Page 29 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Delia’s eyes shine with the promise of a new rabbit hole to fall into. “Was there ever any mention of Isabella Raveen having descendants? Family records, hidden children, anything like that?” She glances at me sidelong, and I sense our wavelength re-aligning into investigation mode.

Cassie shakes her head. "Officially, she had no surviving offspring. The bloodline was considered extinct after the witch hunts. There are rumors, as always, but nothing substantiated."

Cassie’s phone vibrates against the wood. She apologizes, glances at the screen, and her face blanks for a microsecond before professionalism settles back over her like a starched sheet.

She tucks the phone away, clearing her throat. "My apologies. Family emergency. I’m going to have to lock back up, but the microfilm is in those cabinets along the back wall right outside this room. If you want to look up early Pennington Falls, including deaths and disappearances, I can get you started before I go." Her smile is too polite, and too quick.

“Um, no, that’s okay. I think we got everything we need. “Delia snaps a few photos of the book pages for reference, then closes the book gently. “Thank you for the help.” she tells Cassie, “You seriously rock.”

Cassie nods, pressing her lips together in a way that ages her pretty face by a decade, then slides the heavy book back into its felt-lined drawer with reverence. “I’m so sorry I had to cut this short. I feel terrible, but I have a sick aunt in Boston and have to hop on the highway before traffic gets evil.”

In the six years that we’ve known Cassie, she’s never mentioned having an aunt.

“No worries.” Delia says, smiling.

Cassie turns to the door like a wind-up toy running out of spring. “If you need anything else, Greta should be finished with the read along now and she can further assist you today.”

We nod in unison and follow her back to the front to the lobby. Cassie peels away with a polite apology, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her as she heads down a side corridor and out of sight.

I open the door for Delia and her stowaway familiar, then step into the frigid late afternoon air. Delia is uncharacteristically silent as we walk the downtown strip toward the car. Her head is down, hands raking through her hair like maybe there’s an answer somewhere tangled in the roots.

“You okay?” I ask, though I don’t really care.

“Yea,” she answers, “It’s just…what does Isabella or her history have to do with the murders going on in Pennington Falls? None of it makes sense.”

I shrug; hands already stuffed in my coat pockets, “My guess is that it’s a warning. Or a tribute. Or simply it has nothing to do with the murders at all, and someone just had a gift card and used it to buy a ticket in Isabella’s name for shits and giggles.”

Delia nods but says nothing, the curls around her face shivering in the wind like static, but she’s wearing her thinking face. I unlock the car while she slides into the passenger seat, digging out her phone to review the photos she took in the archives.

Whiskers who’s had to be quiet this entire time being around so many normies, scratches his way out of Delia’s tote bag and into the conversation. “Another bust.”

“I don’t think so, Whiskers. Call it a hunch, witch’s intuition, whatever you want, but I think we’re on the right track.”

I’m not so certain.

Delia's thumb freezes mid-swipe. Her eyes widen as she zooms in on something in the photo.

"Jasper." She thrusts the phone at me, nearly smacking my nose. “It says here that Isabella had a younger sister who fled Salem during the trials. Abigail Havenlock. She's mentioned here in a footnote."

I take the phone, angling the screen away from the late afternoon glare bleeding through the windshield. “It also states that prior to the witch trials, things had already been sketchy between the humans and the supernatural beings. The supernatural beings in Salem were already being exterminated by what they called Hunters. This small group of humans initiated as protectors of the night; tasked with keeping humans safe from the vampires who went rouge because they couldn’t control their bloodlust. Over time they began hunting all supernatural creatures, they were developing the same bloodlust they were supposed to protect people from. The witch trials just made it worse, and it basically became open season for supernatural genocide. Thus, Pennington Falls was born. Folks were still frightened to go outdoors at the time out of fear of the hunters who seemed to have developed powers of their own—heightened senses, speed, sight—and created catacombs beneath the city to move around safely. Eventually, the numbers of Hunters dwindled, and they became seen less and less. With the comfort of safety, Abigail left Pennington Falls and moved to Oregon…where she became one with the woods and sired no children.” I finish. “So, a dead end.”

Delia groans, sinking further into her seat, the tip of her nose-tinged pink with frustration. “Wait a minute!” she pops up, her eyes wide, “The killer has left no traces and seems to move in and out of places without being seen. What if they’re using the catacombs to move around. What if that is the connection.”

I feel something stir inside of me and I’m not sure if it’s hope or gas. “Maybe.” I say, turning the key in the ignition and the truck roars to life.

I look into the rearview mirror and begin backing out of the library parking lot when suddenly, the same feeling I got the night I woke up and the killer was standing outside our home, hits me again. The prickle on the back of my neck, the invisible needle threading between my ribs.

I tap the brakes just enough to keep my hands from shaking. I cut my eyes to the passenger mirror but see nothing but a swirl of late-autumn leaves on the library steps and a crow tilting its head at the curb.

The feeling isn’t fear, not exactly.

It’s something entirely different.

It’s a pulse of awareness, a second heartbeat thundering under my skin for just a breath. Then it’s gone, as fast as it arrived, leaving only a residue of warning and the faint taste of copper in my mouth. I swallow, keep one eye on the mirrors, and gun the engine a little harder than necessary.

I know whoever murdered me and took my heart is out there. I can feel them watching, waiting. Their identity remains a shadow just beyond my grasp.

But the funny thing about shadows is, they always fade in the light.