Spirits in the Material World Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Free Books

  Spirits in the Material World

  A Salem Bookstore Cozy Witch Mystery

  Book 1

  Lisa Shea

  Copyright © 2019 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Lisa Shea.

  Book design by Lisa Shea

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Be the change

  You wish to see in the world

  Spirits in the Material World

  Chapter One

  “It is but for a moment, comparatively, that anything looks strange or startling -- a truth that has the bitter and the sweet in it.”

  ― Nathaniel Hawthorne, The House of Seven Gables

  A pattering wave of rain cascaded against my bookstore’s front window, and I glanced up in time to see a ghostly form trudging along the water-logged cobblestone street. She wore a thick, heavy cloak and was hunched in as if against a bitter cold. That was unusual; Memorial Day Weekend was nearly here and, with it, temperatures in the low 80s which were causing the Salem locals to mutter curses against the brutal heat.

  But there’s a saying in New England. Don’t like the weather? Just wait five minutes.

  Mrs. McGillicuddy turned to follow my gaze, squinting her rheumy eyes in confusion. “Do you see something out there, Amber?”

  I shook my head, bringing my attention back to her. “No, I’m sorry, Mrs. McGillicuddy. Just lost in thought for a moment. What was it that you wanted again?”

  She smiled and gave a fluff to her sparse short curls of gray hair. “There’s going to be an Agatha Christie reading group from Seekonk coming out the last week in July – they’re renting the entire bed and breakfast. Every single room.”

  “Wow, that’s wonderful! So you want to do some research to prepare?”

  “Yes, exactly. I know Agatha wrote a full library of novels; I hardly want to read them all. But if I could just get a selection of whatever you have in stock …”

  I stepped out from behind the counter and nodded to her. “Of course. Let me show you where they are.”

  My bookstore was not the size of a postage stamp, but neither was it a massive behemoth where one could get lost in a maze of twisty passages, all different. We had two central lanes of bookshelves and then the wall-shelves on either side. Mrs. McGillicuddy had been a regular customer since I had taken over for my aunt a full five years ago.

  Mrs. McGillicuddy clearly knew which shelves held our mystery books.

  She needed something else from me. Apparently she was having trouble bringing herself to ask.

  I led her the short distance, nodding greetings to the handful of other patrons in the shop. We had just opened our doors for the day, and the full throb of in-season Salem foot traffic hadn’t wound up yet. Also, it was a Sunday morning. Most tourists were undoubtedly still bleary-eyed after spending half of Saturday night being spooked by a paranormal candle walk and the other half in sampling every beer at the local bars while convincing their friends they hadn’t been scared one tiny bit.

  I drew to a stop before the correct shelf and contentedly brushed my long, dark hair away from my face. “Here you go. Agatha Christie.”

  Mrs. McGillicuddy looked down the selection of mystery books as if they had apparated out of the pure ether. “Oh, there they are. Of course. Silly me. I’m sorry to have been a bother.”

  “No bother at all,” I assured her.

  A tourist in two layers of jackets, clearly visiting from somewhere in the Deep South, glanced around from the counter. “I’m ready to check out.”

  I gave her a friendly wave. “I’ll be there in just a second.”

  Mrs. McGillicuddy reddened. “I’m all set, dear. You go take care of your customer.”

  “I am taking care of my customer, and that is you.” I took a step closer and dropped my head. I wasn’t tall by any stretch of the imagination – just about five foot six – but Mrs. McGillicuddy came from a family whose members were undoubtedly the target size for modern airplane seat designers. Her tallest sister was barely five foot one. Mrs. McGillicuddy, despite all her efforts, had never crossed out of the fours.

  I could see that her blush had now reached her scalp. Her voice was a low gravel tone which I had to strain to hear. “It’s … I’d like a book on … on spells.”

  I wasn’t surprised by the general topic. Heck, given the world-famous nature of Salem’s paranormal history, I dedicated several of my shelves to books of incantations, the uses of herbs, the Salem Witch Trials, and modern Wiccan practices. Especially in the summer season, the books nearly flew out the door on their own power.

  But Mrs. McGillicuddy had never shown the remotest interest in any of that side of Salem’s community. If anything, she smiled in gentle amusement when teen girls left my store arms overflowing with books such as 101 Love Potions Absolutely Guaranteed to Ensnare your Handsome Prince.

  My brow creased. “All right, Mrs. McGillicuddy, what type of spell in particular is it that you need?”

  Her wrinkled hands drew tight on my arm to pull me even closer. The words were so faint that I wasn’t quite sure I heard them right.

  “Amber, I need … I need to drive away a troubled spirit.”

  The woman at the counter called, her voice gaining that annoyed edge of a tourist with tours to tour and checklists to check, “Ma’am …”

  I held Mrs. McGillicuddy’s gaze. “Serena starts her shift at noon, when I go on my lunch break. I’ll be at your place at 12:05 sharp. You wait there for me. And then we can discuss this in private. How does that sound?”

  Relief washed over Mrs. McGillicuddy’s face. “If you’re sure you won’t mind –”

  I gave her hand a squeeze. “I won’t mind one little bit, Mrs. McGillicuddy.”

  The image of the shadowy figure in the rain came back to me, and a new sense of mission filled my soul. I turned to face her with my full attention. “In fact, I’m looking forward to hearing every last detail.”

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. McGillicuddy and her wife, Prudence, owned, in my humble opinion, one of the most beautifu
l homes in Salem. Some of that appeal came from the historic architecture, with its three stories of pitched gable roofs and the widow’s walk up top. But much of it came from the loving care Mrs. McGillicuddy had put into her family home. She’d been born there with her six siblings, spent her childhood there, and I had a feeling that she and her wife fully intended on treasuring their final days nestled in its comfort.

  The front gardens were in full bloom, replete with crimson roses, ivory lily-of-the-valley, and massive blossoms of peonies. The thunderstorms of early morning had evaporated into a bright May sunshine replete with fluffy clouds in the shapes of strolling standard poodles.

  Life was perfect.

  I walked along the stepping stone path and up the short flight of stairs to the covered porch. A middle-aged blonde with an oval face in a tangerine sarong was sitting on one of the rocking chairs, reading a book. Her short curls hung in a curtain around her face. I waved to her as I passed. “Enjoying the story?”

  She held it up to me with a broad smile. It was Mary Stewart’s The Crystal Cave – a childhood favorite of mine which brought to magical life the stories of Merlin of fifth century Britain. She gushed, “Thank you so much for recommending this to me! I adore every word. Listen to this passage.”

  Her voice became resonant. “I am a spirit, a word, a thing of air and darkness, and I can no more help what I am doing than a reed can help the wind of God blowing through it.”

  I smiled at my new soulmate.

  I’d held a number of jobs before life’s ebbs and flows rolled me up on this particular shore. I’d worked as a waitress. A bank teller. A receptionist. A secretary. I’d been reasonably competent at each one.

  I’d never felt I’d found my calling in life.

  Then, when Aunt Marilyn had asked me to help her with the bookstore, I’d finally discovered the missing piece for my jigsaw puzzle of a life. I’d finally figured out where I truly belonged.

  I’d found my home.

  The bed and breakfast’s front door pulled open, and Mrs. McGillicuddy was standing there, her gray eyes wide. She practically grabbed me by the arm to draw me in. “There you are, Amber. Please, let’s go into the library where we can talk. The rest of my guests are all out getting their palms read. Some sort of buy-one get-one deal over on Essex Street.”

  The interior was decorated in New England Coastal. Primary features included polished wood floors, powder blue sofas, and white pillows with embroidered royal-blue anchors holding them in place. Shelves presented curling conch seashells and Mason jars brimming with sea glass. The watercolors on the walls, portraying serene lighthouses from the Cape and Islands, had been hand-painted by Laura Cenedella.

  We stepped over through the open door into the library. This was, of course, my favorite room in the entire house. Floor-to-ceiling dark wood shelves lined every single wall. They were packed full with books of most genres and styles. Some dated back to her family’s original treasures from the seventeenth century. I knew quite a number of the more recent acquisitions had come from my very own shop.

  Prudence was sitting in one of the deep leather chairs, and she stood with a smile as I came in. “Amber! Thank you so much for coming!”

  Some people date their opposite. A string bean often dates an apple. A fiery Aries often seeks out a watery Pisces. But in this case it was very much a case of like attracts like. Prudence was nearly exactly the same hobbit height as Mrs. McGillicuddy, and both had a gently squishy shape. Both adored reading, although Mrs. McGillicuddy leaned toward Sue Grafton while Prudence tended to prefer Christina Rossetti.

  However, if there was a real difference between the two long-term lovebirds, it was that Mrs. McGillicuddy’s family had been in town for generations. She was a ‘venerable lady’, and even though I knew her first name was Gertrude, I’d never used it in conversation. Local jewelry designers often asked her if she’d like to borrow their latest designs, because if a necklace or bracelet was seen as part of Mrs. McGillicuddy’s outfit at an event, the orders would pour in.

  But Prudence was an outsider. A transplant. She’d migrated up from the distant southern reaches of Providence, Rhode Island.

  Here be dragons.

  Prudence and Mrs. McGillicuddy had met in the turbulent days of the mid-nineties, back when Salem was still a fading fishing village striving to reinvent itself, rather than the tourist-swarmed haven of witch and Wiccan tchotchkes it was now. In those earlier forlorn times, Prudence had come up on assignment to sell life insurance to struggling boat owners and frustrated landlords.

  By luck, after a long day working the docks she’d wandered into a medieval poetry reading at my aunt’s bookstore.

  And the rest, as they say, was history.

  Prudence pressed closed the library door behind us, turning the lock with a click. Then she and Mrs. McGillicuddy sat side by side in their heavy leather chairs. I pulled over a leather stool to sit before them.

  I clasped my hands and gave them an encouraging nod. “All right, then. Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

  Mrs. McGillicuddy gave a nervous glance to Prudence, and then she turned back to me. “From the beginning. It makes sense. When I was growing up, my mother was something of a drill sergeant. I imagine she had to be, with seven of us. When we got rambunctious, she would threaten us with tales of our Family Ghost.”

  I chuckled. “A ghost story. In Salem.”

  She nodded. “If we tried to read in bed after dark with flashlights, she’d tell us that the ghost would be drawn by the glow. If we tried to lie about something, she’d say the ghost was watching and he could tell.”

  She gave a nervous laugh. “We never believed Mom, of course. Just figured she was trying to get us to behave. Probably her own mother told her the same thing.” She glanced toward the ceiling. “But we didn’t risk it, either. It’s Salem, after all.”

  Prudence glanced over at me, her eyes twinkling. “Down in Providence, we just got threatened with a spanking. Not with spectral ghosts.”

  I shrugged. I’d grown up in Lynn, just a short drive south from here. In school, we’d often taken field trips to Salem to look at the gravestones and watch re-enactments of the trials. To my childhood self, the Salem Witch Trials, and the associated ghosts, were a well-established fact.

  And that was before I’d realized I could see them.

  Mrs. McGillicuddy leaned forward. “We all grew up, of course. Me, my brothers and sisters, I mean. They went off on their lives. My youngest brother was a pediatrician in Boulder. One sister was a lawyer in Sacramento. Another researched sharks in Africa. But me, I stayed home to take care of my parents. Got a job in the Salem school system. Taught for forty years.”

  She glanced up again. “I’ve probably been in those witchcraft museums more than any other person alive. I’ve practically memorized the testimonies of the accused. Rebecca Nurse. George Jacobs. Ann Foster.”

  A shiver ran through me. Ann Foster had been my ancestor. She had been a grandmother at the time of the trials, and her innocent daughter and granddaughter had been accused of being witches. To protect her family members, Ann pled guilty to the charges. Despite the fact that she was 75 years old, she was confined to a damp, musty jail cell for over five months. She finally succumbed to illness and died there.

  To add heartache to heartbreak, Ann’s family was forced to pay fees both for her “room and board” in jail as well as extra fines before they were allowed to take her body home for a proper burial.

  Mrs. McGillicuddy’s eyes creased in concern. “Amber?”

  “Yes, sorry, I’m listening. The Salem witch trials. I’m sure that many of us in this region have connections to those tragic days.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. Maybe that’s why we take the history so seriously. Maybe it’s why my siblings and I took our mother at face value when she said we had a family ghost.”

  She paled and lowered her voice. “Except now I think we actually do have one.”

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p; I blinked and looked at her. “You have … what? A ghost?”

  She leaned forward. “Yes. A ghost. And we have to get rid of it. Drive it out. Exorcise it, or whatever you call it.”

  I’d heard just about everything while living in Salem, and I’d certainly seen my share of strange happenings, especially when we crossed into the mystical month of October. Still, it was best to start with calm. “All right, then. You think you have a ghost haunting your home. When did you first start to notice something different?”

  She glanced at Prudence. “Well, it was about two or three months ago. We decided it was time to do some spring cleaning. You know. Paint the walls. Get the floors redone. This house is over three hundred years old, after all. Sometimes little changes can tide you over but sometimes you really have to get to the heart of the situation. We decided to pull all the books from the shelves and give the beams a good reshoring. Wood dries out over time. It needs tender loving care.”

  Prudence nodded in agreement. “We had all the books carefully stacked in the center of the room by type. But when we came in the next morning, the stacks had been knocked over.”

  I gave a soft shrug. “Old books have their quirks. Maybe the stacks just shifted. Maybe a heavy truck rolled by and shook the floor.”

  “Well, but some had been restacked in a different order.”

  I glanced around the room at the books. “Could a guest have done that?”

  Prudence shook her head. “We locked the library while we were working on it, so a guest didn’t get hurt. Nobody else was in there.”

  “And your first thought was that it must be the family ghost?”

  Prudence blushed. “There’s been other things. Noises at night. Things going missing. Things reappearing.”

  Mrs. McGillicuddy twined her fingers. “We just need it to stop. We need to get this spirit out of here.”

  I slowly shook my head. “I really don’t think you want to start down the path of an exorcism. Spirits were once physical people just like you and me. They can get confused and lost. It takes some investigation to determine –”