Witchling: A Collection of Zoraida Grey Short Stories: Zoraida Grey, #0

By Sorchia DuBois

Stories in the collection:

"Zoraida Grey and the Skinwalker"
"Zoraida Grey and the Twisted Sisters"
"Zoraida Grey and the Surly Spirit"
"The Witch and the Spaniard"

​​​​​​​Before the events depicted in the Zoraida Grey Trilogy, Zoraida was a small town fortuneteller. Her magical journey begins with a murderous presence in her hometown. As a young woman, she finds ghosts in the strangest places. PLUS a tale about Castle Logan and how it got its dark reputation.

Witchling makes a fantastic introduction to Zoraida Grey. If you've read the Zoraida Grey trilogy, you'll learn tidbits of backstory in this lively collection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sorchia DuBois
• Release date: Feb 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386190714

Sorchia DuBois

Sorchia Dubois lives in deepest, darkest Missouri. She can often be found at Scottish events where she sips Scotch and watches kilted men toss unreasonably large objects for no apparent reason.

Book preview

Witchling: A Collection of Zoraida Grey Short Stories

By Sorchia DuBois

Author’s Note:

Welcome to the Magical World of Zoraida Grey and THANK YOU for reading Witchling: A Collection of Zoraida Grey Short Stories . These stories begin years before the Zoraida Grey Trilogy so there are No Spoilers!

You’ll meet some characters and learn a bit about what makes them so weird, but nothing will ruin the fun of Zoraida Grey and the Family Stones or Zoraida Grey and the Voodoo Queen or even of Zoraida Grey and the Pictish Runes.

When I first met Zoraida, she was a small town fortuneteller with lots of tales about ghost hunting in the Bible Belt. I thought she would make a great protagonist for several light paranormal mysteries. However, when I began drawing Tarot cards to learn more about her (yes, that’s what I do. Weird, huh?) I found that her story was going to take an entirely different direction. Thus, the Zoraida Grey Trilogy was born.

The first three stories in this collection come from the time before I found out about Castle Logan and the crazy witches therein. They follow Zoraida on a few of those middle-American adventures. The last tale is a witchier, darker story about Castle Logan in the distant past—a look at how it got its reputation.

This collection makes a great introduction to Zoraida Grey but if you’ve already read the trilogy, you’ll learn a few new things in these stories.

Zoraida Grey and the Skinwalker

Once upon a time in the deep, dark forest of Arkansas, lived a little girl whose Granny was a . . .well, find out for yourself in this tale of ten-year-old Zoraida and the time she learned about the darker side of magic.

IF YOU’RE REALLY A witch, Zoraida, fly to my house on your broomstick tonight to prove it. Al hangs upside down on the highest rung of the brand new jungle gym at Bear Hollow Elementary School.  A humid puff ruffles his brown hair. I bet you a hundred dollars you don’t even have a broomstick, and I bet you another hundred dollars you’re too scared to go outside in the dark.

Even upside down, the know-it-all look on his face makes me want to conk him in the head with a rock. Lucky for Al, the only thing within reach is a hunk of moldy sawdust. All fifteen kids in our fifth grade class form a laughing circle around us. Nothing makes the last week of school better than a good old fight on the playground.

You don’t have two hundred dollars. And I don’t need to prove anything to you. I squint into his upside-down brown eyes and yank a strand of his brown hair––not hard, just enough to make him wince.

Al does a flip off the jungle gym, landing on the fresh layer of wood chips with a dull thump sending a cloud of dust into the sultry spring air. I may be scrawny, but I’m the tallest girl in fifth grade from the soles of my favorite green tennis shoes to the last bit of flying frizzy blonde hair on my head. Al can nearly look me in the eye and he is a sturdy boy, used to hard work on his dad’s pig farm. We stand toe to toe in the middle of the playground.

There ain’t’ no such thing as magic or witches. Your Granny is just a crazy old lady who sells fake potions to stupid people.  He grins with all his teeth and his brown eyes wink with orneriness.

You better shut up, Al. My hands close into fists.

I know he’s mostly teasing, but nobody talks about my Granny like that. Al’s very own mother is a frequent customer at Granny’s shack in the woods, but I keep my trap shut about that.

Every kid I know—apart from my best friend Zhu—makes fun of Granny and me. Except at Halloween. Then they give me the fish eye like I’m about to turn them all into toads. Which I would if I could. After Halloween, they go back to snickering behind my back and whispering smart-ass comments when I walk past. By spring, I have had about all the abuse I can take.

Zhu, who is a barely taller than a garden gnome, steps between Al and me. The other kids retreat a few paces. Nobody messes with Zhu unless they want to find themselves flat on their backs with Zhu’s little tiny foot firmly applied to their Adam’s apples. Her dad’s a Marine and he taught her every martial art in the book. She has the skill along with the temperament to drop kick a horse if she wants to.

Why do you have to be so nasty, Al? Zhu’s panda bear earrings bounce with every word. With long black hair held in place by green hair bret, she looks petite and harmless. Looks are deceptive. How would you like it if we made fun of your family?

I’m just teasing. Al pats the top of her head and winks at me. He’s not scared of Zhu because the three of us are best buds most of the time. It’s funny to see Zoraida get all mad. Her face turns red and her frizzy hair stands straight up.

I don’t need Al to tell me my face glows redder than the one stop light in town. He is the only one who can make me this mad. Granny always tells me to think before I act, but I usually forget all about Granny when Al teases me. I tense my leg for a good roundhouse kick. Zhu’s dad teaches me stuff, too. Last summer, I learned how to break somebody’s nose with my head. Roundhouse kicks were the summer before and I can do them high or low, front or reverse.

Just as I pick a good spot on Al’s jaw as a target because I really don’t want to kill him, a cold chill on the back of my neck cools my anger. Mrs. Daisy, the substitute fifth grade teacher, is watching us from the edge of the playground. The other kids scatter.

Now you’ve done it, Al hisses. Here she comes.

Sure enough, Miss Daisy strides across the playground. Everything about the tall, stern woman is grey, from her hair to her pasty face and past her calf-length cotton dress to her low-heeled grey shoes.  The only hint of color about her is eyes which are the exact shade of rotten peaches.

Recess is over, she says, shifting her yellow/brown eyes from me to Al and back to me. Let’s get out of this awful heat. Everybody inside.

I’ll show you, Aloysius Bartholomew Allen, I whisper to Al as we follow the rest of the class toward the green doors. He hates his full name––and who wouldn’t?––so I use it whenever I can. You just wait and see.

I aim a punch at his shoulder, but he grins and dodges around Miss Daisy. He gets to the green double doors before I do. I give him a steely-eyed mean glare as he ducks into our classroom.

By the time I get to the room, Al is sitting at his desk like a little angel. I reach to flip on the classroom lights on, but Miss Daisy comes up behind me. She moves pretty fast for an old lady. I bet she’s at least forty.

Let’s keep them off, dear. It’s so bright outside it hurts my eyes, she says in the syrupy voice some adults use when they talk to babies.

Miss Daisy has been our substitute for nearly a month while our regular teacher, Mrs. Winston, is away having a baby, and she gives me the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it’s her accent, which is not the slow, drawl of a native-born Arkansawyer—which I am, so I know what I’m talking about.

Buddy, the class hamster, doesn’t like her either. He hasn’t poked his head out of his little mushroom-shaped shelter since she took over the class.  But then Buddy and I don’t like Mrs. Winston either. To tell the truth, I don’t like anything about Bear Hollow Elementary School. School is a huge waste of time.

For the rest of the day, I give Al mean looks. He just grins a know-it-all grin which he learned from the older boys. That’s what they all do when a girl argues with them—especially when she’s right. Granny promised horrible punishments if I go to the principal’s office again this school year so I grit my teeth so hard they creak.  I only have to make it through one more week.

When the final bell rings for the day, the entire three-hundred and seventy five kids at Bear Hollow Elementary try to squeeze out the double green doors at one time. A wave of humid, hot air flows through the hallway frizzes my hair, and pops sweat out on my face. I loiter beside the water fountain, waiting for the crowd to thin. Al comes up behind me and tugs on a puff of my blonde hair.

C’mon, Zoraida, he says. I was teasing. Don’t be mad at me.

His brown eyes sparkle with orneriness. Al is the nicest and cutest boy in the entire school. He, Zhu, and I are like the Three Musketeers usually, but this sticky never-ending day has frazzled more than just my hair. If you don’t quit making fun of Granny, Aloysius Bartholomew, I’ll smack you so hard your eyes’ll rattle.

Quit calling me that!

Not until you quit saying bad stuff about Granny.

I will if you quit making up stories about being a witch. The preacher says you and Granny are going straight to fiery pit of Hell. He reaches an arm around me and squeezes my shoulders in an unexpected hug. I don’t want to go to Heaven if you ain’t there.

There’s no such place as Hell. I could tell you a thing or two if you’d shut up long enough to listen. I shake off his arm and stomp to the bus, taking a front seat just behind the driver.

Al goes to the very rear of the bus and flops down. I feel his eyes on the back of my head but I don’t turn around. My bare legs stick to the hot plastic seats and I’ve had all the conversation I can stand.

The bus rattles over gravel roads for nearly an hour.  Every time a kid gets out, a wave of red-clay dust rides a sticky draft from the open door. A thin powdery layer coats my sweat-damp skin and settles into my hair. The grit even gets in my mouth, but I am already mad enough to spit. I am tempted to trip Al as he walks by when the bus stops beside his mailbox. He grins but he keeps a close eye on me, too. Al knows me pretty well.

Mr. Weeble, the bus driver, glances at me in the wide rear view mirror as he pulls away from Al’s stop. He is a chubby man with a head as bald as a goose egg and twice as shiny. The Cardinals baseball cap he wears most of the time keeps down the glare.

How are you today, Zoraida? Anxious for summer vacation?

Anxious is not a strong enough word for how badly I want summer vacation to start, but I just say, yes politely.

I been meaning to ask you something. My wife’s pestering me to get up to see your granny for one of her cures. Do you reckon your granny has anything for bursitis? He takes one hand off the wheel to rub his shoulder.

She has all kinds of spel . . . um. . .cures for nearly any ailment. I’m sure she would be happy to help. I have the sales pitch down to a fine art, except Granny told me not to mention spells or potions even though that’s what they are. Some people get crazy when you say that kind of thing.

Mr. Weeble grins at me in the mirror. The Missus swears by your granny’s hand lotions and headache powders. I guess I’ll make a trip out to your place in a few days to see what she can do for me.

She’ll be in town for groceries tomorrow morning. I’ll tell her and maybe you can catch her at the store.

We settle the fine points of this little business transaction as the bus rattles down the gravel road. I’m Granny’s sales force in Bear Hollow. I deliver lotions and potions and spells and what-not all the time like a magical Avon lady.

As we approach my stop, I stand up and sling my school bag over my shoulder. Mr. Weeble turns the ponderous bus around at the end of the road. He pulls the lever and the door opens with a creak. Orange clay dust swirls around me in little cyclones as I climb down the metal steps and jump out.

I hate leaving you so far out in the boonies all by yourself, he says, tipping his St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap back on his baldhead. He says this at least once a week. It’s hot as He. . .. I mean, it’s an awful hot day. Are you sure you’ll be okay?

Of course I will. It’s shadier in the woods. I point up the hill as I always do. I’ll be fine.

He waves and pulls the lever to close the door. Behind the