Chapter 3
Noelle
I was never alone at night.
I hadn’t been since I was a little kid—sitting in the window of my mom’s trailer, knees tucked to my chest, watching lightning dance across the Ouachita Mountains. The sky would go electric white, then crash back into darkness, and I’d know it was out there.
The Shadow Painter.
A strange shape I’d once seen in the treeline—black against black—etched in a single flash of lightning. I knew, with the unshakable certainty only a child can hold, that it had wings. Claws. And blue, blue eyes that never blinked.
Even surrounded by people, I could feel it—always. Stalking my every step. Watching me. Waiting for the next disaster to strike.
Tonight wasn’t any different.
I’d only left Beau’s shop a few minutes ago, but I was already regretting not taking his offer of a ride.
Main Street was still alive with festival noise—laughter echoing off brick buildings, the occasional burst of fiddle music drifting from a storefront, porch lights glowing warm against the creeping dark—but I felt lonely in a way that had nothing to do with being alone.
The air was damp, heavy with the ghost of last night’s rain.
Fallen leaves stuck to the sidewalk, slick and coppery.
My sneakers squelched faintly with every step.
Somewhere behind me, a screen door creaked open and slammed shut, followed by the squeal of tires on wet gravel.
It made my shoulders hitch up tight around my ears.
It wasn’t cold, not exactly—but the breeze cut sharp through the humidity, the kind that prickled against the back of your neck like a warning.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Nothing but long shadows stretching between the buildings, puddles catching streetlight like dirty coins.
The library was just ahead, tucked between the post office and an antique shop.
Its old brick facade was half-covered in ivy and lit by a single yellow porch light, a simple wooden sign reading “Library” swaying gently over the door.
It looked more like a chapel than a municipal institution, with arched windows, a carved wooden door, and a tower up top that I assumed had to be this Delilah person’s apartment.
I walked up to the door, curling my fingers to knock—and that’s when I felt it.
Maybe the wind…maybe breath.
I went still.
And it scared the hell out of me when the door suddenly swung open, revealing what I could only describe as Punk Rock Ms. Frizzle.
The woman—Delilah, I guessed—had long, curly red hair in space buns, the remnants of bright red lipstick on her lips, and a kimono with stars and moons on it draped over her shoulders.
She smelled like lavender with just a touch of weed, a scent that set me instantly at ease, and she was smiling like we’d known each other for years.
“Noelle?” she said.
“That’s me.”
She grinned wider and stepped aside, gesturing toward the library. “Come on in.”
It was warm inside, cozy even. Soft golden lamplight pooled across old wood floors, and the smell of incense and aged paper hovered in the air.
Music tumbled down the stairs, soft enough that I couldn’t recognize it at first, only to realize that she was listening to Jefferson Airplane, the lyrics to White Rabbit echoing around me.
Yeah. I was getting distinct Alice in Wonderland vibes.
This was not a normal town.
“This way,” Delilah said, turning her back to me and sauntering up the stairs.
I hadn’t seen the cat Beau mentioned, but that was always what freaked me out about them—that they could lurk in a house for hours without ever making an appearance.
I followed Delilah past towering bookshelves, then past a crystal orb on a corner table with a sign that said “Yes, it works. No, you can’t touch it.
” One shelf was labeled “Forbidden” and I wasn’t convinced it was a joke.
“I don’t…” I started, not sure how to ask what I wanted without sounding like an asshole. I gave up, asking anyway. “What the fuck is this place?”
Delilah led me toward a door behind the desk, then up a spiral staircase. “It’s a library.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She glanced over her shoulder with a sly smile. “Willow Grove,” she breathed, the affection she had for the town clear in every syllable. “The strangest town in the south.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m starting to get that.”
At the top of the stairs, she pushed open a narrow wooden door. The hinges gave a dramatic creak, and I expected to find an abandoned room on the other side—like she was a ghost, here to trick me into her haunted mansion.
But that wasn’t it at all.
Instead, the room beyond the door was warm and softly lit—part apartment, part enchanted attic.
Sloped ceilings pressed in from all sides, and every available surface was occupied by something: books, candles, glass bottles full of dried herbs, a mannequin draped in what I hoped was a vintage cloak and not a ceremonial robe.
There were two open doors to my left, one to my right; the attic was bigger than I’d expected.
And there was the cat: a slender little shadow with green eyes, purring in the window overlooking the town.
Delilah swept an arm across the space. “Welcome to your sanctuary for the night,” she said. “Guest room is on the right, bathroom is the second on the left. My room is beside it—I sleep with the door open so Morgana can come and go, but you’re welcome to shut and lock yours.”
I nodded, skeptical of just how comfy I was here. When my car had broken down in rural Georgia, I hadn’t expected…this. Not the witch with a spare room, not the handsome mechanic intent on showing me kindness despite how prickly I got.
This was…it was nice.
I felt safe.
“You like tea?” Delilah asked, walking into the kitchen.
The place was tiny, but perfectly functional—with a stove, an oven, a sink and dishwasher.
The cat hopped off of the windowsill to wind around Delilah’s legs, purring so loud I could hear it clean across the room.
“I was just about to put the kettle on when you got here.”
“Yeah,” I said, putting my duffel down by the door. “I’d love some.”
“What do you want?” she asked, pulling a cabinet open. “I’ve got…let’s see. Looks like everything?”
Delilah ran her fingers along a shelf of colorful tins, muttering names.
“Chamomile. Orange spice. Black currant. Blood orange. Egyptian mint. Hibiscus blend. Rooibos with cinnamon. And something called 'Astral Projection' that I think is just lavender and mugwort, but it makes people dream real weird.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Let’s…maybe not start with that one.”
She laughed—a low, throaty sound—and pulled down a tin with a label covered in tiny gold stars. “Chamomile it is.”
She filled the kettle and set it down on the stovetop, humming softly to herself. Morgana leapt onto the counter to curl beside the sugar jar, blinking at me with those strange green eyes.
“Have you eaten?” Delilah asked as she puttered around in the kitchen. “Beau didn’t say.”
My stomach grumbled on cue and I shook my head. “Didn’t really have time for it when I was getting stranded in the strangest town in the south.”
Delilah looked back at me with a raised eyebrow. “Ah…so she’s hangry, not just a grump.”
I scowled. “No…I’m kind of just a grump.”
She opened up her fridge, the blue light silhouetting her like an ancient priestess overseeing a frozen wasteland—if that wasteland was occupied mostly by takeout boxes. “I’ve got leftover tikka masala, mushroom pizza, and…hm. Hotpockets?”
“To go with the tea?” I asked.
She laughed. “Darlin’, this is a library attic, not the Hilton.”
I couldn’t help but laugh with her. “I’ll take some pizza.”
Delilah got to work—putting the tea on hold while she zapped some pizza in the microwave—and I sat down on the old couch that occupied the wall to my right.
The cat, noticing that a lap was now available, slipped off the counter and made its way toward me, still purring like crazy.
She didn’t ask before she curled up on top of me, tail twitching like she was daring me to move.
“So,” Delilah said, turning around and leaning against the counter while she waited on the pizza. “You running from something?”
I blinked. “Um—excuse me?”
She shrugged. “Most people who show up here unexpectedly are either lost, cursed, or running.”
“No,” I said. “I was driving to a work thing. My car broke down. And now…well, I guess I’m stuck here, missing out on a paycheck, then heading home with empty pockets once my car is ready.”
Delilah tilted her head to one side. “Uh-huh.”
I had no idea what I’d said that made her so skeptical. “What?”
She laughed. “Just…you’ll be here longer than a week.”
It wasn’t a warning; she said it like she was delivering a fact.
I let out a short, humorless laugh and leaned back into the couch, one hand resting lightly on the cat.
Morgana purred, and I couldn’t resist getting just a little more comfortable.
“You know that’s a very spooky thing to say to a stranger,” I said, but there was no bite in it.
The microwave beeped and Delilah turned to pull out the pizza. “We’re two spooky girls in a spooky town. I get the impression that kind of shit doesn’t rattle you.”
I smiled in spite of myself, the corner of my mouth tugging up as I scratched behind Morgana’s ears. “You’re not wrong.”
Delilah brought over the plate and handed it off like we’d been roommates for years, not strangers who’d just met thirty minutes ago.
I took a bite—greasy, cheesy, with just enough heat left to make it worth the microwave wait—and let out a soft sigh.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I’d been until the first taste hit my tongue.
She sat across from me in an armchair that had definitely seen better decades, folding her legs underneath her. “So what’s the work thing?”
I hesitated, not because it was a secret, but because saying it out loud always made it sound more ridiculous than I wanted it to.
“I run a podcast,” I said finally. “Paranormal stuff, mostly. Hauntings, cryptids, cults. My co-host and I were supposed to meet up in Atlanta for a live show at a con.”
Delilah’s eyes sparkled with interest. “No shit. What’s it called?”
“Whispers in the Dark.”
Delilah barked out a laugh. “Wait a second—you’re that Noelle? Noelle Kinney.”
My heart sank. “You’re a listener?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Y’all did a piece on that haunted doll museum up in Tennessee, right?”
I groaned, sinking further into the couch and holding my pizza like a shield. “Please don’t tell me you believe those dolls are actually haunted.”
Delilah didn’t even blink. “Oh, babe. They are absolutely haunted.”
I stared at her. “You’re kidding.”
She reached out, plucked a candle from the shelf beside her, and lit it with a silver zippo lighter. “Dead serious. The one with the cracked porcelain face? Name’s Agatha. She gave me a nosebleed and made the lights in my car flicker for a week.”
I blinked. “Agatha.”
“Yeah. She doesn’t like skeptics.”
I tried not to laugh but failed. “That’s very convenient.”
“You don’t have to believe me,” she said, shrugging. “But I’d steer clear of mocking her too much. You know. Just in case.”
I took another bite of pizza and chewed slowly, narrowing my eyes. “You’re messing with me.”
Delilah grinned. “Only a little. I do think you and your co-host tried too hard to explain everything. Like that bit about the motion sensors? Come on. Those dolls didn’t need batteries to move. They were fueled entirely by vengeance and spite.”
That made me laugh—really laugh—and Morgana responded by adjusting her weight like I was disturbing her royal slumber. “Okay, but for real,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Even if the place felt creepy, that’s all it was. Vibes. Ambiance. The power of suggestion.”
“Mm,” Delilah said, sipping her tea. “Or ghosts.”
“Or dry rot.”
She pointed her spoon at me like a wand. “You are so lucky I like you.”
I shook my head. “You don’t even know me.”
“It doesn’t take me long to get a read on people,” she said, then looked at my empty plate. “You ready for tea now, or do you want the tikka masala, too?”
I took a deep breath in and out…then I let a smile slip out. “I was actually hoping for a hotpocket.”
Delilah chuckled. “On it. And of course the requisite follow-up…you smoke?”
“Depends,” I said. “Is this a sting?”
“No, it’s clearly a séance,” she snorted—but she was already opening a drawer and pulling out a little wooden box.
Inside were a few joints wrapped in what appeared to be rose petals, and a tiny glass jar with extra flower.
She plucked out a joint, lit it, and took a long drag before holding it toward me.
I hesitated, then took it. “This isn’t gonna be like…laced with hallucinogens, right?”
Delilah exhaled slow, eyes half-lidded. “We don’t need hallucinogens to see weird shit around here.”
I took the joint and sat back, staring into the swirling shadows above the ceiling beams. “That’s the second vaguely threatening thing you’ve said tonight,” I murmured, bringing it to my lips.
Delilah laughed. “Don’t worry. Around here, weird doesn’t always mean bad.”
I inhaled, held it, exhaled slow. It was smooth—earthy and a little floral, with a hint of something sweet that tingled behind my teeth. Morgana purred louder, tail flicking lazily against my arm like she approved.
Outside, the laughter from Main Street had faded into a low hum, festival night settling into stillness. The windows glowed soft with reflected light from porch lanterns and crooked street lamps, and beyond that…nothing but trees and fog and the waiting hush of southern dark.
Inside, I was warm. I was fed.
I was stoned in a witch’s attic.
And, much to my surprise, I wasn’t waiting for the next disaster to strike. Just sitting there, passing a joint with a stranger who already felt like a friend, wondering how the hell I’d ended up in the middle of a southern gothic fever dream.