The Witches of Phoenixville

By C.A. Masterson

How far will a mother go to shield her son from harm? Grace Hawthorne would go to Hell and back—but Hell may come to her first. As Gabe’s 16th birthday approaches, events in Phoenixville become stranger, and more dangerous.

Powerful forces are driving out townsfolk, even while drawing close family and a love she thought lost to time. The collision of past and present come at the same time Gabe gets his full powers, magnifying the risk Grace might lose him.

Will love be enough to protect Gabe—even from himself—and heal Phoenixville?

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.A. Masterson
• Release date: Nov 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463798263

C.A. Masterson

C.A. Masterson loves stories of any genre. Her novellas, short stories and flash fiction appeared at various epress sites and web zines (The Battered Suitcase, A Long Story Short, Dark Sky Magazine, Cezanne’s Carrot, The Harrow, Flesh from Ashes, Quality Women’s Fiction, Phase, and The Writer’s online edition).In 2010, The Pearl S. Buck Foundation awarded first place to her short literary story, Christmas Eve at the Diner on Rathole Street. Her short literary story, All is Calm, All is Bright, was awarded second place in the annual Pennwriters Short Story contest in 2005.Look for her at http://paintingfirewithwords.blogspot.com, and in strange nooks and far-flung corners of the web.

Book preview

Chapter One

What a cruel fate, some might say, to be born to a life in which you must spend its entirety with your burning soul hidden away, holding up a mirrored mask to those who seek your truth so that they see only themselves, the sameness no threat. The ordinariness a confirmation that you were nothing more, nothing less than them. That you were one of them. That you belonged.

Grace Hawthorne spent most of her thirty-seven years in this way. Until the day she found Phoenixville, she had no accurate gauge of how awfully the pretense had begun to grate against her. Of how very weary she’d grown of holding that mirror-mask all her life. How very ready she was to let it shatter at her feet.

More cruel, Grace would have argued, was for fate to give you a child like Gabe who, at every opportunity, pieced together the shattered bits and pressed them against your face, more concerned with resurrecting the disguise than with the pain you suffered when the sharp edges cut your skin. A son who didn’t like the way you reflected on him.

The moment she stepped into the house at 333 Sycamore Street, the mask fell away as if it had never existed. The house knew her. There was no need—no point, really—in forcing herself to blend in. Not anymore. Here, she already belonged.

Gabe was angry she’d exposed her true self, even in glimpses.

Perhaps that was when the trouble began. Or perhaps you need a bit of trouble to set you on the right path again, after having diverged from it so wantonly, you thought you were lost forever.

That’s what Grace would tell you now.

But then, when trouble closed around them, like telltale smoke from a fire, Grace was more afraid than she’d ever been before.

The smoke was not a metaphor. The fire was real. To some, the scent of a fire might invoke visions of welcoming hearths and campfires. To witches like Grace, the odor instilled bone-chilling fear.

Grace could see the haze from her window. It never touched her house. She suspected the house kept it at bay somehow. A band of clear air encircled their property in a protective barrier.

As she drove Gabe to school through the near-deserted streets of Phoenixville, she half-expected gauzy fingers to close around her throat and choke her.

Gabe, encased in a shroud of bad attitude, might not even notice. He pretended to be absorbed in the scenery. With every shuttered store they passed, every empty house, his eyes grew narrower as if to block out the sight, and a nerve in his jaw pulsed in time with the nervous bobbing of his knee.

Minutes rolled by, as empty as the road that stretched ahead of them. Twenty-five minutes of silence was a terrible punishment for the simple crime of being an unwanted driver.

So Grace made mindless chatter. I hope Tony’s feeling better soon.

Don’t worry, he said to the window. You won’t have to drive me to school again tomorrow.

I don’t mind more quality time with you.

The attempt at a joke drew a muffled huff. Hold that thought. I’ll probably need you to pick me up later and drop me off at work. And probably a ride home after I’m done my shift.

That’s fine. Preferable, in fact. She’d watched every day in horror as Tony, a year older than Gabe, tore away from their driveway and rounded the corner practically on two wheels. She tried not to worry but couldn’t help it. Lately, worrying took up nearly every ounce of energy.

If they were any other family, her fears might be unfounded. Maternal instincts were short-lived in Hawthornes, and her expiration date was already way past due. Every moment she could spend with Gabe was another moment she could keep him safe. In another few months, he’d turn sixteen. Time was running out fast, a spark racing down the cord to the fuse.

Here we are, she pointed out unnecessarily as she stopped at the curb outside of Great Valley High School. Have a great day.

A moment hung between them when Gabe reached down to unbuckle his seat belt and stared at her as if she’d lost her mind, and Grace froze a smile on her face meant to send love and encouragement and an unspoken promise to always be there for him.

Like a snap of invisible fingers, the moment vanished. Gabe flew from the Jeep Cherokee and disappeared into the stream of teenagers flowing through the school’s double doors.

She ran her hands along the steering wheel and wished she could turn back the hands of time to when they’d arrived in Phoenixville in this same Jeep. Tall even at ten, Gabe had sat in the back seat, his scowl burning into her from the rearview mirror. She’d responded by plastering the same smile on her face. Holding that smile for six years had challenged her in ways she never could have guessed, but she wasn’t going to give up.

Behind her, a car horn blared. She waved an apology for blocking the school drop-off lane. She tried to steer her thoughts away even as she steered the SUV away, but both headed toward the inevitable end: Phoenixville.

In contrast to Philadelphia, Phoenixville seemed like the perfect small town, cozy and friendly, where sunny days cast almost no shadow. Families occupied the same homes for generation upon generation, with young ones reaching adulthood and raising their own families there. Cousins grew up as best friends, and grandparents lived within walking distance. Some people moved away, of course, but more often, the move was a short distance, to the top of the hill, to Phoenixville Cemetery.

Gabe saw the town as the source of all their problems. Once upon a time, Grace believed it was the solution to those problems.

The fact that Grace’s ancestor once lived in Phoenixville made it all seem so perfect. She envisioned Gabe growing to manhood there, finding an open-hearted, open-minded girl who loved him, and eventually, Grace would be blessed with two or even three grandchildren running around her back yard, laughing. They would be nothing like the rest of her family. Grace had believed she could change the cursed Hawthorne legacy forever.

Grace’s confidence faded as the haze thickened around her vehicle. Pretending not to notice, she drove to Sycamore Street and parked outside the house that held her heart.

Work was the sole escape from her incessant worry. Thank the stars, she had plenty of orders to fill.

In her workroom, she launched her email from the laptop and found a dozen new orders since last night. The first customer asked for a Presentations Pouch to ease her fear of public speaking while conducting a workshop. Another woman, heartbroken after a bad breakup, ordered a Spirit Healing Package of essential oils, gemstones and a candle. The third wanted a Prophetic Dreams Pillow to reveal what would happen in her life. Because that woman was only twenty-one, Grace would counsel her to make her request as specific as possible. The pillow could only predict so much.

Before she could read the next email, a knock came at the window. The aged panes framed Sally Davis’s face. The wavy image distorted Sally’s almost-smile, but strain still showed in her eyes, rimmed with dark circles.

Uh oh. Grace knew that look. Sally’s hurt penetrated Grace’s skin, and sent tiny pinpricks along her neck. Only one thing could heal such pain: love.

Hey. She waved Sally inside.

Not too early, am I? Hesitant, the woman lingered on the threshold.

You’re right on time. I was just about to grab another cup of coffee. She huddled against the cool air as she led Sally down the stone path to the back door.

Sally sat at the kitchen table with a soft sigh that spoke of bone-tired weariness. Is Gabe excited for the end of the school year?

He’s been so busy working, we hardly have time to connect. And then when we do… She let that thought go. Negative energy tended to feed upon itself, and if you weren’t careful, it would begin to feed on you.

Sally waved her away. Ach, teenagers.

If only that explanation encapsulated the tension between them.

Grace set two mugs on the counter and poured.

With sorrowful wistfulness, Sally gazed absently outside. The thud of ceramic against the old wooden table snapped her out of it. Exactly what I need. Thanks.

Having trouble sleeping again? With anyone else, Grace wouldn’t have pried, but she and Sally had spent many mornings in this kitchen talking about their worries.

Same old, same old. Sally dropped her gaze to the cup, as if searching for some sign of hope in the steaming liquid.

Grace placed her hand over Sally’s and gave a light squeeze. I’m sorry.

Why should you be sorry?

Was Grace to blame? She’d asked herself that question many times. Guilt caused her to withdraw her hand.

Sally didn’t appear to notice. You and Gabe are bright spots in this gloomy place. Dan can’t argue about staying when he knows how much Gabe depends on him.

It would be hard on us all if you left. Friendship was a treasure Grace infrequently found. Her bond with Sally was especially precious to her.

Dan finds it more and more painful to live here. She turned pleading eyes to Grace. But I can’t leave my home.

I know what you mean. This house feels like an extension of me. Grace had sensed it the first time she’d crossed the threshold. The walls had shivered, like shaking off a long, deep sleep, and then inexplicably brightened as if in recognition. The atmosphere warmed, chasing away the chill of the March drizzle outside. Grace couldn’t quite explain it, but it was almost as if the house had hugged her. Her heartstrings responded in kind, reaching out to welcome the embrace. Her heart was embedded within these walls.

Sally gave her head a sad shake. I love my home, too, but it goes way deeper than that for me. My family’s lived here for generations. Phoenixville is part of me, even more than I’m part of Phoenixville. Do you know what I mean?

Grace did. She’d thanked her lucky stars when, at the perfect time for her to buy her first home, she found a realtor listing for the very house that her ancestor Calista Hawthorne had owned in the early 1700s when Phoenixville was comprised of only a few dirt streets, and homes huddled around the brightly lit town square as if to protect one another from unseen dangers lurking in the night.

Grace should have remembered what the townsfolk considered dangerous. She should have reminded herself that her ancestor had fled Phoenixville in shame, and when she’d returned, the town didn’t exactly throw its collective arms open in welcome. They gathered together, but only to light a fire and burn Calista Hawthorne at the stake for being a witch.

Grace should have put together that—despite the warmth the ramshackle house emanated the first time she stepped over the threshold, the all-encompassing feeling that she’d found her true home—in reality, by moving there, she was inviting trouble. Igniting the embers of deeply ingrained fears. Stirring up things, long buried beneath the surface, that were better left alone.

She should have remembered the most basic truth: the brighter the sunshine, the deeper the shadows.

She wanted nothing more than for her and Gabe to belong here, for her son to have a normal a life with ordinary problems.

With a heavy sigh, Sally set her mug down. So, as you probably guessed, that’s why Dan’s mean as a polecat these days.

It pained Grace to see her suffer. All she could do was lend a friendly ear. Because he still wants to move away?

Worse than ever. Sally’s chuckle sounded bitter. He claims I’m too stubborn to listen to reason. Apparently, only unreasonable people choose to stay in a town with a fire nothing and no one can put out.

Guess I’m unreasonable, too. Gabe sure seems to think so.

If it weren’t for you and Gabe, Dan probably would have forced me to go the year they the fire began.

Like everyone else.

He worries about leaving you two here unguarded.

Good old Dan, always looking out for them. With anyone else but Sally, Grace wouldn’t have said her next thought aloud. If Dan hadn’t taken Gabe under his wing, I might have lost him. Sooner than she feared would happen. Dan’s the closest thing to a father figure Gabe’s ever had. Grace deserved Gabe’s blame on that count.

Oh, honey. Warmth finally lit Sally’s face. You make being a single mom look like a piece of cake. Gabe’s a wonderful boy.

I know he is, Sally. She let her fears recede long enough to smile, something she didn’t do often enough.

You’re probably busy, and I’m interrupting. Sally pushed to a stand like a woman headed to the gallows. Thanks for the coffee.

Anytime. You know I’m always here.

The first genuine smile that morning lit Sally’s face. That is good to know. See you later.

The back door creaked a mournful sound that startled a nervous laugh from Sally. Better get some oil on that.

Grace held the door for her. Yes. I’ve been meaning to. Old houses. They’re so…

Old? Sally stepped down. And needy, like the rest of us old-timers. With one last wave, she turned and walked to the street.

Anyone else might have simply waved goodbye, but the sight of Sally disappearing into the mist sent an icicle of fear through Grace’s heart.

I have to try again.

The oversized book was hidden in plain sight on top of the fridge. If Gabe had ever thought it a poor fit with the other cookbooks, he never mentioned it.

The worn leather cover was always warm to the touch. The recipes within couldn’t be found in any other collection.

Heavy, yet fragile from age, the book demanded users handle it with care. Grace tenderly turned to one of the hand-written pages she’d earmarked while searching for potential remedies.

The loopy script read, Spell for Curse Reversal. But had a curse caused the fire, or was it the result of something else? The remedies she’d already tried had failed, but she put that out of her mind and concentrated on gathering handfuls of dried chamomile, agrimony and hydrangea. After measuring out one cup of water for each teaspoon of herbs, she set the pot on the stove and waited for it to boil.

Steam began to rise, and she dropped in a mixture of herbs. She couldn’t help feeling that something was missing, such as a chant or spell, anything to boost the potency. The procedure lacked a certain ritual, but all she could do was follow the instructions written so long ago, before the convenience of modern appliances. With the timer set for ten minutes, she sat at the table to browse through the book for any other useful cures.

A buzz filled the air above her. The lights flickered, then the kitchen went dark.

Oh no. The red glow of the burner light faded out. She scrambled to the stove, but already the heat beneath the pot had cooled.

No, you have to boil! The mixture couldn’t reach full strength unless the water boiled for no less than ten minutes. She grabbed a flashlight, hurried down to the cellar, switched the breakers, then ran upstairs.

Still no electricity. She pressed her palm to her forehead to think.

The mixture on the stove was already ruined. She’d wasted half the morning on this side project, and used up the last of the dried agrimony. A new batch might take a few weeks before it was ready.

She released a sigh of disgust, then took her cell phone from her purse and called MetEd to report the outage. The moment someone answered, the electric buzzed to life, and light shone. The liquid in the pot bubbled up what sounded like a belch as the burner glowed bright red.

That’s weird. Sorry, never mind. She disconnected, but continued talking aloud. I am going to try again. And again, and again, until I find the perfect antidote.

This was not defeat, not by a long shot. During the six years she’d laboriously carved out a life for her and Gabe in Phoenixville, darkness had crept up from behind the old Victorian houses, from the hallowed graveyard overshadowing the town, from the stone church reaching tall spires toward the heavens as if pleading for salvation.

Despite countless nights spent searching her soul, Grace couldn’t be completely sure of her innocence. Everyone knew that whenever someone pleaded for salvation, a guilty party was always targeted, whether they were guilty or not.

Like the book, Grace stood out among normal folk because she was far from normal. It made her an easy target.

She might have been guilty of drawing out the darkness from hiding, the way she tried so hard to stay in the shadows to blend in, to not be noticed. Try as she might, she couldn’t shed her old habit of pretending to be someone else, someone she could never be, even after she’d made real friends and steadily grown a home-based business. She’d woven together all the loose threads of her life, the outward hallmarks of success for a normal person.

Maybe she’d committed a sin against the laws of nature by remaining in one place long after tradition—and instinct—dictated she should leave. But why should she go? For any Hawthorne, there was no such thing as a safe place. Not when the danger came from within.

Grace Hawthorne, like every other Hawthorne woman before her, was born with magic percolating in her veins.

Gabe Hawthorne hated everything about magic. Lately, he acted as if he hated everything about Grace, too.

So she simply wouldn’t mention what happened this morning. She filled a thermal mug with coffee and headed outside toward the summer kitchen.

A breeze ruffled her hair. It came from the west, and carried something like a whispered laugh. A hot shiver shot through her. Sally was long gone by now. Except for the Haines at the end of the block, the homes around her were dark, abandoned by their owners. Phoenixville was now practically a ghost town, with fewer inhabitants than the cemetery. Less than fifty people still called the town home, a dozen or so concentrated within a three-block radius of the town square, the rest scattered along the eastern outskirts.

She hurried along the stone path and closed the workroom door against the sound.

If she didn’t hear it, she could pretend it wasn’t there. Almost.

Chapter Two

Grace had become an expert at pretending.

From inside her work studio, especially before day fully broke, Grace pretended that the world outside was normal. That the haze enshrouding the town was nothing more than morning mists of mid-May. That she and Gabe were an ordinary mom and son. That other teenagers harbored the same anger toward their parents.

By late morning, he’d texted her: Never mind about a ride. I’m good.

Grace knew he was embarrassed by her, but didn’t acknowledge it.

OK, she texted back. Let me know if anything changes.

Grace acted as if her boy didn’t break her heart. He was the reason that, long before moving to Phoenixville, she’d pretended to be a parody of her true self. The occasional visitor to her workroom, the reconstructed 1700’s-era summer kitchen linked to the house by a stone walkway, saw the raw ingredients she used to create products she sold online. Fresh blocks of clay sat in airtight containers, ready to be molded into ornaments, vases and vessels to hold treasures, or hide secrets. Organizers held beads and charms and other makings for jewelry. Herbs, grown in the greenhouse behind the summer kitchen, hung along the windows to dry in neat bunches. An odd assortment of ingredients lined the shelves beneath the two wide windows.

Visitors to Grace’s online shop saw the logo of a smiling, curvaceous cartoon witch stirring a cauldron bubbling over with hearts and stars. Crafts, spells and potions for all occasions, the banner promised in curlicue script. Purposely cutesy and whimsical.

People outside of Phoenixville couldn’t see that Grace was nothing like the cartoonish version of the witch in the design. To any locals who asked, she explained it was simply her business brand. The townsfolk didn’t much care. They mostly talked about how Grace grew the most gorgeous, lush flowers, and gave high praise to her healing and beauty ointments.

She rarely met the people who purchased the products and services she sold. If anyone minded her anonymity, none mentioned it in the comments they posted with their four- and five-star ratings. The crafts she lovingly created garnered rave reviews for their beauty and quality. The potions she mixed worked as promised. It didn’t take magic to keep customers coming back for more.

Even if it did, Grace would have no problem. She had magic to spare, even if she laughed off any suggestion to that effect.

There were a few things, however, she couldn’t pretend away.

The mist never dissipated with the rising sun. It wasn’t mist at all. Haze poured from the western edge of town. Shortly after she and Gabe moved to town, barely a wisp rose up from the site. Then a fire sparked to life, a fire that was crawling beneath the town. Already, it had consumed foundations and streets along its path. Every day, the haze grew thicker. She was beginning to believe that trouble had followed her to Phoenixville.

To be born a Hawthorne was to know fire. To harness its warmth. To dance in its light under a moonless sky. To conjure it from cold darkness.

The last haunted Grace. Could she conjure a fire subconsciously? Was she responsible for causing Sally and Dan’s problems? For ruining the town?

Grace caught her reflection in the window. The overhead lighting erased some of her features, but couldn’t erase the worry from her expression. There was nothing cartoonish about her.

Gabe would argue the point.

She worked until the crescent moon hung low and bright above the hillside where the setting sun had edged it with gold. By ten thirty, when Gabe came home after work, she was still finishing up a few projects. He’d texted her earlier that he’d eat on the fly, so she heated a can of soup for herself. Close to midnight, when she came inside, his room was dark.

In the dead of night, she awakened with a start, her senses stung by wisps of hot, pungent air. She knew right away what caused the terrible scent. Smoke.

The bed sheets tangled around her legs, and her heart pounded like a mad drum even after she kicked her way free.

"Gabe!" She screamed her son’s name in her head, never out loud. Not since the first time, when she’d burst into his room and swept him up from the cozy warmth of his bed. He was four, then. With the wisdom only a toddler could summon at three in the morning, he told her she’d had a nightmare and to go back to sleep. An admonition from a youngster could make anyone take stock of one’s own behavior. No use arguing that three o’clock marked the time when anything might happen—the witching hour.

Watching her little boy cuddle against the pillow and fall into an immediate slumber, she’d seen her surroundings with clear eyes, as if she’d only just awakened. No smoky wisps slithered along the floor. No flames licked the walls. Not so much as a spark danced within view. The Spiderman night light near Gabe’s bed cast a reddish pall across the room, but its steady glow was cold. She allowed herself a long breath, then bent to kiss his head.

The chill in her bones told her it had been more than a waking nightmare. More than her instinctive fear of fire.

Who could blame her for the latter? Some of her ancestors had burned for the crime of casting spells and concocting potions. Covens no longer feared death at the pyre, but these days, there were other ways of burning.

The digital clock glowed 3:01. Grace inhaled deeply to steady her jangled nerves, but fright had lodged deep. She knew better than to check on Gabe. Her recurring dream annoyed him.

At five thirty the next morning, she was making coffee when rustling noises came from overhead, Gabe getting ready for school. If only she could ready him for what would come after this summer.

Footsteps soon pounded down the stairs. He blew into the kitchen like a whirlwind, a whoosh of black hair and long limbs bouncing from refrigerator to table to back door.

Morning. She wiped the already spotless counter. Do you need a ride?

No, Tony’s picking me up. The forced pleasantness hardly masked his irritation. I’m going straight from school to work.

You won’t be home for dinner again, then? Should I save you some?

No, we’ll grab some pizza or something.

We? Grace suspected he was referring to someone other than Tony. Someone special. So far, he hadn’t offered up a name, nor any other information. So she hadn’t asked. The notion that Gabe was keeping a secret added one more invisible brick to the wall between them.

What about a ride home? she asked.

Covered.

If you need anything, just call. She hoped he didn’t hear her disappointment.

Yep, bye. He was gone in the swing of the back door. It kept swinging as if bidding farewell.

She pulled the door closed and gave a quick wave as the headlights swung across her. Gabe