When Aunt Colette needed me, I was there for her without question — just like she’d been there for me when I was at my most vulnerable, returning the favor the only way I knew how. Three months later, she was gone. She left everything to me. Her house — the gorgeous, three-story colonial in Washington Square, overlooking Salem Common, that had been in the family since the 1600s. Her classic car — the 1966 turquoise Thunderbird, à la Thelma and Louise. And her occult shop — The Gallows, a slice of prime commercial real estate smack in the center of the tourist district that, according to Aunt Colette, used to be a whorehouse, back in the day. (She always did love places — and people — with a tawdry history. Said it gave them character.)
Freshly turned twenty-two, I could’ve sold it all for a pretty penny, hopped on that bus straight back to NYC, and resumed the life I’d never meant to hit pause on. Hell, I could’ve booked myself a one-way ticket to Europe and spent several years as a wanderlusting expat, roaming until I got sick of fresh croissants and historic castles and seductive foreign men. (If such a thing was even possible.)
Instead, I stayed.
Frankly, it felt wrong to sell Aunt Colette’s house. I couldn’t picture boxing up her eclectic mix of belongings, couldn’t envision selling her colorful wardrobe or listing her quirky furniture pieces on Craigslist to make a quick buck. It seemed like a betrayal of her memory to even contemplate such a course of action. And just the thought of The Gallows — which she’d built from the ground up and run for nearly forty years — shuttering put a similar pit in my stomach. I flat-out refused to stand by and watch it become a Starbucks or a Chipotle or some other soulless commercial chain. I might not have believed in the supernatural, but I was certain of one thing: Aunt Colette would haunt me from the other side if I ever let that happen.
Of course, it wasn’t an easy adjustment. It took six months for her house to start feeling likemyhouse. Another six after that before I worked up the nerve to clear out her closets and unpack my suitcases into them. Eventually, I stopped hesitating before grabbing her —my— car keys from the hook by the door. I stopped tiptoeing around like a guest in my own space. I stopped acting like this was just another summer-long stint and started setting down some roots for the first time in as long as I could remember.
I still occasionally caught myself marveling over the fact that this was my life. Certainly, it looked nothing like the one I had planned for myself. And yet… I wouldn’t change a thing. (At least, not up until this morning, when I stepped into my back alley.)
I carried my wine with me upstairs, half-listening to the muffled sounds of Desmond and Florence giggling through the phone speaker. By the time she remembered I was on the other line, I was in my bedroom, changing into my favorite set of silk pajamas.
“Gwennie? You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Sorry. Des thought the whole handyman thing was a hoot. He just called Graham to ask if he’ll come over and refinish our kitchen cabinets. I thought the phone speaker was going to blow out, Graham bellowed so loud.”
“Great. Now he’ll be even more of a jerk when I see him next.”
“Which is when, exactly?”
“I don’t know.” Hopping on one foot, I tugged a pair of thick alpaca socks. Who needed central heating, anyway? “Hopefullynever.”
“But the case—”
“Detective Hightower said, as of now, they have no concrete suspects or evidence to warrant an arrest. It’s creepy, but… animal sacrifice isn’t the same as human homicide. I’m supposed to ‘keep my senses honed to anything strange’ — as if we don’t live in a town where strange is the norm.” I shoved my arms into a heavy wool sweater. “Yesterday, a man dressed as the terrifying clown from Stephen King’sItasked if he could use our bathroom. Not only did he scare off my only paying customers, there was white grease paint all over the faucets by the time he was done in there. And let me tell you, Pennywise didn’t spend a single penny in return for my hospitality.”
“You need one of those signs that says ‘Bathrooms For Paying Customers Only.’”
I shook my head. “I can’t do that. Aunt Colette always said signs like that were for soulless chains and corporate America.People don’t walk through those doors looking to contribute to capitalism, Gwendolyn. They come looking for a respite from it.”
“Right, but when Aunt Colette ran the place, it was about one bill cycle away from total bankruptcy.”
A low laugh bubbled up my throat. “She was a kind soul. Not a particularly business savvy one.”
“You’ve made other changes. You added a freaking espresso machine, for god’s sake. And look how that turned out! The Gallows is a hipster hotspot.”
This was true. When Aunt Colette ran things, it had been strictly an occult store. One big maze of shelves stuffed with musty, dusty old tomes and a shadowy stockroom of curiously-labeled vials. After I inherited it, I rearranged the shelves to open up the flow, added seating and coffee to lure in the co-ed crowd, upgraded the decor for our more aesthetically-inclined customers. I tried my damndest not to erase the original character of the place, but instead to unveil its full potential. And, let’s be honest, to get our ledgers out of the red and into the black.
Aunt Colette was many things, but a businesswoman she most definitely wasnot. I liked to think she’d be proud that in just two years under my management, we’d not only begun to break even, but were actually turning a steady profit — especially now that Halloween was only six weeks away. More tourists flooded into the city every day, eager to explore Salem’s unique magic, their pockets full of money happily spent on crystals and incense and charms and books. My little city was one of the only places I knew of where the end of summer didn’t put an end to tourist season. In Witch City, the inverse happened — as autumn crept on, the air cooled but business heated up.
“Speaking of my hipster hotspot, I should probably get to bed.”
Florence’s eye roll was almost audible. “It’s barely dark out, you old granny.”
“I know. But tomorrow’s Friday — it’ll be a zoo at the store. Tourists are running rampant through the city. A whole ghost tour came in twenty minutes before closing and cleaned out all my candles. I’ll have to stay late to restock and order more inventory.”
“Boo!” Flo groaned. “Make Hetti do it instead. That’s why you pay her, isn’t it? To lighten your load?”
“Hetti’s expertise ends at latte foam art. Besides, she already covered for me most of today while I was at the police station. By the time I got back to the shop to relieve her, she looked pale and annoyed.”
“She’s a goth. She always looks like that.”
“Okay, well, she looked even more pale and annoyed than usual.”
“What about Madame Zelda?”