A Touch of Magic

By Janina Franck, Lyssa Chiavari, Annie Cosby and 4 more

Let us put a spell on you.

7 Authors. 10 Stories. Crafted with potions, curses, and fairy dust, each one of them is infused with just a touch of magic. 

In this Anthology, Snowy Wings Publishing opens doors into worlds of the fantastical—stories of those finding their true calling, those who live with curses, those who right the wrongs, and those who risk everything to save the ones they love. 

Among historical, contemporary, and futuristic tales, there's enough magic to spirit you away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Snowy Wings Publishing
• Release date: Jul 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393707882

Book preview

Introduction

Hasn’t everyone dreamed of magic at one point or another? Whether it comes in the form of a miracle, or a strange power – perhaps even to punish someone else. No matter the circumstances, magic holds our attention – as children, certainly, but also as adults, and perhaps most of all, during the transition from one to the other. Magic allows our minds to conjure up something more. Something out of the ordinary. Its essence lies in hope, the wish for some great, inexplicable power that can make happen the things we feel unable to.

But Magic is intangible. It’s elusive and not clearly defined. And so it becomes something limitless to us, something that can hold the universe and change its very core at the snap of a finger. It can be anything you want it to be.

The Weight of Time

By Janina Franck

He sees me. He actually sees me. Or maybe not?

I turn to check behind me – maybe he’s looking at a clock on the wall. But no, there’s nothing there. The wall behind me is empty.

He smirks and pulls the baseball cap off his head, freeing his messy, brown, tousled hair. His brown eyes look me up and down and I shrink back, uncertain how to react. Should I be scared or happy?

I feel a slight tingle as my hand passes into the wall.

Hey, where are you going?

I freeze.

He’s speaking to me. To me. Looking me in the eyes, not just into the room at large, just sensing something else nearby. He’s speaking to me.

I try to speak, to say something, anything, but my mind is empty. It’s been so long since I had to use my words out loud – centuries, certainly. All this time, I have been watching the world change outside the windows of this house. Forget about the outside world, I’ve witnessed so many changes within the house – electricity, TVs, computers... But never, never has anyone seen me. Spoken to me. Touched me.

But here this guy is now, the same age as I was when I died, barely an adult in these modern days, reaching out to me. I don’t draw back, but I don’t advance toward him either.

I want to find out if he’s able touch me, but I’m terrified that he might not be. Or perhaps I am scared that he is? I’m not sure.

One solace I’ve taken from death is that I cannot be hurt anymore. After experiencing too much pain during my lifetime, that seemed like a blessing for the longest time. Little did I know back then that emotional hurt is almost worse.

His fingertips reach my arm.

A tingling warmth races through my skin. Warmth. I had forgotten what that feels like.

I’m staring at his long, slender fingers, not phasing through me like other people would. Resting on my arm.

Don’t be scared, he says. I look up at his eyes. He’s smiling gently, carefully, as though I were a scared animal he’s trying to calm down. It’s working.

I phase out of the wall and stand before him.

You can see me, I say quietly, my voice trembling. More intelligent words or insights won’t come to me. He nods.

I sure can, he says jovially. What’s your name?

Hilde, I tell him.

Hilde, he repeats after me. My name sounds strange coming out of his mouth. I haven’t heard anyone say my name since my sister Sarah left this house after I died. Another tingling washes over me, warmth and cold mixed like a whirlwind of emotion.

I’m Tobias. He leads me further into the room, his other hand reaching around my waist to gently guide me. I am hyper aware of every inch of me he touches. It feels warm, familiar, and yet so strange. I’ve become so used to the cold.

For him to touch me so casually, so intimately, feels scandalous to me, but thrilling at the same time. Besides, I know things aren’t like that anymore. The world and its customs have changed so much since my time. But I still can’t shake off the feeling that we’re doing something forbidden.

Tobias gently pushes me down into a chair, and I can only just about concentrate enough not to phase right through it. He takes a seat on the dusty old couch across from me, leaning forward eagerly, but somehow still relaxed.

We look at each other for a long moment and finally, I find my words again.

Are you the new owner? I ask. He nods.

Moving in today. Is that alright with you?

I’m taken aback by his question. What right should I have to decide who lives here? The house didn’t even belong to me when I was still alive, never mind now, after dozens of generations have come and left again.

I don’t think I have a choice in the matter, I reply dryly. Now he’s the one to look taken aback, the confusion and concern clearly visible in his expression. His nose twitches, along with his eyebrows, as he thinks about what I said.

I’m giving you the choice, aren’t I? he eventually offers, a shy smile finding its way back onto his lips.

I look down at my translucent hands folded in my lap. He’s treating me like a real person instead of the specter I am. Why? The movies the previous owners and tenants watched, always suggested that they would be terrified to find a ghost in their house. I’ve always taken such care to not move objects when they might notice, just so they wouldn’t leave. Nothing is worse than being in this house alone. Is he giving me the choice hoping I’ll tell him to go?

Please stay, I whisper. I don’t dare to look at him. I’ll stay out of your way, I promise. I can stay out of sight, in the attic, you won’t even know I’m here, I-

Okay, stop, he interrupts me. His voice is calm, comforting and his hands are covering mine, stopping them from fidgeting any more. He kneels down in front of me, forcing me to look at him. He’s smiling.

This is your home, he says, and you’re gracious enough to share it with me. You should live here however you want.

He gets back on his feet, letting go of my hands, taking the warmth of his touch along with him.

Hold on, I’ll make some tea for us.

Before I can tell him that I won’t be able to have any, he’s dashing off into the kitchen. I remain behind, confused and worried.

Perhaps... Perhaps he doesn’t realize I’m dead. Maybe he sees me and thinks I’m a real, live person. I suppose he might not have seen me start to phase into the wall. A thrill rushes through me at the thought. I almost imagine my heartbeat quickening.

To be alive again... Even if it’s only in the imagination of another person... The thought is as appealing as it is frightening. I look down at my bare feet peeking out from beneath my long dress. Feet that haven’t touched the floor in decades. Tentatively, I place them on the wooden floorboards now, paying heed to make my soles solid, so I don’t accidentally phase through to the ground. I can barely feel it.

Why is it, that I can clearly feel Tobias’ touch, but not the ground?

He returns, carrying a tray with a steaming pot and two dainty tea cups. I recognize them – they were left by Millicent, a woman who married into this house about three or four dozen years ago.

Once, I’d wanted to admire the gorgeous floral patterns on the outside, holding one of the cups in my hands when everyone was asleep, but the sound of someone bumbling down the stairs had frightened me, and I’d dropped it, leaving the shattered pieces to be found by Millicent’s son, who also ended up taking the blame for the damage.

Tobias smiles brightly.

Here, he says, placing one of the cups on the tea table in front of me, and pours the sweet, fragrant pink liquid. It smells of strawberries and vanilla. Scents I adore, but flavors I have never had the luck to experience. I sigh yearningly before I can stop myself.

What’s wrong? Tobias asks. Don’t like the smell? He blows on his own steaming cup.

I adore it, I say. But I can’t drink or eat. I pause, afraid of what my next words might cost me. But they have to be said. I don’t want to lie about myself. Not anymore. I’m a ghost.

He doesn’t seem surprised by the revelation. Instead, he smirks cheekily.

I know, he chuckles. But give it a try anyway.

Growing less certain because of his unwavering confidence, I concentrate on touching the cup, but flinch back immediately.

Ow!

I look up at Tobias, who seems to be holding back laughter. Tears fill my eyes.

It... It’s hot, I whimper. He nods.

Tea usually is.

I pick up the cup by the handle, without the effort I normally have to exude to hold objects and lift it to my lips. Out of habit from when I was still alive, I blow on the tea. There is no breath, but somehow, the surface of the liquid still ripples as though there were. My eyes widen, and I glance at Tobias, who is watching closely. Eager to see how far this miracle can reach, I take a sip of the tea, expecting it to only slosh over the side of the cup and onto the ground.

Instead, wonderfully fruity and gentle sweetness washes across my tongue. I swallow, a movement that feels strange, out of practice.

But... I pause. But how?

Tobias leans back, a satisfied look in his face, his black shirt barely creasing.

I’m a witch’s son, he simply says.

A witch’s son... I echo.

I blink, twice.

A witch’s son? I repeat.

He nods, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with amusement.

Witches are real?

Instead of replying, he leans forward again, critically gauging my dress.

When are you from? he asks. Fifteen, sixteen hundreds?

Seventeen, I correct him. He nods.

Back then you believed in witches, didn’t you?

I hesitate.

Well, I mumble. Yes, but science... I trail off. I’ve seen so many documentaries, read so many books over the years that I know without a doubt that magic – witches – cannot be real. It just can’t. There is too much evidence against it. It’s not scientific.

I want to tell him all that, but there’s a look in his eye that prevents me from it.

"Can you be explained by science? he asks. I frown at him. Well, there are some theories... Again, a look in his eye makes me stop. Not really, I relent. Ghosts aren’t meant to exist."

And yet here you are.

Weirdly, he is making sense. I can’t be explained by science, so why should I expect that everything else can?

So you’re really a witch, I try to confirm. He shakes his head and gets back to his feet, while I sip more of the wonderful flavors of the tea. The first flavors I have gotten to experience in about three centuries.

No, I’m a witch’s son.

But you can do magic, I argued. Else how did you make it so I can drink this tea?

Tobias shrugs.

I have no magic of my own, he tells me. That’s why I’m here to study engineering, actually. Technology tends to go haywire around witch folk. Not me though. Don’t have any power. Figured I could try to work something out.

But the tea... I start again.

It’s not magic, he assures me. My mom made a mistake conjuring when I was a kid. Got me temporarily possessed by a spirit. Since then I seem to have a closer connection to things unseen. It’s not magic, though. It’s different.

I don’t really get it. At all. But I nod anyway as though I do.

So how about it? he asks, reaching out a hand to me. I look back at him, confused. Roomies?

Want me to get you anything? Tobias asks.

He’s already standing in the hallway, ready to leave the house. In the sunlight streaming though the frosted glass in the door, I’m even less opaque than in the dim light of the previous evening. I watch him jealously as he puts on his sneakers. I’ve been wearing the same thing for more than three hundred years, and here he is, a complete change of clothing from yesterday. A different color of jeans, a blue t-shirt instead of a black one... the only thing that’s still the same is his baseball cap. I’ve always wondered how sneakers feel, compared to the uncomfortable, thin shoes I wore during my own life time.

A book might be nice, I suggest. One with many pages.

He nods and tips his cap at me.

Won’t be long, he promises. Just two hours or so. I only have one class today.

With that, he’s gone, and the door falls into place again, leaving me alone in familiar silence. The ticking of the clock in the hallway seems strangely loud to me now. It echoes through the rooms, resonating in the emptiness.

We talked for so long last night, I half expect my voice to be hoarse, but it can’t be. I don’t have vocal cords anymore after all. Not real ones, anyway.

I float back into the living room. Tobias seems like a miracle and I still find it hard to believe. I hope he’ll live here for a long time. I seem to forget a little about how long I’ve been here, just in this house, when I’m with him, if last night and this morning is anything to judge by. Now that he’s away, I remember it again. The weight of time. The monotony that comes with it. And the loneliness.

What if he’s not coming back? A current of anxiety runs through my body, and I race to the front windows to look out into the street. Where is he? I can’t see him anymore. How long will he be gone? What if he doesn’t want to live with a ghost after all, what if something happens to him while he’s out there?

There’s nothing I can do.

The painful, heart wrenching thought calms my panic. No matter what happens with or to him, I’ll continue to be here either way, captive in my own home. Forever.

Some of the people who have lived here before wished for immortality, as did millions of characters in books and films I have read and watched. I’m as close to it as a human can be, and I can’t recommend it.

I’ve tried to pretend like I had meaningful bonds with the people living here, but it’s a difficult charade to keep up when they never look at me or react to anything I say.

Once there was a baby that noticed me, but it cried any time I was in a room with it. Not exactly the nicest way to be acknowledged. I avoided it for a long time, and eventually, the kid stopped sensing me. Kayleigh, her name was. Her father was Irish and told her many stories of fantastical beings from his home. I was just as struck by them as she was and listened to all his bedtime stories, convincing myself that he told them as much for my benefit as for hers.

I sigh.

It’s been a long time since I saw the world other than through the windows of this house. The TV shows me so many different fantastical places, but I can’t even imagine that they’re real.

I find my way to the backdoor that opens into the garden. I wait in front of it, staring. The garden. It didn’t exist yet when I lived and so I have never set foot in it. I’ve always wanted to. Still do. Maybe today, with the strength of mind my conversation with Tobias has given me, I can make it outside. Determined, I nod, clench my fists, and move forward. Well, try to anyway. It’s not like there’s a barrier or anything, but something compels me to stay inside the house. Something stronger than my own resolve. I try to fight against it, willing myself forward. I want to be in the garden, and feel the grass, smell the trees. I want to feel the sun, or at least see it. But it’s like I’m glued to the spot. No matter what I do, I can’t move out further than this. It doesn’t come as a surprise; it’s not like I willingly stayed in a single house for centuries. But it’s no less frustrating than it was the first time.

Ephemeral tears are soon streaming across my face, though they vanish the moment they no longer touch me. The strain eventually becomes too much and I sink to the floor, defeated and tired. I yearn for sleep, but as a ghost that’s something I can no longer do. Such simple things, and yet they are forever unattainable to me.

I lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. I fall into a kind of trance, the closest thing to sleep I can muster, and remain like that, letting my thoughts run wild until I hear the keys in the door.

Tobias comes in, a wide, mischievous grin on his face, and three large paper bags in his hands.

First things first, he announces, placing them on the counter-top as I curiously float over