Poe’s raven, this bird didn’t say “nevermore.” He only squawked. But he liked to sit on his perch and watch her. Sometimes—though he was nowhere near as attached to her as he had been to Aunt Mina—he would even sit on her shoulder. She didn’t mind; Aunt Mina had trained him. He kept his droppings discreetly deposited in his cage onto newspaper that was easy to replace.
“Hey, buddy,” she said, putting down her packages and walking over to the bird. She stroked his head through the bars the way he liked. “Got your birdseed. All is well.”
His cage was near the mantel, so she set the bag of birdseed on top while she fed him. When she was finished, she stepped back and smiled, thinking that it was time to make some changes. But it was hard. She’d spent so much of her childhood here in the cottage. Her parents had traveled frequently for work, and since Devin had loved Aunt Mina and her aunt had loved her, it had made sense for her to stay here.
She’d loved how different Aunt Mina was from her own parents and everybody else’s—that she collected unusual and beautiful things. Once, in school, Brent Corbin had told her that if she’d just add a few more wacky family members she could join the cast of The Addams Family.
That was okay. She’d grown up with love, both here in Auntie Mina’s cottage and in the house her parents had owned—and still owned, actually—an old Victorian near the wharf and the House of the Seven Gables. It had been rented out for years now, and it was completely different from the way she remembered it. While the cottage...
Despite the years, little had changed here.
Devin opened the box holding her beautiful new silver medallion and hung it around the neck of a marble bust of Madame Tussaud that sat on a pedestal near the fireplace. The bust had been made from a life mask of the tiny woman who had created so many wax images, including death masks of some of the victims of the guillotine. Aunt Mina had loved the woman because she had been so talented—and such a survivor. The pentagram suited her marble neck.
“Guess I should get to work, huh?” Devin asked the bird.
He was too busy eating to reply.
She booted up the computer. The world seemed silent. Too silent. She turned on iTunes and set the music to play randomly.
For long minutes she actually concentrated.
Then she heard the crying.
It was soft and heart-wrenching—so soft, she wasn’t sure at first that she was really hearing anything at all. Next she thought it might have been part of the song that was playing.
But then a Bon Jovi hit came on, and she knew there was no soft sobbing in that hard-hitting rock song.
She muted the volume and listened. She was certain she heard it again. Very strange, since her nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away.
She walked to the door and opened it—and thought she saw a woman in white disappearing into the trees.
“Hello?” she called out. “Can I help you?”
There was no answer. The leaves rustled as the breeze picked up, nothing more.
“Please, do you need help?” She stepped out onto the stone path that led from her house to the road.
No answer.
Because no one was out there, she told herself.
She turned and looked back at the bird. Poe was still playing with his seed, unconcerned.
And of course, the idea that there was anyone out there had almost certainly come from the fact that she’d spent half her childhood, her most impressionable years, growing up with Aunt Mina. Not that her aunt had been crazy—unless being delightfully full of fun and life could be called crazy. But Aunt Mina had been forever telling stories—stories about leprechauns and banshees and forest folk, and the arguments that went on between the tooth fairy and Santa’s elves.
Devin walked back in the house, trying to forget the sound of sobbing and give her attention back to Auntie Pim and the Belligerent Gnome.
It was wonderful that her books had sold out, she thought.
Thanks to her aunt, she not only had a wonderful place to live but she’d found her true vocation. She’d done her duty as a junior reporter, but when Aunt Mina had suggested she try children’s stories, she had sat down and written one. She’d set her sights on reaching ten-year-olds—the age she’d been when Aunt Mina had first enchanted her.
Auntie Mina had been a practicing Wiccan. Her garden—while now in need of a woeful amount of care—was filled with a wide selection of herbs. Long before it had been popular to be Wiccan in Salem, Auntie Mina had been a healer and devotee of the old religion. While some in town mocked her, others came to her for advice, and with their aches and pains.
Devin’s parents were good Anglicans, but they were also a pair of hippies and were all for everyone believing as they felt they should, so they’d respected Aunt Mina’s religion. According to Devin’s father, “There are real Wiccans, and they’re just as decent as everyone else—or not. And then there are commercial Wiccans. You know—those people who come to Salem and open shops and claim to be Wiccans for a living. Hey, who’s to judge? Your aunt helps everyone, whatever their beliefs. In my opinion, like she says, it doesn’t much matter what we call the path or the light at the end of that path as long as we’re good people while we walk it, doing our best to help our fellow travelers.”
Devin loved her parents. When she’d left for school, they’d rented out their old home off Front Street and moved west to enjoy the mountains and sunshine of Boulder, Colorado.
Her own cottage was small but charming. It dated back to the early 1700s. There were just six rooms, all on the ground floor, with the parlor having a grand stone fireplace and old, unfinished woodwork all around. The room was decorated with Aunt Mina’s various treasures: crystal balls, elf-shaped incense holders, gargoyles, raven bookends, a pair of medieval mirrors—the bust of Madame Tussaud, of course—and all sorts of other items suited to a slightly crazy but very sweet Wiccan.
Devin’s first book, Auntie Pim and the Gregarious Ghost, sat nicely in the shelf alongside her second book, Auntie Pim and Marvelous Martian, contained between the raven bookends.
Looking at the books, she was glad that Aunt Mina had lived to see the first one published. She’d been so proud. Thinking of her aunt made Devin smile. She couldn’t be too sad—Aunt Mina had died at the grand old age of one hundred and one. She’d enjoyed great health until the night she’d said she was tired, sat in the old maple rocker before the fire and simply died. Devin had still been working for the paper at the time, but her mom had come for a visit because Aunt Mina had called her. Aunt Mina hadn’t been alone. Devin was glad about that, too.
Sometimes Devin thought she saw her aunt peeking out at her from around a corner with a mischievous smile.
But then, thanks to Aunt Mina, she’d thought she’d seen the dead before. That was because she really did owe everything to Auntie Mina, who’d been the best storyteller ever. When she had taken Devin to the Howard Street Cemetery where old Giles Corey had been pressed to death and told his story, Devin could have sworn that she saw the old man standing among the tombs, leaning on a cane, his expression thoughtful as the breeze rushed through his thin gray hair.
Auntie Mina had often told her with a
