Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead (Toad Witch Series, Book One) (25 page)

He cleared his throat. “You know those supplements I gave you? The ones for sleeping?”

“Yeah. The stuff you said would help my sleep be more restful and help me lose weight? I’ve been taking them. But no matter how much I take, it doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Uh, yeah… How much 5-HTP are you taking? I may have given you the wrong dosage.”

I went into the kitchen and sorted through all the vitamin and supplement bottles. I picked up the 5-HTP. “Two pills, three times a day. Each pill is one hundred milligrams.”

“Yeah… that could be why you’re having out of control dreams.”

I stared at the phone in disbelief. Serves me right. I should always double-check things when it comes to Gus. “And what, exactly, does 5-HTP do?”

He cleared his throat. “It increases the serotonin levels in your brain. You would have had some wicked sabbatic dreams if you were taking half that. But you’re taking twice as much as I do. Sorry, I thought I gave you the fifty-milligram bottle. Anyway, your subconscious is wide open. Especially with some of the other stuff I gave you. That’s probably why you’ve been such an easy target for your ghosts.”

“You sandbagged me?!”

“I thought if we were both dreaming on the same wavelength, we could meet on the sabbatic plane. And how cool would that be? To be able to interact in dreamscape? I mean, I could have sworn you were there with me earlier. Did you see the black horse I sent you?”

“Made of feathers, with red eyes? Yes, I saw it. You moron. I’m gonna kill you, next time I see you. Do you know what kind of hell you’ve been putting me through?” I paced back and forth, wondering how pissed I should be.

“Sorry. Really. I mean… I just thought it would be fun.”

“You so owe me.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t understand. There is no end to how much you owe me on this one.” We discussed all the ways he was going to make things up to me, starting with a supply run to Mama Lua’s.

If it hadn’t been for Aunt Tillie’s earlier poltergeisty attack on my living room walls, while I was gone, I would have written off the entire haunting as being Gus-induced hallucinations — or, as he liked to call it, sabbatic dreaming. But not even knowing that Aunt Tillie was still a threat, could keep me from buying into a rising-from-the-ashes feeling of hope and self-confidence. I was riding the high of youthful ignorance and exuberance, relieved that things weren’t as bad as I thought. I fooled myself into thinking that I could get Aunt Tillie under control. That the living trump the dead. But the lack of panic and hesitation would ultimately make me clumsy and stupid when I most needed not to be. But, at this point, I didn’t see the twelve-foot wide, spike-filled ditch that was waiting for me, just around the bend.

Chapter Thirty-One

The next morning, I woke up gasping for air. Something was wrong. I could feel it. The cottage was practically vibrating. I looked out the bedroom window, but the lake was calm and the skies were sunny and blue.

I hurriedly showered and got dressed. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the cottage had battened down the hatches in preparation for something. And when I went downstairs, the feeling got stronger.

I walked through the cottage, but I couldn’t pick up anything specific. Although I was starting to rethink my plan to add my own personal wards to the cottage. The wards that were in place were so strong, they made my head feel like it was in a vise. And the energy that permeated the cottage was vibrating so hard, I really didn’t want to risk messing with it.

I went to the kitchen, took three Advils and then headed into the living room. Grundleshanks gave me a baleful look.

“Oops! Sorry, bud. I forgot to feed you last night.”

I gave him fresh water and tossed a few crickets into his tank. He blinked, forgiving me as he slurped up the first one.

I glanced out of the bay window, at the rowan tree. It had been thriving since I had arrived. That got me thinking about J.J. and his family. And how, every day I spent in the cottage, it felt more and more plausible that the cottage actually could, and would, defend itself against all attackers.

“If I get turned into a tree,” I asked Grundleshanks, “what kind of tree do you think I’d be?”

Grundleshanks snagged another cricket and blinked at me. I saw an image of white thorns in my head.

“Really? A hawthorn? Yeah, I think so too.”

Oh, geez. Not only was I talking to the toad, I was also supplying his side of the conversation. I wondered how long I could live by myself in the middle of nowhere before I completely lost my mind.

“It’s better than having me supply my side.”
A voice whispered inside my head.

I stopped in my tracks and stared at the toad tank, shocked. “Did you just… talk to me?” I asked, incredulously.

I whirled around to see if there was someone — anyone — else in the cottage. Then I turned back to look at the toad. “Did you just talk to me?”

He blinked at me and I swear he grinned. Then he sunk into his mud. 

I put my face next to the glass, so I was looking at him human-eyeball to toad-eyeball. “Let’s pretend you didn’t. And don’t do it again. Because I’m in no hurry to be put in a loony bin.”

I swear he shrugged and croaked “
whatever
” at me, just as the doorbell rang.

Keeping one eye on the toad, I answered the door and found an AT&T guy on my doorstep. “I’m here to hook up your phone and set you up for DSL and cable.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” I was so happy, I almost hugged him. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed civilization.”

He smiled. “I can imagine. Even by our standards, this is pretty out of the way.”

As he got to work I sent the cottage as strong a thought as I could:
He’s here to help us. Do not screw with him
. I mean, I felt a little silly because I wasn’t quite sure if the cottage actually was sentient, but just in case… Although, a part of me must have believed it, because my nerves stayed on edge until he was finally done and on his way.

“Yippee! We’re back in the twenty-first century!” I unpacked my PowerBook and did a happy dance as I walked past Grundleshanks. 

He just blinked at me, this time, without saying anything. He was probably debating the merits of having an owner who said things like ‘yippee’ and forgot his crickets, but he had the good sense to keep it to himself.

I was so happy, I had to call Gus and share it with him. The phone rang and almost immediately went into voicemail.

“Gus, guess what? I have a phone. A landline. And cable. And internet.” I said, almost laughing and checking my emails. “Look out, baby, ‘cause I am back! Hey, is there something you forgot to mention about Grundleshanks? Like, for instance, that he can talk? Or is that another supplement side effect that you forgot to tell me about? Call me. I want to know if he’s one talented toad, or if I’m totally losing my grip on reality.”

After I hung up, I googled 5-HTP overdose and found out that if you combine 5-HTP with St. John’s Wort, you can wind up with serotonin syndrome, which leads to full-on hallucinations and difficulty walking. That would explain the other night. St. John’s Wort sounded familiar. I looked through my supplement bottles. Sure enough, one of the sleep concoctions Gus had given me had Melatonin, Valerian, Kava Kava Root and St. John’s Wort. Add an overdose of 5-HTP and it was one potent cocktail.

I decided I was going to pound the crap out of Gus next time I saw him. No wonder my grasp of reality had gone so completely out the window. Gus was just lucky he was across the country.

By early afternoon, my stomach was growling, so I put the computer away and went to the kitchen to make something to eat and call Gus. Like before, it went into voicemail.

“Gus, you idiot. You better call me back and tell me how long it’s going to take to get your supplements out of my system. This place is weird enough on its own, I didn’t need your help to creep it out even more.” Ehhh, that sounded kinda bitchy, even for me. But as I was about to apologize, the phone went dead.

I looked around. I was standing in front of the cellar door. In fact, I had just stepped in front of the cellar door when the phone went dead. I stepped away from the door and I had a dial tone again. I took a step back towards the door and the phone went dead again.

I stepped away from the door and walked around the kitchen. It was fine everywhere else. Everywhere except right in front of the cellar door.

“Well, that’s interesting,” I muttered.

I hadn’t been in the cellar yet.

I put my hand on the doorknob and it was ice cold.

But just as I was about to turn the knob, I felt a hard push from outside the cottage.

I ran to the front room to check it out. Anything to avoid going in that cellar. I looked over at Grundleshanks, but whatever was going on, Grundleshanks didn’t seem too bothered by it.

I climbed up on the window seat in front of the big bay window, to see if I could spot anything. The road in front of the cottage was empty, but I could hear the far-off sound of engines through the glass.

Soon, an SUV and a pickup truck came into sight, hurtling towards each other. They were both driving erratically. One with speed, (slowing down and speeding up), while the other was swerving all over the road.

“Oh, geez. This isn’t going to be pretty.”

Grundleshanks blinked, still calm. I ran and grabbed the portable phone from the kitchen. But reporting that an accident is about to happen doesn’t get you the same response as reporting one that’s in progress. Especially when both vehicles are still too far away to read the license plates.

The dispatcher said they’d send a car to check it out, but she didn’t sound like it was at the top of the priority list. Although, she told me, if there was an actual collision, I should call her right back.

I looked out the window again. The SUV’s were getting closer and they both seemed oblivious that there was anyone else on the road with them. Were they drunk? Or were they so used to the non-existent traffic and the apathetic police force, they just assumed they could drive like stoned pre-teens and no one would pull them over?

I thought about running out and trying to flag them down, but I really didn’t want to get caught between two impaired drivers. My flesh was soft and my bones were no match for speeding metal. I called 911 again.

As I was on the phone with the reluctant dispatcher, I heard the squealing of brakes and the high-pitched scream of tires desperately pushed beyond their limits.

Then the sickening grind of metal on metal as they slammed into each other. The impact was so loud, the dispatcher agreed to send out a patrol car and ambulance, immediately.

I ran outside. The SUV had spun off in the opposite direction and come to a stop in a maple tree. The pickup truck was still spinning, like a malevolent top. It was coming closer, fast, heading right for where I was standing, by the cottage.

I hurriedly backed up, unable to look away, and prayed like hell that it wouldn’t mow me down. But the truck was moving faster than I could and I was right in its trajectory.

If I hadn’t been looking, I would have totally missed what happened next.

When the out-of-control pickup hit the cottage wards, instead of continuing on, there was a
boom
and the air glowed brighter for just a second.

The pickup truck bounced off the wards, flipping over and spinning in the opposite direction. It skidded on its top until it came to rest on the shoulder of the road.

Wow.
The cottage had, literally, just saved my life. Although I was pretty sure it was just a by-product of it saving itself. Suddenly, the cottage turning an arsonist into a tree didn’t seem like such a farfetched idea after all.

Chapter Thirty-Two

There was a large, pasty-faced, soft-fleshed boy in the pickup that had flipped. He was hanging upside down, anchored by the seat belt. The top of the cab had been scrunched down, dangerously close to the top of his head.

I opened the door, expecting the worst, but he was conscious and breathing, and his injuries seemed superficial.

“Are you okay?”

“How’d I get here?” He blinked at me, a foggy expression on his face.

“Did you hit your head?”

He bent his neck and felt his scalp and forehead, looking for bruises. “I don’t think so.”

I wasn’t sure if I should try to unbelt him or let him hang and wait for the paramedics. I didn’t want to risk him falling on his head or neck, even though it wasn’t that big of a drop.

“I can’t believe this happened again.”

“Again?” That wasn’t good. How often had he flipped his car? “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I had lunch with a friend and we drank a pitcher of beer. So I went home and took a nap. I dreamt about driving to a pig farm. And then, I woke up here.”

“Are you kidding me? You were sleep-driving?” I wondered if sleep-driving was the next step after sleep-hallucinations.