Witch - By Fiona Horne Page 0,21

Mrs Pilkington said.

A single bulb illuminated the room, which was filled with boxes stacked topsy-turvy everywhere. Scattered copies of the Summerland Star lay on top of some of them. I picked one up.

‘Twenty-fourth of June 1966 – well, these are certainly archival copies.’

‘You two knock yourselves out for the next forty-five minutes – at five p.m. sharp I lock up.’

Mrs Pilkington left Dean and I alone in the dusty room.

‘We may need to come back,’ Dean said wryly.

‘Well, let’s see what we can find today at least.’

He nodded, and together we started sifting through the stacks of papers. It was actually quite fascinating looking into these printed snapshots of the world before computers and immediate information had existed. I considered what it would have been like when you had to wait for the newspaper delivery boy to throw a paper onto your doorstep to find out what was happening in your neighbourhood or the world. As I turned over pages and pages, though, it became clear that not much had happened in Summerland. The news was mostly about a store opening, an unusually high tide . . .

‘Found something!’ Dean’s voice jumped out at me from a dark corner of the room.

He held a newspaper up exultantly. When he laid it out in front of me on the floor I was thrilled to see the headline ‘Woman’s Mysterious Death Baffles Police’.

I scanned the article. ‘The partially burned body was surrounded by candles and cooking items . . .’

That was kind of bizarre.

At that moment Mrs Pilkington appeared in the doorway. ‘Have you found anything? It’s time to go,’ she said. ‘Yes, actually we have, ma’am – could we make a photocopy?’

Mrs Pilkington nodded and beckoned us to follow her, which we did, Dean flicking off the light switch and thrusting the dusty room back into complete darkness as we left.

Moments later we stood next to the photocopier, which was making a warm hissing sound as it captured images of our new research material. I felt excited. I didn’t know why, but I had a feeling we were going to solve this mystery – we just needed a little more time in that room.

I turned to Mrs Pilkington. ‘Can we come back again next week?’

‘You and your friend can come back anytime, Miss Australia.’ She beamed at me.

Dean and I high-fived each other as we walked down the stairs of the Summerland Star.

I couldn’t wait to show the rest of the coven the photocopy the next day.

‘This is intriguing,’ Amelia said. Alyssa nodded.

‘Cooking items,’ Alyssa read aloud. ‘Maybe she was making dinner and burned the house down?’

‘Can you get a psychic read on it?’ Bryce looked at the twins expectantly.

But both of them shook their heads. ‘It’s really weird. We can’t get any read on this at all. There’s a wall around it – like a locked room with no windows.’

‘Well, anyway, I think to pass the elective we’re going to have to solve this mystery by practical means, mostly – we can’t write in our paper that the twins psychically solved it!’ I said.

We all laughed.

‘Maybe I could try to communicate with her ghost,’ said Bryce.

‘That would be cool,’ I said.

But Dean looked a bit spooked and held up a hand. ‘Wait. Let’s see what we can find using orthodox methods first – then if we get stuck we can start using some magic.’

Bryce shrugged and nodded.

‘That’s probably a good idea,’ said Alyssa. ‘So what’s the next step?’

‘We should pay another visit to the Summerland Star offices soon,’ I said.

The bell rang and we gathered up our bags. I carefully folded the photocopy and placed it in my backpack. I felt almost protective of it – like I now had a responsibility to this woman to solve the mystery of her death.

Seven

I stared at the fluffy white feather in my hand. Brenda stood over me, snapping her fingers rhythmically. It was supposed to help me concentrate, but to be honest I was finding it a bit distracting.

‘It’s all in your mind, Vania . . .’

She was swaying back and forth, her head thrown back, her good eye closed and her gold-and-green caftan shimmering in the candlelight.

‘When will I know to put it in the smoke?’ I asked, frustrated.

It was lunchtime, but the curtains were drawn and it could have been the middle of the night in the dark cafe. We had been there for over an hour, and I was nervous that my first spell-casting lesson was going to be