REVELS: A HALLOWEEN NOVELLA
by
Molly Cochran
Copyright © 2014 Molly Cochran. All Rights Reserved.
Official website: https://www.facebook.com/MollyCochranBooks
Cover artwork by Devin Murphy
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
For my son, Devin.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Also Available
About The Author
CHAPTER ONE
I was putting the last of the pumpkin pies on a cooling rack when Hattie bustled into the kitchen with a stack of the night’s menus.
“Let me help with those,” I said, cleaning off a spot on the metal counter.
“Are you still here?” Hattie made it sound like an accusation. “It’s nearly dark out. When’s this party of yours going to start, anyway?”
I grabbed the menus and started stuffing them into the leather folders Hattie liked to use. “I don’t think it’s going to be much of a party,” I said.
“Now, you hush, Katy. After you and your friends made such a fuss about having your own Samhain celebration and not being stuck with your families, you better have the time of your life tonight, you hear?” She took a step backward. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
I spread my arms so Hattie could get a good look at my sweatpants and waffle-weave turtleneck. I stuck my knit beanie on my head for good measure. “Indeed it is, thanks to the decision that the first annual all-school Halloween party would consist of a lively evening of camping.”
“Well, you can’t complain about that, since it was the decision of the students.”
Correction: It was the decision of two students, namely Verity Lloyd and Cheswick Fortescu, the two nerdiest students in the school, and possibly the universe.
“Honestly, Hattie, I’d rather stay here and work.”
Every Halloween since I came to Whitfield, I’d served dinner at Hattie’s. The costume party here at the restaurant was what you might call the social event of the year. That is, if you were a witch.
Whitfield, Massachusetts was founded by twenty-seven witch families in 1658, and now boasts the largest concentration of people with paranormal abilities in the United States. Ripley’s Believe It Or Not almost printed that in its 1932 edition, but the hot type used to print the book inexplicably melted as it was going to press.
Cowen—ordinary people—live here, too, but they don’t know about witches, and we don’t tell them.
As I was wheedling Hattie to get me out of the camping trip, Peter, my boyfriend and fellow work-study student, walked in from the dining room. “All the tables are set up,” he said, picking up his gear: A tent, two sleeping bags, a canteen. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
I sighed.
“Of course she is,” Hattie said, poking me hard with a wooden spoon.
“Okay,” I relented. “I’ll take one of the sleeping bags.”
“You’re not sharing that tent, are you?” Hattie boomed.
“Not with Miss P chaperoning,” I said. “I’ll be bunking with Becca.”
I looked through the round porthole-like windows in the double doors separating the kitchen from the dining room. A foursome was coming in. One of the women was dressed like Glinda the Good Witch of the North, the other like Elvira, Queen of the Night. The men wore elaborate historical costumes. I think they were supposed to be noblemen from the Middle Ages.
On this occasion, no expense is spared for costumes, food, or anything else. Halloween is the biggest holiday of our year. It’s the witches’ New Year, in fact. We don’t even call it Halloween. The descendents of the twenty-seven founding families still refer to it by its ancient name, Samhain, pronounced SOW-en.
People are already coming in,” I said, adding hopefully, “Maybe I should stay, after all.”
At that moment my Aunt Agnes materialized beside me. She can do that, wink in and out of whatever space she likes at will. She was wearing a pointy black witch hat. “Nonsense,” she said. “I’ll be serving tonight. Everything is under control.”
“Waiting on tables isn’t as easy as it seems—” I began, but Agnes had already disappeared from the kitchen and reappeared in the dining room, handing out menus.
“Your aunt may not be a career waitress, but she is a teleporter,” Hattie reminded me with a smile. “She’s speedy. Now, you go on. Have a good time.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, slinging the sleeping bag over my shoulder. “I can hardly wait.”
CHAPTER TWO
“It might not be so bad,” Peter said, ever the optimist.
I just looked at him.
“Okay, it’ll probably suck. How’d we end up camping on the last day of October, anyway?”
“It was Verity’s idea,” I said.
“But wasn’t there a committee or something?”
There was. Only four people had volunteered for the committee to plan the all-school Halloween party that the students were so anxious to hold. Well, okay, maybe not so anxious. The fact that only four people volunteered ought to have shown how popular the idea was. The Muffies—that is, the cowen, or non-magical kids who boarded at Ainsworth—wouldn’t be caught dead with us townies, whom they thought of as geeks. And the townies, who were witches (although we weren’t allowed to say so) were accustomed to spending Samhain at Hattie’s with their families. It was a community thing. Only some of us wanted to do something different this year. Too bad we didn’t volunteer for the committee.
The four people who did were Verity Lloyd, who sought out rules to obey and reported anyone who didn’t follow her sterling example; her boyfriend Cheswick, whose claim to fame was that he started an online group that communicated exclusively in Elvish; A.J. Nakamura, a rich Muffy whose idea of school spirit consisted of lobbying for a frozen yogurt machine in the cafeteria; and Eric Jamison, the captain of the tennis team and all-around hunk.
Apparently Eric was about as interested as A.J. in holding an all-school anything, because neither of them even showed up for the meeting. Since Cheswick went along with whatever Verity decided, that pretty much put Verity in charge of the Halloween gathering.
We could have had a dance. We could have gone to Larchwood Amusement Park, with its extra-large funhouse and a roller coaster with sound effects. But no. Verity, following her parents’ suggestion, opted for an evening of burning hot dogs and freezing our butts off.
“We’ll tell scary stories and sing songs,” she told my friend Becca.
“I know a song in Elvish,” Cheswick offered.
“My heart leaps,” I said.
“And Miss P will be our chaperone,” Verity added, invoking the name of the school’s assistant headmistress.
Becca made a face. “We’re going to have a chaperone?”
“Miss P,” Cheswick repeated. “She’s cool.”
To tell the truth, anyone was cool compared with Cheswick. His hair was so blond it was almost white, and stuck out in wild curls around his head like a dandelion puff, and he had the kind of pink-rimmed bunny eyes that were always watering. “Hey, it’ll be fun, guys!” he insisted. “Verity’s never been camping before
.”
“That’s why she thinks it’ll be fun,” Becca said. “Look, no one’s going to show up, okay?”
That turned out to be true. A.J. got her dad to rent the ballroom of the Hotel Whitfield so she could hold her own party, complete with a DJ, to which no townies were invited. And most of the witches chose to attend the dinner dance at Hattie’s like they always did. The only people who went along with Verity’s camping plan were friends of hers—Becca and Bryce who, despite Becca’s complaints, didn’t care where they were as long as they were together; a sophomore named Arnold something who was obsessed with rocks; Amanda Voss, who claimed to be able to speak to animals; and a girl named Chrissie who looked kind of like Beyoncé, with golden skin and red-blonde hair. She was a shape-shifter. I knew that because I once saw her turn into a cat in the library.
I don’t think anyone else saw her and I didn’t say anything at the time, since magic is strictly prohibited at our school, so she’s always been decent to me even though she’s a complete jock. And there was Peter, who hated camping as much as I did, but he’d rather put up with discomfort than let down his friends. That’s just how he is. His loyalty made me feel guilty. Which was why I was stomping out to the woods on the coldest night of the year so far with a sleeping bag and a package of marshmallows.
“At least there won’t be ticks,” Peter said encouragingly. “Too cold.”
“Lucky us,” I said.
We arrived at the campground just as the big clock tower on Town Hall struck six. The others—all seven of them—had already started a fire. Cheswick was plunking down a basin of water beside it.
“Safety precaution,” Verity said.
“There’s a lake nearby,” Cheswick added.
“Darn. Forgot my swimsuit.”
Cheswick laughed good-naturedly, even though I hadn’t been very funny. For Verity’s sake, he really wanted everyone to have a good time.
“Where’s Miss P?” Peter asked.
Verity looked at her watch. “She’s late,” she said with some annoyance.
“In that case…” Cheswick wiggled his eyebrows as he pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from his backpack. “Ta-da!”
“Hey hey,” Bryce said appreciatively.
“Is it real?” Amanda asked. “I mean, real booze?”
“Of course. The best. My dad’s secret stash.”
Arnold shrugged. “Okay by me.”
Verity leaped up as if she were on fire. “Cheswick! What do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s no big deal, Ver. I mean, when the cat’s away—”
“Get rid of it!” Verity shouted. She was practically going into convulsions. “We’ll never be trusted again, don’t you understand? If we’re caught—” She stopped suddenly, her head moving in rapid jerks, her nose twitching. “Someone’s coming.”
“Miss P,” Chrissie guessed.
Goody two-shoes or not, Verity is a scenter, meaning she can read signs the rest of us can’t perceive. So no one argued with her when she snatched the bottle out of Cheswick’s hand and gave it to Peter. “Throw it that way,” she said, pointing. Peter pitched it into the woods.
“Hey!” Cheswick objected. “We could have hidden it, Verity.”
“Not from Miss P.”
That was certainly correct. Miss P was that rarest of magical beings, a djinn. She could pluck thoughts right out of your head if she wanted to. She could also plant them there, and you’d think you came up with them yourself. If anyone were hiding a bottle of liquor, Miss P would know it.
Becca was sort of like that, although on a much smaller scale. She was a telepath, someone who could send and receive thoughts. But like most of us in school, Becca had only recently discovered her talent.
The thing about magic ability is, you don’t know when it’s going to appear. Some of us—like me—manifest early. But then, I have a pretty prosaic talent. I’m a telekinetic. I can move objects with my mind. Verity didn’t suspect she was a scenter until last semester. And Becca, the telepath, only discovered her talent a few weeks ago.
That’s the girls. Boys are slower. Way slower. I don’t know about rockhound Arnold—or if being into minerals is even a real psychic gift—but Peter and Cheswick don’t have a clue about magic. Sometimes people never develop a talent, even if they come from witching families. When that happens…Well, no one talks about it much, but let’s just say they don’t stick around Whitfield.
But Cheswick and Peter still have some time. Some. Not a lot.
* * *
“So where is she?” Arnold asked.
“Shh,” Verity said. “Close.” She sniffed. “But it’s not Miss P.”
“Oh, God,” Amanda wailed. “There’s someone in the woods with us. What if…”
“Yoo hoo!” a fruity voice singsonged from nearby.
“No,” Becca whispered, slapping her forehead.
I closed my eyes in dread. What started out as a bad idea had now officially become a full-blown disaster.
“There you are, you scamps!” It was Becca’s mom, Livia Fowler, dressed as Queen Elizabeth the First, complete with lace ruff and scepter.
“Clytemnestra,” Bryce said. He was more literate than the rest of us, but we basically knew what he meant.
The Evil Queen had arrived.
CHAPTER THREE
“Miss P has sprained her ankle,” Mrs. Fowler explained, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard for miles. “So I have volunteered to take her place until someone more suitably attired can be found.” She glanced at our twiggy little fire pit. “Have you followed all safety regulations regarding open flames?”
This was pretty hilarious, since Livia Fowler’s talent was firestarting. She once burned down the oldest tree in Whitfield out of spite. Nevertheless, Verity—always eager to please—nodded obediently. The rest of us just stared ahead.
“My, what a crowd of dull faces,” Mrs. Fowler snapped. “You especially, Rebecca. Sit up straight.”
Becca slumped over so far she looked like a camel. Bryce put his arm around her.
“Stop that!” Mrs. Fowler shouted, smacking Bryce with her scepter.
“We’re sitting on a log, Mrs. Fowler,” he said.
“That’s no excuse for poor posture!” For a long, awkward moment, she glared at each of us in turn. Verity squirmed. Cheswick ran his finger along his collar. I guess they were the reactions Mrs. Fowler was looking for, because suddenly she broke into a broad smile, as if we’d all been having a wonderful time. “Now let’s have some fun!” she trilled. “Who knows how to play Button, Button, Who’s Got The Button?”
We all gave a collective moan. The ghoulish smile Mrs. Fowler had pasted on her face vanished momentarily, then reappeared. “Well, maybe you don’t know that one. But I’ve brought something everyone will enjoy!”
“Death,” Becca muttered. “Please let it be death.”
“Pin the Tail on the Donkey!” Mrs. Fowler boomed, producing a folded sheet of paper and opening it up carefully to reveal a drawing of what looked like a Stegasaurus.“This is our donkey,” she explained, apparently reading my mind. As she bustled toward a tree to mount what was shaping up to be the evening’s entertainment, I watched Becca wither in shame and despair. It couldn’t be easy having Livia Fowler for a mother.
As a sophomore, Becca had pulled out all her beautiful blond hair. Her mom bought her a wig. A red wig, the color of Mrs. Fowler’s own hair, which Becca had to wear all year until I finally convinced her to burn it.
“Now, I’ll just put the donkey up here on this tree…What’s this?” She was bending down, reaching into a hollow near the base of the tree, when she suddenly stood upright. “Have you been drinking?” she screeched.
All of us exchanged petrified glances.
“But I threw it over…” Peter began in a whisper, before Cheswick punched his arm. “…there.” He jerked his head in the opposite direction from Mrs. Fowler’s tree.
“I know,” I mouthed.
/> Mrs. Fowler was holding a bottle by its neck, as if it were a dead animal. “What is this?”
What, indeed. It wasn’t the bottle of Jim Beam that Cheswick had brought and Peter had thrown away. What Mrs. Fowler was holding was more like a handcrafted decanter, its glass rippling and shapely, its golden contents shimmering in the darkness, as if it were lit from within. As she displayed the bottle, a series of letters appeared on it, glowing, one after the other.
D.R.I.N.K. M.E.
Even Mrs. Fowler was caught up in the shifting illuminated message as she slowly twirled the bottle around.
L.I.V.I.A.
“Well, I never,” she said, mesmerized.
“It’s like Alice in Wonderland,” Verity whispered.
L.O.O.K. A.G.A.I.N.
Mrs. Fowler turned back toward the tree, the sad-looking donkey drawing now forgotten.
“There’s more.” She reached into the hollow again. “A teacup.”
“What?” Becca asked. Her mom was mean, but not delusional.
“And a chocolate cake!” Mrs. Fowler scrambled back gleefully, clutching the bottle, a delicate porcelain cup and saucer, and a tiny, elaborately iced cake. “You rascals!” she exclaimed, shooing us off our log, “You set this all up for me! How did you know I was coming?”
“Um, Mom,” Becca said. “I don’t think—”
“Did you make the cake, Katy?” she went on as if her daughter hadn’t spoken.
“Er…” I began.
“Of course you did. Hattie’s trained you so well! Perhaps you’ll be able to work in the school cafeteria next year!” She ran her finger along the chocolate frosting. “Yummy!” Then she poured some of the bottle’s contents into the teacup and took a dainty sip. “Ah, how refreshing!”
I guessed it was, since she drained the cup, poured another, quaffed that down, and then glugged down the rest straight from the bottle. Then, crumbs flying everywhere, she stuffed the cake into her mouth whole and belched loudly.
A moment later she slumped over, unconscious.
I coughed wildly. The last time something like this happened, I got blamed. “I did not make that cake!” I shouted as Becca bent over her mother.
“I know,” Chrissie said. “There was nothing inside that tree when we got here, and you didn’t bring anything except your—”