Read Online Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead (Toad Witch Series, Book One) by Christiana Miller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christiana Miller
Ads: Link
impressions on your mind’s eye. Not full-on, 3-D hallucinations that are as solid as my hand.
Was it because of my birthday? Did turning twenty-seven activate some kind of latent powers? Did it have anything to do with entering my Saturn return, astrologically? I thought about it for a second and then shook my head. It was probably a brain tumor. That made more sense. And it would explain the impending doom portents in my tarot cards. If I had any health insurance, I’d go see a doctor.
Unless I was just losing my mind. I’d certainly seen it happen to others. Traveling too far into the Otherworld, too often, can negate your ability to return to the mundane world.
What if my dad had been right with the Do No Magic warning? Even if it had been just a dream, what if it was my subconscious warning me that I was about to go too deep and cross a line I couldn’t uncross? I just hoped it wasn’t too late to find my way back.
That night was the worst yet. When the nightmares hit, they hit hard.
I was walking through a forest, when I emerged onto the shoulder of a paved road. It was early and the sky was a swollen bruise, all purply-red, as the sun violently erupted into morning.
On the other side of the road, a forked pathway lead back into the woods. If I took the right fork, I knew the path would lead me to a lake. Even though I couldn’t see it, I could smell the algae-filled water and the rotting fish.
If I took the left fork, I knew beyond doubt the path would take me to the stone cottage. It lurked there, on the edges of my subconscious, like an unspoken threat, beckoning to me.
I decided to try the path to the lake for a change. As I walked to the center of the road, a Volkswagen Cabriolet appeared out of nowhere, speeding towards me. The top was down and the driver, an old woman who looked half-corked, was happily singing along with the radio. She seemed completely unaware of me as the car sped up.
My feet were rooted into the road, I was unable to move. As the car was just about to hit me, a large screech owl soared down and flew directly into the windshield. The woman screamed and twisted her steering wheel.
But the owl shattered the windshield, its bloody body hitting her squarely in the face, like a feathered missile. The sheer force of it pushed the woman’s thin facial bones through to the back of her skull. Death was swift and merciful.
The car continued on its trajectory, until it slammed up against a lightning-blasted oak tree, blood spattering everywhere.
The front end of the car crumpled and the woman’s corpse fell forward. Her lifeless body hit the horn on the steering wheel, a last cry of protest, her head falling to the side.
Disturbed by the noise and motion, a flock of crows rose up from the tree. They circled the ravaged flesh that would soon be their dinner. One of the more adventurous crows leapt through the busted-out windshield and, reaching quickly and carefully with his sharp beak, dug out what was left of the woman’s right eye. For one stomach-turning second, the crow turned and faced me, the eye speared in its beak, the pupil looking at me.
I sat up with a gasp and clicked the bedside lamp on. 4:00 a.m. I reached for the glass of water next to the bed, took a sip and held the glass to my forehead. The beads of moisture felt good against my hot flesh.
At some point, I must have fallen asleep again. Because the next thing I knew, it was morning. The sunlight pierced through openings in my blinds and I could hear birds arguing over stray pieces of bread and a dog across the street, yapping its little lungs out.
I was just nodding off again when Mrs. Lasio walked past my bedroom window, loudly chastising her youngest daughter, Lupe, over the latest boyfriend fiasco. In the short distance to their car, accusations of “ putana ” and “ashamed in front of God” and “that nice priest” echoed through the courtyard.
I buried my head under my pillow to muffle the
Was it because of my birthday? Did turning twenty-seven activate some kind of latent powers? Did it have anything to do with entering my Saturn return, astrologically? I thought about it for a second and then shook my head. It was probably a brain tumor. That made more sense. And it would explain the impending doom portents in my tarot cards. If I had any health insurance, I’d go see a doctor.
Unless I was just losing my mind. I’d certainly seen it happen to others. Traveling too far into the Otherworld, too often, can negate your ability to return to the mundane world.
What if my dad had been right with the Do No Magic warning? Even if it had been just a dream, what if it was my subconscious warning me that I was about to go too deep and cross a line I couldn’t uncross? I just hoped it wasn’t too late to find my way back.
That night was the worst yet. When the nightmares hit, they hit hard.
I was walking through a forest, when I emerged onto the shoulder of a paved road. It was early and the sky was a swollen bruise, all purply-red, as the sun violently erupted into morning.
On the other side of the road, a forked pathway lead back into the woods. If I took the right fork, I knew the path would lead me to a lake. Even though I couldn’t see it, I could smell the algae-filled water and the rotting fish.
If I took the left fork, I knew beyond doubt the path would take me to the stone cottage. It lurked there, on the edges of my subconscious, like an unspoken threat, beckoning to me.
I decided to try the path to the lake for a change. As I walked to the center of the road, a Volkswagen Cabriolet appeared out of nowhere, speeding towards me. The top was down and the driver, an old woman who looked half-corked, was happily singing along with the radio. She seemed completely unaware of me as the car sped up.
My feet were rooted into the road, I was unable to move. As the car was just about to hit me, a large screech owl soared down and flew directly into the windshield. The woman screamed and twisted her steering wheel.
But the owl shattered the windshield, its bloody body hitting her squarely in the face, like a feathered missile. The sheer force of it pushed the woman’s thin facial bones through to the back of her skull. Death was swift and merciful.
The car continued on its trajectory, until it slammed up against a lightning-blasted oak tree, blood spattering everywhere.
The front end of the car crumpled and the woman’s corpse fell forward. Her lifeless body hit the horn on the steering wheel, a last cry of protest, her head falling to the side.
Disturbed by the noise and motion, a flock of crows rose up from the tree. They circled the ravaged flesh that would soon be their dinner. One of the more adventurous crows leapt through the busted-out windshield and, reaching quickly and carefully with his sharp beak, dug out what was left of the woman’s right eye. For one stomach-turning second, the crow turned and faced me, the eye speared in its beak, the pupil looking at me.
I sat up with a gasp and clicked the bedside lamp on. 4:00 a.m. I reached for the glass of water next to the bed, took a sip and held the glass to my forehead. The beads of moisture felt good against my hot flesh.
At some point, I must have fallen asleep again. Because the next thing I knew, it was morning. The sunlight pierced through openings in my blinds and I could hear birds arguing over stray pieces of bread and a dog across the street, yapping its little lungs out.
I was just nodding off again when Mrs. Lasio walked past my bedroom window, loudly chastising her youngest daughter, Lupe, over the latest boyfriend fiasco. In the short distance to their car, accusations of “ putana ” and “ashamed in front of God” and “that nice priest” echoed through the courtyard.
I buried my head under my pillow to muffle the
Similar Books
