Page 48 of A Witch's Guide to Surviving Halloween
“I swear,” Oliver starts, “I had nothing to do with?—”
Don silences him with a wave of his hand. “This is the most important event of the year for Ashwood Haven. Now, I understand you’re new, and that might not mean much to you, but it means a great deal to me. I don’t think . . .” He pauses, weighing his words before continuing. “I don’t think this is the right time for you to be opening a business in the middle of town.”
Oliver’s eyes go wide, and I can sense his building panic. “Don, I swear I hadnothingto do with this. I don’t even know how someone would merge two movies like that. I have inventory coming in tomorrow. Everything is ready. You can’t just cancel my opening.”
“Not cancel,” Don clarifies. “Delayed a little while. We can discuss things further after Halloween is over, but I’m thinking a week or two should be sufficient.”
“You have no right?—”
Don turns and walks away, leaving us to watch his retreating form with slack jaws and lost hope.
Delaying the opening, in and of itself, isn’t the end of the world, but the implications of it are massive. The magic is working; it’s doing exactly what it set out to do. If we don’t find a way to break this curse, this delay could very well turn into a permanent thing, and Oliver could lose his business before it’s even open.
“You don’t have to do it,” I tell Oliver, trying to find my resolve. “Legally, he can’t stop you. Not two days before opening.”
Oliver’s face falls, his shoulders curling in on themselves, making him smaller by the second. “You’re right. I could just stick with my initial plan and start my business off on the wrong foot with the entire town.”
I shake my head, trying to sound determined, but only coming across half-hearted. “Don’s opinion isn’t the only one that matters . . .”
My words trail off when Oliver’s heartbroken gaze meets mine, because we both know I’m lying through my teeth. Don’s opinion isn’t the only one that counts, but anyone who sets foot in Ashwood Haven can tell this is a tight-knit community that stands by each other. If someone is marked as troublesome by someone as influential as Don, they don’t even stand a chance. Oliver can either take Don’s heavy-handed advice to heart, or he can count on closing the doors to his bakery before the year is out.
Just like his grandpa.
Chapter Twenty
The bell over the front door of Moonlit Pages chimes merrily as another group shuffles into the shop.
“Next on our tour of historic Ashwood Haven, we have the longest-running shop on Main Street: Moonlit Pages. This bookstore, passed down through generations of the Nova family, was founded in . . .” The tour guide delves into their practiced speech that I’ve heard hundreds of times. Tonight, Ashwood Haven is one giant haunted house and ghost tour, with creepily dressed actors roaming the town, popping out of shadowed corners at people wandering from one decked-out building to the next. This tour guide is no different, dressed in a long black cape, top hat, and button-down vest, adorned with chains and pocket watches galore. He carries an old metal lamp, lit by a battery-powered candle, complete with flickering false flame.
Moonlit Pages is a stop on the ghost tour every year—a favorite among local historians given its age and our ability to make it feel truly haunted and mystical. Given the theme of the night, neither Lucy nor I bother to rein in Ashwood Haven’s magic. Rather, this is the one night of the year we encourage it to run free.
Books drift around the store, able to wander wherever they please. New this year is the fact that they now talk, much to my dismay, but it adds to the mystical, magical atmosphere of the night. Fake candles and twinkle lights cast a warm glow over the shop, and self-sweeping brooms enhance the spooky vibe. We even let the bookworm out for the evening so they can delight shoppers and spectators alike with their not-safe-for-work recommendations and their ability to recite passages with explicit detail.
Usually, I’d dress to impress in a black and purple dress adorned with glittering spiderwebs and printed skulls, finished with a pointed-brimmed hat to complete the witchy look.
This year, though . . . I didn’t have the heart.
Instead, I hide from the masses crowded between shelves from behind the register, perched on my stool in the corner as far as I can get. Since tonight’s event spans all of downtown Ashwood Haven, I have no hosting duties and was instead instructed to stay in the shop, which will already see the majority of the festival attendees.
A romance novel rests open on my knees, its pages flipping of their own accord even though I stopped paying attention long ago. I had hoped it would distract me from everything that’s gone wrong this week and give me hope that things would get better. If not between Oliver and me, then at least for him on his own. At least, that’s what happily-ever-after love stories usually do. But so far, it’s only succeeded in making me more miserable.
I pull my sleeves down over my hands, my fingers absently finding the cuff and rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger in a comforting, rhythmic motion. The coping mechanism doesn’t lessen the heaviness in my chest or lift the anchors that seem to be hanging from my limbs, drowning me in a turbulent sea of my own thoughts.
For what seems like the hundredth time tonight, my eyes find the front window. Across the street, businesses are alight with strobe lights and eerie music. Even from here, I can make out the occasional delighted scream of those navigating one of the haunted houses, the roar of chainless-chainsaws coming to life every few minutes, closely followed by maniacal laughter.
To the left is a clothing boutique whose upper two floors have been converted from office space to a haunted forest, complete with fake trees, werewolves, and more. On the corner to the right is the old bank that any other day of the year operates as a museum, but tonight it’s a hostage situation. Fake gunshots pepper the street, sending screaming tourists running for their lives, who were never in any true danger.
And between the two is a very dark, very empty bakery.
From the moment I stepped foot on Main Street this morning, I’ve been watching that storefront, waiting to catch a glimpse of the baker within. Every time I glance over there, my heart leaps with irrational hope that he’ll change his mind. That Oliver won’t let the magic win, that he’ll stand his ground and serve his free samples the way he’d planned. I held on to that hope all morning and all afternoon, even as the bakery sat quiet and I reminded myself why that would be a terrible idea.
I look away, closing my eyes and letting my head fall back against the wall. Tonight is Halloween Eve, and we’re no closer to breaking this curse than we were the day Oliver came to town.
“Amelia?” The tour guide pauses in the doorway, about to follow the last of their attendees out the door.
My head rolls to the side, and I can just make out their heavily lined eyes from over the register. “Yes?”
“There’s a basket sitting out here. Do you want me to grab it for you?”
