Page 8 of Haunt Me, Maybe

Those brooding dark eyes narrowed with fury. “We’ll see how long you last.”

And just like that—he vanished, leaving the attic colder than I found it and echoing with the haze of his fury. It would take another round of cleansing to get that smothering feeling out of here. Fucking great.

CHAPTER THREE

Wes

I didn’t choose to manifest back in the attic. I never did. I would rather have spent the night counting dead leaves than haunting these same four walls, yet no matter how hard I tried, there was no escape.

Call it a curse or restrictive rules of the afterlife, but as soon as the sun set, it didn’t matter where in town I lurked; my ass was yanked right back here, and I couldn’t leave again until morning. Not even when a selfish witch took over my room with her flair of magical superiority, stubborn attitude, and a talking toad.

I tried again anyway, hoping the seething rage burning through my incorporeal veins was enough to fuel a few minutes away from this place. But fuck, I only made it as far as the landing outside the door—like right outside. The ancient doorknob dug smugly into my back.

Closing my eyes, I envisioned the loft in the old bell tower; the silence, the familiarity…and only got as far as the roof of the inn. Slumping down on the slanted tiles, I propped my arms on my knees and hung my head. It was never going to work, but I’d hoped anyway.

It didn’t take long for my mind to wander back to the wicked intruders below, and I found myself listening in on their hushed conversation, even cracking the window once more so I could hear better.

“There’s nothing more to be done tonight, Aven, you need to rest.”

I jolted at the sound of her name, recognizing it as something unique, simple, but also somehow devastating to hear. Aven. It rolled in my head like a pinball, getting stuck before banging around on an endless, destructive warpath. The room below sank into silence while I fought my way out from under the unexpected spell. Damn witches and their devilry.

Just like before, I didn’t mean to blip back into the attic. I definitely didn’t mean to manifest two feet from the bed where the witch lay sleeping. Yet here I stood. Solid. Hyper-aware. Infuriated. My chest still tingled from her touch, and I ran a tentative palm over the invisible handprints. Moonlight shone through the frosted panes of the window, casting the witch’s sleeping form in a pale glow. She slept on her side, one hand hidden under her pillow and the other tucked beneath her chin. It was peaceful…and deceptive.

I didn’t want to watch her, but I needed to understand what kind of witch she was. The kind that reaped death and destruction? Or the still-bad-but-slightly-less-evil kind that enjoyed causing small misfortune for fun?

From what I could tell, she was the kind that appeared too calm for having touched a ghost—something that shouldn’t have been possible. The kind too unafraid of the attic that’s driven every other tenant screaming down the stairs. There she slept, totally at ease.

Her malicious nature was hidden so perfectly behind a deceiving exterior. With her hair falling gently over her cheek and her legs curled toward her chest, she appeared soft. Innocent and lost. Like this was the first restful sleep she’d had in days.

I crushed that flicker of sympathy immediately. Witches lied. Witches manipulated. They destroyed things. Case in point, I could have sworn her hair was brown earlier, not that faint purple that reminded me of the lilac flowers growing wild down at the local farm every spring.

And look at what she’d done to my attic! It shimmered everywhere her magic touched, but especially along the walls, like this room was now hidden under a veil. It was unnatural.

The witch shifted on the bed, rustling the blankets, and I stepped back on instinct. Physical proximity to her was confusing, and I didn’t want to see if our first touch was a fluke. But even from the safety of the shadows, I couldn’t stop watching her. Her soft breaths pulled at my gut, and the small frown between her brows had a million questions running through my mind.

She was a dangerous mix of intrigue and familiarity.

Even now, the faint glow of magic that leaked from her as she slept pulled memories from the depths of my mind with torturous accuracy. I fought their resurrection, terrified to see the last moments of my life, but it came to me in bits and pieces regardless. The scent of candle smoke, heavy over a circle of reckless believers.

I clutched my head, fingers pulling at the roots of my hair. I didn’t want to remember! One member of the circle rose, a widow desperate to contact her dead husband. Magic hummed in the air, but I didn’t recognize it for the threat it posed. Not then. I sat crouched outside the attic door, peering through a small crack with my notepad in hand, ready to debunk yet another séance.

I adjusted my foot to get more comfortable, and dust rose. My sneeze sent me barreling through the door and straight into a sudden, burning cold eruption. Then…nothing. An echo of that frigid wound throbbed now in my chest. Right where she touched me.

I pulled myself from the memory and stumbled deeper into the shadows. “What are you doing to me, witch?”

She didn’t answer.

My dead heart raced anyway, a leftover habit from living. I hadn’t thought about that night in a very long time, and the unsanctioned panic caused by reliving it was an insult the witch didn’t even know she committed. But it counted.

A sudden flare of dark magic in the distance drew my attention to the far window. The signature pulsed in a faint, sickening wave that moved over the earth in a seeking pattern. It reached too close to be a coincidence. The source remained faint and far away, but the witch stiffened in her sleep like she sensed it too.

Whoever that was, their magic felt corrupt, more sinister.

“What evil will you unleash upon my town?” I wondered aloud.

I vowed to keep watch all night, telling myself it was because Amber Grove didn’t need more misfortune. But I’d be lying if I said a part of me watched because I couldn’t look away, no matter how vulnerable it made me.

The chains securing me to this attic loosened with the rising of the sun, before vanishing completely. I reveled in the brief feeling of freedom before I was reminded of the task at hand: keeping an eye on the witch. The increased light through the window chased away many of the shadows, but it also served to deepen the ones in my current hiding spot.