Page 1 of Witches of Dubious Origin
1
“Package for you, Zoe.” Bill Reed, my coworker at the Wessex Public Library, dropped a thick padded envelope, clearly holding a book, onto my desk. I glanced up at him. I was the reference librarian. He was acquisitions. Generally, book purchases went right to him.
Bill shrugged at the confusion on my face. “I know, but it’s addressed to you and stampedPersonal.”
I glanced at the brown envelope. Sure enough, there was the stamp in an imperative shade of red right above the handwritten nameZoanne Ziakas—my name—and the library’s address. Weirdly, there was no postmark or stamps or anything to indicate it had been delivered the usual way through the post office.
“Be careful opening it.” Bill’s eyes narrowed behind his wire-framed glasses. “It could be—”
He paused. Clearly his imagination had run out or he was hesitant to saybomborpoisonor whatever nefarious thing could possibly be stuffed into a nine-by-twelve-inch padded envelope. Bill had the pasty complexion of a man who’d spenthis adult life under fluorescent lighting. He was in his fifties, happily married to his wife, Meredith, of thirty years. They had two kids in college and spent most of their time dreaming about retirement. There wasn’t much that disturbed Bill, so I was surprised by his unusual caution.
“Could be what?” I prodded.
“I don’t know.” He ran a hand over his thinning hair in a self-soothing gesture. “I just have a bad feeling about it.”
“It’s probably a catalog from a publisher or a library supply company that got misdirected to me,” I said. Although, when I studied the loopy script of my name written in felt-tip pen, I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle, and a flutter of alarm tickled my insides. I knew this handwriting. It was my mother’s.
No, it couldn’t be. My mother had passed away a month ago. There was no way she could have addressed this envelope from beyond the grave. It was just an unfortunate coincidence. Shaking off the unsettling feeling, I grabbed my scissors and sliced the envelope open. It didn’t explode. No plume of poisonous smoke was emitted. Instead, out fell a thick black book encircled with a half-inch metal band that was engraved with a series of interlocking lines similar to a Celtic knot. The band latched into a decorative hexagon on the front cover. Fancy.
“Well, that underwhelms,” Bill said. He appeared visibly relieved. “Looks like a journal of some sort. You were right. It’s probably a promo item from a publisher.”
I set the book down and glanced into the envelope. There was no note explaining what the book was, no flyer, nothing. I put the envelope aside and picked up the book. I pressed onthe hexagon, thinking that might open the band. It didn’t work. I tried turning the hexagon. It didn’t budge.
“It’s a pretty pricey item for a promo,” I said. “Especially since I can’t open it.”
“Do you want me to try?” he offered.
“Go for it.” I handed him the book.
Bill did the same pressing and twisting that I had. He tried to tug on the band but it was secured too tightly to give him any leverage. He handed it back and I returned it to its envelope for safekeeping.
“What we have here is a very decorative paperweight,” he concluded.
I laughed. I opened my desk’s bottom drawer and dropped the book inside. “I’ll look at it later.”
Bill headed back to his office, and I returned to my weekly report, forgetting all about the strange black book.
• • •
October was my favorite month, when the sticky humidity of summer departed and jeans-and-sweater weather returned. As I walked the half mile from the library to my cottage, I reveled in the chilly temperatures, the scent of wood fires on the air, and the satisfying crunch of leaves under my feet.
The village of Wessex, where I lived and worked, was nestled between the Appalachian Trail and the Housatonic River, in the northwestern corner of Connecticut. It was a small community known for the private boarding school that resided on the west side of the river. I had attended that school before leaving to go to university in New Haven and thendoubling back here to the only place that had ever felt like home.
As soon as I stepped inside my cottage, I slipped into my pajamas while I microwaved a big bowl of mac and cheese. I flicked on the television and scrolled through the streaming channels until I found a mystery series I had yet to watch. I preferred the British ones because I loved that the actors and actresses in them looked like real people, as opposed to American television shows, where everyone looks like a supermodel pretending to be a real person.
I was halfway through my bowl of cheesy goodness and a third of the way through the first episode when I heard a thump on my front porch. I paused the show and stopped chewing, listening intently. Living in Wessex, where everyone knew everyone, I wasn’t as worried about crime as I was about a neighbor dropping by to chat. It wasn’t that bad things didn’t happen here—of course they did—it was just that it was very rare, and usually the person who did the crime was known for having a dented moral compass, so it wasn’t a big surprise.
Thump!
The noise sounded again, only more forcefully. Putting my bowl down on the coffee table, I shoved my chenille throw aside and crossed the room to the front door, switching on the outside light. I peered out the side window that looked onto the porch before opening the door. If it was a rabid raccoon looking for food, I didn’t want to get into it with him. The porch was empty.
Just to be certain everything was all right, I opened the door and poked my head out. I glanced from side to side,seeing only my large potted geranium on one side and my small wicker table and two chairs on the other. Satisfied, I went to close the door and glanced down at the doormat. I gasped. Placed on the center of the mat was the same envelope that Bill had delivered to me at work. But I knew I had left it in my desk drawer. What the hell was it doing here?
I glanced around the porch to see if someone was lurking in the shadows, playing a prank on me. It wasn’t really Bill’s style—he was more of a dad-joke type of guy—but he was the only person who knew about the book, so logic dictated it had to be him.
“Not funny, Bill!” I called into the darkening evening. There was no answer. No one was there.
I picked up the envelope and pulled the book out, experiencing the same twinge of unease I’d felt before. A flash of green lit the porch as the envelope was immediately engulfed in emerald flames. I yelped and dropped it. In seconds the envelope was gone, leaving no ash or smoke behind. I examined my hand and noted that the weird neon fire hadn’t even felt hot.
