Read Chapter One: Devil’s Food

     The floorboards of the small closet snapped open like fragile chicken bones.     

     “You’re sure it’s here?” Estelle Staab asked without looking up.     

     “Of course it is. I put it there myself, silly,” the little girl said, her once-blonde curls bouncing as she spoke. “I hid it from my stupid brother, just like the big man asked me to.” The ghost was young, no more than six, and she stood there watching Estelle fumble with the old, rotting floorboards of the closet, looking impatient.

     “What man?” Estelle asked, suddenly stopping to wipe the sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. The young ghost was closer now, nearly on top of her, and it made Estelle flinch when she looked up.

     Up until six months ago, Estelle was a typical real estate broker who happened to talk to her dead husband almost every day.

     Well, talk to him and see him.

     So, if Estelle took a moment to really think about it, she would have to admit that maybe the words normal and everyday didn’t really apply to her after all.

     There was a time not so long ago when Mort (her beloved husband, who was more dead than alive) was the only ghost she could see unless he insisted on coming inside and settling into her bones, making her see the others. But those days were rare and short-lived. Now, there was talk of magical powers and spell books, not to mention a long line of family members who went around wearing black pointy hats, not just at Halloween.

     To top things off, Estelle was expected to participate in those activities, and even as she looked up at the little ghost standing next to her, her mind was still trying to come to grips with everything. To make matters worse, she realized early on that working magic, even simple spells and incantations, heightened her sensitive vision of the dead—better and clearer than her ghost of a husband could. The fact that she could see the sweet little ghost standing in front of her now, without Mort and without casting any spells, told her that the book she was searching for was powerful: too powerful to be left in a crumbling old house.  

     “I can’t say who told me to hide it. The big man said it was a secret, and that I wasn’t to tell anyone, not even you,” the little ghost said with a huff of temper and a stomp of her once shiny black shoe.

     Estelle watched her for a little longer, then went back to working on the floorboards at her knees.

     She was supposed to be taking measurements and listing rooms for the ad in the Sunday paper. She was supposed to be making sure everything was tidy and in order for the auction, not ripping apart the closet of the tiny, third-floor bedroom, looking for a spell book she knew had to be in there.

     SNAP! Estelle suddenly recoiled and pressed her hand firmly against her chest. Her face flushed three shades of red, and she muttered something about someone’s mother. The pain pulsed through her body, shooting up her arm, and made her usually sensitive stomach churn with nausea.

     “What did you do?” the little ghost asked, peering into the small closet where Estelle had somehow managed to squeeze herself.

     Estelle took a few deep breaths and extended her once-perfectly manicured hand to examine the damage.

     “Well, shit, I’ve broken a nail,” Estelle said, unsuccessfully trying to press the hot pink acrylic nail back into place with her thumb and forefinger.

     “I broke a finger once,” the little girl said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Hurt like the dickens, and my mom had to tape it together with funny white hospital tape and two Popsicle sticks.”

     Estelle gazed at the ghost of the little girl and wondered how she had died, but she didn’t dare to ask. The girl was dressed in a frilly, pale-pink dress, adorned with roses and white lace, that flared at her knees like an upside-down lily. On her tiny feet, she wore folded-down lace socks paired with adorable black strapped shoes. A bow sat to the left of her temple, attempting to hold a few of her perfect golden curls out of her face. She had a sweet smile and big, round cheeks that must have been rosier when her heart was still beating inside her chest.

     “That’s terrible,” Estelle said, her heart aching for the child but knowing there was nothing that could be done about it, not now, after so many years had passed.

     “Come on, come on, I don’t have all day, you know. If you take the book now, I can get back to my game before it gets too late,” the ghost said, still fidgeting.     

     Estelle asked, ‘What’s your name?’

     The young ghost shifted slightly where she stood and pondered the question.

     “You can tell me,” Estelle said. “I can even keep it a secret if you wish.” 

     “If I tell you, will you hurry?” the girl asked.

     “Yes,” Estelle said with a nod.

     “Ava,” the girl finally said. “But I can’t remember my last name, so don’t bother asking. It’s been so long since anyone’s called me by it, I simply can’t remember it anymore.”

     “Ava’s a pretty name,” Estelle said, feeling a bit sick to her stomach. She smiled back at her new friend as best she could, but it was a strained, halfhearted smile. “Sorry, Ava, I’ll be only another moment or two, I promise.”

     She pulled back the now well-loosened board, and it snapped again, this time enough for her to remove it completely. Sure enough, Estelle could see something wrapped in a yellow doll’s blanket, covered in dust and countless long-abandoned spider webs.

     “There, you see. I told you it was there,” the girl said with firm satisfaction. “Now, if you don’t mind, I want to get back to my game before we all run out of time.” The small ghost winked at Estelle, a big smile turning the corners of her small mouth, and disappeared in the soft rush of a light breeze that had suddenly swept through the room’s open doorway. There was the bubbling of children’s laughter and the sickeningly sweet scent of gardenias as Ava ran from room to room through the large, empty house.

     Estelle held in her hands what had to be the book from her dreams, the one that had been calling to her for the past few nights, demanding her attention. She didn’t bother to unwrap it from its dusty cover. Instead, she simply tucked it under her arm and hurried down the steps to the well-worn kitchen where she had first met the little ghost, Ava. There, Estelle paused to grab her purse and the large stack of estate paperwork she had left on the kitchen counter. She glanced back into the parlor, her eyes scanning the stark white room, and felt the hairs on her neck stand up. There was something else there—something she couldn’t see yet, but the feeling was one of anger, of rage. Without hesitation, Estelle turned on her heel and pushed through the front door, not daring to look back. She didn’t want to stay in the old, dilapidated house even a moment longer than necessary.

     It was getting late in the afternoon, and the child felt her nerves unsettled. She hadn’t expected to see anyone there, least of all a little ghost in a pink dress and black strapped shoes. Estelle suddenly became terrified that if she stayed any longer, there might be more ghosts, and perhaps the others wouldn’t be quite so friendly.

     Early the next morning, Estelle Staab, Morgan’s Peak’s only real estate broker, emerged from the Lavender Lady Beauty Salon with expertly repaired fingernails and modestly revamped Marilyn Monroe-style curls. She had been aiming for a Jane Mansfield or Marilyn Monroe look, and her beautician, Dixie Dravoue, nailed it. She was dressed in form-fitting jeans and a plum-colored tank top, topped with an oversized, open pink and white plaid flannel shirt that tastefully covered her more-than-adequate curves. Her favorite red high-top sneakers squeaked slightly as she avoided the numerous spring rain puddles and washed-up earthworms on her way to the Corner Market.

     Estelle had been blessed with the kind of curves men dreamed about and women hoped for. She was a widow, though she didn’t look like any widow you might imagine; at least, that’s what she’d been told. And even though Estelle had some difficulty accepting her latest birthday, choosing instead to stay where she felt most comfortable—in her thirties—she was willing to admit, on some level, that she was nearly grown up.     

     Estelle made her way across the street, pausing to check the nearly nonexistent traffic, and then headed to the market nestled between High Street and Main. Her freshly pampered hair was slightly blown from the still-keeping heater that they had running on low as she entered through the market’s sliding glass doors. Estelle muttered something about wasted money under her breath and stopped to fuss with her hair in the large, round mirror they used to try and catch the occasional shoplifter.

     She wasn’t more than three aisles in when Estelle found herself amid a giant display of Cover Girl lipstick, large enough to rival the biggest strip mall. She stood there, her index finger gently tapping her full bottom lip, examining the cosmetics in front of her with a critical eye.

     Usually, reds were her go-to choice, but today she wanted something a little different—a nonconforming plum. She was feeling unusually rebellious and energized. An attractive, earthy-looking plum caught her eye, winking at her from its shiny metal tube, and just as Estelle reached for it, Mort, her lifeless husband, appeared beside her.

     “You are never going to believe what I found,” Mort said, practically bursting at the seams with excitement.

     Estelle’s bright glow faded.

     It wasn’t that she didn’t love or miss him; it was just that his visits had recently gotten worse. Now, all Mort seemed to bring back with him these days was trouble, with a capital T. 

     “Where the hell have you been all this time?” Estelle asked gloomily, not taking her eyes off her newly claimed lipstick. “You can’t tell me that Abby’s trial took six and a half months.”

     “Has it really been that long?” asked Mort, scratching his head and mussing his coal-black hair even more than before. “Maybe, I don’t know. You know I don’t have any sense of time.”

     “So you’ve told me,” Estelle said, pulling the plum-colored lipstick off the silver metal bar and walking to the checkout with it. 

     The Corner Market sold everything except clothing and alcohol. You could buy your milk and eggs and even get replacement windshield blades for your car if needed. The young girl behind the counter rang up the lipstick, and Estelle stepped outside into the filtered sunlight. On her way to her car, she successfully avoided two more water puddles and another earthworm trying to make its way to the grassy patch on the other end of the sidewalk. 

     “So, what is it?” she asked, as she put the new lipstick into her oversized black leather purse and unlocked the driver’s side door of her vintage 1965 cherry red Corvette.

     “So, what is what?” Mort asked, staring blankly at her with those big blue eyes of his — the eyes she used to get lost in, the ones that had coaxed her out of her virginity.

     Estelle looked at him for a moment longer, then rolled her eyes. She slid behind the wheel of her car and started the engine with a smooth roar. The black leather seat was cold against her back, and she shivered slightly.

     “The thing,” she finally said with a huff.

     Estelle reached around to the small back seat and pulled out a cream-colored, zippered sweater that she had worn earlier in the morning, then slipped her arms into it. The sweater was just as cold as the leather seat had been, and she shivered again.

     “Oh,” Mort said, popping onto the seat next to her. “That. Well, I think I should show you because if I try to explain it, you’re never going to believe me.” He cleared his throat and, for a moment, looked like he might have done something horribly wrong again. “I left it in your backyard.”

     “Great,” Estelle said, pulling onto the road and heading up the hill. Her mind raced the entire time, trying to figure out what the ‘thing’ waiting for her in the backyard might be. She considered everything from pirate treasure to rotting corpses, but none of these ideas felt like real options. She pulled into her townhouse driveway and turned off the engine. Estelle glanced at her dead husband sitting there, squirming in his seat, and let out a sigh.

     “It’s not another ghost, is it? I can’t handle another ghost, not now,” she said, staring at her front door. She wanted to say, I can’t handle another ghost like the one yesterday, but thought it might raise too many questions. And honestly, she just didn’t want to talk about it right now. 

     “No, it’s definitely not a ghost,” Mort said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

     In a flash of colored light, Mort’s ghostly form vanished, and she was alone once more. Estelle unbuckled her seatbelt, stepped out of the car, and unlocked the front door to her townhouse.

     The townhouses were new, no more than ten years old, and Estelle loved each one. They rose tall and straight from the cement sidewalk, with facades that were just slightly different from one another. All had classic lines and wide shuttered windows. They added character, something you’d expect to find in an upscale part of Philadelphia, not in a tiny town in farm country. And that’s exactly what Estelle loved most—how unexpected they were.   

     She opened the door to silence, with no Geneva, no demands for food or attention. Something was terribly wrong.

     “That’s strange,” Estelle muttered to herself as she closed the door behind her. She made her way into the kitchen where Geneva, her overstuffed and overpampered white Persian cat, sat looking out the window over the sink. The cat’s eyes were glued onto something outside, her fine-textured white fur standing on end as if someone had just rubbed an inflated balloon all over her. She was definitely not happy about something.

     “Geneva?” Estelle asked. “Is Mort’s fabulously wonderful surprise bothering you?”

     Geneva let out a deep growl and moved closer to the window.

     “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said to the cat.

     Estelle looked out the window at Mort, who stood impatiently next to the small Koi pond she had installed a few years earlier. She waved to him and even tried to smile, but she wasn’t really in the mood for surprises today. Mort waved back and motioned for her to come outside.

     “It better not be another ghost,” she said to Geneva as she went out the kitchen door. Estelle stood on the small, brick patio that separated her townhouse from the lawn for a moment or two. Her eyes scanned the tiny, but tidy, backyard, but saw nothing that would sound alarms in her head. The trees were just coming into bloom, the grass was returning to its old green self, and the fish in her little pond were hungry.

     “So, where’s this ‘thing’ that I just wouldn’t believe without seeing?” she asked, opening the plastic tub of Koi food that sat on the small patio chair and tossing a handful into the water. The fish darted to the surface, eagerly snatching the brown floating pellets.

     Mort cleared his throat and signaled for something to reveal itself, something Estelle had overlooked in her quick survey of the backyard.

     From behind a small clump of budding azalea bushes, a tiny creature no larger than a cat emerged. Thin, hairless, with green-brown, wrinkled skin, it moved upright on crooked hind legs, resembling a little person in the most dreadful Halloween costume. The creature glanced at the fish in Estelle’s pond, leapt in, and, with a single swipe of ragged teeth, bit the poor fish’s head clean off.

     Estelle stood there in silence, gaping for a few seconds. Then a scream echoed through the surrounding vegetation loud enough to temporarily deafen Mort and startle nearby nesting birds, followed by silence. Mort stifled a bark of laughter and turned to apologize to his wife, only to see that she had fainted into a pool of wet grass and fish food.    

     It was a good fifteen minutes later before Estelle regained even a flicker of consciousness, and when she did, she was more than a little pissed. She got to her feet, flicking the fish food out of her hair and groaning at the wet spots on her knees and behind from the soggy grass. Her eyes locked onto the small creature standing next to Mort, and a look close to homicide flashed across them.  

     “What the hell is that thing?” she said, not waiting for a response. “It ate my damn fish!” She wiggled slightly and pulled out a few more fish pellets from inside her bra. 

     “Sorry, Sweets, but in his defense, I don’t think he realized that the fish was supposed to be your pet,” Mort said. “He even buried it for you.

     Estelle looked down at the small, catlike creature now standing by a freshly dug grave, likely her poor fish’s final resting place. The wiry-looking creature’s hands were folded behind his back, and he kept his eyes low.

      The creature nodded in agreement with Mort’s assumption.

     “Kupa sorry,” it said in a voice reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard. But there was a small smile that flickered across its fine lips, then quickly vanished.

     “Well, it doesn’t look sorry,” Estelle gasped back at Mort. “That damn fish he just ate cost me over two hundred dollars!”

     Mort inhaled sharply and rolled his eyes.

     “Well, what the hell would possess you to pay two hundred dollars for a fish!” he yelled back, looking over at the now-dead fish’s Fortune 500 grave.

     Estelle could see him trying to pull himself together, and she almost smiled. Mort would never have spent that much money on a fish, not in a million years; that was probably why she bought five of them. 

     “If you think about it, it could have just as easily been eaten by a bird or a stray cat,” Mort said in a calmer voice. He even managed to smile a little, but she could tell that the money thing was just eating away at him; well, it would have if he had any insides to eat.

     “But it wasn’t, was it? It was eaten by this … this thing!” Estelle said, pointing at the hairless creature and wrinkling her nose at it. “What is it anyway?”

     “I don’t know, really; he followed me back from the trial. He was going on and on about making a new start, wanting a chance to do right by the world, yada, yada, yada. To be honest, Sweets, I stopped listening to the little bugger about three days ago. He just never shuts up,” Mort said.

     “Nice,” Estelle said.

     “Kupa good,” the creature said. “Kupa not eat whole fish.” It blinked up at Estelle with its big yellow eyes, and Estelle wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

     “Yes, well Kupa, if that’s your name, we don’t go around eating anything that’s still alive,” Estelle said disapprovingly.

     “Just to clarify, Kupa, we don’t go around killing anything just to eat it either,” Mort said, glancing at the remaining fish still frantically swimming in the pond, no doubt traumatized by their comrade’s sudden and unexpected murder.

     “Correct, we don’t kill anything either,” said Estelle, turning three shades paler as she thought about not only the remaining fish in the pond but also her sweet, poor cat, Geneva. It looked to Estelle like the small creature was about to protest, but then thought better of it.

     “Kupa good,” it snapped out in a disgusted, defeated tone.

     “So why is it in my yard?” Estelle asked, looking blankly back at the creature.

     “I was thinking he might stay with you, since you’re a witch now and all. I figured you might need him,” Mort said. “Don’t all witches have minions or something? Besides, he’s got a bit of magic himself, you know. Granted, the magic’s not that great, but he’s been working on it. I think he might even be getting better a little.”

     Kupa blinked at Mort and shook his head quickly.

     “Kupa magic good,” he said, scrunching his nose and pointing at Estelle’s cement angel, which sat at the water’s edge, watching over her pond full of fish with an angelic gaze. Kupa mumbled something illegible, and suddenly the angel sprang to life, but it was no longer so angelic. Orange-scaled skin and fleshy bat wings had replaced the pale feathers of the angel. Its newly opened eyes, black on black, focused on Estelle as its mind-shattering scream pierced the morning air. The now unholy angel leapt from the ground and vanished into the overcast sky. There was a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder in the distance.

     Estelle stared at Mort in horror.

     Kupa smiled brightly at the two of them and declared, “Kupa magic, Kupa good.”

     Estelle backed up toward the back door of her townhouse, scanning the dark morning sky. Her first thought was the mace she’d left at the bottom of her purse. She should have known better than to leave it in the house when Mort said he’d brought something home. From somewhere in the distance, she heard a woman’s scream slice through the quiet morning air like a razor.

     ‘Okay, Mort, I don’t know about you, but that didn’t sound good at all. I mean, for Christ’s sake, for all we know that thing just ate one of my neighbors,” she said, eyeing Kupa where he stood. ‘Bad… whatever you are!”

     Kupa hung his head low and sat on his haunches, his bottom lip drooping in a pout as he pulled his skinny tail up around him like a safety blanket.

     “I don’t think he meant any harm; I mean, look at him. I think you hurt his feelings or something,” Mort said, looking down at his new friend. “Last week, he made some real progress—turned a rock into a plant.”

     “What kind of plant?” Estelle asked, still shaken by the whole evil-angel fiasco.

     Mort offered his crooked smile.

     “Poison ivy,” he said.

     “I’m getting the feeling that Kupa here isn’t really all that good. From the look of his magic, I’d have to take a stab in the dark and say he’s just a bit left of good,” Estelle said. “I think you need to send him back to wherever it is he came from.”

     Kupa’s eyes widened.

     “About that,” Mort said. “I don’t think he can; I think he’s been kicked out or something.”

     “Probably for crappy magic,” Estelle said.

     Before Estelle could say another word, the small creature burst into tears, its cat-like face buried in its hands.

     “Kupa not wanted,” he said in a muffled, childlike tone.

     “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made the poor guy cry,” Mort said, trying to appeal to his wife’s nurturing side.

     “I really don’t think…” Estelle started to say when she heard someone knocking at her door.

     “I’ll keep an eye on him,” Mort said.

     “Fine, but keep him under control or you’re both out of here for good,” Estelle said as she spun on her heel and opened the back door. Mort and Kupa scurried inside. “Hide him,” she added, opening the basement door.

     Before Mort could guide Kupa down the stairs, he had already scurried into the foyer and dashed up to the second floor, his noise loud and high, as if he smelled something just too tempting to ignore.

     “Mort!” Estelle yelled, but it was too late. In a flash of reflected light, Mort was gone.

     There was a second knock at the front door, and as Estelle reached for the knob, a loud crash sounded as something large was knocked over, followed by a deep-throated growl of a cat echoing throughout the upstairs hallway.

     Estelle forced the best fake smile she could manage onto her face and opened the front door. It was Mark Pullman, Tom York’s deputy.

     Mark was twenty-eight, but with his freshly scrubbed, freckled face and vibrant red hair, he looked more like twelve. He was tall and thin, with clear blue eyes and a slight, genuine smile.

     “Morning, deputy,” Estelle said.

     “Morning, Mrs. Staab,” Mark said, looking past her and into Estelle’s house to see what caused the crash. “The sheriff sent me to fetch you.”

     Another crash from upstairs made Estelle wince.

     “Really,” she said, slowly opening her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

     “Emma Bernstein’s gone missing, and he wanted you to come. Didn’t say why really, just that I was to come and fetch you,” he said. His brow furrowed in thought. “Is everything okay in there?”

     “Sure, fine,” Estelle said and smiled widely. “I just gave my cat a little too much nip this morning, and she’s bouncing off the walls like a crazy animal,” Estelle said, flailing her hands around in the air.

     The thought of Emma Bernstein going missing made her chest ache. Not only was she a good woman, but she was also the only person in town who could work that kind of magic with a spatula. Estelle had eaten more fried chicken, chocolate walnut fudge, and hot pot roast made by Emma Bernstein’s talented hands than anyone else in town. She just had to find her; she just had to know she was alright.

     Crash! Thump! The walls around her vibrated, and this time, it was closer.

     “Could you just hold on while I grab my purse?” Estelle asked, her cheeks flushing. “It won’t be but a minute.”

     Before the deputy had a chance to answer, Estelle slammed the door in his face and spun around. A fine curl of blonde hair tumbled down her cheek, and she brushed it away with a huff. 

     “Get him right now!” Estelle snapped through clenched teeth.

     Mort reappeared in view, nodded, and approached Kupa as he raced down the stairs after Estelle’s thoroughly frightened cat.

     “Stop!” he boomed, and Kupa skidded to a halt, panting heavily.

     “Kupa not hurt. Kupa only pet,” Kupa said, looking past Mort in an effort to see where the cat had hidden herself.

     “Estelle would rather it if you didn’t pet Geneva right now,” Mort said. Kupa looked crestfallen, and Mort smiled down at him. “Maybe you can pet the cat later.”

     “We need to go now, you heard Mark—Emma’s missing. I think it’s best for everyone if Kupa came with us,” Estelle said, grabbing her purse from the small table in the foyer and making room for him inside. “Do you think he can be trusted to stay hidden and keep his mouth shut?”

     Kupa smiled brightly at Estelle, but his ragged teeth made him appear more sinister.

     “Kupa is good. Kupa should be as quiet as a dead mouse,” he said.

     “Well, that’s a pretty vision,” Estelle said. She crouched down with her bag open wide. “If you talk or make even a peep, you’re going to be in big trouble.”

     Kupa raised his left hand, clearly swore some kind of nasty little critter oath, and snuggled into Estelle’s purse.

     “Shhh,” he said, placing a sharp, clawed finger over his lips.

     “It’s a damn good thing you carry around a suitcase, Sweets,” Mort said and smiled his warm, crooked smile at his wife.

     Estelle wrinkled her nose at him and brushed him off.

     “Just don’t get lost on the way to the diner,” she said, smoothing her hair back as best she could and opening the front door.