Running witch, p.1
Running Witch, page 1
RUNNING WITCH
A SEASHELL COVE PARANORMAL MYSTERY
THORN COYLE
Running Witch Copyright © 2022
T. Thorn Coyle
PF Publishing
* * *
Editing by Dayle Dermatis
* * *
Cover Design © 2022
T. Thorn Coyle and PF Publishing
* * *
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-946476-34-0
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.
1
August in Seashell Cove was maximum tourist-town.
The sidewalks outside the plate glass shop windows teemed with tourists wearing shorts and Seashell Cove sweatshirts. People always think beach equals hot, but on the Oregon Coast? You just never know. Sure, there’s the occasional freak heat dome, but mostly? Highs are in the low seventies, and sixty degrees with wind off the Pacific. If you aren’t used to it, that can feel a lot cooler than sixty degrees inland.
While navigating crowded sidewalks wasn’t my favorite thing, I appreciated the tourist crush when I was inside the bookshop, like today. Even Rhiannon was on her best behavior and working as hard as a shop cat could. She was currently showing off in front of a stack of summer reads in the front window, preening at every person who slowed down to admire her glossy black fur and, consequently, look at the books on display.
Yeah. Tourists meant customers. Customers meant sales. Sales meant kibble and treats.
Tourist-customers also meant herding small children with dripping ice cream cones away from the merchandise.
“I’m so sorry,” I said to the exhausted-looking parent as I led the small family out the door. It opened onto our pocket-sized parking lot, which was not the most pleasant place to enjoy the sunny day, but better than getting chocolate all over the store.
The poor guy was at his wit’s end, what with the ice-cream-eating toddler and a baby in a sling strapped to his front.
I held the door propped open, blocking the way back in. “I’ll be happy to hold the books you were looking at until, erm…”
The toddler plopped herself down on the low wall between the shop entrance and our tiny parking lot and began happily smearing chocolate with sprinkles all over the front of her shirt. The rest of the ice cream covered her cherubic little face and her blond curls.
I refrained from tapping the “No Food or Drink Inside” sign next to the door.
The man sighed and rubbed the crease between his eyebrows.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve got wet wipes and will make sure she’s clean before we head back in.”
Now it was his turn to sink onto the low wall.
“Bebe, the ice cream goes in your mouth.”
I shut the door firmly behind me with a clatter of bells and leaned against it for a moment. I exhaled and wiped my hands down the front of my size sixteen jeans before pasting a smile on my face, straightening up, and heading back toward the counter, where my shop manager, Duncan, was busy ringing people up.
“Need any help?” I asked him. He glanced at me from behind his heavy, black-framed glasses, smiled, and shook his head.
“I’m good. But while you were outside, I think I heard a minor crash.” He jerked his bleached-blond head toward the back of the shop.
I stifled a groan. A crash could mean one of three things:
A - more toddlers, getting up to who knows what?
B - one of our more senior customers, who had bumped into something, dropped a book, or worst case scenario, fallen.
C - the resident ghost, trying to get my attention again.
Yeah. The Widening Gyre has its own ghost, name of Biff. Even now, I heard giggles, and headed toward the sound. Rounding the corner, just past the thrillers and mysteries aisle, I almost tripped over the gigglers. Three ghost-hunting preteens were taking selfies in front of the antique mirror my part-time workers—two marketing-savvy teenagers named Tabitha and Tracy—had engraved to read “The Widening Gyre” at the top, with the outline of a ghostly man peeking out of one corner.
Bookstagram was going to get another photo, hashtag HauntedBookshop.
I’d fought the whole “cash in on the ghost” idea, but what can I say? The teens were right. Biff brought in customers and sold merchandise, like the T-shirt I was wearing, that showed a cute cartoon ghost carrying a stack of books.
Except Biff wasn’t a cute cartoon ghost. He was the mostly genial former proprietor of the bookshop that had once been my father’s, and was now mine all mine, shaky finances and all. Though I had to admit, the teens’ social media and merch ideas were helping with the finances. A lot. It even paid their wages.
I gave the ghost hunters a thumbs-up and continued toward the back of the shop, pausing to reshelve some books along the way. I stopped to help an older gentleman find the latest Bernard Cornwall seafaring yarn and finally made it back to the place Tabitha and Tracy had started calling Biff’s Corner: the paranormal and occult section where Biff like to hang out. I was never sure if that was Biff’s idea of a joke or not. You know, ghosts hanging out with the ghost books? Maybe I’m the only one who finds that amusing.
Sure enough, there was not one, but two books splayed out on the floor near the comfy chair set in the corner under a good reading light.
“Dang it, Biff,” I muttered, “why are you throwing books again? We’ve talked about this.”
I looked around but didn’t see the former proprietor hovering anywhere. And it didn’t feel cold or anything, like it usually did when Biff was around. I heard a small noise. Was that a sob? Or was it a hamster coughing? I looked again. Nope. Still didn’t see anyone.
“Biff?” My voice was less certain this time.
And there it came again. A weird sob followed by a definite sniff. My head whipped from side to side. Still nothing. Only books, a photo of Biff in the store way back sometime in the 1990s, the comfy chair and reading lamp.
Wait a minute.
There, on the top of the low bookcase near the chair was a statue I didn’t recognize. A small, gray stone lump with big ears and wings. Had one of the teens left it? They picked things up at yard sales sometimes and brought them in as decorations. But they were supposed to run everything by me.
I stepped closer, peering at the shelf above the Haunted Oregon section. There was a small, gray stone gargoyle with a bow on its head.
A stone bow, you know, not a pink party bow. But still.
Sniff.
I stifled a groan. This was just what I needed. A distraught gargoyle.
“What’s wrong?”
The gargoyle froze, one stone tear leaking out of its right stone eye. It didn’t say a word. Didn’t sob. Didn’t sniff.
“You can pretend you’re just a stone gargoyle, an inanimate object made by a human, if you really want to,” I said, looking around again, keeping my voice low. “But I know that’s not true. So you may as well tell me what you’re doing here and what’s wrong.”
The gargoyle gasped, and then disappeared with a pop. What the heck? Gargoyles could appear and disappear? Was there some kind of alternate dimension in the back corner of my store? Or was this a creatures-made-of-stone thing?
Or had the gargoyle been taking lessons from my Uncle Cyrus, the warlock? One of Cyrus’s most annoying traits was his ability to pop in and out of places at will. And yeah, being a witch who didn’t have that ability? I was probably a little jealous.
Well, there were two ways to find out what powers gargoyles have: either the stone creature would appear again so I could ask it, or I’d have to set Tracy and Tabitha onto research duty again.
Luckily, the teens enjoyed the task. As a matter of fact, they should have been in for their shift by now.
I sighed and bent to pick up the fallen books, smoothing the rumpled pages. Thankfully, they were both used, and not valuable except for the information inside. The first was on Scottish castles—I guess that made sense for a gargoyle—and the second was on the care and feeding of your new puppy.
What was that book even doing back in this section? Animal books were down a different aisle. Shaking my head, I slotted the Scottish castle book into the architecture section, which was at least just across the aisle, and then went to find a home for the puppy book.
Which reminded me, Stefon was supposed to be meeting me soon so we could go for our regular jog. I’d been slacking a bit lately because it wasn’t as much fun jogging along the beach during tourist season, but a witch has to keep fit, you know? Besides, I had signed us both up for the Wag a Lot Fun Run that benefited the local animal shelter. There was a 1K Puppy Run, a 5K Regular People run, and then a 10K for more serious runners.
5K was pretty easy for me, but was I really up for 10K? Not at the rate I wasn’t training.
The bells on the front door rang again. I headed up the central aisle, straightening shelves as I went, and there he was: my big, beautiful, dark knight. Literally. Stefon was a computer whiz, a D&D geek, and a belted knight of the Society for Medieval Anachronism, or SMA, and his skin was smooth as brown silk.
My skin? It took a lot of unguents to look this good when you were pasty pale like me.
“Hey babe.” He smiled his luscious smile, close-cut dark beard curlin g up around his lips. Today’s uniform was black jeans and his favorite Sisko is My Captain T-shirt. The shirt outlined his massive chest, shoulders, and belly in a way that made my mouth water. Give me a muscular keg over a six-pack any day.
I gave him a quick kiss.
He squeezed me, then looked around at the busy store, brow furrowing. “You gonna be able to take off for our run?”
I nodded. “As soon as Tabitha and Tracy show up, I’ll be good to go. As long as we can stop by my place to change.”
I looked down at my own jeans and T-shirt. Running in jeans was something I only did when being chased by a pissed-off centaur, and that wasn’t high on my list of favorite things.
The bells on the door announced the entry of the dad, baby, and much cleaner toddler, followed by the two teenagers, here for their shift.
I grinned at all of them. “Welcome back to the Widening Gyre.”
2
Stefon and I paced each other, skirting and dodging tourists foolishly clambering over what I call the fallen giants. These are trees washed to shore by the inevitable turning of the Pacific tides, leaving massive gray-brown carcasses on the sand.
Despite signs posted at every entrance cautioning people not to: climb the driftwood, make sculptures, disturb the wildlife, or turn their backs on the ocean…people did all of the above. All the time.
The result was a beach festooned with amazing driftwood sculptures and children balanced precariously on rocks and massive tree trunks. And at least two tourists are yanked to sea by sneaker waves every year. Seriously. The Oregon Coast does not mess around.
I regulated my breathing the way my barefoot running teacher showed me. Exhale, step two, three, four, exhale, step two, three, four. Breathing without consciously inhaling had felt strange at first, but once I got the hang of it, I’d taught it to Stefon, too. My lungs naturally filled on their own, and the result was much less huffing and puffing overall. Huh.
I was feeling pretty good, finding my stride. Maybe I should try for the 10K this year.
“Watch out!” A voice cracked across the happy seaside sounds. I stumbled into Stefon, who caught me just as an orange Frisbee sailed past, right where my head had been.
As I fell, my foot caught on a piece of driftwood and twisted. I stifled a yelp as Stefon gently lowered me to the sand.
“Hey! Sorry dude!” A blond man in his early twenties ran up, as did his dog, a golden retrieverwho excitedly sniffed around my injured ankle.
And then buried his nose in my crotch. Nice.
I shoved him away.
“Stop,” blond dude said. “Hey, Board Wax! Knock it off. Leave the lady alone.”
“Your dog’s name is Board Wax?” I forgot my pain and annoyance for one second.
The guy grinned and smiled. “Yeah, pretty cool, huh? Beach dog.”
I glanced at Stefon, who shrugged. What, did the guy think this was Malibu or something? I wanted to say You’re on the Oregon Coast, buddy. Get over yourself.
But I needed to save my energy for dealing with my now throbbing ankle.
“Hey, man, I’m really sorry. My name is Carlson. Can I help you up?”
I groaned.
“I think I got it, man,” Stefon replied, going into deal-with-the-strange-white-dude-in-board-shorts mode. He looked down at me, dark eyes flashing concern. “You ready to try, babe?”
“Now’s as good a time as any,” I said, though the thought of crawling up the steps that led up the steep incline, bridging the sand with the cliff tops, was daunting.
“I don’t know if I can make it up the stairs,” I said.
“Let’s see if you can bear any weight first,” Stefon said. Which was reasonable, coming from the person not in increasing pain.
Meanwhile, activity went on around us. Kites flying. Seagulls swooping. Children shrieking. And Carlson in his dumb shorts and sneakers, with Board Wax dancing around his ankles, clutching a battered orange Frisbee. He at least had the grace to look concerned.
“Okay,” Stefon said, wrapping his big arms around me. I inhaled. He smelled like sweat and ocean, with a hint of amber. “Ready?”
“I guess.”
“One. Two. Three.” He hoisted me up, one hand beneath my armpit, my body smushed against his. I hopped on my good leg and then gingerly tried to place weight on my twisted right ankle.
If I was the cursing kind, well, let’s just say some bleeped out words would have been happening.
“Ouch,” I said. “No. No way.”
“This is bad,” Stefon said.
“How am I gonna make it up the steps?” I craned my neck to look up at the steep incline that rose three stories high.
“Babe,” he said, brow creasing was worry, “I’m not sure. But we’ll figure it out.”
“Hey, Board Wax and I can help, dude.”
Stefon shook his head. “I think you’ve done enough.”
A look of hurt crossed Carlson’s face.
“We didn’t mean to…”
“I know,” I interjected, staving off a long conversation I had no patience for. Seriously. The dude had hurt me, and I was trying to comfort him? “Really, I know. But look at me. And look at you.”
Carlson was a skinny as a rail, and his happy, galumphing dog wasn’t exactly reliable.
“Well,” he said, eyes narrowing, “I see what you mean. But really, I’m strong. You know, all that surfing. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a boogie board in my car, we could use it as a sledge up the stairs!”
Stefon held out a hand, thank the Goddess, stopping Carlson from getting any more ideas.
“Thanks, man, but I think I’ve got it. Besides, I think Board Wax will get in the way.”
“All right,” said Carlson, face filled with disappointment. “Let’s go, Board Wax, and leave these people alone.”
Then unbelievably, he threw that dang Frisbee. Board Wax, golden tail flapping in the ocean breeze, chased after, leaping to grab it in his mouth.
“You’re really throwing that Frisbee again?” Stefon shook his head.
Board Wax sped off with the orange disc in his slobbering mouth.
“Gotta run, dudes.”
“You do that,” I said to his back as he kicked up sand, chasing after the dog.
“Stefon. I think I need to rest. Can you set me down?”
He sighed. “I’m worried that if I let you sit and rest, your ankle will swell up more and we won’t be able to get you out of here at all. Do you want me to call the paramedics?”
“No!” That was the last thing I needed. First, the expense. And second, the embarrassment. “Don’t you have any studly knight friends you can call?”
His face brightened. “Yeah. Great idea! Let’s sit you down on this rock.”
He angled me toward a boulder and eased me down. I groaned with relief. Moments later, I sat with my foot propped on a piece of driftwood, inhaling the ocean air as Stefon got out his phone and started texting.
A woman in a yellow head wrap and matching shorts walked over, dragging a small cooler and one child.
“I saw what happened,” she said, brown face puckered with worry. “We have some ice left in the cooler. I was just about to leave so we won’t be needing it anymore, and I’ve got a plastic baggie.”
“Oh, that would be great,” I said.
Stefon was pacing now, phone to his ear, talking urgently. The woman rummaged through the cooler as the toddler plunked its diapered butt onto the sand next to me and looked up and smiled. I smiled back.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Cleo.”
“Well, Cleo, I hope you had a good day at the beach.”
The mother handed me a baggie full of ice wrapped in a paper towels.
“Thank you so much,” I said, easing the ice onto my elevated ankle. “My name’s Sarah, by the way.”
“Not a problem. I’m Assata.”
“Hey, does Cleo like books?”
“Books!” Cleo said.
The mother rolled her eyes but smiled.
“Cleo loves books. We’re at the library every week, and she drags me into every bookstore we pass.”
