Harems, Hexes, & Hairy Housewives: Paranormal Women's Midlife Fiction (Menopause, Magick & Mystery 8)

Harems, Hexes, & Hairy Housewives Menopause, Magick, & Mystery, Volume 8 JC BLAKE Published by Redbegga Publishing, 2023. This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. HAREMS, HEXES, & HAIRY HOUSEWIVES First edition. April 1, 2023. Copyright © 2023 JC BLAKE. Written by JC BLAKE. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication 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 Epilogue Join JC’s Coven! Other Books by the Author To my family. Chapter One December in the village was a difficult month for the coven. Although we were looking forward to Yule, there was the Night of Good Fires to endure. “I do wish they would just stick to Bonfire Night and be done with it,” complained Aunt Beatrice as she scooped another spoonful of apple and bramble crumble into Uncle Raif’s bowl. He poured a generous dollop of custard over the steaming pudding. “It’s only one night,” he placated. “Indeed, but it is what it signifies, Raif,” Aunt Beatrice continued. “I can’t believe that after all this time the villagers celebrate the burning of witches with such relish!” She sighed and sat down to the table then pushed her bowl of crumble away. All eyes rested on her—pushing away crumble was a sign of deeply held concern of the most serious kind. “Eat your crumble, Bea,” Aunt Thomasin said with a quaver in her voice and a look of concern to my aunts. “I feel it in my bones, sisters. Something terrible is coming our way.” She rocked a little in her chair, sparks beginning to crackle above her head. “Now, now, Bea,” soothed Aunt Loveday with a concerned glance around the table. “There’s really nothing to worry about.” “None at all,” added Aunt Euphemia then scooped a spoonful of crumble into her mouth. “Mmm! Delicious. You’ve outdone yourself this time, Beatrice.” “Eat up, before your crumble goes cold,” said Aunt Thomasin as though talking to a child. Aunt Beatrice continued to ignore her crumble. A spark shot from her head, arcing as a flare before disappearing with a pop. Uncle Raif rolled his eyes, scooped the final two spoons of crumble into his mouth in quick succession, thanked Aunt Beatrice for a wonderful meal, then exited the kitchen with the excuse of having some paintings to swot up on before finalising a price for the local antiques dealer. Since his near miss with death at the hands of Hegelina Fekkitt, Uncle Raif had launched himself into a number of new hobbies, or resurrected old interests, and was often away from home shooting, riding his motorbike along the winding roads of the undulating local hills, or visiting art galleries and museum exhibits. He specialised in the Renaissance. ‘It reminds me of my youth,’ he had said several nights before, ‘but it’s sad to see old friends hung on the walls of museums.’ He’d given a soft chuckle. ‘Mind you, some of them should have been hanged from a gibbet!’ With Uncle Raif gone, the mood in the kitchen grew serious. “What is it, Beatrice?” Aunt Loveday questioned. “I have not seen you this concerned for more than a decade.” “Not since that incident with Filbert Osmond,” added Aunt Thomasin. Aunt Beatrice shivered. “It is exactly that! Oh, I have been having terrible dreams ...” “Premonitions?” Aunt Thomasin sighed. “Not again!” “Well, sometimes they come true,” said Aunt Beatrice in a defensive tone. “But mostly not,” retorted Aunt Thomasin. “Well, this time, I feel it in my bones!” she protested. “Ignore her, Beatrice,” said Aunt Loveday. “Tell us about your dreams.” “Hetty Yikk-” “Hsst!” The air crackled as my aunts expressed their dissatisfaction. “Now, now, sisters, let us not overreact,” schooled Aunt Loveday. “Beatrice is only relating a dream.” “She claims it is a premonition—a prophecy,” Euphemia said with a flicker of fear. “We will not know that until it happens,” counselled Aunt Loveday. “Proceed, Beatrice.” “I sense her!” she said with a dramatic scan of the room. “As though she is lurking in the corners of this very room.” “Hsst!” The lights flickered and the flames in the hearth grew low, hugging the logs. “Sisters!” Aunt Loveday reprimanded. “Keep your heads. Now Beatrice,” she said, returning her attention to the petite witch now quivering beneath a halo of sparking energy, “you know that is impossible. Hetty Yikk-” “Hsst!” Aunt Loveday threw Aunt Euphemia a disapproving frown then continued. “The black witch is dead.” “Isn’t she the reason the villagers hold the Night of Good Fires?” I asked. “Exactly! She was burned at the stake many years ago.” “1487,” stated Aunt Thomasin. “I remember it well.” “As though it were yesterday,” said Beatrice in a loud and stagey whisper. “Well then, you very well remember that she is dead and can do no more harm to us.” “Was she your enemy?” I asked. Aunt Loveday shook her head. “She grew to be a thorn in our side, but it was to the door of the village folk that she brought most trouble.” “She was a bad, bad woman,” explained Aunt Thomasin. “But a powerful witch!” Aunt Beatrice added. “And a dead witch,” Aunt Loveday said with a tone of finality. “Now, let us finish our crumble. I much prefer it warm.” She ate another mouthful whilst giving a nod to us to follow suit. I ate mine whilst mulling over the story of Hetty Yikkar, a witch I knew little about, the topic being a taboo among my aunts. To my knowledge, the Night of Good Fires was a centuries old ritual held at the end of