Read Online The Witches Of Denmark by Aiden James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aiden James
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However, I would be remiss to not also mention that the natural beauty in the nearby countryside can be breathtaking—especially near the local winery. A winery, I might add, that gives free samples of just about any kind of wine one can imagine. Better yet, the afternoon staff has been gullible more than once to believe that my sister’s played-up sophistication supported the fact she is of legal age to imbibe with me, her brother, whose latest fake ID says I was born in 1993. Granted, we can drink at home when it’s just family around. But, with the focus being so strong on looking and behaving like two teenage kids should, this was a significant coup for Alisia and me.
Although we had no intention of telling our parents about this, don’t judge or hate, unless you too have been stuck in puberty for half a century.
And, don’t think my need for distraction kept me from doing research on the phantom mistress of our house. Far from it. I had already made initial inquiries with the local historian at the library, just two blocks from our house. Marcella Oakley, the historian, invited Alisia and me to check out several books she had on hand. Unfortunately, none of them included photographs or painted portraits of Sophie—just her famous husband. Still, in addition to several new war games coming out for my Xbox in July, I counted on the hunt for our ghost’s identity to keep me entertained to a varying degree until fall. Even if that meant going through every archived file at City Hall and the courthouse to find something about Ms. Atwater, or any other female resident from that era whose essence might be lingering in the ladies’ parlor.
My biggest distraction might well prove to be my grandfather. Allow me to explain….
After Alisia and I returned from the Denmark Winery, chewing breath mints to camouflage all evidence of our afternoon excursion, we prepared to resume our weeding chores. Mom and Dad had given us a four-hour recess, since a local exterminator was coming by to give our father an estimate on how much it would cost to eliminate our mole problem. The blind suckers had made enough tunnels to cause one of the statues in the main garden to tilt. Alisia’s PETA—influenced compassion went for naught when the rest of the household, other than me, voted to kill the rodents. As with most things at present, though, that meant without the use of magic.
I could tell it was distressing Dad to not simply ‘will’ the little monsters elsewhere. His point that it would be the more humane solution, rather than poisoning the moles, fell on deaf ears.
“We can’t afford to have the only yard on either street ‘mole free’ without a viable reason,” said Mom, right before she headed off for a hair appointment with Meredith. They were going to one of the town’s ritzier salons, located in the square. “Remember that everyone is watching what we do, and especially along Chaffin’s Bend, where they all seem to view the yard as their personal park. Getting rid of our notorious mole problem that apparently has been going on for years, and without the help of an exterminator, would mark one more instance of us being noticeably different.”
Maybe Dad could still find a way to spare the little critters an agonizing cyanide-aided demise without Mom finding out about it. But as things turned out, the mole problem was nothing compared to Grandpa’s eccentric nature that seemed to have taken a turn for the worse during the past week. As I mentioned, Alisia and I had just returned, and Dad was in his office. Grandma was upstairs taking a nap to avoid the afternoon heat and nearly one hundred percent humidity. My sis stretched her recess to the limit, grabbing a Coke from the fridge. And me? Well, I wanted to get the assigned weeding for that afternoon over and done, with or without her help.
I decided to get started on the side of our yard facing another grand house that was built by the son of the guy who built
Although we had no intention of telling our parents about this, don’t judge or hate, unless you too have been stuck in puberty for half a century.
And, don’t think my need for distraction kept me from doing research on the phantom mistress of our house. Far from it. I had already made initial inquiries with the local historian at the library, just two blocks from our house. Marcella Oakley, the historian, invited Alisia and me to check out several books she had on hand. Unfortunately, none of them included photographs or painted portraits of Sophie—just her famous husband. Still, in addition to several new war games coming out for my Xbox in July, I counted on the hunt for our ghost’s identity to keep me entertained to a varying degree until fall. Even if that meant going through every archived file at City Hall and the courthouse to find something about Ms. Atwater, or any other female resident from that era whose essence might be lingering in the ladies’ parlor.
My biggest distraction might well prove to be my grandfather. Allow me to explain….
After Alisia and I returned from the Denmark Winery, chewing breath mints to camouflage all evidence of our afternoon excursion, we prepared to resume our weeding chores. Mom and Dad had given us a four-hour recess, since a local exterminator was coming by to give our father an estimate on how much it would cost to eliminate our mole problem. The blind suckers had made enough tunnels to cause one of the statues in the main garden to tilt. Alisia’s PETA—influenced compassion went for naught when the rest of the household, other than me, voted to kill the rodents. As with most things at present, though, that meant without the use of magic.
I could tell it was distressing Dad to not simply ‘will’ the little monsters elsewhere. His point that it would be the more humane solution, rather than poisoning the moles, fell on deaf ears.
“We can’t afford to have the only yard on either street ‘mole free’ without a viable reason,” said Mom, right before she headed off for a hair appointment with Meredith. They were going to one of the town’s ritzier salons, located in the square. “Remember that everyone is watching what we do, and especially along Chaffin’s Bend, where they all seem to view the yard as their personal park. Getting rid of our notorious mole problem that apparently has been going on for years, and without the help of an exterminator, would mark one more instance of us being noticeably different.”
Maybe Dad could still find a way to spare the little critters an agonizing cyanide-aided demise without Mom finding out about it. But as things turned out, the mole problem was nothing compared to Grandpa’s eccentric nature that seemed to have taken a turn for the worse during the past week. As I mentioned, Alisia and I had just returned, and Dad was in his office. Grandma was upstairs taking a nap to avoid the afternoon heat and nearly one hundred percent humidity. My sis stretched her recess to the limit, grabbing a Coke from the fridge. And me? Well, I wanted to get the assigned weeding for that afternoon over and done, with or without her help.
I decided to get started on the side of our yard facing another grand house that was built by the son of the guy who built
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