SHIVER: 13 Sexy Tales of Humor and Horror

  “You’re right, nothing to lose but my dignity.”

  “So you’ll come with me? It’s stopped raining. No excuses.”

  “The rain wouldn’t stop me. I don’t melt in the rain. Doesn’t that prove I’m not a witch?”

  “Only in Oz.” She grabbed her bag and stuffed her books and notes from the table inside, including a random spoon. “Don’t judge. All of my spoons keep disappearing from our room.”

  “Maybe they’re finding their way back to their proper homes.”

  “Or someone’s been stealing them.”

  “Wouldn’t that be ironic?” I nudged her with my elbow as we exited the cafe. Sure enough, the clouds were still heavy, but the mist had stopped.

  ***

  A strand of bells around the door handle jingled as we entered The Spelling B, Sam’s favorite shop for all things witchy. The scent of incense and dried herbs permeated the tiny, dim space. Tilting shelves bowing with the weight of jars, candles, and books crowded the walls and formed narrow aisles. I tucked my overstuffed laptop bag closer to my body, afraid of the handwritten ‘you break it, you buy it’ sign on the door.

  Sam headed to the back, mumbling about sage and tarot cards.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned toward the voice and met a pair of clear—almost colorless—blue eyes. They were situated in the face of a middle aged woman with an elaborate dark bun held together with red-laquered chopsticks.

  “Oh, um, no. I’m not a witch.” I stumbled over my words. “Not a witch, I mean Wicca. Not that there is anything wrong with being a witch. Unless it’s the 17th century. And here.” I babbled on and on until a soft hand curled around my wrist.

  “Are you sure?” Her smile was kind, almost familiar, but somehow piercing, as if she could see straight through me and realized what a mess I was.

  “Sorry. No. I just had a class about early New England. It got pretty heated about Hester Pryne, and we’re studying the witch trials next week,” I babbled again.

  “Ah, you go to Hawthorne College?” she asked, leading me over to a counter where an assortment of mortars, pestles, and jars cluttered the flat surface.

  “I do.” I peered at the label on one jar. Evening primrose. Seemed innocent enough.

  “Are you taking Professor Philips class? That one was popular when I went there.”

  “You went to Hawthorne, too?” My voice sounded more incredulous than I meant.

  “He was old then, and that was ancient history, I know. He somehow never ages. Still wearing the elbow patches?”

  I laughed and shook off the unease I had felt when I’d first entered the store. “He does!”

  She began opening jars and adding various herbs into a strainer over a blue pottery mug with a pentagram on it. When she poured hot water over the mix, the smell of mint and something earthy hit my nose.

  “Here, drink this.”

  “What?” I lurched away from the counter. My bag hit a bowl of small stones, which plunked loudly on the uneven wood floor as they fell. I bent to pick them up.

  A gentle shove pushed me out of the way. “Stop. Let me read them for you.” She leaned over to study the stones. “Interesting, very interesting.” Her elegant finger tapped her chin. “Oh, look at that. I haven’t seen that in years.”

  I gazed down at the pebbles on the floor—some had markings on them that looked like the runes Sam kept in a velvet bag in her desk. I stood there, unsure of what to do with my hands as she continued her examination, softly exclaiming to herself. Finally, she stood up and stared at me.

  For a long time.

  At least an hour.

  Or what felt like an hour.

  My face grew hot and my forehead itched. I glanced around, unable to continue to meet her steadfast gaze, and coughed.

  She snapped out of her one woman staring contest. “Your tea is getting cold!”

  “Tea?”

  “Yes, I made you a cup of mint tea. What did you think it was?”

  “Um, well.” I looked around and shrugged my shoulders.

  Her laughter echoed the chimes on the door, light and ethereal. “You thought it was a potion?”

  I nodded, feeling stupid. I took a sip and let the heat soothe my nerves.

  “Oh, my dear. No. I’d never give you a potion unless you asked for one.” She studied me again. “Do you want one? Perhaps for better grades? Although, I doubt you need that. Love?”

  I met her eyes briefly and blushed.

  “Ah, love it is.”

  “No, not really. There isn’t anyone at the moment.”

  Her eyes flicked back to the floor before she knelt to pick up the stones. “Are you sure?”

  I thought of my complete lack of a love life at the moment. I wasn’t desperate enough to date someone like Hamilton again, but things were grim. Grimmer than grim. Saturday night alone, or standing awkwardly at a campus party, nursing a red cup of cheap beer grim. Hell, I’d let Paul Uccello kiss me two weeks ago. His last name was Italian slang for penis. I could never marry a man and end up with penis as my last name.

  “See the rune nearest your foot?” She picked it up and placed it on my palm.

  “It looks like a B.” I held it in my hand and studied the lines with my finger.

  “It’s the symbol for new beginnings. And love.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Perhaps you have a secret admirer.”

  I shook my head. “He must be imaginary as well as secret.”

  Studying my face, she frowned. “So full of doubt.”

  Sam came bounding up to the counter with a box of tarot cards and a bunch of sage bundles. “Hey, did you do a reading? That’s so cool!”

  “Not really. I knocked over the bowl of stones with my bag.”

  “There are no accidents,” both of them said at the same time.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “She’s not a believer, is she?” the shop lady/witch asked.

  Sam exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “No, and her ancestors are from Salem. Like 17th century Salem.”

  “Sam, I’ve told you, that means nothing. Ten generations and not a witch in the bunch,” I huffed.

  “What’s your last name?” glacier eyes asked me.

  “It’s Bradbury.”

  “Is it? Well, that explains the reading.”

  I glanced at the rune still in my hand.

  Sam’s eyes settled on my palm. “See? I told you things were changing for you! And with Mabon right around the corner!” She practically bounced on her heels with excitement.

  “Mabon?” I asked.

  “The fall equinox to you,” Sam explained. “Equal day and night. Balance of light and dark. It’s a week from Saturday.”

  Our hostess listened and nodded her head. “Time to embrace the darkness.”

  Her words sent a chill down my spine, and I shivered although the room remained the same temperature.

  “We’ll definitely need to smudge you soon. The sooner the better. And definitely before Samhain.” At my confused expression, Sam explained, “Halloween to you. Oh, we should do it this weekend,” she continued, nodding away in agreement with herself.

  I rubbed my arms in an attempt to get warm. A familiar sensation tingled on my skin, and I turned my head to meet colorless eyes.

  “When you’re ready, come back and see me again. I’m Sarah by the way.” She extended her hand.

  “Madison.” When I shook her hand, I had the distinct feeling of being read or analyzed.

  As we walked down the crooked streets back toward our dorm, Sam chattered on about how wicked cool it was Sarah did a reading for me and how she was a powerful witch, head of the local coven, and famous for her spells and intuition.

  I stuffed my hands in my hoodie pockets while I pretended to listen. My fingers wrapped around a smooth object.

  “Oh crap,” I pulled the pebble from my pocket, “I stole her rune.”

  Sam laughed and shook her head. “Flying monkey
s! That’s five years bad luck for stealing from a witch.”

  My eyes bugged out.

  “I’m kidding.” Her shoulder bumped mine. “Come on, we’ll take it back and explain you weren’t intending to shoplift, beg for mercy, and all that.”

  Declining her offer, I sent Sam back to campus and returned to the shop alone. A slight breeze ominously rattled a few dried leaves along the street when I passed the bronze statue of Roger Conant. Founder of Salem or not, the statue made him look like a witch with his buckled-hat and billowing cape.

  The bells chimed when I opened the door of Sarah’s shop.

  “Back so soon?” Sarah asked without lifting her head.

  I held out the rune in explanation.

  At my silence, she raised her eyes to my hand. “I didn’t peg you for a thief.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep it.” I stared down at my scuffed ballet flats.

  “Maybe it meant something to you? Struck a chord?” She returned the rune to its bowl.

  “I wish. Thank you for your optimism, but I think it’s lost on me.” I shrugged in an attempt to pass off my nonexistent love life as nothing major.

  “You never know. Love always happens when you least expect it, and with the last guy you’d imagine.” Her icy eyes seemed to thaw. She walked around the counter and grabbed something off the end of one of the aisles. “Since you aren’t a believer, this can’t hurt.”

  I studied the packet she handed me. The label read “Love Spell” in a fancy cursive on a pink label. Inside were a candle, a vial of liquid, a tiny heart charm, ribbon, and what looked like pink peppercorns. I wondered if the vial contained the tears of dateless, single women.

  “Really?” I ask, incredulous. “Pepper?”

  She shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt. Right?” She winked at me.

  “Okay.” I tucked the package into my bag, already planning to throw it away later. “Thank you.”

  “Let me know if it works, Madison Bradbury.”

  The use of my full name struck me as odd. The whole past hour was strange. I nodded, but didn’t meet her eyes. A hush fell over the store, amplifying the sound of the creaking floorboards as I walked to the door.

  “A brown-haired Bradbury girl walking into my shop. Who could imagine,” Sarah mumbled when I crossed the threshold. At least I think she said that. The words were lost beneath the sound of bells.

  Three

  “Can’t you use your magical powers for something useful? Or fun? Like frozen margaritas?” I gave our broken blender a dirty look.

  Sam rolled her eyes. “No, this isn’t Practical Magic.” She scowled as she rifled through her desk for matches. A bundle of sage lay on my bed, awaiting fire.

  “Can’t you set it on fire with your mind?”

  “Sadly, no.” She shoved a drawer closed and opened another one.

  “Won’t we set off the smoke alarm?” I sniffed the herb. “Or get busted for smoking weed in our room? Maybe we should open the window.”

  “Good idea.” She pushed up the bottom of our window.

  “Great. Now the whole quad will think we’re potheads.”

  “Stop your complaining. That’s the whole reason we’re doing this to remove the dark cloud of negativity surrounding you.” She held up a book of matches. “Ready?”

  “No. I’m not looking forward to smelling like a Thanksgiving turkey for the rest of the night.”

  “You can shower before we go to the party.”

  It was Saturday night and that meant bad beer in a Solo cup.

  “Another party? Haven’t we tortured ourselves enough this semester?” I scooted further back on my rumpled bed to rest my back against the wall.

  “Yes, another one. School has barely started. You need to snap out of your funk. Find a cute guy. Make out in the corner. Let him touch your boobs. Maybe grab his ass.”

  “Reminds me of all of sophomore year. Yet, strange guy ass sounds delightful.” I scrunched up my nose. “Can we go right this minute?”

  “Enough with the sarcasm. Shut up and hold still.” Sam lit the sage, and then blew on the flame to let it smolder.

  I coughed and waved my hand in front of my face. “Now what?”

  “Stand up.”

  I shot her a look, but stood while she waved the sage around me. The smoke stung my eyes, so I closed them.

  “Think good thoughts. Or maybe conjure up your perfect guy. That’ll help.”

  I remembered the love spell package in my bag. Sarah had said true love comes when you least expect it, so did that mean I shouldn’t focus on it to make it happen? All of this magic stuff was confusing.

  Inhaling a deep breath and coughing again, I tried to list all of the things I wanted in a guy.

  Smart.

  Funny.

  Chivalrous. What? Mr. Darcy was hot.

  Great, now I’m thinking about Colin Firth and he’s like my dad’s age. So wrong. Okay, Madison, focus.

  Sam muttered something under her breath and spun me around to do my backside.

  Where was I? Right …

  Cute, but not a narcissist. A guy who doesn’t think he’s God’s gift to females, but gorgeous in his own way.

  Am I superficial? Do I care?

  Kind. Kind to animals, too. Always a good sign.

  I inhaled, and coughed again.

  Fit, but not a jock or super gym rat guy. Maybe a lacrosse or soccer player. Or a rower. Did we even have a crew team here?

  More of a lone wolf than part of a pack—aka frat—but not a loner with no friends because he was too weird and anti-social to have friends.

  Mysterious.

  Gasping, I opened my eyes. “I have a crush on Andrew Wildes.” I’d just described him perfectly. Well, not the athletic part. Maybe he hated cats. Or kittens. He had to have some flaws. Like a girlfriend.

  “You do?”

  Crap. I’d said it out loud.

  “The weird guy from your sem class?”

  “He’s not weird, just not super normal.”

  Sam rolled her eyes and walked over to our sink to extinguish the sage. “You’re cleansed.”

  “I don’t feel any different.” I smelled my ponytail. “I do smell different, though.”

  “It might take a while to—”

  Four quick, loud knocks interrupted her. Our eyes met.

  “Who is it?” I mouthed at her.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Yeah?” she asked, stepping closer to the door, but not opening it.

  “Can you open the door?” a familiar male voice asked.

  I jumped on my bed and grabbed my pillow, waving it around the room, hoping to clear any remaining smoke.

  Sam opened the door and Andrew Wildes stood there on our threshold in all of his dark, brooding glory. I was on my bed waving a pillow around my head like a crazy person. Embarrassed, I quickly hopped to the floor and threw the pillow behind me.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I was passing by and smelled smoke.” His eyes flashed to mine. “Hi, Madison.”

  “Hi, Andrew.” I gave him an embarrassed wave.

  Sam grinned at me and then put on her best innocent expression to face him. “You did? How strange. Maybe we were making microwave popcorn and burned it.”

  “Maybe?” Andrew’s eyes swept our room and landed on mine again. “No microwave.”

  “Oh. Right. Funny that.” She shrugged.

  He took a step into the room and crossed his arms. “It smells like a roasted chicken in here.”

  I laughed, but stopped myself mid-ha.

  “Are you a narc?” she asked.

  “No, but I am an RA.”

  “In this dorm?” I asked. I’d never seen him in the building.

  “I’m in Emerson.”

  “So your powers don’t work here?” she asked.

  His eyes flashed to hers for a second before returning to me. “My powers work everywhere. Unlike illegal microwaves, cigarettes and other smoking, I’m not sure there are any rul
es banning sage smudging,” he said, stepping to the sink and picking up the singed bundle of sage.

  “If you knew it was sage, why did you ask?” Sam asked.

  “Just checking to be sure you knew.” He twirled the bundle between his longer fingers before placing it back on the small counter. “Who was the smudger and who was the smudgee?”

  Apparently my brain had lost the ability to form words while Andrew stared at me and I stood there mute.

  “I smudged Madison,” Sam confessed, shoving me in front of her.

  His deep brown eyes swept over me, settling on a spot on my cheek. I realized he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his long lashes brushed his cheek when he blinked. I’d never noticed before how long they were. Ridiculously long. And unfair. Andrew was the kind of guy you wouldn’t look twice at… until you did and realized how handsome he was beyond the glasses.

  “Looks like you got a little close.” When he touched my cheek, I felt the heat of his fingertip ignite a trail of fire beneath my skin. He held his finger in front of my face where I saw a dark smear of charcoal.

  I brushed my skin, hoping to remove anything else. Embarrassment heated my face. My recently admitted crush stood in my room and I looked like I was sporting face paint and smelled like Thanksgiving dinner. Obviously, the smudging hadn’t worked to clear my mojo.

  His hand rose as if he would touch my cheek again. I held my breath and braced for impact. Instead, he subtly shook his head and stuffed his hand in the pocket of his black hoodie.

  “Sorry to barge in. Lots of students are curious about witchcraft. Allison, on the first floor, almost set her comforter on fire with an enchanted candle.” He scoffed. “Probably best to avoid open flames in the dorms.”

  His eyes never left mine as he spoke. I felt like I was being studied and categorized, but wasn’t sure if the judgment was positive or more “stupid college girls and witchcraft”. He was impossible to read.