Page 97 of Going Viral for Christmas
“I’m serious,” she says with her mouth full. “This is a religious experience.”
I take a bite. She’s not wrong. They’re warm, the edges crisp withsugar, the inside impossibly soft and apple-spiced. It tastes like fall got deep-fried and handed over in a paper bag.
Hours have passed by the time we reach the Witch House. I’m more than halfway convinced I need to set my next novel here.
“You know.” I stare up at the black-gabled architecture, “I’ve never written about witches.”
Her brow arches. “You’re telling me the King of Dark Fantasy hasn’t sunk his teeth into spellcasters yet?”
“Not yet.” I grin. “But I may have found the perfect setting for a new witchy series.”
And the perfect muse, I don’t say.
Ava’s texting someone when I glance over, her fingers tapping rapidly across the screen. When she finally puts her phone away, I’m about to ask who it was when the answer appears in the form of a man with a windswept ponytail and a giant skeleton key hanging from his belt loop.
“Uncle Marty,” she calls out, waving him over.
He flashes us both a toothy smile and makes his way toward us.
Ava turns to me. “Well, Pembry, you’re getting the exclusive after-hours tour of The Witch House. It’s closed for the season, but I thought you might enjoy it.”
My heart fumbles out of my chest and onto the floor. This…well, this is probably the sweetest thinganyone’sever done for me.
Uncle Marty leads us through the creaky old house, talking like he’s the official mayor of all things spooky, his voice booming through the low-ceilinged rooms as he rattles off history, jokes, and the occasional “Don’t touch that, it’s haunted.”
He shows us a replica of a 1600s kitchen, complete with cast-iron cauldrons and a fireplace large enough to roast a whole pig.
“They used to make beer in these,” he says, slapping the side of a barrel. “Witch’s brew. Probably still better than Bud Light.”
Ava rolls her eyes. I laugh. Marty keeps going.
“This bed frame here? Hand-carved. Rumored to have belonged to one of the judges who sentenced the accused. Some people claim it creaks at night…empty.”
I lean down toward Ava, my voice brushing over her ear. “Maybe the ghosts are fucking on it.”
She chokes on nothing, eyes wide with half-laughter, half-mortification. Worth it.
I give her a wink. Before I can enjoy her full reaction, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Matthew.
After you’re done playing Hocus Pocus Boyfriend in Salem, maybe we take a breather from the fake? I’m serious, Soren. Publicity stunts at shared events is one thing. Meeting her family? That’s rom-com quicksand, my guy.
Deep in the quicksand. Bring rope.
After a pause, I add:
Any updates on the Lena situation?
No news is good news. For now.
I respond with another thumbs up, then tuck the phone away and set my attention back to Ava. “So... where were we? Oh right. Ghost sex.”
With a waggle of his bushy brows, Uncle Marty steps aside, muttering about “special witch business,” leaving us alone.
Silence creeps in like candle smoke, settling around us. Not going to lie, it’s definitely on the spooky side.
Turning in a slow circle, Ava’s eyes scan the low beams and warped windows. “You know, the walls remember everything.”
“Maybe they do.” I step closer, the pull to her a force I can’t break. “So, let’s revisit the fact that you set this up for me?”
