My hands shake as I stumble into the kitchen and flick on the light, my mind reeling from talking kittens and slamming doors. I swear I can feel my wet curls frizzing out from the chaos of the last few minutes, even though they’re still soaked.
This is a free story for my Cozy Corner members, and can be enjoyed over your morning coffee/tea or before bed. Enjoy!
When Catniss Inglenook inherits an old Victorian library, nicknamed the Nook, from her eccentric Aunt Eliza, she never expects it to come with a ghostly companion and a litter of mischievous kittens.
“Okay, Cat, get it together,” I mutter to myself, trying to steady my nerves. I still have the front door key in hand, so I shove it in a pocket. “You’re in a creepy old house with magical cats. No big deal. You got this.”
A chorus of impatient meows chimes in, five pairs of eyes staring up expectantly. Right, food. That’s why I came in here.
At least they sound like normal cats yowling for their dinner. “Alright, alright, I hear you. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
The kitchen looks like a turn-of-the-century magazine shoot, with a very vintage cottage vibe. The cabinets are a soft sage green, a soothing color that reminds me of misty mornings in the forest. The speckled marble countertops have a worn elegance, telling stories of countless meals prepared and shared.
I start opening cabinets, searching for anything resembling cat food, and my fingers trail over jars of dried herbs and tins with faded labels.
Nimbus scratches at a door that looks like a pantry. Inside, more jars line the shelves. Cuttings of herbs and flowers cascade from hooks on the walls where they’ve been hung to dry.
I spot a bag with a cat face on a lower shelf. As I bring it out, I notice the bowls near the back door—each one has a name engraved on it.
“Nimbus, Stormy, Misty, Cloudy, and Rainy,” I read out loud. “Cute. Very…on theme.”
I scoop food into the bowls, trying to ignore the way my birthmark tingles. I scratch at it, raising the sleeve to see that the vine-like pattern on my arm seems to be shifting. I watch in horror, blinking, and it stops. I’m frazzled, that’s all. The stress of the drive and the storm is causing me to see things.
“There you go, eat up,” I tell the kittens as they swarm the bowls. “And no more talking, okay? My nerves can’t take it.”
As I watch them, dread and loneliness tickle up my spine. The kitchen feels too big, too quiet, even with the angry storm outside. The vast mansion is outside the kitchen doorway, and once again, I feel as if the place is holding its breath, waiting for me to walk the halls. I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the urge to run back out into the rain.
“What have I gotten myself into?” I whisper, the weight of my new inheritance settling heavily on my shoulders.
I turn away from the kittens, my eyes drawn to the rest of the kitchen. Copper pots dangle from hooks above a massive butcher-block island, their surfaces gleaming in the soft light. I run my hand along the edge of the island, feeling the smooth, well-worn wood beneath my fingers.
My gaze lands on a farmhouse sink beneath a bay window. Pots of herbs in clay pots jostle for space on the ledge.
I approach, drawn by the view outside. The thunder and lightning rage on, sheets of rain lashing at the garden beyond. The brief flashes illuminate gnarled trees and wind-whipped flowers, creating an eerily beautiful tableau.
I lean in, my breath fogging the glass. “I wonder what this garden looks like in the sunlight. Probably less…Stephen King-esque.”
Another flash cuts through the sky. A shadowy figure darts between the trees.
I jerk back, heart skipping.
“Nope. No. Absolutely not,” I declare to the kitchen and cats. “I’m not doing the whole ‘investigate the spooky shadow’ thing. That’s how people die in horror movies.”
I turn my back on the window, trying to shake off the growing sense of unease. “Focus on the nice, cozy kitchen, Cat. Think about…making tea. Yeah, tea sounds good right now.”
My stomach grumbles, but the thought of food makes me queasy. Tea, however, fixes everything.
Well, most things.
I spot a well-used copper kettle on the stovetop and fill it. As the water begins to heat, I search the cabinets for tea bags. What I find are pretty mason jars filled with leaves and labeled. Chamomile, lavender, rose, and ‘special blend.’
Unsure of what might be included in that one, I mix lavender and chamomile together and put the mixture in a tea ball…perfect for calming frayed nerves.
And boy, do mine need some calming.
As I wait for the water to boil, I watch the kittens polis off their snack, licking their empty bowls again and again, just in case they missed something. Once they’re satisfied they’ve completed their quest and there is nothing left, they and their mother take over a large, rectangular pet bed and begin grooming themselves. I tense, wondering if any of them are going to speak again.
None of them do. The kettle whistles, and I prepare my tea, inhaling the soothing aroma. “Now,” I say to no one in particular, “where’s a girl gotta go to find a towel around here?”
I venture out, tea in hand, and grab my overnight bag from the foyer before I cruise a dimly lit hall on the main floor’s private quarters. There are few lights, and the ones that exist have such low-wattage bulbs that I have to go slowly so I don’t crash into the various tables and plants.
As I continue, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. The portraits on the walls, the various statues, doors to rooms that are cracked open…I sense eyes on me with every step.
Maybe I need something stronger than tea.
Following the passageway around a corner, I stop at the sight of a set of French doors with gilded handles. A vague memory surfaces but vanishes just as quickly. Directly overhead is a skylight, and although it’s raining cats and dogs, a bit of natural light shines on those handles.
I pull open one of the heavy doors and step into a parlor. Was I ever in here as a child? The memory refuses to return.
Plush velvet armchairs, their deep crimson hue faded with time, are arranged around a magnificent marble fireplace. The mantle is adorned with intricate carvings of vines and flowers, eerily similar to the birthmark on my skin. I can’t resist—I run my fingers along the cool stone, following each one as a strange tingle ripples over my fingertips.
Magic.
I definitely don’t remember that, but I am being watched in here. The large portrait hanging above the fireplace is of Aunt Eliza. Her piercing green eyes seem to follow me as I move around the room. “You’re not going to start talking, too, are you?” I ask her, point blank. “I’ve had enough surprises for one night.”
She doesn’t respond and I let out the breath locked in my chest. The air feels thick and heavy, laden with dust and the musty scent of old books. Glass-fronted cabinets line the walls, filled with ancient tomes that make my fingers itch to explore them.
As I turn to leave, a flicker of movement catches my eye. I spin around, heart racing, but it’s just my reflection in an ornate mirror. Get a grip, Cat.
Closing the door behind me, my I continue toward the next one farther down. Is this the bath?
I peek in and flip on the light.
A dining room straight out of a gothic novel appears, with a long mahogany table in its center surrounded by mismatched antique chairs that look like they’ve each lived a life of their own.
I run a hand along the smooth surface of the table, wondering how many family dinners it’s seen. A hollow sensation in my chest makes me wish I had shared in some of them.
No tingling in my fingers, though. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
Time to find that bathroom and get into some dry clothes.
Except, the room I thought it might be is something even better.
“Holy bookworm heaven,” I breathe, eyes widening as I take in Aunt Eliza’s personal library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretch in every direction, filled with leather-bound tomes that seem to whisper secrets. A rolling ladder rests in one corner, beckoning me to explore the higher shelves.
Yes, this I remember. I hid in here more than once, creating piles of books around me like my own personal hideaway.
The air here feels warmer, almost alive. It wraps around me like a comforting blanket, chasing away the chill from before. I read the spines of nearby books. “You were quite the collector, weren’t you?”
Once I’m settled in, I’ll be spending a lot of time here. Reluctantly, I tear myself away from the room’s allure. “Later,” I promise the books. “We’ll get reacquainted later.”
Sipping my tea as I continue on, I finally find the bathroom. Relief washes over me as I step inside. The black-and-white tiled space holds an elegant clawfoot tub, and I consider how good it might feel to sink into a hot bath after this long, strange day.
I spot a wooden cabinet and rummage through it, pulling out a plush towel. As I dry my hair, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My face is pale, my hair a riot of curls going in all directions.
I unzip my overnight bag. “Please, please, please,” I plead, but my hopes are quickly dashed. Everything inside is damp.
I glance down at my soaked clothes. Wonder if I could borrow something of my aunt’s? It’s morbid and comforting at the same time.
If memory serves, her bedroom was on the second floor. I hang up my stash of shirts and pants to dry and steel myself before I head for the staircase.
Each step creaks ominously beneath my feet. Up the winding staircase, I find several rooms before I locate Aunt Eliza’s bedroom. The scent of lilacs and vanilla envelops me as I take in the four-poster bed and heavy burgundy drapes.
My eyes are drawn to her beautiful vanity, its surface cluttered with perfume bottles and old letters. As I move deeper into the room, the floorboards creak. I can’t help but feel like an intruder despite being the new owner of this place. “Sorry for barging in,” I whisper to the empty room.
I’ve been alone a lot, and talking to myself is one thing. Talking to a house? That’s ridiculous.
I approach the large wardrobe and pull open the doors which give a dramatic creak.
My eyes widen as I take in the array of vintage clothes hanging inside. I run my fingers along the delicate fabrics, marveling at their intricate designs. On the right side, a cream-colored silk gown catches my eye. Simple but classy. Definitely nicer than the T-shirt and shorts I normally sleep in.
As I slip it on, the cool silk caresses my skin. I give a twirl, watching the fabric swish around my ankles.
Finding a few empty wooden hangers, I collect my wet shirt and pants and leave them on a hook on the back of the door. They’ll need to be washed, but not tonight.
Feeling considerably drier, I head back downstairs. In the hall, a soft rustling sound catches my attention.
I check all directions but see no cats. Or anything else. Hallucinating again.
An icy breeze whispers past my ear, raising goosebumps on my arms. The air now frigid, I turn slowly, pulse racing. What I see makes me gasp.
Fog floats in a cloud just beyond my grasp. It grows opaque, and I make out some flimsy material, then a torso. Legs, arms, a head…
Materializing before my eyes is a faint figure of a young woman in a long, old-fashioned dress.
“Oh my god!” I stumble backward. The tea cup slips from my hands, the cup breaking on impact and the last bit of liquid splashing across the hardwood floor. “You’re… You’re…”
The apparition floats before me with sorrowful eyes fixed on mine. I can feel the blood draining from my face as I struggle to comprehend what I’m seeing.
I pinch myself hard. “Ow!” It was worth a try, but I’m not dreaming. Which means… “Oh boy.”
The ghost shimmers, her translucent form flickering like a candle flame. “I’m Libby,” she says, her voice a soft whisper that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “I’m the librarian.”
My mind reels. “Librarian? No, no. My aunt was the librarian. You’re just…”
“Dead?” Libby finishes. “Yes. I’m the original librarian. I died many years ago while reading a rare, enchanted manuscript. I’ve been trapped here ever since.”
Reaching out, I try to touch her arm. My fingers go right through it, and I jerk back.
“Don’t be rude,” she says. “Nonconsensual touching…isn’t that what you call it these days? That’s unkind.”
I swallow my fear. “You’re stuck here because of a book?”
Libby’s expression doesn’t change. “Not any book. One of rare and dangerous magic. I’ve been searching for it since, hoping it might explain my death and free my spirit. But I need your help, Catniss.”
“My help? What can I do?”
Libby’s form wavers and she speaks more urgently. “The manuscript is hidden in the library. It’s unfinished, but it holds the key. You must find it.”
I blink and take a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You will. There’s something else you must know.” She pauses, her eyes darting around as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Eliza’s death… it was no accident. Like mine, something sinister occurred.”
My breath catches. “What? Are you saying… Did she find the manuscript?”
“I don’t know, but…her death was unnatural.”
Unnatural? “What does that mean?”
“She was murdered.” Libby’s form begins to fade. “Find the manuscript, Catniss. It holds the clues to everything.”
She vanishes, leaving me alone in the suddenly too-quiet hall. I stand there, mind whirling with questions and a growing sense of dread.
The air around me remains as frigid as if I’m standing in front of an open freezer. As I try to process what she’s said, I crouch to pick up the jagged pieces of the broken cup, fingers shaking. A prickling sensation crawls up the back of my neck.
I’m being watched.
Again.
I spin around, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. “Hello?” I call out, my voice embarrassingly shaky. “Any other friendly neighborhood ghosts want to pop in for a chat? Nimbus? Kittens? Anyone?”
Silence answers and it’s not comforting. It’s the kind of silence that feels… expectant. Like the house is waiting for something to happen.
My gaze is drawn to the darkened staircase. Is it my imagination, or is there a faint whisper coming from up there? I strain my ears, trying to make out the words, but they remain frustratingly elusive.
“Great,” I mutter, “now I’m hearing things, too. What’s next, talking furniture?”
As if in response, one of the floorboards creaks behind me. I whirl, but there’s nothing there. Just the long, empty hallway stretching out, the library door looming at the end like a silent sentinel.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “All right, Cat. You’ve got two choices. You can run screaming into the night, or you can embrace your inner Nancy Drew and solve this mystery.”
The library calls to me, a siren song of secrets and hidden truths. But the promise of answers comes with a side of terror that I’m not sure I’m ready to face.
****
What do you think about the kittens' names? What would you name them instead?
I hope you’ve enjoyed this episode! Don’t miss next week’s Witchy Wednesday episode and find out what happens next!
Hello kitten.
My family and I are recovering from Hurricane Helene. We now have power but no internet. I'll keep this brief, since cell service goes in and out.
Witchy Wednesdays for my Cozy Corner Membership here on my site will continue soon. I'm still writing episodes, I just can't upload them yet. So, stay tuned! Catniss and her kitty friends are up to lots of hijinks and I can't wait to share what I've been writing with you.
You don't have to go to another platform to get FREE short stories and exclusive bonuses from me. You can join my private cozy corner and get access to my new Kittens and Haunted Libraries Series, as well as short stories from my Willowbrook series.
Sign up and choose your tier here:
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Meanwhile, thank you for your support whether you buy my books at retailers or enjoy my various subscription services.
Nyx 💜📚🐾
As I roll into the sleepy town of Briarwood, North Carolina, the quaint cobblestone streets and ivy-clad cottages feel like something out of a fairy tale—if the fairy tale included buckets of rain and a sky angrier than a wet cat…
This is a free story for my Cozy Corner members, and can be enjoyed over your morning coffee/tea or before bed. Enjoy!
When Catniss Inglenook inherits an old Victorian library, nicknamed the Nook, from her eccentric Aunt Eliza, she never expects it to come with a ghostly companion and a litter of mischievous kittens.
As I roll into the sleepy town of Briarwood, North Carolina, the quaint cobblestone streets and ivy-clad cottages feel like something out of a fairy tale—if the fairy tale included buckets of rain and a sky angrier than a wet cat.
The windshield wipers are in a frenzied battle against the deluge as my ten-year-old VW Bug chugs up to the grand iron gates at the bottom of Inglenook Hill. Brick pillars stand like silent sentinels, guarding the mansion at the top—my inheritance from my Aunt Eliza's will. With a sputtering cough that signals defeat, my car gives up the ghost, leaving me stranded in the storm.
“Great,” I mutter, resting my forehead on the worn steering wheel. The rhythmic drumming of rain is the only reply. “Welcome home, Cat.”
Home. A funny word for a place shrouded in so much mystery, it might as well be Brigadoon. My parents bolted from this town when I was a seven and never looked back. Through the years, whenever I asked about Briarwood and Aunt Eliza, they'd exchange nervous glances before distracting me with a trip to the beach or a new doll. Being an avid reader as I grew, I figured out early on that my family had a secret. One that was tied to my aunt and this town.
A soft light illuminates the plaque on one of the pillars, designating the official name as the Historical Inglenook Library of Curiosities and Fine Literature. It doesn’t mention that my aunt also lived here her whole life. What secrets does it hold?
The Victorian architecture is barely visible through the curtain of rain. I lower my voice to my true crime narrator tone. “A family secret. An eccentric aunt. What will Catniss Inglenook discover when she returns to her hometown and the haunted library her aunt left behind?”
A chill dances down my spine—not from the cold, but from the unknown. Great, I’ve scared myself.
If the conversations I overheard growing up about Eliza are true, she was a witch. Not in the strictest sense of the word, but in some odd, eccentric way I never quite understood. Not even the witches I read about in the books I read by the bagfuls quite matched what I knew about my mysterious aunt.
Just because she collected cat figurines and dressed in head-to-toe black does not make her a witch. I force a chuckle, shaking off the creepy feeling crawling up the back of my neck.
I press the gas pedal a few times and try the ignition. The engine makes a grinding-whirring noise before it dies again. “Come on, sugar pie. Start for Mama, please?”
The Bug gives another disgusted cough that sounds like its last breath.
“I know.” I pat the dashboard, and it causes the lights to flicker. “It was a long trek. You deserve some rest.” I only wish Millie had waited until we got all the way up the drive before she gave up the ghost.
Yes, I've named my car. Millicent was a sassy girl in her youth, and she’s still a bit rambunctious in her old age, but this trip across the country from California may have been her final hurrah.
Sighing, I kill the lights, grab my trusty carpet bag from the passenger seat, and pocket my keys. “I'll get you to a garage first thing tomorrow for a tuneup,” I promise. “You’ll feel good as new.”
If there's one thing I have plenty of, it's reckless optimism. I pat her dash again, debating… Should I stay put and hope the storm lets up or should I brave the wet path to the house?
Rain hammers on the car roof like an impatient and unwelcome guest at the front door. The darkness outside presses against the windows, and I can barely make out the path that snakes up to the veranda. I unearth my phone from the bag to check my weather app, but the screen is as black as the night—dead and utterly useless. I forgot to recharge it.
My stomach growls, a low rumble that protests the lack of a decent meal since that gas station sandwich at noon. It settles my debate. “Food over comfort,” I declare. I'm not sure what waits for me up there, but I’m willing to bet there's at least a can of soup somewhere.
I grab the bag, tuck my unruly curls under a sweater that I hastily pull over my head, and open the door. Wind whips around me, greeting me with icy fingers as I step into nature's fury.
It’s October, for heaven’s sake. I was expecting beautiful fall weather.
Shielding my eyes, I glance up the path, catching glimpses of shadowy shapes that might be trees or… something else. “Haunted Victorian mansion, here I come.” I ignore the idea that this is how a lot of horror movies begin. But this isn’t a movie—it’s my new reality.
With each step, the mud squishes beneath my shoes. The climb is longer than I anticipated, and my breath comes out in puffs of mist. When I left L.A., it was in the seventies. Here, it must be in the thirties—I’m not prepared that that.
Briarwood is tucked halfway up a mountain. The temps here will take some getting used to.
I pause to catch my breath, peering up to where the house should be. It seems to play hide and seek in the fog and rain. It dawns on me that I’m actually doing this—I’m walking toward my future.
Or is it my past?
“Catniss Inglenook, you can handle this,” I tell myself. “This is it—the start of something new. Or the end, if I don’t find sustenance,” I add, trying to lighten my spirits. If I’ve learned anything from Aunt Eliza’s surprise inheritance, it’s that life—like this weather—is entirely unpredictable.
The rain seeps through my sweater as if the wool is made of tissue. I gasp as my ankle gives a painful twist. I’ve stepped in a pothole. With a sigh, I hobble on. Nothing broken, just bruised pride and a soggy sock.
The statues scattered among the overgrown vines and wildflowers in the front yard stand like silent guardians. As I pass, they seem to watch me, some with faces frozen in expressions that seem too sinister for comfort.
The upper stories of the mansion vanish into nothingness, swallowed whole by the fog, and the structure sprawls outward in all directions. I feel very small in comparison.
When I reach the veranda, the steps creak under my weight, each groan of the old wood mirroring the protest in my ankle. I pause once I’m under the roofline, wiping water from my face, and that’s when I feel it—a shiver that has nothing to do with the frigid rain trickling down my spine. It’s like the house itself is sizing me up, deciding whether I’m worthy to enter.
“Hunger is getting the best of me,” I mutter. But it’s hard to ignore the way those big bay windows seem to follow me like a pair of unblinking eyes. And that gargoyle statue by the entrance doors… I swear it just twitched. I give it a narrow-eyed stare, but it stands unmoving in reply.
Skeletons adorn the rocking chairs, surrounded by pumpkins and pots of hardy mums. Aunt Eliza definitely loved the season.
I lift the edge of the large mat where the lawyer told me the key would be. Sure enough, there it is—an antique skeleton one with an intricate symbol on the end that looks like something from one of my old fairy tale books. Matches the house, I suppose.
“Here goes nothing.” I slip it into the lock and give it a turn. I lean into one of the French doors, trying to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. Not even a millimeter. I jiggle the key, twist it left, then right, pull it out slightly, push it in all the way—still nothing.
I let out a huff of frustration, resting my forehead against the stubborn door. “Looks like you’re not rolling out the welcome mat, huh?”
The key feels heavy in my hand. That creepy sensation returns to the back of my neck. My birthmark twinges, and I purse my lips, fighting the urge to glance at my arm where the twin vines reside. They look like a tattoo but I’ve had them since birth.
I straighten and steel my backbone. There’s got to be a way in, and I’ll find it—with or without this blasted key’s cooperation.
I give the doors one last resentful stare before turning my attention to the ground-floor windows, hoping for a small stroke of luck. My fingers, numb from the cold, slide over damp glass and rusted latches, but it’s no use; each window is as unyielding as the last.
I peek in through the lacy curtains, but the interior is pitch black, revealing nothing.
I move on. The backyard is a shadowy expanse. The rear parking lot sits empty, framed by hawthorn trees swaying ominously in the wind, their thorny branches resembling twisted, clawing hands. There’s a more formal garden here, with benches that have seen better days. It’s probably a nice spot for reading on sunny afternoons, but it’s not so inviting tonight.
“Right. Let’s try this again.” Approaching the back door, I take in the ivy and vines that seem to have claimed the place as their own. They weave an intricate green tapestry over the wooden door frame. It’s there that I spot them—the symbols. Deeply carved into the aged wood, there’s one that seems to pulse with an unseen energy.
My birthmark pulses in response.
I rub my arm through the layers of my soaked clothing. “Curiouser and curiouser,” I say, borrowing a line from a book I once loved. Maybe Aunt Eliza had a little more witchiness in her veins than I thought.
Feeling compelled to trace the symbol, I reach out and touch it.
Zap! A sharp tingle electrifies my entire hand, and I yank it back with a startled yelp.
“Ow!” Rubbing my tender skin, I glare at the still pulsing symbol. Is it some sort of magical security system?
Magic. Right.
I shake my head. I’m overly tired, soaking wet, cold, and hungry. There is no such thing as magic.
With a determined squaring of my shoulders, I retrace my steps to the front. I’ll simply have to break a window.
As I reach the veranda, I’m greeted by the sight of the double doors standing open. On the mat sits a large Maine Coon cat, regal and dry as a bone. Its fur seems to scoff at the very concept of rain.
“Hello, there.” I scan the shadowy interior behind her, half-expecting to see whoever unlocked and opened the doors. “Do you live here?”
The cat blinks, regarding me with the kind of disinterest only a feline can convey.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” At least the doors are open. No breaking and entering tonight. I pick up my bag. “Lead the way,” I tell it.
She flicks her tail in a nonchalant swish and saunters through the opening as if she’s the one who owns the place. I glance at the gargoyle statue, its fierce features unpleasant. “Behave yourself,” I warn, stepping across the threshold, “or I’ll sell you on eBay.”
As I enter, I squint into the dim surroundings. The doors bang shut behind me with an ominous thud that makes me jump. Darkness engulfs me like a thick blanket, and an icy draft whispers down my spine.
“Not at all the warm welcome I was hoping for,” I joke to thin air, trying to keep my nerves in check.
Something soft skims over my swelling ankle. I yelp and leap back, only to collide with what must be a coat rack. We tango awkwardly before I end up sprawled on the floor, ensnared in a cobweb of coats and scarves.
I’m swarmed by more furry critters, tiny claws pricking my legs through the fabric of my jeans. There’s a sharp nibble on my arm and suddenly, a small but irate voice pierces the darkness. “It’s about time. We’re starving!”
“Yikes!” I scramble to my feet in a mess of limbs and wool. My fingers dance along the wall like spiders on a mission, hunting for the elusive light switch. “Come on, come on,” I order.
As if I’ve willed it into being, the room bursts into light from an ornate chandelier overhead. It casts golden hues across an expansive foyer with a long wooden circulation desk. Blinking to adjust my vision, I search the space for whoever’s here.
There’s no one but me and… I look down to find a circle of expectant feline faces at my feet.
“You…” I hold out a finger. “Did you just…”
The four kittens tilt their heads in unison, eyeing me with curiosity—and more than a little impatience.
None of them speak, but the Maine Coon—their mother, I assume—flicks her tail again and strolls toward a long hall with portraits and artwork on the walls. A sign nearby with an arrow informs me this is the way to the private residence. A seond one pointing to the wing behind the desk is the way to the library.
She glances back once as if to see if I’m following.
I kick off my shoes, step over the pile of coats and scarves, and sigh. “Welcome to Briarwood,” I mutter under my breath, watching the kittens scamper ahead of me. “And the start of your new life, Catniss.”
I hope you’ve enjoyed this episode! Don’t miss next week’s Witchy Wednesday episode and find out what happens next!
Read Episode 2 NOW: https://www.nyxhalliwell.com/the-book-and-boo-kittens-of-haunted-libraries-episode-2
Hello kitten! Guess what?
Starting in October, my Cozy Corner private membership opens for signups! Witchy Wednesdays kicks it off, and if you're a member, you'll get access to episodes from my new Kittens of Haunted Libraries series! (These stories are not available anywhere else!)
The Book and Boo will introduce you to Catniss Inglenook and the Historical Ingelnook Library of Curiousities and Fine Literature that she's inherited from her witchy aunt Eliza.
Isn't that kitty just adorable? There is a set of these cuties in the book (you'll learn their names in Episode 2 and get to pick which one is on the cover!) along with their mother, Nimbus, and they all help Cat uncover the truths about the library and its mysteries.
You don't have to go to another platform to get these weekly FREE short stories and exclusive bonuses from me. Join the cozy corner monthly membership and get episodes of this series, as well as my Willowbrook stories, early access to new books, and more when you choose your tier:
https://www.nyxhalliwell.com/cozy-corner-membership
Meanwhile, thank you for your support whether you buy my books at retailers or enjoy my Cozy Corner monthly subscription membership.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at The Book & Boo: Episode One!
Nyx 💜📚🐾
As I roll into the sleepy town of Briarwood, North Carolina, the quaint cobblestone streets and ivy-clad cottages feel like something out of a fairy tale—if the fairy tale included buckets of rain and a sky angrier than a wet cat.
The windshield wipers are in a frenzied battle against the deluge as my ten-year-old VW Bug chugs up to the grand iron gates at the bottom of Inglenook Hill. Brick pillars stand like silent sentinels, guarding the mansion at the top—my inheritance from my Aunt Eliza's will. With a sputtering cough that signals defeat, my car gives up the ghost, leaving me stranded in the storm.
“Great,” I mutter, resting my forehead on the worn steering wheel. The rhythmic drumming of rain is the only reply. “Welcome home, Cat.”
Home. A funny word for a place shrouded in so much mystery, it might as well be Brigadoon. My parents bolted from this town when I was a seven and never looked back. Through the years, whenever I asked about Briarwood and Aunt Eliza, they'd exchange nervous glances before distracting me with a trip to the beach or a new doll. Being an avid reader as I grew, I figured out early on that my family had a secret. One that was tied to my aunt and this town.
A soft light illuminates the plaque on one of the pillars, designating the official name as the Historical Inglenook Library of Curiosities and Fine Literature. It doesn’t mention that my aunt also lived here her whole life. What secrets does it hold?
The Victorian architecture is barely visible through the curtain of rain. I lower my voice to my true crime narrator tone. “A family secret. An eccentric aunt. What will Catniss Inglenook discover when she returns to her hometown and the haunted library her aunt left behind?”
A chill dances down my spine—not from the cold, but from the unknown. Great, I’ve scared myself.
If the conversations I overheard growing up about Eliza are true, she was a witch. Not in the strictest sense of the word, but in some odd, eccentric way I never quite understood. Not even the witches I read about in the books I read by the bagfuls quite matched what I knew about my mysterious aunt.
Just because she collected cat figurines and dressed in head-to-toe black does not make her a witch. I force a chuckle, shaking off the creepy feeling crawling up the back of my neck.
I press the gas pedal a few times and try the ignition. The engine makes a grinding-whirring noise before it dies again. “Come on, sugar pie. Start for Mama, please?”
The Bug gives another disgusted cough that sounds like its last breath.
“I know.” I pat the dashboard, and it causes the lights to flicker. “It was a long trek. You deserve some rest.” I only wish Millie had waited until we got all the way up the drive before she gave up the ghost.
Yes, I've named my car. Millicent was a sassy girl in her youth, and she’s still a bit rambunctious in her old age, but this trip across the country from California may have been her final hurrah.
Sighing, I kill the lights, grab my trusty carpet bag from the passenger seat, and pocket my keys. “I'll get you to a garage first thing tomorrow for a tuneup,” I promise. “You’ll feel good as new.”
If there's one thing I have plenty of, it's reckless optimism. I pat her dash again, debating… Should I stay put and hope the storm lets up or should I brave the wet path to the house?
Rain hammers on the car roof like an impatient and unwelcome guest at the front door. The darkness outside presses against the windows, and I can barely make out the path that snakes up to the veranda. I unearth my phone from the bag to check my weather app, but the screen is as black as the night—dead and utterly useless. I forgot to recharge it.
My stomach growls, a low rumble that protests the lack of a decent meal since that gas station sandwich at noon. It settles my debate. “Food over comfort,” I declare. I'm not sure what waits for me up there, but I’m willing to bet there's at least a can of soup somewhere.
I grab the bag, tuck my unruly curls under a sweater that I hastily pull over my head, and open the door. Wind whips around me, greeting me with icy fingers as I step into nature's fury.
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