card.”

  “I think it is a pink note card. And I bet I know what that says. Let's take a walk down there,” she said.

  I didn't particularly want to go snooping around someone's houseboat, trying to read what a little pink note card said. I wanted to get back home before it started getting dark. Our only transportation to and from Gran's house were bikes. Riding a bicycle the mile home, mostly uphill, with only the woods for our company, could get rather creepy. There were no houses until you reached Gran's.

  Zinnia had always thought herself to be the boss of me. Ever since she had turned eighteen, she acted even more so. I had just turned sixteen, and she treated me as if I were four.

  “C'mon. You never do anything that I want to do,” she said. It was a bold-faced lie. She made it near impossible to not have things her way. As always, I caved and followed her down to the dock.

  She stopped to pull her long, wavy brown hair up into a ponytail. She had always been the beauty of the family.

  We walked to the entrance of the boat. I tried to act as if I were watching the seagulls fly overhead and kept my eyes on one in particular while she leaned down to read the pink note card.

  “‘Fortune told for three dollars,’” she read out loud. “Let's do it, Ivy. Let's get our fortune told.”

  There were times when I enjoyed a good tarot reading or tea-cup reading from my aunt Clover, but to have my fortune read by a stranger seemed ludicrous.

  She persisted by grabbing my arm and hauling me over to the entrance of the houseboat. Before I could argue, she'd jumped on the boat with me in tow and tapped at the glass window.

  Moments later, an old woman opened the window and peered out at an angle.

  “May I help you?” the old woman asked. Her voice was raspy, and she looked like she could be a hundred.

  “Y—yes. My sister and I would like our fortunes read,” Zinnia said.

  I started to speak up, as I didn't want my fortune told. Instead I found myself walking through the door.

  It was rather surprising to find the inside of the houseboat much different than the outside. Where it was old with paint peeling on the exterior, looking like a shanty, it was immaculate on the interior. And it wasn't just that. It was ritzy, glamorous, and downright spacious. I felt like I'd just walked into a queen’s castle.

  “Come forward,” she said.

  To the right hung a glitzy chandelier over a cherry wood table that could seat several people; yellow and pink flowers sat atop it in a crystal vase. Plants filled and overflowed a bay window. To the left were a small, cozy living area with a light blue love seat and a sand-colored coffee table with matching end tables. What looked like a Tiffany lamp sat on one of the end tables. Seashells hung on strings, blocking an entryway
of some sort—probably to the bedroom. But the most out-of-place object in the room was the wood-burning fireplace; it filled the wall. How does one have a wood-burning fireplace on a houseboat? I suppose it was possible, but the insurance would be high—although this lady didn't look like she cared if she had insurance or not.

  When I sized it up, I couldn't fathom how all this stuff fit in the tiny houseboat I'd just witnessed from the dock. It just was not right—it wasn't physically possible—and yet it all sat there before my eyes. Everything that I knew about physics just got flushed to sea.

  Straight ahead was the kitchen, small but white and pristine. Brass pots and pans hung over a small kitchen island.

  “We shall sit in the parlor.” She walked to left, pulled out a folding chair and bade us to sit on the love seat.

  As I sat down, I noticed an old, decrepit cauldron sitting in the center of the fireplace. It looked out of place, albeit quite fitting for this old woman with a crook in her nose.

  “My name is Magella.” She stared into my eyes and then into Zinnia's. “If there is a question you want answered, think of it now,” she spoke firmly.

  She wore a gray tunic, and she pulled something out of her pocket, a satchel of some sort. Then she dumped some rocks with fancy script onto the table. I knew these to be rune stones. My aunt Clover had some, but this old woman's stones appeared weathered and ancient.

  “Give me your hand”—she gestured to Zinnia—“and don't take lightly what I am about to say. I don't cater to the faint of heart.”

  Chapter Two

  A week later, when Gran received the news, I expected her to burst into tears as Zinnia had done. But her reaction stunned me further, and as I watched, she went from shock and something that looked like sickness, to anger.

  After searching for my father and grandfather for a week, the police concluded that my father had vanished. They had found my grandfather passed out on a dirt road close to home. He lay at the hospital in a coma.

  “So, it has come to this. I shall inform Edmund,” I heard her say. She turned and walked out of the room toward the hallway. But no one else seemed to be paying attention. Aunt Cora and Aunt Clover were looking at each other, their faces drained of any color. Zinnia continued to cry, but I wiped the tear from my eye and said, “I want to be alone for a bit.”

  “Oh, I understand,” said Aunt Cora.

  Aunt Clover said, “Certainly. That's understandable.”

  However, I didn't climb the stairs to my room. I walked to the back bedroom where Great-Grandpa Edmund slept, just in time to see my grandmother closing the door. Great-Grandpa Edmund was my grandfather's father. He had to be almost ninety, and he suffered from arthritis. Zinnia and I had always called him “GG Edmund” for short.

  Tiptoeing over to the door, I leaned in to eavesdrop. What had she meant when said that “it has come to this”? It was a weird thing to say at a time like this. I tried to hear, but most of the words were muffled whispers. I couldn't hear much, until GG Edmund spoke up.

  “They must be stopped.”

  When no one spoke again, I figured the conversation to be over. Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I left the door and escaped to my room.

  Lying on my bed, I gazed out my bedroom window toward the back woods. I didn't know for sure who “they” were, but at that moment the sun seemed to stop shining above the woods, the clouds thickening.

  Over the next week my sister and I did much of nothing, except argue. After a while my grandmother grew tired of our moping around and tried to fix the problem as best as she knew how: put us to work. She sent Zinnia to help out at the café, and knowing that I preferred not to work around too many people, she sent me up to the McCallister house. The McCallisters were my grandmother's only neighbors, and their mansion sat up on the hill. It was quite different from the big yellow Victorian house Gran owned. Whereas this house was old but updated and comfortable, the McCallister house had more of a castle atmosphere. I imagined it was elaborately decorated with all the money they had.

  There wasn't much to say about the McCallister house, except that it was humongous and creepy, and when you walked through the front gate, it felt as though you'd stepped into a different era. I didn't know that much about the occupants, just that Old Sam traveled plenty and was rarely home. His son Ian McCallister watched over the place, and he was the reason I'd be working there, as a companion.

  His regular companion, Ms. Lamphry, had recently taken off to Scotland for an extended visit to see her aging mother. She wasn't due back until the end of September, leaving me as the new companion.

  My duties would be pretty simple, or so I was told. All I had to do was arrive at 10:30 a.m. for brunch with Mr. McCallister and read him parts of the newspaper. Gran told me not to arrive early, given that he wouldn't even be awake until 10:00 a.m. I thought that to be weird, since old people liked to rise early.

  After brunch, I would walk him around the gardens in his wheelchair until it was time for high tea. Then we would head back to the house and partake of the goodies and tea the housekeeper, Mrs. Pumbleton, would supply. After that was another walk around the gardens, and then I was free to go. My hours would be from 10:30 a.m. to around 4:00 p.m. The perfect job! Food and flowers.

  I had never met Ian, and certainly didn't know what to expect, but I had an imagination. I had painted a picture of him as a little old man with an oxygen tank, and he probably wore adult diapers. He’d be someone who loved to bird-watch, taking pictures and tossing them bird seeds. He'd love the squirrels in his gardens and laugh at their clown-like ways, tossing them mushrooms and nuts. I had it all figured out.

  My grandmother walked me up to the big, spacious, and bright sunroom, where brunch was apparently served promptly at 10:30 a.m. “Never be late,” she told me. “He abhors tardiness.”

  I added to my preconceived notions that he would also be ornery and grumpy.

  I was way off. Way off.

  “Come in, come in!” Ian waved us on. He was no old man. He had to be in his late thirties or early forties. He had dark hair and a clean-shaven face—a handsome face. He had on a white T-shirt, and he was rather toned.

  He sat in a white chair at a white table in a perfect white sunroom with tons of greenery, and floor-length windows where the sun beamed in. The edging to the white panels was gold. Could it be real gold? It was a beautiful room on all accounts. No wonder the housekeeper, Mrs. Pumbleton, didn't have time to be Mr. McCallister's companion—she was way too busy cleaning! This place was spotless and pristine. The white marble floors were immaculate. And in the back of the room, a waterfall ran into a small pond made with beautiful rocks, with the fattest koi fish I'd ever seen.

  “Wow!” I said under my breath.

  “What's that, dear? I'm a tad hard of hearing in the one ear,” he said, pointing to his right ear, and winked.

  “Oh, nothing. Just…it's nice to meet you,” I said.

  “Please, sit.” He motioned to chairs.

  Gran gave the introductions even though they weren't really necessary, and I sat down to a table filled with meats, cheeses, crab, toast, honey, and oysters.

  “I shan’t be staying. I must get to town to see my husband,” Gran said. She had been visiting grandfather every day, hoping he'd wake up.

  “Poppycock. Have a bite before you go,” he said as he stuffed a piece of crab in his mouth.

  Surprisingly, Gran did as he said.

  “So, tell me. What's Edmund been up to these days?” he asked.

  A puzzled look came upon her face. She finished pouring herself a cup of tea in the daintiest teacup I'd ever seen; given the fact that Gran collected teacups and teapots, I think even she was impressed.

  When she set the pot back on the table, she said, “He's doing well—although he doesn't get out, as you know. I try to get him out of the house”—she shook her head—“but he refuses. He says his arthritis bothers him.”

  “My father too has arthritis. He's in F
rance at the moment. I wonder if…”

  Gran drank her tea, peering at him over the top of her cup. When Ian didn't say anything, she said, “Wonder if…what?”

  “Oh, nothing. It's just my friend—she might have a tea he could drink, to soothe the aches and pains.”

  “I know whom you are referring to, and he won't have none of it,” Gran said.

  “A shame,” Ian concluded.

  They finished their brunch with small talk. Gran ate one slice of thick bread with some type of fancy blackberry jam from London. I barely said two words the whole time. I couldn't stop myself from eating the cinnamon buns.

  Finally, Gran got up to take her leave. Ian bid her good-bye, and then his focus was on me.

  “So, kiddo, how are you getting along down there at the Seaforth residence? Everything okay?” He spoke to me so freely, and with charm, that I felt as though we were going to get along great.

  I took a drink of my warm tea to wash the rest of my cinnamon bun down, and then I said, “Just fine. I just wish—” I caught myself. I was about to do something foolish: confide in a man that I had just met. I was about to say that I wished my father would come home, but I stopped midsentence.

  To my surprise, he finished my sentence for me.

  “That your dad would return?” He smiled. He had perfect white teeth and a charming smile. “Maybe he shall.”

  I couldn't even comprehend why he'd say that, but I didn't dare say another word about it.

  Before we left for our walk in the garden, he put on a blue blazer which made him look all the more distinguished.

  I thought the first day wouldn't be much to speak of. I was wrong. I'd never seen the whole of the garden before, only the front part a few times. As tradition, my father had brought us to Gran's for almost every Easter. We would end up at the McCallister house for an Easter egg hunt with Old Sam's grandchildren.

  I had been in awe at the magnificence of the garden. Purple wisteria hung over a long, large arbor way, and laburnum trees dotted the area with full yellow-gold flower clusters; there were jasmine trees with the best-smelling flowers you could imagine. Lilacs, which were my favorite, abounded there, with azaleas around every turn. Just the essence of the flowers had me floating in something similar to euphoria.