The Accidental Witch

By Sadie Francis Skyheart

Iona Dickinson is a witch, but she doesn't know it until she unintentionally makes a deadly wish that reopens a 300-year-old curse on her secret family tree.

The day after her desperate wish, Iona barely

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hyenas in Petticoats Press
• Release date: Oct 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9798986646091

Sadie Francis Skyheart

Sadie Francis Skyheart grew up in Michigan. She currently lives in Greater Chicago with her family but remains a dedicated Detroit Lions fan. She likes to write in lucky Halloween socks.

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The Accidental Witch

The Recollection of Trees series

S. F. Skyheart

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Hyenas in Petticoats Press

Copyright © 2019 by Sadie Francis Skyheart

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is coincidental.

All brand names and product names used in this work are trade names, service marks, and registered trademarks of their respective owners. Neither the publisher nor the author is associated with any product mentioned in this book, and none of the companies have endorsed the book.

Previously published as The Recollection of Trees (2019).

Second edition 2021

print ISBN: 978-0-578-59525-2

ebook ISBN: 979-8-9866460-9-1

Contents

Dedication

. Chapter

1. The Wish

2. Invisible

3. The Storm

4. Chaos

5. Do What You Love

6. Monster Within

7. Wednesday

8. An Untimely Frost

9. Uninvited Guests

10. Going Home

11. Ghost Girl

12. The Migraine

13. The Edge

14. Zombie Girl

15. Goal setting

16. Rule Breaker

17. Houdini

18. The IOU

19. Memengwaa Island

20. Lily

21. It Runs in the Family

22. Long Weekend

23. Moose

24. Crow

25. The Herd

26. Yagdirk

27. Graveyard

28. The Kiss

29. Creature Feature

30. Premonition

31. Look Twice

32. Secrets & Lists

33. Consecration

34. Covenant

35. Magick

About the Author

Acknowledgement

For the brave hearts who live closer to their edge,

free from the numb illusion of normal.

The moon draws her to the willow tree,

Connects her to an ancient power.

A desperate wish will set her free,

Spellbound by the witching hour.

-Sadie Francis Skyheart

The Wish

Icouldn’t take it anymore. Every nerve in my body anticipated the slightest movement in the hallway. I could hear a TV audience clapping in the distance, which meant my stepfather Richard was probably sleeping in front of the television downstairs. He usually slept like a saint after one of our fights.

I’d had enough. Mom cried every day since she lost the baby. I folded laundry and made dinner every day. I loaded the dishwasher every evening. She barely got out of bed for two months. I even raked the leaves because Richard sure wasn’t going to do any of it. She never asked if I had homework. My first term report card posted and she didn’t notice I had straight A’s. I guess the miscarriage did something to her—it was like she couldn’t be a mother anymore. She unplugged from everything and everyone. Once, she left canned soup on the stove so long it set off the smoke alarm. The soup pot was so scorched I had to throw it out. And another time she left ice cream melting in the cereal cupboard.

I understood her grief even though I resented it at times. As awful as her withdrawal from life was, I could’ve lived with it. I’d mothered her before.

The problem was her husband.

Richard hated not being the center of Mom’s world and without her codependent attention, his temper became dangerous. He took his frustration out on me. I was the thorn in my stepfather’s side, the proof that Mom once loved another man. Richard had always resented her first love, as if her life should’ve started the moment he came into it.

Her first love was Rowan Dickinson, my elusive father.

Mom? I whispered, but there was no answer. I pictured her there, asleep in the tub with the water running.

It felt inevitable that one day soon she would fade completely from my grasp. I caught my breath—what if she’d slipped beneath the surface? I imagined her gone from me in the way I feared more and more lately.

I opened the bathroom door and breathed a sigh of relief. Just another bath she’d started and abandoned. I tiptoed across the tiles to shut off the water just as it reached the edge of the tub. I left the stopper in the drain and turned to check the bathroom mirror.

The damage was pretty bad this time. A thumb-sized bruise was forming on my cheek where Richard had squeezed my face when he was yelling. My eyes were still red and puffy from crying, making them seem greener than usual. I would be able to hide most of it with makeup, except for my swollen lip. I reached up to take down my ponytail, wincing at the pain in abdomen. I lifted up my t-shirt to check my ribs. A bruise was already forming a couple of inches above the waistband of my pajama pants. I’d have to wear my hair down for a few days to hide the scratches on the side of my neck.

But I couldn’t let it happen again.

The back of my neck prickled. Lightning flashed outside. In the mirror, a cloaked woman moved along the wall behind me. I gasped and spun around. No one was there. My breath became quick and shallow. I splashed water on my face to calm my racing heart.

Downstairs, the TV audience laughed again. I dried my face and hung up the towel. Thunder rumbled in the distance. I set my jaw and went to check on mom.

Her bedroom door was ajar. She snored lightly in a small pile of used tissues, exhausted from crying next to the empty crib. I held my breath even though it hurt my ribs, and crept past her room toward the stairs.

I took my time down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky spots in the wooden floorboards. There was no way for me to get to the hall closet without being seen, so I slipped out the back door without my jacket or shoes.

I stood on the back porch for a moment, letting the damp October air clear my thoughts. Under the reddish full moon, the house cast a long shadow across the lawn. My socks dampened as I crossed the grass to the old willow tree at the edge of our yard.

I parted the long branches and stepped into my sacred space. It was the only place on earth where I felt calm. No shaky hands. No panicky feelings. No pounding heart or racing thoughts. No anxiety. No fear. I rubbed my hands up and down my bare arms to keep from shivering. Lightning flashed overhead, followed by a low rumble of distant thunder. The wind picked up, rippling the leaves around me. I exhaled, letting out a shallow breath. Inside the safety of the willow, my tears flowed, dotting my long night shirt. I’d cried so many times under my tree that I sometimes wondered if it was my tears that made its branches weep. Crying hurt my bruised ribs and swollen lip.

The pain made it all too easy to summon my anger. I let the rage fill me, releasing it in a torrent of half-choked words punctuated by sobs.

I…h-h-hate h-him. I wish he would just leave. I wish he would get in the car and never come back!

Lightning streaked the sky. A crack of thunder broke overhead. Startled, I threw my arms around the dewy tree trunk. Warm reprieve pulsed from deep inside the tree, filling every part of me. Soothing. Promising me something I didn’t understand.

I didn’t know it yet, but there was no turning back.

Invisible

Iweave my way through the chaotic Harmony High School parking lot, past students dressed for Friday night activities. It’s already an unusually warm October weekend. My eyes can’t take the blinding daylight. I unzip my backpack to dig out a pair of dark sunglasses.

I’m not normal, so I try hard to be invisible—head down, drab long-sleeved shirt, and heavy black combat boots—yet somehow, the very act of trying to hide in my own shadow seems to draw attention. A hair stylist once told me I’d be alluring in a dark and exotic way if I dressed more like a girl. I still don’t know how to take that.

A few heads turn as I walk past. Ashlynn and the other cheerleaders whisper to each other. A couple of football players try for a better look at the weird girl. I shy away from all of them, desperate to disappear. I’m desperate to get into the car and be safe and unseen.

Dyllan waves at me from behind the wheel of his yellow hatchback. He checks his dark hair in the rear view mirror, then puts on a pair of mirrored sunglasses. He opens the door and fans it back and forth. It’s hot and he’s miserable, so I step up the pace.

Heads up! someone yells.

A stray foot-bag smacks into my nose, launching my sunglasses from my face. The shock of the sun in my eyes blinds me. I fall against the hood of a sedan and the contents of my unzipped backpack spill onto the pavement. I steady myself with one hand and pinch my nose with the other. Thankfully, it’s not bleeding. I have a long history of bloody noses.

I’m scrambling after a lipstick tube before it rolls under the car when Jasen Booker skateboards over to retrieve the foot-bag. He’s cute, but he’s one of The Jerx.

A tousle of thick, copper hair falls in his eyes.

Are you okay? he asks, grabbing the foot-bag. His dark eyes convey genuine concern. There’s no malice or teasing in his gaze, which makes it worse. Such concern is something I don’t know how to receive. I can feel my face redden. I try to wave him away.

I don’t need rescuing. My words come out too angry. I can’t take it back. I wish I could. He doesn’t leave and I feel stupid bending over in front of him. I catch the lipstick and toss it into my bag.

Jasen reaches under the sedan for my sunglasses. The frame is bent and one of the lenses is popped out. He hands me the two pieces. It’s a peace offering. Here. Sorry, man.

How chivalrous. The bitter words escape on their own, and I shrink as I hear them. I snatch the pieces of my sunglasses and dump them into my bag.

Jasen steps back, hands up in the air. Hey, I was just trying to help.

Well, I wouldn’t need your help if you’d be more careful.

Whatever, Jasen dismisses my bad mood.

Dyllan is standing halfway out of the driver’s side, watching me.

My heart skips into my throat. I force myself to appear pleasant and aloof.

I wave at Dyllan. Deliberately ignoring Jasen, I step past him between two parked cars, glimpsing my fallen paperback copy of Romeo & Juliet on the pavement.

I reach for the book. A vintage hearse brakes hard to avoid hitting me. I jump back. He stops short of running over Romeo & Juliet. I can feel Dyllan’s eyes on me. Anyone who wasn’t already watching me after the foot-bag hit me in the face is now gawking. I wait and then pointedly wave the hearse on. I’m pissed and I’m not risking that again.

The hearse doesn’t move. The driver’s window lowers. His dark blue eyes are lined in black. I can’t tell if he’s stoned or wearing too much makeup. Maybe that’s the point.

Watch where you’re going, Girl. I almost flattened you. What do you have? A death wish? He opens his door and bends to pick up my book at the same moment I reach for it. Our fingertips brush and a bluish spark pricks me.

Ow! I recoil from the static electricity. I’m twice as angry now. You’re the one driving a freaking death-mobile like some kind of bat out of hell! Pedestrians have the right of way, you creep. This time, I don’t cringe at the words coming out of my mouth.

He smiles slowly, the book in his hand. He raises one amused eyebrow and hands it over.

Well then, by all means. He tips his gray plaid fedora, revealing a dark, messy pompadour. You first, M’Lady.

I snatch my book from him and drop it into my bag, rolling my eyes.

He flounces back into the driver’s seat and slams the door.

M’Lady? Really? Are you pretending to have manners now, Pig? I can’t stand his air of superiority. What an arrogant smirk.

His grin fades to a scowl. As I cross in front of the hearse, he revs the engine. I stop to glare at him. He lets off on the gas and I take my sweet time crossing to Dyllan’s car.

Dyllan gets back into the driver’s side as I toss my book-bag on the floor and flop into the front seat. I slam the door. My fingertips still sting a bit from the static electricity.

Apparently I can’t cross a parking lot without risking my life. First I’m smacked in the face with a bean bag and—can you believe that guy in the hearse? I fume. I mean, who drives a freaking hearse?

Oh, it’s that new guy from up north. Total weirdo. Dyllan answers me as if it was a real question. I guess he killed at swim team tryouts though.

Killed? Really? I smirk.

Ha! You slay me, he impersonates a late-night TV host.

I roll my eyes. I seriously loathe everyone at this stupid high school.

Everyone? Dyllan teases me. Normally he can make me laugh. Not today.

You know what I mean. Not you. I click my seat belt. What a jerk.

Speaking of Jerx—Jasen Booker talked to you? Dyllan wants a report on every word, but I’m not up for it.

Woohoo. The king of the daredevils talked to me. I sarcastically celebrate. I have to compliment the shift from jerk to Jerx though. However, expert level segue.

I thought so, Dyllan smiles. He tries the ignition, but the engine sputters and coughs. It’s a minor miracle when it catches. Apparently today isn’t one of its better days. Dyllan turns the key again. C’mon, start. The car sputters to life on the third try.

Dyllan’s face lights up. Trusty ol’ Yellow Submarine! He’s beaming.

He’s so happy, I feel the hard edges soften. Rusty is more like it. The corners of my mouth turn up. Or crusty, I love insulting his old car. Not that I really mean it.

"Hey—The Sub might not be pretty but at least I’ve got wheels," he smirks. He’s right. Without it, where would I be? Stuck riding the bus with awful Ashlynn Buckley.

He fans himself. Whew. It definitely doesn’t feel like October. Sorry the AC’s still broken. Dyllan presses the window buttons, but one of the back ones sticks halfway. Seriously? he groans. He presses again, but the window won’t budge. Dyllan swears in Arabic under his breath.

I wipe my forehead with my sleeve.

What’s with the long sleeves, Iona? Dyllan asks. It’s pushing 90 degrees.

He waits for me to answer but I don’t.

Is that why you canceled last night? You were supposed to bring a creature movie.

Creature feature. He knows why. I know that he knows why, and I’m not discussing it.

I’d like to break his legs. Dyllan grits his teeth as he shifts the car into Reverse.

Can we talk about anything else? I know he means well, but it makes me feel helpless.

Dilly and I became best friends in elementary school. He made sure I wasn’t picked last for teams in gym and always sat next to me on the bus. We traded lunches—his hummus and tabbouleh for my boring PB & J—and I helped him with his homework. We started to drift apart when Dilly made it onto the varsity basketball team freshman year. After he led the team to the state finals, practically every girl in school developed a crush on him, and things just got a little weird between us. Still, he’s been a loyal friend through all of Mom’s bad relationships.

Watch out! Don’t hit The Jerx! I yell.

Dyllan brakes as several boys skateboard behind us toward the infamous Voodoo Van—a white van spray painted with Dia de los Muertos style skulls and punk band names.

Dyllan waves out the window. Sorry, Jasen!

Jasen Booker coasts past with a thumbs up. He grins, thoroughly nonplussed. His copper hair catches the sun like a scene from a movie.

Dilly, you almost paralyzed my future husband! I joke.

Oh, when’s the wedding? Dyllan laughs. He takes it slow out of the parking space.

I laugh too, until I remember I don’t want to go home alone. Especially after last night.

Dyllan puts The Sub into Drive and it lurches forward, leaving puffs of black smoke as we exit the school parking lot. Dark clouds are forming in the distance in the direction of our neighborhood.

Do you still need help studying for the French test? Maybe we can stop at Babcia’s for some paczkis on the way to my house?

Dyllan shakes his head. I’m sorry. Not ‘til Sunday, Habibte. We’re leaving right after the game tonight. Heading to Dearborn for my cousin Sam’s wedding tomorrow.

Oh gawd, I wave my hand. Nothing like a big Lebanese wedding. In truth, I envy his big, boisterous family. Which ‘cousin Sam’ is getting married? Hassan, Hussein, or Sameer?

Guess again, Dyllan chuckles. Samshad.

The Sub sputters at a stop sign and threatens to die. Dyllan slips the gear shift into Park and guns the gas. A large black cloud comes from the back of the car and floats away behind us. I cough and wave imaginary smog away from my face.

Nice. Dyllan shakes his head. "I was gonna ask you to be my date to the wedding, Habibte, but since you’re hatin’ on The Sub—"

Oh yeah, I’m sure Dr. Shahloub would love that. I rub my temples. Dyllan’s mother is very traditional. I’m sure she expects him to marry a nice Lebanese girl.

The sun pierces through the dark clouds. I shield my eyes. Dyllan removes his sunglasses and hands them to me. For a moment, I get lost in his golden eyes. I grab his sunglasses and put them on before he notices.

He misreads my look. What? My mom likes you.

I poke him in the shoulder. Since when?

She likes when you help me study, he insists, and my dad adores you. Dyllan smiles at me, shifting back into Drive. I guess it’s prom, then.

Oh please? I’ve always wanted to go to the ball. I flutter my eyelashes. I do my best to hide that I secretly yearn to go anywhere remotely romantic with him.

The sun disappears behind the dark clouds.

My phone dings. It’s a text from my mother.

Mom | 3:01 pm

Prison called Richard in for a double shift. I'm dropping him off then running errands. Please start dinner by 5:30.

Great. So Dyllan’s got family stuff to do all weekend and after his basketball game I’ll be stuck at home. Sounds like a normal Friday, I groan.

Outside, rain starts hitting the roof of the car. I glance out, wondering if it’s going to cool things off.

Aww, Habibte, I’m sure there’s a noir flick with your name on it. Dyllan smiles, trying to console me. For a moment, I can’t think about what he’s saying, I’m caught in the text. I sit back in the car seat and sigh. I’ll start dinner but I’m going to make something I like.

Dyllan signals and turns The Sub onto my street. By the time we reach the first mailbox, he’s got the windshield wipers on the highest speed.

Thunder rumbles overhead and the dark purple sky opens up.

I can’t help feeling like the storm is only hanging over my house.

The Storm

Aweather siren begins wailing as we park in the driveway. The branches of my willow tree wave against the ominous sky. The rain smells strange. Is it sulfur?

We hurry out of Dyllan’s car under a torrential downpour. I find myself stopping to lift my face up toward it. It feels like…reverence.

Habibte, what’re you doing? Yalla! Dyllan pulls at my arm. Hurry!

I shake my head. I’m getting wet. Why am I just standing here? I run for the house. We throw ourselves through the door, drenched to the bone and dripping everywhere.

It came out of nowhere! Dyllan’s eyes are wide, but I feel strangely exhilarated.

We drop our backpacks by the door and rush through the kitchen toward the stairs. A handwritten note in Mom’s slanted cursive is stuck to the refrigerator. I snatch it and follow Dyllan down the stairs to the laundry room.

I grab a couple of clean towels from the pile I folded this morning. We dry off as much as we can and sit on the braided area rug in front of the washer and dryer. I’m breathless and shivering. Dyllan pretends to be unfazed, but I can see goosebumps on his arms and his face has gone pale.

The wind howls, kicking up debris at the house. A crash of thunder startles me. The power flickers. I bend my head, trying to read Mom’s note.

Clothes are in the dryer. Please make meatloaf & potatoes so there will be leftovers for Richard’s lunch tomorrow.

Seriously? Why do we always only eat what he likes? I complain.

Dyllan shrugs, his thumbs tapping out a quick text to his mom.

I crumple the note and throw it across the room. Secretly I’m hopeful. She started the laundry and that might mean she’s done sleeping all the time.

Aw, crap! he shakes his phone. No connection. The towers must be down. My mom’s gonna freak. Dyllan drops his phone into his lap when his message won’t send. Ugh. Is there a weather radio down here so we can find out what’s going on?

I stand up to flick on the radio on the metal utility shelf next to the washer.

…until further notice. Repeat. Please be advised that the National Weather Service issued a tornado warning at 3:04 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time for central and southeast Michigan, due to multiple reports of funnel clouds in the area. Expect heavy rain and wind up to sixty miles per hour, as well as damaging hail. Anyone in the listening area should seek shelter immediately, in a basement or facing away from windows. Repeat. Seek shelter immediately.

We need to sit over there by the wall, away from the windows, Dyllan points. His hand is shaking. He’s really rattled. For some reason I’m not.

I open the storm box to get a blanket, then sit on the floor facing the corner with my back to the windows. He scoots across the rug next to