Page 1 of A Witch’s Guide to Surviving Halloween

Chapter One

“Why do I live here?” Lucy grumbles from her perch, cross-legged on one of the pedestals to either side of Moonlit Pages’s front stoop.

I have to hold back a giggle, burying my chin in the collar of my jacket, because she looks like a puffball in her checkered fleece coat.

She pulls her hands into the sleeves, nothing but her clover eyes peeking over the top.

The hood covers her bright red curls, casting her face in a very fitting shadow.

Fishnet tights poke through the tears in the knees of her stone-wash jeans, white frayed edges fluttering in the crisp autumn breeze, making her shiver dramatically.

“Because you love Ashwood Haven,” I tease, eyeing the jack-o-lantern nestled into the corner between the base of the pedestal and the bottom step, which had been sitting where Lucy sits now when I left the store last night.

Lucy scowls, tucking a stray ribbon of red hair back into the hood of her coat with a hand that pops up through the head hole.

Heavily-lined eyes narrow at me and I can already tell she’s beginning to question all her life choices, like she does every day, up to and including just how much she loves me.

“Nope,” she bites. “Try again.”

I step up onto the bottom stair of the bookstore and coffee shop, so we’re eye to eye, and flash her a mockingly innocent smile. “Because you’re too lazy to leave.”

Rolling her eyes, she jumps down from her roost. Platformed books thud against concrete and she toes the carved pumpkin she’d unceremoniously dethroned. “Oh, right. That.”

With a rustle of keys, I push through the paint-chipped front door, the bell chiming with our arrival at the already warm store.

Lucy follows me in a rush, exaggerating her shudders as she stomps her feet and whips the empty sleeves of her coat back and forth.

A wreath of cotton spider webs and plastic tarantulas interwoven with burnt orange and ruby-red leaves clacks against the glass pane of the door as I lock it.

It’s the same color as the turning leaves on the trees, evenly spaced down Main Street, the now balding branches swaying in the biting morning breeze.

Lucy turns and starts her morning waddle toward the coffee bar, holding her enchanted coat close. Charming the lining to keep her toasty warm on cold mornings like this was the first thing she did with every new jacket.

I, on the other hand, leave my jackets as is, letting the wind find its way through the weave of the wool, so I can bask in the autumn air.

“Oh, come on. Aren’t you excited for the Halloween festival kick-off tonight?” I beam, my cheeks and nose still tingling from a chilly walk to the center of town. “A full week of bobbing for apples, hot cider, and donut booths? The parade?”

Lucy pouts at me, her bottom lip sticking out so far it’s comical. “All the customers order the same pumpkin spice whatever, tourists are everywhere, and the air hurts my face.”

I sigh, shrugging off my taupe coat and draping across the carved wooden desk that’s as old as Ashwood Haven itself.

I take care not to knock over the little plastic skeleton sitting on our card reader, patting it on the head when it stays upright.

“You realize that as the person who runs the coffee bar, you could choose not to serve the pumpkin-spice-whatever drinks, right?”

“Yes,” she whines, “but then I can’t drink them.”

I shake my head at her, a thin sympathetic smile at her early morning grumblings pulling at my cheeks.

“But the lantern walk?” I call to her retreating form, just to see her reaction, knowing full well she’s always hated the lantern walk—even though it’s one of my favorite festival activities.

Lucy throws her head back and groans. “Ugh!”

I giggle, leaning around a row of bookshelves to catch a glimpse of her staring down the espresso machine as if she’s preparing to challenge it to battle. “Don’t forget, we’re staying open late all week and you’re in charge while I’m gone.”

“Not today, Satan,” she yells back, not bothering to glance my way.

“That’s Amelia to you.”

“Same thing before eight.”

Grinning to myself, I tuck a long black lock of hair behind my ear that’s already come loose from my ponytail on my walk to the shop this morning. I wave a hand at the light switch, and half the overhead lights flicker to life, swathing the store in a warm glow that elicits a patented Lucy groan.

I leave her to stew in her pre-coffee petulance and start my morning routine to prepare the shop for a busier-than-usual day.

With the Halloween festival starting tonight, tourism numbers will be up, signaling the beginning of this year’s rush.

I take this time to enjoy the peace and serenity of having the bookshop almost entirely to myself.

My patchwork skirt brushes against my calves and I pull the cuff of my chunky knit sweater down over my hands despite the magic heating the store.

In the years since I took over the shop from my grandmother, there have been a handful of spells I never touched, but this one is my favorite.

Each morning, it feels like walking into one of her hugs, her reassuring arms wrapping around me from beyond the veil that separates the living from the dead.

Rubbing worn strands of yarn between my fingers, I do my best to ease the nerves, making my stomach churn at the thought of tonight’s opening ceremony.

Ashwood Haven’s legendary week-long Halloween festival is my favorite celebration of the year, and I’m really looking forward to it .

. . if I ignore all the things that make this year different.

With a deep breath, I push the butterflies down and spend the first hour before opening wandering between dark wooden shelves, occasionally rearranging a stack of tomes that jumped off the shelves in the night.

Most sections are well-behaved, but the travel section is particularly restless for some reason.

I tell them every night that they have to stay where I sort them.

And yet, every morning, I find them scattered around the store.

I sigh as I discover yet another volume about castles in Ireland sitting in the fantasy section.

Grandma never had this problem; the books always listened to her. With a firm talking to and a wag of her finger, they would stay in their place every time. I, on the other hand, have to tote Best Day Hiking Trails of the Southwest back from the geology section every morning.

Despite the ill-behaved books, this first hour before opening is always my favorite. Lucy and I work in silent companionship, doing our own thing together, and it gives me a chance to prepare myself for the conversations to come.

But at precisely eight o’clock, I brace myself and approach the front door. Through the glass, I spy an already waiting figure, swaying on his feet as he looks out over the main artery of Ashwood Haven, coming to life by the minute.

I wave a hand to light up the rest of the store and give myself my daily pep talk, convincing my nervous system that chatting with customers isn’t a life-or-death situation.

With only a mildly forced smile, I flip the sign on the front door from CLOSED to OPEN, turn the lock, and within seconds, the bell announces our first customer.

I step back from the door as Don steps through, his gregarious presence overwhelming in the way it changes the whole atmosphere of the shop. By simply stepping inside, he transforms the space from quiet and cozy to alive and boisterous.

“Good morning, girls!” he bellows, the same way he does every morning.

I push the door closed behind him, ensuring none of the warm air escapes. “Good morning, Don.”

He tips his chin at me and beelines for the coffee bar, rubbing his large hands together to stave off the cold.

I follow close behind, plopping myself down on one of the stools lined up against the counter and swivel back and forth as I wait to hear this morning’s town gossip.

“The usual?” Lucy asks, already pouring espresso beans into the grinder.

“Yes, ma’am. With an extra sprinkling of whatever it is you do that helps me sell the town to newcomers.”

Lucy shoots me a look out of the corner of her eye before flipping through the spell book behind the counter, its pages yellowed with age and charmed to never tear.

She grabs her mortar and pestle and starts grinding a mixture of allspice and cinnamon for a mix of luck and business success while mouthing the coinciding spell under her breath.

I rest my elbows on the granite counter, my chin in my hands as I lean in. “What’s the big occasion?”

“Oh, a young man is opening up shop across the street. I want to make a good first impression when I welcome him here shortly.” The announcement is boisterous, in the only way Don knows how to speak, but the way his mustache twitches at the end suggests an opinion on this whole matter that he isn’t sharing.

“First impression?” Lucy raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow at the half-bald man who practically runs the town. “He’s opening a store downtown, and you haven’t even met him yet? That’s not like you.”

“I’ll be quite honest, girls, this is a bit of an odd one. I wanted to show him around town before he bought the shop, but he insisted he wanted that one and only that one. Nothing was going to change his mind. Miss Laura only had it up for a day before he bought it right up.”

I tut my tongue. “Oh, Miss Laura. I can’t believe she’s retired.”

“I can’t believe her niece wouldn’t come home to run the bakery. She grew up behind that counter.” Lucy chimes in, lip curling with distaste.

I tip my head, my black ponytail swaying as I give her a scolding look.

“She has a husband and kids in the city, not to mention her job doing . . .” I rack my brain, trying to think back to one of Miss Laura’s many prideful laments about her niece’s success, coming up short. “Whatever it is she’s doing.”

“See? Selfish.”