Page 12 of Wedded Witch

The diner is almost empty when I walk in, just a few truckers hunched over their coffee at the counter and an eccentrically-dressed old lady in leather and leopard print, who’s talking animatedly to one of them, an unlit cigarette waving around in her hands as she speaks.

The air inside is thick with the smell of frying bacon and stale coffee, and the linoleum floor sticks to my shoes as I make my way to a booth in the corner.

Despite that, it’s still kind of cosy and endearing. A slim waitress with dark hair pulled haphazardly back into a ponytail and tired, heterochromatic eyes shuffles over, a pot of coffee in hand. Her nametag readsRuth.

“What can I getcha?” she asks gruffly, notepad at the ready. Her accent is thick and tricky to understand.

“Just coffee. Black. And a slice of pie, please.” I don’t have much of an appetite, but I need something to keep me going. I’ve always found comfort in the simple things, and right now, pie and coffee seem like the closest thing to normalcy I can find.

Ruth nods and pours me a cup, then stomps back to the counter to fetch the pie. I sip the coffee slowly, letting the warmth seep into my bones as I try to shake off the lingering unease.

It’s not the best coffee in the world, but it’s hot and strong and it’ll do.

When she returns with the pie - which turns out to be cherry and my favourite - I decide to take a chance, despite her less than sunny demeanour.

“Excuse me,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “I’m headed to a place called Spells Hollow. Do you know it?”

Ruth freezes for a split second, her eyes narrowing as she sets the plate down in front of me. “Why’re you headed there?”

“I’m just… curious about it,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve heard it’s an interesting place.”

“Interesting ain’t the word I’d use,” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. “That place…only the insane venture there, and even fewer come back.”

I frown, surprised by the intensity in her voice. “What do you mean?”

“Spells Hollow is cursed, some say. Haunted by old magic and spirits best left alone. Folks around here know better than to mess with it. You’d do well to stay away, too.”

Her words send a chill down my spine, but they also spark a curiosity I can’t ignore. “Is there anywhere to stay nearby? A motel or something?”

Ruth looks at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighs. “There’s a motel just across the road. Ain’t much, but it’s the only option you’ll find out here unless you want to take ya chances in the woods with the wolves and things. But if you’re smart, you’ll turn around and head back to wherever you came from.”

“I appreciate the advice,” I say, offering her a small smile. Gosh, I must be exhausted if there’s a motel right opposite and I didn’t even notice. I wonder if there’s anything else around here. The place seems kind of deserted though.

“But I think I’ll check it out anyway.”

She shakes her head, muttering something aboutidiotic out of townersunder her breath as she walks away. I’m left alone with my thoughts, the remains of my pie growing cold in front of me as I try to process what she said.

Cursed. Haunted. Spells Hollow isn’t just some sleepy little town. There’s something more to it, something that has everyone here on edge. But instead of scaring me off, it only strengthens my resolve.

Whatever is waiting for me there, I need to face it. I need to understand what drew me to this place, why Gramps insisted this is where I’d find answers to break the curse, and why the magic is pulling me back.

I finish my coffee and leave a few bills on the table before heading back outside. The sun is just starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the parking lot as I make my way to the motel.

It’s a bit of a rundown place, the neon sign flickering weakly in the dim light, but it’s enough. It has to be. And there’s some really nice flower boxes outside, like someone’s tried to make the place a little more welcoming.

I thought the motel’s exterior had promised nothing more than a dreary night’s stay, but as I step inside, I’m caught off guard by the unexpected warmth of the interior. The lobby, though small, is surprisingly well-kept.

The wooden floors gleam under the soft light of vintage sconces, and the floral wallpaper, while old, is clean and welcoming. The faint scent of fresh coffee drifts through the air, mingling with the smell of pine from the polished wood.

I glance around, taking in the cosy seating area with its worn leather chairs and a small bookshelf stacked with paperbacks. It’s not luxurious by any means, but there’s an odd charm to it – like the place has been lovingly maintained despite its age.

As I near the front desk, my gaze settles on the man behind it. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, yet perfectly proportioned, his dark hair almost black under the dim lighting.

Though I can’t fully see his face, the sharp angle of his jawline, dusted with stubble, hints at ruggedness. Tattoos peek out from the collar of his T-shirt and snake down his muscular arms, disappearing beneath the fabric.

His strong, tanned hands, one adorned with a rose tattoo, deftly flip through a ledger, giving me time to admire him. There’s an effortless power to him that draws me in, and before I can stop myself, my pulse quickens as I imagine what it would be like to feel those strong hands on my body.

When he finally looks up, our eyes meet, and my breath catches in my throat.

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