Rhea placed a small, shiny tiger’s eye next to a large jar of sea salt, with the other supplies she was gathering. Tristan examined a set of short, fat candles before handing off the one with the smoothest sides.
“I don’t think spells like this are going to help,” he cautioned. She wasn’t listening. “Why do you need all this to attract a cat? It feels like we’re summoning something creepy.”
Rhea fished under her bed for a bowl to fill with water. “I’m not attracting a cat; I’m trying to communicate with something that understands them.” Her voice was strained while she stretched to reach deep into the dark, messy no man’s land between the floor and the bedframe. Something sticky met her hand and attached to her finger. On inspection in the light, she’d managed to snag a used pad.
“My neighbor’s cousin said cats love those things.” Tristan grinned sadistically. Rhea looked disgusted. Blood was not a supply she’d been planning to use, but the idea of items that tend to interest cats was worth consideration. “Your fault for telling me.” He cringed.
When all the supplies were gathered, Tristan went home for the night and Rhea brought her spell-casting items outside to a cold, empty porch overlooking a bland, slightly overgrown lawn. Her family always meant to set up chairs and spend more time outdoors, but they never did. It was the perfect place to light candles and meditate- good for magic.
She arranged the candles, salt, and other things carefully and sat down. There was no telling if it was within her abilities, but she had a good feeling about the spell she was planning. Engraving a rough image of a cat on the side of each candle, she was optimistic.
At about four in the morning, Hazel awoke to a paw pushing her nose. Smaller than Octa- much smaller- but equally fluffy, it accompanied a pair of yellow eyes with wide pupils. A kitten was sitting on her pillow, trying to wake her up.
The slightly ajar bedroom door creaked open, allowing a human silhouette to peak in. “Sweetie?” It was a mom-talk. At four AM. Great.
The kitten licked her face and disappeared into a wisp of fog. Was it a tiny Octa? The markings had looked similar, but it was hard to tell at such a small scale.
“I could’ve sworn I heard a cat somewhere. It’s probably outside, but…” Hazel grimaced. Sounds others noticed, but no sightings- the only evidence she didn’t have a serious psychological problem. “Has your window been open all night?”
Hazel groaned. The window had been closed when she went to sleep. “What do you want?” she whined, half to her mother and half to the absent cat.
Mrs. Wilson stepped into the room and closed the door almost all the way. “We haven’t been to a museum together in ages. I thought we could go to that lighthouse place out by the dump.” She smiled, but her eyes were still tired and she counted on the early morning’s dim light to hide it.
With her job still on hold, Hazel didn’t see the harm. She could ask about Clyde Ball while her mother was sober and check in with the Condellton Conservation Group on their cleanup and habitat restoration plans. Condellton was a nearby suburb, and the Condellton Conservation Grop managed all kinds of coastal areas and played an important role in scientific research. There was a good chance Hazel would find herself working with them in the future.
“Fine…”
By opening hour at 7:30, Hazel and her mother were at The Cliff House, a restored historic lighthouse turned into a local history museum sometime in the previous century. As if there weren’t already enough reminders of a happier past and Red Marina’s mini post-apocalypse. Octa hadn’t made an appearance since four, which made Hazel a little uneasy. Had her haunting come to an end?
The front desk was attended by a member of a reenactment organization. Short, bald and very single, he talked to Hazel’s mother for what seemed like all eternity, or more precisely, an hour and a half. This left Hazel with plenty of time to wander on her own.
Before the winding stairway that would lead to the top of the lighthouse, the museum had set up a labyrinth of shelves in musty, low-ceilinged rooms, all painted a depressing shade of gray. Weathered white? They may or may not have been repainted since the seventies. It was uncertain.
Each shelf and display platform held an assortment of historic artifacts, most of which were unrestored, lackluster items like mugs, pulleys and even some driftwood. Among the questionably curated collection, a small number of more interesting objects would occasionally demand attention. Old paintings, black and white photos and some depictions of sea monsters had also somehow found their way into the museum.
A wooden figurine of a mermaid (in very rough shape) caught Hazel’s eye for a moment. The didactic told the legend of sirens’ songs. For some reason, it made her think of her coworker, Iggy, and his passionate insistence that they needed to plan a karaoke night. Perhaps it was his unusual persuasive abilities that reminded her- it would be nice to talk to him again when the park reopened.
Comments (0)
See all