A Hiss-teria of Killers: A Cozy Mystery Tribe Anthology, #15

By Aconite Cafe

They prowl through the house, plotting and scheming.
The master of their domain, keeper of the toe beans.

Can they solve the case in the nip of time?
Follow our sleuths into a hairball of a case with this anthology!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aconite Cafe
• Release date: Apr 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227595171

Book preview

COPYRIGHT

A Hiss-teria of Killers

Published by Aconite Cafe

P.O. Box 845

Hamilton, TX 76531

www.AconiteCafe.com

© 2024 Aconite Cafe

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [e-mail]

Cover by Aconite Cafe

Labyrinth of the Lost © 2024 Annie Mooney

Fiends with Wings © 2024 Elle Hartford

Hell Hath No Furry © 2024 Gianetta Murray

The Purr that Revved an Engine © 2024 Patty Joy

Death by a Thousand Cats © 2024 Ella Marzano

A Very Important Familiar © 2024 Felicity Green

Kittens and Kitchen Witches © 2024 Rune Stroud

The Cat Lady’s Secret © 2024 Diane Bator

A Caterer’s Guide to Cats and Catastrophe © 2024 Jessica Thompson

Felines, Folklore & False Accusations © 2024 Tessa Bryant

Digging Meowt © 2024 Kathryn Mykel

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book was made possible because of our dedicated Patrons. Thank you for your support!

Don Berryhill

Nathan Hunter

Crys

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LABYRINTH OF THE LOST

By Annie Mooney

(Paranormal)

1

I followed my mistress, novice witch and spiritual medium, Amelia Frost, through the secret passage, and we took the winding stairs to the fifth-floor turret room. Amelia had inherited the magnificent Mystic Mountain Inn from her grandmother, and we’d moved in just a few days ago.

Amelia’s previous residence had been a studio apartment above a dry cleaner. It had smelled of cleaning chemicals, and the floor vibrated. She was certainly moving up in the world.

Before coming to live with Amelia, I’d been the cat companion of world-famous pop star Taylor West. We’d been together since she was a child and had spent a wonderful decade in each other’s company.

All that ended one day when Taylor and I were in a car accident, in which we both died. Taylor moved on to the afterlife. But after Amelia and I solved Taylor’s murder, I chose to stay on this side of the veil to serve as Amelia’s familiar.

Inside the ritual chamber, Amelia stood before the altar and opened her grandmother’s grimoire. She was finally going to try to learn something about magic. Her grandmother’s portrait was supposed to train her, but it had been lent to a museum right before Amelia had been located for her inheritance.

Love potion, hair color randomizer, food refresher. . . None of these are what I need. Where did Edwina keep her spells for ghost busting? Amelia muttered.

The box of poltergeists on the table bounced and shook. Amelia gasped and grabbed it, trying to keep it closed. I grumbled behind her. The day we moved into the inn, my new mistress released a hundred malevolent spirits from their prison. The silly goose had listened to their pleas for help, despite me warning her not to.

There were at least a hundred poltergeists wreaking havoc on the spirit world of Mystic Mountain. I’d never live it down if anyone found out my own mistress was the one who’d set them free.

Since opening Pandora’s box of ghosts, Amelia refused to ask anyone for help, no matter how many times I advised her she should. She had an entire family of friendly witches to learn from, but she was too insecure to tell anyone about her mistake.

The spirits aren’t happy they’re still imprisoned when so many have escaped, a voice said.

My back went up with alarm, and I hissed, turning in the direction of the voice. Out of the corner of the room, a ghostly woman in a white flowing dress floated toward Amelia. She was beautiful and filled with ethereal light. I relaxed, sensing this woman was not a malevolent ghost.

The spirit introduced herself as Courtney McKnight, Amelia’s seven-times-great-grandmother. As she spoke to Amelia, her face split into two. One of the faces turned one hundred and eighty degrees to look at me.

Charlotte, you are such a lovely cat, with your fluffy black fur and glowing emerald eyes. I can see why Taylor West chose you as her companion. But you’ve failed as a familiar, my dear. Courtney’s voice swam through my mind. You should have advised your mistress better. You are much older than Amelia in cat years. You are the mature one. You should have known better than to let the spirits out. You should have pressed harder for her to ask for help.

I tried, but she’s so stubborn. What am I supposed to do? I’m just a ghost cat.

Amelia has inherited tremendous power from her parents. And with power comes responsibility. I’m afraid she needs a familiar who can give her wise counsel in a way she can hear it.

That’s fair, I guess. I’ll really try to do better next time.

You won’t be returning to Mystic Mountain or your mistress unless you can pass my test.

Whaaaa. . . I started. Courtney snapped her fingers, and everything went black before I could finish my question.

2

I blinked, and my vision slowly cleared. Where am I? I asked. I received no reply. Under my paws was a mist covered cobblestone path. Around me, the fog clung like tendrils, blocking my view. I stood and began to walk, trying to get my bearings.

As the fog dispersed, I realized I was in a long corridor with twelve-foot-high brick walls on both sides. There was no roof overhead, exposing the gray sky above. I tried to float up to the top of the wall. Floating was a talent I’d acquired since becoming a ghost. Here, I was unable to do it.

I took a deep breath of misty air and strode down the path. At the end, I stepped into a circular room with a dry fountain at the center. Six archways opened from the intersection, leading to six additional paths. Hopping to the top of the fountain like a cat, I tried to get a better view. Mist clung to the pathways. A gust of wind blew it aside, and I realized I was in the middle of a giant labyrinth.

What am I doing here? I asked the wind. The woman in white manifested on the ground below me. Her full pink lips curved into a smile. Why did you send me here?

This is your trial, dear Charlotte, to test if you have what it takes to be a witch’s familiar. You will learn to trust yourself, to go on in the face of overwhelming odds, and to always stand up for what you believe is right.

What happens if I fail? Will I get to go back to Mystic Mountain and Amelia? Or will I join Taylor on the other side?

I’m afraid if you fail, you’ll be stuck here forever. Your task is to solve the riddle of the labyrinth. That is the only way out, and the only way back to your mistress.

This isn’t fair! I shouted, but Courtney was already gone. How dare she treat me like this. Doesn’t she know who I am?

I huffed and hopped down the fountain to the ground. This was unacceptable. I was going to complain to the manager, but then I realized there was no manager to complain to. Grumbling, I began to walk.

The path I chose was different from the first. The ground was covered in course gravel instead of cobblestone. The walls were thick twisting vines. The sky darkened above, and rain began to patter on my head. I meowed as my fur dampened. I picked up my pace and raced toward the end of the path.

A circular gazebo sat at the center of the next intersection. I entered the structure, finding the floor littered with strange items. I pawed at a dirt encrusted object to turn it over. When it rolled to the other side, I realized it was a toy train. A deep sense of loss bombarded me, and I scrambled away from the toy. Tears filled my eyes, and I wanted to weep. I missed Taylor so much. She’d been such a good mistress. She was so young, so full of life.

Tears spilled down my furry cheeks and splattered on the floor. Walking away from the toy, I passed more objects. A streaked handheld mirror. A naked baby doll. A rusty sword. I stopped when a faded photograph appeared in my path. Two girls smiled at the camera, their arms around each other, their cheeks pressed together. My heart ached for my friends. Amelia, Taylor. I’d never see either of them again.

Wiping the tears from my eyes with the side of my paw, I tried to regain my composure. If I let myself become overwhelmed by emotion, I’d never solve the mystery of the labyrinth. When I turned around, I found a grand piano sitting at the center of the gazebo.

I hopped up onto the seat and the keys began to play on their own. The notes were ragged and hollow, but the melody haunted my soul. A disembodied female voice joined the chorus, filling the air with a sorrowful lament. I jumped off the bench, backing away from the haunted piano. This place was full of regret, loss, and longing. It was so profound; I could be consumed by it.

I ventured out into the open air. The rain had stopped, and the mist head cleared. I scampered down a new path, leaving the strange emotions behind me.

3

Running down a path between two giant hedgerows, my breath heaved in my lungs. I felt fatigued and overwrought. Two things I hadn’t experienced since I’d died. I couldn’t let myself give in to the emotions of this place, or I’d be lost forever.

I had to find my inner strength if I was ever going to get back to Amelia and Mystic Mountain. She needed my help returning the poltergeists to the box and solving the murder of Gerald Heller. I was her only real friend, and I wasn’t going to leave her when she had so much responsibility dropped onto her shoulders.

At the end of the path, I came to an open meadow. The light seemed brighter here. The grassy expanse was full of a multitude of colorful flowers. The scent of jasmine and lavender filled my nostrils. I stepped into the meadow, hoping this beautiful place would help ease my mind.

Voices whispered on the wind, jumbled and inaudible. I couldn’t understand the content of their words, but the tone was unmistakable. Gasping, groaning, moaning, sobbing, cries of mourning so deep there was no way out.

Please stop, I whispered, more to myself than to anyone else. At the heart of the meadow, I spotted a solitary figure. Its form was cast in shadow from the bright sunlight. I couldn’t tell if it was a person, an animal, or the stump of a tree. As I drew closer, I could make out its scent. It was clearly human. When my eyes adjusted to the light, and I was only a few yards away, the figure took the shape of a little girl.

She stood with her back to me. A yellow spring dress came down past her knees. Her black hair was coiled in two braids, interwoven with wildflowers. A crown of daisies sat atop her head. When she turned to me, her blue eyes pierced me, drawing me in like a fishing lure.

Hello? I asked hesitantly. The girl looked so young, but something about her felt ancient, immortal, dangerous.

A new friend, she said, her voice as light as a song. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend.

I’m Charlotte. I’m trying to solve the mystery of the labyrinth so I can get back to my mistress in Mystic Mountain. Can you help me?

Pleased to meet you, Charlotte. I’m Greta. There is a mystery in the labyrinth because its creator has forgotten his identity. The only way to put things right is to help him remember who he is. The meadow shimmered with spirits as the flowers danced in the ethereal breeze. This place is a reflection of the creator’s mind. With his loss of self, the labyrinth is out of balance. There are paths leading nowhere. Hopelessness reigns. Until he remembers himself, everyone and everything here is at risk of fading into oblivion.

That’s not great, I muttered, feeling my heart squeeze in my chest. Courtney had set me up, and I was not pleased. Where is this creator person anyway?

To find the creator, you must find your way to the center of the labyrinth. You’ll encounter echoes of memories and fragments of dreams. You must gather these pieces to puzzle together the creator’s story and remind him of his purpose.

I have no idea how to get to the center of the labyrinth. Will you come with me?

Greta’s big blue eyes looked out over the sunny field. Butterflies danced around her head like a halo. Come with you? she whispered. It’s been so long since I’ve left this meadow. I don’t know if I remember anything else. I’ve been waiting for a friend to go on adventures with.

We’ll find the creator together. That sounds like a grand adventure to me.

4

Greta and I started away from the meadow, taking a new path. Cypress trees towered on either side. The sky had brightened to a crisp blue, and my heart felt lighter now that I was with a new friend. A gentle breeze blew through my fur, and I was filled with a sense of determination. We would find the creator and remind him that he’d made this place. How hard could that possibly be?

The path opened into a clearing where a Greek building stood atop a small hill. We continued up the stone path, headed for the structure. This is the Library of Ages, Greta said as we approached the front door.

We passed the marble columns and entered the library. Inside, we were greeted by rows of shelves on either side of the open room. At the center were a dozen occupied tables with flickering lanterns illuminating the scholars’ books. The walls were lined with shelves that rose to the second floor.

What are we doing here? I asked. Is this where the creator is?

Perhaps we can find a memory fragment here, Greta said as we continued through the stacks.

An old man in a rutty brown robe turned to us. He looked like a medieval monk, shifting through ancient scrolls. He muttered, his lips curved in irritation, his brows drawn together. Where is it? Where is it?

What are you looking for, sir? Greta asked.

I’ve lost the Creation Story. It was just here. I don’t know where it went.

Maybe we can help you find it, I suggested. The Creation Story sounded like something that would help the creator remember his identity.

Yes. Yes. Please. It was just here a moment ago, I’m sure of it.

How long have you been searching? Greta asked.

I’ve been looking for it for months. Years. Decades.

But you had it just a moment ago? Greta asked.

It was right here. The monk continued to shift through the scrolls.

I have an idea, Greta said, her melodic voice whispering through the stillness. Come with me.

Are you going to find it? he asked as we started through the stacks.

We will. And we’ll bring it right back to you.

Good, good, he muttered, continuing his search.

Why don’t we look in those scrolls? I asked.

He’s been searching those scrolls for decades, and he still hasn’t found it. I don’t think we’ll find it there either.

I followed Greta through the maze of shelves. Her little feet moved quickly over the marble floor. We’re going to get lost in here, I said.

I know this place like the back of my hand.

How? I asked, but she was already around the corner and didn’t hear me. She’d just told me she’d been in the meadow for ages. Greta was a strange person, spirit, ghost, whatever she was. She wasn’t normal.

Finally, we came to a small room with a sign over the entrance that read Rare Books. Greta stepped into the room and began to search the shelves. I followed her, and asked what we were looking for.

I’m not sure, she said.

How did you know to come to this room?

I don’t know.

I grumbled and started looking too. There were dusty leatherbound tomes, brand new paperbacks signed by the authors, scrolls that looked like they might crumble if they were touched. Since I had no clue what the Creation Story looked like, it was impossible to know if I’d found it at all.

I found it! she said, pulling out a faded red hardcover book. It looked like the first edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover or The Great Gatsby.

She showed me the cover that read, Beneath the Evening Star, and began to flip through the pages. I forgot how much I adore this book. It’s a romance about a duchess who falls madly in love with her stableboy. She has his baby, and then she dies.

Uh, that sounds tragic. How is that the Creation Story?

The baby is the creator, she said, pointing at the author’s name.

"It says Anonymous. . ."

I know. Isn’t it marvelously mysterious?

Let’s return the book to the monk. I had no idea why the old monk would want to find a tragic love story, but there was nothing normal about this place. I suppose since the creator had lost his identity and the whole labyrinth was out of balance, it made sense that nothing would make sense.

We made our way back to the old monk who was still hunched over the scrolls, muttering to himself about how the book had just been there. Here you are, sir, Greta said, handing the book to the old man.

He gasped, his bushy white eyebrows rising comically. You’ve saved me so much time. How can I thank you?

You don’t have to thank me, Greta said. I think we found what we were looking for.

We left the library through the back door, walking out into the bright afternoon sunlight. The scent of oranges filled my nose. I followed the smell down the marble stairs and into a garden.

Interspersed between orange trees were statues in the style of ancient Greece. Some were perfectly formed, shiny slick marble, and completely intact. Others were crumbling and cracked, missing limbs and heads.

Why did you tell the monk we’d found what we were looking for? I asked, jumping up onto the lap of a cracked statue of a seated woman. She held a beheaded baby wearing a nightgown. Its chubby hands were stretched out to the viewer.

Because now I remember the Creation Story. I can remind the creator of where he came from.

"Mother. . ." the headless baby seemed to say.

I hissed and jumped off the statue, my back arching. I growled in warning, my feline instincts taking over.

Calm down, Charlotte. The baby won’t hurt you.

I took a deep breath, coming back to my senses. Greta was bent over the decapitated child, listening to its whispers.

What is that thing?

It’s a memory of the creator. The child is forever searching for his lost mother.

What can we do? I asked.

As long as the child is tethered to his mother, the mother’s spirit cannot move on. We have to help him accept that his mother is gone.

How do we do that? I asked, a sense of discomfort overwhelming me.

The orange grove had seemed so serene when we’d first entered it. The citrus scent filled me with vigor. The creator’s infant-self had trapped his mother’s spirit, forever encasing her in stone.

We need to find his head, Greta said. Then he’ll remember that he’s just a statue.

"Okay. . . I guess that makes sense."

Since coming to the labyrinth, I’d had to accept that nothing here was logical. Not the paths, Greta, the monk, or this headless baby. I didn’t even know if Greta’s story about the creator was even true.

Courtney had told me that my test here was to find my own determination in the face of overwhelming odds. I had to prove I could be wise counsel to a young witch. I supposed that if I could help Greta find the creator and remind him who he was, that would prove I was fit to be Amelia’s familiar.

Nonetheless, this place was a mess of confusion and dead ends. I had to trust my gut if I wanted to make it through. Jumping to conclusions, following false leads, and accepting everything at face value would probably be my downfall.

I’d made that mistake investigating Taylor’s murder. I’d insisted we follow the wrong lead until it almost cost Amelia her life. I’d never make that mistake again.

Following Greta around felt like I was letting this test take me. I had to find a way to take charge of the situation, or I knew I’d fail. Still, I had no idea what taking charge in a place like this would even look like.

Sure, let’s find the baby’s head, I said. It made sense in a way. Greta had been right about the book. She might be right about this too.

We began searching the orange grove, looking under trees, in fountains, and behind statues. The hot summer sun shone down from the bright blue sky, heating my black fur, and blinding my eyes.

I had to take shelter under an orange tree by a silvery pool to rest and cool off. Greta went in a different direction, and I hoped that she’d circle back around and find me.

Charlotte! she called, coming into view on the other side of the pool. I meowed and stretched, calling out to her. There you are! she said, jogging toward me.

She glanced into the pool, and her eyes widened. With the grace of a flamingo, she dove into the water, hands plunging below the surface. I sprinted toward her as her head dipped into the water. Greta! Be careful! I yelled. But it was too late, she couldn’t hear me.

She toppled into the pool, disappearing from view. I gasped, rushing to the place where she’d fallen. The ripples on the water disguised whatever was beneath the surface, and I hesitated at the edge. I was a cat. I hated water.

Getting wet was not on my to-do list, but my friend Greta had fallen in. I had no idea if she could swim. I had no idea if I could swim. But I was already dead, so what did I have to lose?

Taking a deep breath, I flung myself into the drink. I dove beneath the surface, paws flailing, eyes wide. Greta darted upward, passing me as I sank like a stone. I meowed, water rushing into my lungs. Greta had a large stone in her hands. That was the last thing I saw before I blacked out.

When I came to, I was laying on my back in the shade. My fur was soaking wet, and Greta stood above me. Her dress dripped onto my head. Her eyes were full of concern. When I stirred, she fell to her knees and pulled me into her arms.

Charlotte, you silly kitty. You can’t swim. Why did you jump into the water?

I was trying to save you. I coughed up water, rolling over onto my paws. I retched while Greta slapped my back. When I recovered, I examined the stone Greta had risked her life to find.

It’s the baby’s head, I said in a low tone. You found it.

Now we can return it to the creator’s infant-self. And he can finally let his mother go.

We walked