Page 7 of Real Fake Hauntings

Sonia didn’t appear convinced. In fact, she appeared ready to grab me by the ear, drag me to the other end of the street, and explain several facts of life.

“Key is Bri—Jeremy’s niece.”

The only outward reaction to this news was a slight softening of Sonia’s eyes.

My gossipy senses tingled anew. Sonia was aware of a niece’s existence, even if they hadn’t met until now, but Key hadn’t known about Sonia. The plot thickened.

“I have things to do,” Sonia said in the next moment. With a last glare, she added, “Don’t mess this up.”

“Wait,” I said. “Where are the other pentagrams?”

“I’ll email you a list.”

“You’re not going to drive us?”

“We don’t all fit in my car. Email me a report later.”

With that, Sonia turned and stalked away like a woman on a mission. I sent a silent prayer to Mother Earth for people driving bikes today and returned my attention to the pentagram.

“Can I clean this up now?” Lydia asked.

“Not yet.”

With an inner grimace of disgust, I placed my hand on top of the right pentagram point and awakened my magic.

Most witches needed a way to focus their power, and that usually meant incantations. For me, silent ones had always been more than enough.

Detect.

Magic tingled on my palm, interacting with the blood on the wall—only a little bit, so it wouldn’t turn my legs into jelly. It returned a slight pulse of power, letting me know that some sort of magic had been used here. Unfortunately, there was no way to tell how powerful the spell had been or the intention behind it. Magic dispersed fast unless it was contained in a ward or potion, and all I sensed was an echo of the spell. In a few hours, even that would be gone.

It took a steady, repeated use of power to imbue objects with any kind of magic. Example A: my shop, considered by some as a conduit of great power thanks to repeated murder and dark magic usage by most of its previous inhabitants.

“Is that blood?” Key asked as I realized I didn’t have any wipes on me.

“Yep.”

“Yikes.”

“Indeed.” I turned toward Lydia, holding my hand in front of me as if it were possessed. “Have any wipes?”

She looked at my hand, then at me, a speculative gleam in her eyes before disappearing into the shop. She returned a minute later with a square, tiny pink hand towel printed with dog faces. “That’ll be five dollars.”

Lydia truly was Bosko’s daughter. It was admirable, really.

I snatched the towel from her hand and wiped my palm. The towel wasn’t a complete loss, though. Bleach and a good cleansing spell could do wonders.

Fluffy whined by my side, as if aware of my thoughts.

“Yes, you’re right,” I told her. “You cleanse better than bleach.”

Fluffy lolled her tongue and wagged her tail in happiness.

“In fact…” I smiled brightly at Lydia. “What about I do a cleansing spell on the wall after you clean it and we call it even?” I waved the hand towel like a parade flag.

Lydia grinned. “Sounds fair.”

“Were you working yesterday?”

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