Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead (Toad Witch Series, Book One) (23 page)

Over and over, they told themselves that the old wives tales were nothing more than just that — tales. After all, someone human must have lived in the cottage once upon a time. Someone human must have built it.

But late at night, when the wind blew wicked around the eaves and the Dark Gods of the underworld roamed the earth, the courage born of moonshine ran thin. Most of them clutched their old bibles and crucifixes and ran as fast and as far as they could.

The lucky ones escaped with their lives. There were a few, the intrepid few, who were determined to remain. They fell into silence as madness descended upon them. Eventually, they vanished into the bowels of the cottage, their grimacing remains waiting, like an eerie welcome wagon, for the next claimstaker.

One year, some of the more righteous villagers called upon the might of God to defend them and attempted to burn the cottage down. But even God would have no truck with the Devil’s house. Tragedy touched all who dared set out that day.

The villagers eventually came to an uneasy truce with the cottage, taking great pains to avoid it. However, throughout the years, a singular thought ran the width and breadth of the village like a soft breeze:
Some day, the cottage would beckon to the one it had been built for
. And on that day, the Devil would live amongst them once more.

Eventually, the cottage and all its history passed into legend. A story used to frighten wayward children. The stuff of All Hallows Eve dares and bad dreams. Until the day
she
arrived. The one the cottage had been waiting for.

The Legend:
The dreaded evil that descended on the town took everyone by surprise. The villagers, from the oldest to the youngest, had been positive that the cottage was waiting for an old hag with a warty nose. A woman whose exterior merited the horrific stories told to children on cold winter nights. And they fully expected her to be accompanied by a club-footed, malformed, twisted husk of a man who collected souls like Scrooge collected pennies.

But when Lady Lisette McDougal arrived from Scotland, doe-eyed and roundly pregnant, her loveliness and grace tossed their expectations to the winds. She was ageless and beautiful; her pale white skin a contrast to her long, raven tresses. A concubine of kings, a scarlet woman of Europe, exiled to their midst. And Lucien, the tattooed, muscular, bald savage at her side, her ever-present bodyguard and companion, left them gasping.

The villagers didn’t quite know if they should embrace Lady Lisette or hang her. To many of the Puritans, she was a hellion, a strumpet to be reviled. Some even whispered that her companion was a demon in human form.

To others, she was a wise woman and healer to be respected, who could bless or curse in the same breath.

But one thing they all agreed on was that she was touched with the charm of the exotic. She was charismatic and terrifying and the cottage quivered and thrived at her touch. Until the day she vanished, in a storm of biblical proportions, with her consort. Leaving behind an enigmatic little girl.

The Facts:
  The land the cottage was built on, was purchased in the late 1600’s from the Ojibwe tribe, when Devils Point was an Indian Trading Post. The original cottage was built shortly thereafter. While the cottage has expanded and been modernized over the centuries, it has withstood every challenge to its existence. When the rest of the village burnt down in the big fire of 1802, the fire surrounded the cottage, but was brought under control by the fire brigade before it could so much as scorch the timber.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I closed the book.
Wow.
That was the history of my little cottage? I would have loved to read more about the cottage and Lisette and Lucien, but that was the extent of what he had written.

Mr. Roake’s nurse came out of his room and nodded at me. “You can go back in now.”

I waited a few minutes, just in case Mr. Roake needed more time to become presentable, before going back into his room, where I gushed about how beautifully written his book was. I don’t actually gush easily, but the book was a true treasure, inside and out. I’d never seen another like it in my life and I was profoundly thankful to have been allowed to even handle this one. As I returned the beautifully bound book to him, I asked if he really believed what he had written.

“Truth is relative. Facts are unimportant. What matters is mythic truth. Did Christ really exist? Irrelevant. The facts don’t matter. The mythic truth that the figure of Christ embodies is what matters. Same thing with your cottage, young lady. It’s the mythic truth you need to discover and embrace.”

“I don’t understand. Does that mean you don’t think the Devil built the cottage? Or that the Devil doesn’t exist, only the principles he represents matter?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re making my head hurt. I know the cottage exists, ‘cause I live there. It’s not a mythic place, it’s stone and mortar.”

“And yet, it’s still a mythic place. How’s that for a paradox?” He laughed. “It makes a good story. That’s what’s important.”

“Okay, but if you had to figure out the literal truth about my cottage’s origins, what would you say?”

He stopped and thought for a moment. “With the way it was built, and the markings on the foundation, my guess is a Freemason built it. A powerful one at that. I’ve always suspected the legend about it not being able to be harmed is more rooted in truth, than just in an old man’s bologna. When I was a child, everyone with sense gave that cottage a wide berth.”

Freemasons. That was an interesting tidbit. When the Knights Templar were forcibly disbanded, there was a great deal of speculation that some of them fled to Scotland, eventually reemerged as Freemasons, and spread out through the known world.

The thought that renegade Knights Templar may have built the cottage I was living in, made my head spin. From what I had seen with the Freemasons back in California, it was easy to believe that they had a powerful magical legacy, and were more than capable of creating the wards I had felt at the cottage.

I thanked him for all his help and kissed his papery cheek goodbye. As I was about to leave though, I remembered the librarian.

“Mrs. Anderson at the library was wondering if you had an extra copy of your book that you could donate to them. The one they had was destroyed in the last fire.”

He sniffed. “She can wait until I’m dead, like the rest of the vultures.” But he looked pleased as he scribbled a note to himself on a memo pad. I peeked over his shoulder and read “Leave book to library in Will.”

Well, mission accomplished. Time for me to go back to the cottage and resume my dance with the Devil. Assuming there really was one. And it wasn’t just Aunt Tillie.

As I was leaving Mr. Roake’s room, I ran into Paul Raines. Literally. I was so busy thinking about the cottage, I plowed right into him.

“Oof!” We both went down like a sack of bricks.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you in front of me. I’m so sorry.” I said, scrambling to my feet.

He stood up and rubbed his chest. “Man, you have a hard head.”

“People have told me that my whole life. This is the first time I’ve used it as a weapon, though.” I rubbed my forehead. “Although, if your chest was any harder, I’d have a concussion. Work out much?”

“Sorry about that. Compulsive weight-lifter.” He smiled at me.

Red flags went up in my head. The man had dimples, muscles, was way-too-hot, and he was a gym-addict. I groaned. Great. Just what I needed. Another gay man in my life. Gus was right. I had turned into a fag hag.

“You okay?” he asked, solicitously.

I realized I was groaning out loud. “I, uh, I was just wondering where a gym was around here,” I said, trying to cover.

He laughed. “Trinity Harbor.”

“Figures. Apparently, everything’s in Trinity Harbor. You gotta be a real gym rat to drive all the way out there.”

“Isn’t that what audio books are for?” he said, his eyes twinkling at me. “It’s one way to get a lot of reading done.”

Just then, a nurse walked through the hallway, pushing a cart of used bedpans. She gave Paul a big smile. “Paul! Daniel will be so pleased to see you. Go right in.”

As she sashayed away — well, as much as a woman pushing bedpans could sashay — I turned to Paul. “Isn’t he kind of old for a sugar daddy?”

“Ick. What do you take me for?” He shot me a look. “He’s my great-great-grandfather. Besides, if I’m looking for a sugar anything — it’s usually sporting a pair of boobs. And I’m not talking man-boobs.” He said, flashing down to my chest.

I crossed my arms and turned beet red. “Sorry. It’s just that when you said that you were a weight lifter… I just thought… I mean, with the gym addiction and it being so far and all.”

“Only gay guys are interested in staying in shape?”

“Well, yes. I mean, no. It’s just… I’m from Los Angeles. Most men out there are gay. So I’m used to gyms being a place for sexy, sweaty guys to hook up with other sexy, sweaty guys.”

“Welcome to the heartland. Our stats are a little different here. Besides, I work out by lifting weights in my garage. You’re the one who wanted to know where the gym was.” He walked into Daniel Roake’s room and closed the door behind him.

Great. Just great. Leave it up to me to alienate the only cute single straight guy I’ve met in years. 

He poked his head out of the room. “Wait a minute, did I miss something or did you call me sexy?”

I turned beet red. I could feel my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish that had jumped out of the tank and was flopping around on a carpet. As I ran out of there, my face burning, I swear I could hear Paul’s laughter all the way down the hall, out the front door, and into the parking lot.

The warding I had done on the bedroom turned out to have been a solid bit of crafting. I had a completely dreamless night. The next day, I woke up so refreshed and energetic, I felt like I had just had a two-week vacation. It’s amazing what a full night’s sleep can do for you.

And it was a good day to have all that extra energy. After a protein-heavy breakfast of eggs and bacon, I tackled my poor, defaced living room. I moved the furniture, put drop cloths everywhere, used paint thinner to get rid of as much of the black marker as I could, then primed and repainted the walls a gorgeous cream color.

By the time I was done, I was exhausted and hungry. So I heated up three corn dogs in the oven. It took forever, but Aunt Tillie didn’t have a microwave and I had sold mine. Once they were cooked, I took my plate into the living room and collapsed on the couch, satisfied with the work I had done.

“Hey, you up there.” I said, waving one of my corn dogs for emphasis. “No more screwing up my walls. Or else. I don’t care if you’re a ghost or not — I will find a way to make you sorry. Ghosts aren’t immune to everything, y’know.” I should call Gus and talk to him about that. When he was dabbling with ceremonial magic, he’d learned how to trap demons and unwanted spirits in brass vessels. Normally, I stayed away from stuff like that. It seemed to be on the borderline between dangerous and rude. But it was good to have options.

I stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. Ugh. I probably shouldn’t have had that third corn dog. I was starting to feel nauseous. I should have steamed some broccoli instead.

Oh, let’s be honest. My diet, in general, had sucked since I left Los Angeles. It’s no wonder my stomach was rebelling. Good thing Gus had made me stock up on vitamins and supplements before I left. If I was going to eat nothing but crap, maybe I should increase the number of vitamins I was taking.

I was carrying an armload of paint supplies, (rollers, brushes, roller trays, drop cloths), to the shed in the back, when I saw an old woman and a black dog dodging behind a tree. “Hey, hold up!” I dumped the stuff in the shed and took off after her. I don’t know what made me follow her, but I couldn’t give up. Every glimpse of her between the tree trunks enticed me onward. But it was like chasing a ghost.

I was finally catching up to her at a clearing, when I stumbled on something and fell, smacking my head hard against a tree root. “Ow!!! What the fuck?!” I held my hand to my head, hoping the pressure would stop the pain. No such luck. I looked at my hand and it was covered in blood.

Don’t freak, I told myself. It’s just a head wound. Head wounds bleed a lot. It’s just a superficial gash. It doesn’t mean that part of your brain is bulging out of your cracked-open skull.

As I sat there, trying not to cry, I looked down to see what had tripped me. There, sticking up out of the dirt, was a small, blue-haired troll doll. I pulled him the rest of the way out of the dirt, brushed bits of dried leaves off him and put him in my jacket pocket.

While my fingers were in my pocket, I also found the corner of a handkerchief. The rest of it must have worked its way through a hole in the lining. Maybe my luck was turning for the better. I slowly teased the piece of cloth through the hole, until I was able to get the entire handkerchief out of my pocket, and I pressed it against my head to stop the bleeding.

When I looked up, the toothless old woman was sitting on her haunches, watching me, with the black dog at her side.