The Wiccan Witch of the Midwest

By Scott A. Lerner

Samuel Roberts, a lawyer in Champaign, Illinois, has just moved to a new home to escape the memories of his old place—the stray body parts left by evil entities as well as traces of his relationship with Susan, who left him because he couldn’t stop risking both their lives trying to save the world. That leaves Sam free to fall in love again. Sam falls hard, suspiciously hard, for Bridget Gillis, a beautiful fortune teller who also happens to be a witch and a member of a coven. The village that encompasses the coven was founded by Bridget’s great-great aunt, also named Bridget and a dead ringer for her descendant. The new relationship quickly gets complicated. It is two days before Halloween, and Bridget is about to be tried by her fellow witches for the crime of practicing dark magic involving the blood of children. The punishment is to be burned at the stake. Bridget needs an advocate, and Sam is the perfect man for the job. Sam brings in Bob, who is suspicious of his best buddy’s sudden passion. The two of them have until the Witching Hour on Halloween to clear Bridget’s name and find out who is killing the local children. As they comb the area for clues, quiz the locals, and take a crash course in witchcraft and Wiccan customs, Sam and Bob can’t shake the question: is Bridget a good witch or a bad witch? The Wiccan Witch of the Midwest is the fourth Samuel Roberts Thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coffeetown Press
• Release date: Nov 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781603812900

Scott A. Lerner

Author and attorney Scott A. Lerner resides in Champaign, Illinois. He obtained his undergraduate degree in psychology from the University of Wisconsin in Madison and went on to obtain his Juris Doctor degree from the University of Illinois in Urbana Champaign. He is currently a sole practitioner in Champaign, Illinois. The majority of his law practice focuses on the fields of Criminal law and Family Law. Mr. Lerner lives with his wife, their two children, and their cat Fern. Lerner collects unusual antiques and enjoys gardening, traveling, reading fiction and going to the movies. Cocaine Zombies is his first published novel. Coming soon: Ruler of Demons, the second Samuel Roberts Murder Mystery. You can find Scott online at Scottlerner.camelpress.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

In life there are few fundamental truths. One such truth is that moving sucks. I liked my house. I could walk to work and to the courthouse. My house was located in a historic neighborhood near downtown Urbana. There were homes built during the turn of the century as well as more modern homes that had sprouted up over the years. It was familiar, and the area had antique brick streets lined with old oak trees and plenty of wildlife. If you consider squirrels, rabbits, and birds wildlife.

Yet, it was time to move. There were simply too many bad memories held captive within those walls. A severed head staring up at me from a bed of banana leaves, a tongue set in a silver case, and the hollowed-out remains of a woman lying in my bed. All reminders of what I desperately wanted to forget.

My new house was more modern. It was a cedar-paneled split level backing up to an apple orchard in southwest Champaign. The subdivision was called Rolling Hills—a name that must have been intentionally ironic. Champaign is almost completely flat, thanks to glaciers working their magic millions of years ago. Thus, there are few hills and what hills remain are not exactly rolling. The subdivision next to me is called Cherry Acres but has no cherry trees. There’s got to be some guy or gal with a wicked sense of humor in charge of naming subdivisions in Champaign.

I was not just moving away from bad memories. I was running from good ones as well. My girlfriend and the love of my life, Susan, and I spent some wonderful times together in that house. But she’d left me. I wanted no reminders of her and the old house was full of them. I could feel her presence there, as if she were a ghost haunting the place. I sometimes thought I could see her from the corner of my eye or smell her perfume. I was determined to move on.

The movers did most of the work. I borrowed my friend Bob’s van to haul away the rest of the boxes. The old house was empty now and all my stuff was mostly squared away in the new house. The closing last week had been uneventful. So much of my past had disappeared with a whimper rather than a bang.

It was my first Saturday in my new digs. I chose this particular house because it made me feel like I was out in the country. The apple orchard out back gives the illusion of space. I did not take into account that it was also a pumpkin patch and at this time of year would be filled with seekers of the great orange squash. Apparently, Halloween draws children and vehicles from all over Champaign County to my backyard, which doesn’t actually belong to me, other than the ten feet up to the small fence. The majority of the space belongs to the family who owns the orchard.

A few of the revelers made noises loud enough to be heard in my kitchen. I knew I seemed a bit bah humbug and would probably be visited by three ghosts for my lack of Halloween spirit, but lately I had been out of sorts.

Close to a year had passed since my last supernatural entanglement. It had been just as long since Susan broke up with me and an equally long time since I’d had a date. My law practice, which involved everything from handling divorces to representing people in criminal cases, had been dull and my life as a whole uneventful.

I sank into the overstuffed sofa in my sunken living room and turned on the television, which was mounted above a gas fireplace. I felt ridiculous whining about my life. I tried to remember the words of my father, Suck it up, you Nancy. If you’re bored, go out and play. Damn, I was surprised I wasn’t in need of therapy. Actually I probably did need therapy, but where the hell could I find a therapist who wouldn’t have me committed if I told them what I had seen?

I decided to watch The Shining on Netflix. I’ve seen it a million times but it was almost Halloween and it felt right. I had just gotten to the part where the bartender is making suggestions to the caretaker of the inn on his need to better discipline his family when the doorbell rang.

Bob stood on my porch. His curly brown hair looked uncombed, and his goatee was equally untamed. He was wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt with a skeleton design that looked like early Stanley Mouse. He also wore jeans and Chuck Taylors.

Bob is in his thirties and has put on a little weight over the past couple years, but overall he looks good for his age. I, on the other hand, am starting to look older, my short brown hair gray around the temples. I’m of average height and in pretty good physical condition for being in my late thirties.

Dude, I was in the neighborhood, Bob said.

Come on in, I said. Beer or apple cider? I stood aside for Bob to enter.

Alcoholic cider?

No.

Beer.

Cool.

Pumpkin ale or Leinenkugel?

Surprise me, Bob said.

I went into the kitchen and returned with two pumpkin ales. I handed one to Bob, who was already sitting down and getting into the film. Bob likes almost any movie but he loves horror movies.

So what’s up? I asked.

The sky, dude. How are you doing?

Good, can’t complain.

Can I ask you a personal question? he said, taking a swig of ale.

Go ahead, but I may not answer it.

When was the last time you had a date?

I sat next to him on the couch. I assume you are referring to the dried fruit. If not, that question is a bit personal.

Don’t answer. I know the answer. You haven’t had a date since Susan left. Dude, life is short. Get out there, enjoy yourself.

I wrinkled my nose in disbelief. I don’t need a girlfriend to enjoy life. I have a television and a kitchen full of snacks. As the great Bob Marley once said, ‘no woman no sad’ or something like that.

Didn’t Ziggy Marley say, ‘Love can’t bring bad things, only good things’? Bob said. Wait, I don’t think that’s quite right.

I shook my head. I have no idea. Who would quote Ziggy Marley?

Bob threw up his hands, almost spilling his ale. Dude, you need a change of scenery to get out and embrace life. You need to come with me to the Grand Pumpkin Plot in beautiful Arthur, Illinois.

My backyard backs up into a pumpkin patch.

This one has more varieties of pumpkins as well as pumpkin pie, pumpkin ice cream, and pumpkin muffins. Besides, what else were you planning to do today?

Do I need to change?

Yes, but the clothing you’re wearing is fine. It’s casual.

All right, I said, clicking off the movie. I do love pumpkin-based foods.

I was wearing gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. I grabbed a leather jacket and we were ready to go. We took my Honda and headed south on the highway toward Tuscola.

It was a beautiful fall day. The fields were mostly harvested with a few straggler farmers out on a perfect Saturday afternoon gathering the remaining corn and soybeans. Dust hung heavy in the air and a few remaining harvesters were at work in the fields.

We pulled off I-57 and took the Arcola exit to Arthur, where we passed a number of black single-horse buggies with orange triangles on the back. About an hour after we had left, we pulled into the Grand Pumpkin Plot.

Bob had not exaggerated with regard to this place. There were wooden crates filled with all manner of pumpkins, squash, and gourds. Also hayrides and an extensive corn maze. Bob insisted on hitting the restaurant first.

For being in the middle of nowhere, the restaurant was surprisingly large. Bob had the pumpkin soup with pumpkin quiche while I opted for the pumpkin ravioli. We split the pumpkin cheesecake for dessert. Afterward I felt kind of sick of pumpkin, but Bob ordered a pumpkin latte.

I wanted to get my pumpkin from the field while Bob was satisfied with digging through the crates. So I headed into the field past the corn maze. It was surprisingly large—had to be over twenty acres—but also surprisingly empty. Other than the group of people on the hay-filled trailer being dragged behind a large tractor, it was empty.

I was kneeling over a potential jack-o-lantern when I heard the loud squawking of crows in the air. A moment later twenty crows alighted on separate pumpkins all around me. Each bird was staring at me. I don’t like black birds. I don’t trust crows, ravens, or grackles. It’s not that I’m a bird racist; only, black birds always seem to precede the coming of dark supernatural forces in my life. In the past it had always been a single bird, maybe two. If the number of birds had a bearing on the proportional strength of the evil force to come, then I was screwed.

I returned to the area where I’d left Bob, trying to figure out if what I’d seen was some sort of sign. I found Bob closely examining a large Cinderella pumpkin.

Dude, did you forget something? Bob asked.

What?

A pumpkin.

No, nothing worked for me.

Damn, if you are as picky about potential dates as you are about pumpkins, then you will never find true love.

Can we change the subject?

Sure. He paused. So, do you ever worry about what will happen in the future?

Why bother worrying about what no one knows? Although, that is kind of an odd subject to bring up out of nowhere.

I know someone who foretells the future. A woman so beautiful that flowers call her up for beauty tips. A woman so wise that owls call her up for advice. A woman who will reveal your future.

I blew out an exasperated puff of air. You sound like a bad infomercial. Are you serious?

As a heart attack. I’m told she is uncanny. I have an appointment. Come on, keep me company. It will take ten minutes to get there.

You had this planned the whole time, didn’t you?

Of course.

That’s a hell of a pitch, I said. She must be great looking. How do you know she is so good if you’ve only been told she is ‘uncanny’?

You know that girl I was seeing last year?

The one with big hair who wore way too much makeup?

Crystal, and yes, that’s the one. I went there with her once. Everything she was told in her reading came to pass.

You mean the great fortune teller predicted she would dump you and start dating that Neanderthal?

Bob folded his arms defensively. Brad, and yes, among other things.

You do realize that she might have broken up with you because the fortune teller told her she would and she trusted the fortune teller, right? Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

She also predicted Crystal would lose her job and have an allergic reaction to shellfish. Both came to pass.

It did not take a fortune teller to predict that Crystal would lose her job. Hell, it was a miracle she had a job. The shellfish thing, however, was pretty good.

She is psychic, he insisted.

Fine, I said, I will go to watch her reveal your destiny.

We paid our bill and filled the back of the car with Bob’s pumpkin-related purchases. In less than five minutes we were back on the road. Before we drove off, I noticed that it was beginning to get colder and the sky looked like rain.

Where are we headed?

Believe it or not, there is a village populated by witches in the heart of Amish Country.

You know I don’t believe in fortune tellers and witches.

You also don’t believe in voodoo spirits, the devil, demons, and Egyptian Gods, but they all believe in you, Bob said. Besides, there are a million fortune tellers and witches online. They do exist.

I believe in fortune tellers, I said. I just don’t believe they can foretell the future. I believe in witches and Wicca as it relates to being a religion. I just don’t believe in magic.

He snorted. You are so full of it, he said. We have seen too much magic for you not to believe in it.

Fine. I pulled over so some maniac could pass. I believe in magic, witches, and fortune tellers. I just don’t believe you found a group of people in Central Illinois with these powers.

You will believe before the day is done, Grasshopper, Bob said in a decent imitation of Kwai Chang Caine from Kung Fu.

We turned down a number of roads until we saw a village in the distance surrounded by harvested fields. Finally we arrived at a large, purple, three-story Victorian home.

Bob pulled into the driveway. There were at least five other Victorian homes in the village that I could see and ten or so other houses in different designs and from different eras, all backed up to an oblong communal area. The communal area had two unpainted wood gazebos and a fire pit, but was mostly open. We got out of the car and walked up to the house. Three stairs led up to a white porch. At the large oak door, Bob struck a brass knocker in the shape of a lion. In less than a minute the door opened.

Chapter Two

The woman who came to the door was tall, with long black hair that fell to her waist and intense blue eyes that resembled a Siamese cat’s. With her pale skin and high cheekbones, she might have been part Scottish and part Native American. She wore a simple black dress, and her only jewelry was a silver pentacle on a silver chain. Bob had not overstated her beauty.

Bob, it’s good to see you, the woman said, giving him a hug.

You must be Sam, the man whose future is in question, she said without touching me.

Well, actually ….

I was about to set her straight, but she’d already opened the door and waved us in, so I let it go for now. The interior was inviting, with an eclectic mix of furniture and knickknacks that somehow all went together. I admired the tiger oak floor and the imposing wooden staircase directly before us. On our left was a room filled with potted plants. A maroon velvet sofa and two matching chairs faced an enormous picture window divided into three sections that must have been added to the home a hundred years after it was built. To the right was an old fashioned parlor, which contained a sofa and six wooden chairs, none of them matching, and a number of tables. Next to the sofa was a table of ornately carved mahogany with a marble top. An old maple tea table stood between two chairs and an oak parlor table between two other chairs. All the furniture was wooden and antique in a hodgepodge of styles, and the colors were warm shades of red and pink. The lamps had fringed shades and the pottery looked handmade. There were a few porcelain figurines of animals, mostly wolves and cats in different positions of rest, along with various pieces of folk art representing the moon and sun. I wondered if these were part of her seasonal décor or a sly reference to her profession.

Can I get you some tea? To drink, that is. I don’t use tea leaves for divination. A skill I have yet to acquire. She turned to Bob. I don’t need to be a fortune teller to know you did not tell your friend why he is here.

I told him you were a fortune teller. I wanted my gift of a reading to be a surprise. I lied and told him it was for me, Bob said.

The spirits tell me your veracity should be questioned. You did not intend to surprise him with a gift. You just didn’t want him to say no. To me, she said, My name’s Bridget Gillis. Bob felt you were uneasy about what the future has in store for you. Most people are. I also sense that you are not a believer. Although, when Bob called to speak with me, he made it clear that you have stepped into the word of the supernatural enough times that you can’t completely dismiss my calling. Besides, Bob must have told you how accurate my reading for his … friend Crystal was.

Bob sat forward in his chair, eager as a puppy dog. She really can tell the future. Give it a try, he said.

"You said you were getting a reading, not me. Maybe she’s right and it is not a matter of my questioning her skills. Maybe I just don’t want to know."

You’re not a little curious? Bob said. What is the worst that can happen? We get a good laugh and go on our way. I’m paying, he added.

I think the worst that could happen is that I will be told I am going to die in the morning, I said, taking his words literally.

That’s not so awful. You’d still die, whether you knew about it or not. At least by knowing we could have some fun before you went. I could throw a party.

I threw up my hands. Fine, I’ll go along with it, but it’s all crazy.

Bridget laid a soft hand on my arm. Don’t feel obligated on my account, Sam. I would love to do your reading, but I won’t be offended if you refuse. There are many people who are uncomfortable knowing about their destinies.

When she removed her hand, I felt its absence somehow. She had a certain something about her. Maybe it was just her beauty, or maybe I was sensing her power. For men it is often difficult to separate beauty from anything else.

Do your readings always come to pass? I asked.

"Given the nature of free will, the future can be changed. That said, in practical terms, it rarely is. I record my readings in my Book of Shadows. I never put down names, to protect my clients’ privacy. Yet, when clients come back to discuss the aftermath of my readings, I