Chapter 3 Late-Night Decisions are Always Regrettable #2
Unfortunately, life with Mom was only two degrees saner than with Grandma.
That’s when I drew a line in the sand: I gave myself a nickname, less witchy-sounding than Samantha, and I made it my mission to become as un-Spüky as possible.
I’m holding to that, too. By the time I’m thirty, I aim to be as boring as Baldy.
To be the wallpaper of people, an owner of 2.
5 children and/or dogs living in a suburban McMansion.
To be graced with a back-buckling mortgage and a partner with no ambitions beyond making money and watching Sunday football.
The dream, basically. The goddamn, paranormal-free American dream.
Which I can’t achieve while I’m stuck in this dysfunctional witch shop. In this dysfunctional witch town. When I need to be starting my new job elsewhere in two days!
“Samantha,” says Baldy. “Would you kindly refrain from sweeping dust over my feet?”
I’d rather not. I feel a flicker of joy at the pained bob of his Adam’s apple above his bow tie.
“You’re a true believer,” I say, sweeping more dust over his shoes. “I can tell. You really bought into the whole witch-town tourist package. But the joke’s on you, Baldy.”
“Bhauldeen.”
“Like I was saying, my grandma was a cosplayer. The furthest thing from a witch. There’s no magical binding on the will, no matter what she said, but if it helps, I’ll pay you to figure out a legal workaround to Grandma’s request—a magical workaround, if you will.
Just call me before you send the invoice.
I expect there will be a reasonable fee.
And when you need me to do anything with the courts, I’ll come back. As of tomorrow, though, I’m—”
I wiggle my index and middle fingers like they’re running away. Baldy watches with intense, if pallid, concern.
“That is not possible, Samantha.”
“Believe me, it is. I know a lot about quasi-legal wiggle room.”
“Your continued presence in Salem, guarding your grandmother’s spirit, was one of Rosamund’s last requests. It deserves to be honored.”
Good lord. What does he think Grandma was, a Gothic saint?
“Well, tough for her. I’ve told you, I can’t stay here,” I say firmly. “I start work Monday. In Manhattan. You might have noticed that’s not in commuting distance.”
From his blank expression, Baldy does not comprehend distance. This must be an advantage of owning a self-driving car.
“Don’t you kids all work from home these days?” he asks.
“I’m twenty-two, not a kid. Besides, aren’t you here in person?” I remind Baldy. “Same deal.”
“I see,” says Baldy, unaware it’s not even close to the same deal.
I didn’t gun for a job at an accounting firm with a remote work model.
I chose EFG New York because it insists on its employees living locally and working on-site.
While I build up my suburban home savings fund, New York is where I have to be—mainly because it’s a place you can’t help blending in.
In the city, no one will flag you down and expect you to stop walking.
You can cross at an intersection wearing nothing but a brazen rainbow beach towel and the oiled-up pecs of a god and still get hit by a taxi.
I would know. I’ve seen it happen. The oily man got away largely unscathed, if more naked.
Besides, it’s a big deal to get to work at a corporate headquarters in the world’s financial hub. The way I see it is, most people want the best job they can get. That’s why I wanted it too. Because I’m so average. Average-zilla.
But I’m obviously not going to bare my soul to this Grandma Rose sympathizer.
“How about this, Baldy. When I’m done cleaning, we can resume this chat on a call,” I say. “All right? Off you go. On to a new lawyering adventure.”
I make shooing movements with the broom. Once he realizes I’m putting him to best use as a human dustpan, Baldy sighs with resignation and shuffles toward the door.
“Very well,” he says as he comports himself. “I will find you when you do not call, since you don’t answer your phone.”
At last, the world’s lumpiest lawyer dips out of the shop. Good riddance to him, to his resistance to oil-cleansing scalp products, and to his allegedly magical contract that I’m not buying a word of.
As loath as I am to admit it, watching Baldy drive away, I feel a pang of longing for my mom.
I wish she were here. Or more accurately, I wish she had the presence of mind to be here in Salem, performing the role of executrix and alleged spirit guardian instead of me.
The way a daughter should. Grandma was a lost cause, but sometimes I wonder what Mom would’ve been like if she hadn’t surrendered to the paranormal life.
When I was a kid, she cycled through a zillion crunchy jobs she could do from home: reading tarot cards, selling MLM leggings and mouthwash, filling our living room with homemade soaps that she claimed were cupcake-scented, but mostly smelled like yeast and toe lint.
She was weird even by Portland, Oregon, standards.
I learned to hide my friends’ existence so Mom wouldn’t besiege their parents with invitations to join pyramid schemes.
Still, we got along pretty well, the two of us, with the help of my mostly AWOL dad’s child-support checks.
Until Mom discovered plants. Supernatural, succulent ones.
This led to another quick packing of bags and the purchase of a one-way ticket, and suddenly, I was living alone in our apartment, dodging child services while Mom pursued her paranormal dreams in Mexico.
After she stopped paying rent—having apparently forgotten that parents are supposed to house and feed their children—I sold everything I could and finished my senior year of high school while crashing on pullout sofas at random friends’ houses.
I swore to myself I’d never go through houselessness again.
Or insecurity in general. Benjamin Franklin once said, “Nothing can be certain except death and taxes.” It’s what inspired me to become an auditor.
The weird thing is, Mom’s been staying in a Baja California hotel ever since. She hasn’t come home for my graduations or birthdays. She didn’t come to Grandma’s funeral. At this point, it’s kind of unclear if she can even leave.
All the more reason to complain to the room, with Grandma’s knobby broom in hand.
“Who knew that dying could be so damn complicated?” I ask the air.
“That’s why I declined,” says a voice behind me.
I nearly die right then.
But instead I turn around and bop what I find—the stupid head from Grandma’s house—with the end of my broom.
“What the hell!” I say. Then I bop it again, twice, for good measure. “How did you get here? How did you get away from me last night? I figured an owl got you. Or a raccoon.”
“I asked some crows to drop me off,” Bulan the head replies buoyantly. He seems relatively unharmed, considering he’s missing most of his organs. Which is unbelievable. Possibly less believable than his existence.
“Some crows,” I repeat.
“They’re quite friendly.”
I stare at him until he laughs. “Don’t look so angry, Sabby.”
“I’m going to drown you in a sink.”
“I like baths,” he replies.
“Then how am I supposed to get rid of you?”
“I’m not going to give you suggestions,” the head whines. “I came back because… Well…”
Because what? Is his gluttonous masochism the reason he’s dead, or undead, or whatever?
And why would he come find me after narrowly escaping being buried against his will?
He better not think I’m going to keep him as my pet.
A body-impaired, lighthearted curiosity cannot replace a golden retriever.
Our conversation, stilted as it is, gets cut off by the door opening. Two strangers stride into the apothecary clutching huge black parasols. They distress me in a way I can’t identify. It’s probably the outfits.
The woman has a long neck, like a giraffe’s, wrapped tightly in about a half foot of fluffy, purple-feathered boa. She has bound the rest of herself in a black dress that might actually be a spray-painted roll of Bubble Wrap. Her nails are bright red, but not with polish.
She’s still kind of pretty beneath the mess. I give her face an 8/10.
Meanwhile, the man is dressed in a blazer with joggers and hiking boots.
His handlebar mustache seems to be twitching.
Did a very slender mouse crawl onto his face?
Or is it a fake mustache that’s losing its stickiness and about to fall off?
I think about the one and only time I tried wearing sticky boobs.
No idea why you would do that to yourself.
All in all, I don’t know why they’re giving me weird vibes. A good half of the pedestrians in downtown Salem are parading around in absurd outfits right now.
Maybe that’s my salvation. The spirit of the season might keep these weirdos from thinking my whole head-pet situation is too abnormal.
“He’s a Roomba,” I explain. “The head. Happy Halloween.”
“I can be of assistance,” says Bulan instead of acting like a Roomba, which would actually be helpful.
The visitors stare at me, then the head, then smile close-lipped in unison. I feel my hackles rise. Nothing good can come from such synchronicity.
“What do you two want?” I ask. “Because this shop is unfortunately—”
“We’re friends of Hanry’s,” says the man.
I frown. “Henry who?”
“Han-ry. Hanry Burleson,” says the woman.
With that, they devolve into silence. I refuse to be the first to speak. It’s not my responsibility to push this conversation along. They’re the ones who traipsed in here like misguided migratory parrots. I seriously should have remembered to lock that door.
After a painfully drawn-out minute, the woman says: “He said you help with weddings.”
Oh, shit. Hanry must be the name of the forager-guy I met in the graveyard. This is his doing, inviting these people to come visit me—presumably, the couple in need of help with their wedding. Why is he friends with such weirdos?
Because he’s one too. Obviously.
At my feet, the head starts making vacuuming noises and rolling around the floor.
Maybe I’m not really in a position to judge.
“I do like these,” says the man, motioning toward a selection of brittle, browned lotus pods.
“You have great taste,” I say dryly. “Want them?”
“Mmm, yes. We can pay up to four thousand dollars for all you have to offer.”
“Do you mean… the shop?” As I try and calculate the value of dumping Grandma’s inventory on her, the woman crosses the room. She steps over the head casually as it pretends to suck up dust in its mouth. Carelessly, she passes Grandma’s floor-length, vintage mirror.
One of the first times I remember visiting her shop, Grandma was waving sage smoke over this gaudy thing. I thought it all impressive and mysterious until she accidentally set it on fire. So the shabby-chic charring on the frame, the cloudy stains in the glass? They’re the real deal.
Also real? The way the mirror reflects the contours of this dark, square room and its exposed brick walls. And me, in my grocery-store-dyed brown ponytail and my beige, basic pants and top I bought on . And my fake Roomba.
But there is no reflection of the woman. Or the man.
I drop my broom, banging Bulan as he passes underfoot.
“Vroom-ouch,” he grunts.
“Does that work with your rates?” the reflectionless woman asks, oblivious to my stunned silence. “I recognize this payment may not result in lavish, floor-to-ceiling decorations, but the room will be dark.”
“Yes, very dark,” says the man beside her.
“Like a tomb,” she says.
“Ooh,” he says.
“Ohh,” I say, connecting the dots.
“We realize this is last-minute,” says the woman. The not-quite-exactly-human woman. “But would you consider helping us ornament the wedding? And performing any other tasks as required? We can offer cash.”
“Very dark cash,” adds the male, his mustache twitching.
Putting aside the fact that all I want is to be a hundred miles away from Salem and its macabre dessert tray of non-delights, I’m not actually a wedding planner.
Nope. Not in any shape or form whatsoever.
I have zero interest in considering their offer.
I am not making floral arrangements for vampires.
Because that’s what these customers are. They’re vampires.
Dead-on.