Across the hall are two more bedrooms, and the third bedroom has been reconfigured to make a bathroom as well as a laundry room. The stairs continue to the third story and has a little sitting room at the landing. The rest of the attic is unfinished and full of junk, looking as if whoever remodeled and decorated the house took everything from the main level and just shoved it up here. It’s a hoarder’s dream, and not something I’m up to dealing with.
It’s a sharp contrast from the basement, thankfully, which is completely empty. I get my phone from my carry-on bag and go outside. The front yard has been mowed and manicured, but the backyard is a different story. There are several outbuildings, including an old barn that has to be original to the house. The covered carport looks newish, and Aunt Estelle’s Cadillac is parked underneath. It’s a typical old-lady car, purchased years ago and probably still in good working condition. I can only hope, at least, because it looks like that might be my only way to get into town tonight.
I take one more lap around the house, hoping something will jog my memory. It’s quiet and peaceful here and feels very familiar, yet no more random memories hit me.
A little disappointed about that, I go back inside and start looking through all the cabinets and closets. The kitchen is fully stocked, and a handful of the utensils and dishes look brand-new. Again, it strikes me as odd. Why would Aunt Estelle go through the trouble of updating a house to this extent when she was just going to give it to me and not try and sell it for a profit?
The rest of the house is more or less staged, set up to look pretty but lacking the little things that make a house a home—like toilet paper in the bathroom. There are several cardboard boxes in the owner’s suit closet, and I pull one out and over near the window so I can look at the contents in the light. The box is full of books, and I’m almost about to push it aside and look in another since I don’t think Aunt Estelle and I both had a love of dark and twisted romance novels.
But then one of the titles catches my eye, and I pick up a book called Herbs and Their Magical Properties. I take it out and grab the next book, titled The Magical Power of Stones and Crystals. After that is The Witch’s Cookbook. The pages show signs of usage, stained with ingredients and bits of food.
I go through the other boxes, feeling like I’m raiding a Hogwarts back-to-school list. Everything in here is magic related, from the book on psychic self-defense to the velvet bag full of runes.
“What the hell?” I mumble and open the last box and find several weapons, a velvet cape, and a round black mirror. I set it on the table, confused by my lack of reflection. I don’t realize I’m slowly moving my face closer and closer to the mirror. Everything around me begins to fade, and the surface of the mirror ripples, as if it’s dark water.
“The fuck?” I exhale and push the mirror away. Mirrors have always creeped me out because spirits can easily be reflected back when I least expect it. I lean away and blink, shaking myself. I imagined that. I’m sure of it. I set the mirror aside, remembering why I try not to look into mirrors at night.
There are a few jars of herbs, a box of white candles, and another jar full of what looks like chicken bones. I line them up on the floor and grab the last thing in the box. It’s wrapped in the same shimmery fabric the dagger was wrapped in, and I can tell by the feel in my hands it’s a large book. Setting it on the floor in front of me, I pull back the fabric.
It’s a leather-bound book, with the same triple-moon symbol that’s on the pendant and stamped into the dagger. The leather is worn along the edges from being handled over and over. I undo the metal clasp and carefully open the book, not wanting to tear one of the yellowed pages.
I make it through three pages before knowing exactly what this is, thanks to my love of paranormal romance anything in pop culture. It’s not as