This is a free story for my Cup of Catnip and Furry Tales members, and can be enjoyed over your morning coffee/tea or before bed. Enjoy! When Catniss Inglenook inherits an old Victorian library from her eccentric Aunt Eliza, she never expects it to come with a ghostly companion and a litter of mischievous kittens. …
This is a free story for my Cup of Catnip and Furry Tales members, and can be enjoyed over your morning coffee/tea or before bed. Enjoy! When Catniss Inglenook inherits an old Victorian library from her eccentric Aunt Eliza, she never expects it to come with a ghostly companion and a litter of mischievous kittens. …
This is a free story for my Cup of Catnip and Furry Tales members, and can be enjoyed over your morning coffee/tea or before bed. Enjoy! When Catniss Inglenook inherits an old Victorian library from her eccentric Aunt Eliza, she never expects it to come with a ghostly companion and a litter of mischievous kittens. …
This is a free story for my Cup of Catnip and Furry Tales members, and can be enjoyed over your morning coffee/tea or before bed. Enjoy! When Catniss Inglenook inherits an old Victorian library from her eccentric Aunt Eliza, she never expects it to come with a ghostly companion and a litter of mischievous kittens. …
This is a free story for my Cup of Catnip and Furry Tales members, and can be enjoyed over your morning coffee/tea or before bed. Enjoy! When Catniss Inglenook inherits an old Victorian library from her eccentric Aunt Eliza, she never expects it to come with a ghostly companion and a litter of mischievous kittens. …
My arm itches as I watch the exit long after Fiona disappears. “Is she a…?” “Witch?” Simon finishes. “Probably… This is a free story for my Cup of Catnip and Furry Tales members, and can be enjoyed over your morning coffee/tea or before bed. Enjoy! When Catniss Inglenook inherits an old Victorian library from her…
The gargoyle wasn’t quite so imposing the night before when it was standing silently on the porch. Now, with its heavy body blocking the doorway, I go on defense. “How the heck did you get in here?” He doesn’t reply. This is an exclusive story for my Cozy Corner members. Join Cup of Catnip or…
The soft padding of paws and a persistent meow tug me from sleep, but it’s the heavy clanging of something downstairs that jolts me awake. 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…
The storm outside is relentless, slamming rain against the windows and rattling the old panes like the house itself is shaking in fear. I’m still shivering, but it’s not just the cold that’s doing it.
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 from her eccentric Aunt Eliza, she never expects it to come with a ghostly companion and a litter of mischievous kittens.
I’ve met a ghost. A real ghost!
Libby’s words echo in my mind—Aunt Eliza was murdered. I can’t stop thinking about her, about the way she vanished before I could ask anything more.
I return to the kitchen to find the kittens curled up in a fluffy pile at Nimbus’s side on their bed, their tiny bellies full and content. Nimbus flicks her tail lazily, watching me with those big, knowing eyes. She’s been here longer than me, obviously, and it feels as if she understands more than she’s letting on.
I should go to bed. Get some sleep. Figure things out in the morning.
Tossing the broken pieces of the cup in the trash, I leave the kitchen. Back out in the dim hallway, I start for the stairs but the shadows seem to shift. No ghosts appear, but the house seems to…respond, tugging at me to return to my aunt’s favorite spot—the library.
Wait…how do I know that?
My feet move of their own accord and when I reach the doors, they glow around the edges as if someone is inside reading by candlelight.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I’m not going to sleep until I get some answers.
The wooden doors creak as I push them open, and the familiar scent hits me—aged leather, dry paper, ink.
I flick the light switch, but nothing happens. Has the electricity gone out? I check the hallway, but those sconces still cast light. I try the switch again.
Nothing happens—and then, a fire blazes to life in the hearth.
My hand flies to my heart. “Libby, is that you?”
The desk lamp comes on.
I take that as a yes, yet I don’t register her previous chill or foggy presence.
The flickering firelight barely reaches the corners of the room. The shelves loom above me, filled with old books, each spine a mystery waiting to be unraveled. My memory tickles with the flashbacks of my infrequent childhood visits. This room felt magical, Aunt Eliza’s smile joyous at seeing me.
My gaze lands on the imposing mahogany desk dominating the center of the room. Its surface is meticulously organized—a silver letter opener here, a stack of crisp stationery there—but something about it radiates an air of secrecy.
I drop into the chair behind it. It creaks under me, the leather groaning as I settle in.
My bones are weary, and my eyes tired. There is so much to do, and only me to do it all. I scrub a hand over my face and consider going upstairs once again. A warm bath, some sleep…
A flash of lightning illuminates the room. For a split second, I see the shadow of a woman standing among the stacks. My heart leaps into my throat.
“Libby? Is that you?”
The air feels charged, as if the library itself is holding its breath. I come to my feet and take a tentative step forward, my eyes straining.
“Look, I need to know what happened,” I say, addressing the empty room. “To you, to Aunt Eliza, to this manuscript. Please, if you can hear me, give me a sign.”
A soft meow echoes through the room. I turn to see Nimbus padding towards me, her luminous eyes fixed on mine. Her kittens follow one by one. They roam near the desk and I flop back into the chair, exhaustion and adrenaline warring inside me.
“I’m seeing things because I’m overly tired.” And still hungry. “Right, Nimbus? That’s all it is.”
I rummage through the top desk drawer, renewing my intention to either confirm or disprove Libby’s claims. Seeing ghosts is one thing, but Aunt Eliza’s death…murder? It seems impossible. Yet, if there’s any truth to it, the answers have to be somewhere in this house, maybe even in this very room.
My search continues through all the drawers. They’re filled with a normal assortment of files and ledgers. There is also a collection of odd things—an antique silver locket with twining vines etched on the back, a bundle of dried lavender tied with red twine, a half-melted yellow candle, and a small, ornate skeleton key with a symbol like the one on the front door key.
I frown, turning the locket over to examine the vines. They match the ones carved into the back door. Inside is a photo of…me.
My birthmark itches, and I do what I can to ignore it. I drop the locket inside the top drawer and continue my fishing around, but the itch becomes unbearable and I growl in frustration, shoving the sleeve of the gown up. The dancing flames in the fireplace surge and the vines on my skin twist.
I scratch at them, leaving marks from my nails. They stop their undulating dance and the itch fades.
Letting out a tight breath, I cover them with the sleeve.
Was Aunt Eliza into witchcraft?
Am I somehow tied to it?
I stare at the other gathered items I’ve placed on the desk. They’re a bit odd, but not that unusual. Not…witchy, per se.
Although they do feel…purposeful. Intentional.
And that locket…
“I need a drink,” I murmur.
Out of nowhere, a fresh mug of tea appears on the desk. Steam rises from it, and I smell lemon.
I rear back, throwing out my hands. One of them knocks into the lamp, nearly taking out the cup.
Somehow it doesn’t. An invisible hand catches it just in time and returns it to its upright position.
“What the—?” I glance around, again expecting to see Libby or some other ghost, but there’s no one there.
The fire crackles higher and then recedes to normal.
My pulse quickens. This library—this house—is more than it seems. “Hello?” I say, glancing up at the ceiling, the walls.
Nimbus strolls past a bookshelf, tail brushing the spines closest to the ground. Her kittens follow, tiny paws clicking on the wooden floor. One of them—black as night—scurries under the desk, scratching at a portion near my foot.
I bend over, pushing hair out of my face, to try and see what she’s after. I can’t make out anything unusual, but she’s growing more frantic.
Reaching under the drawer, I avoid her claws. My fingers slide against a sharp edge of wood.
The kitten meows as if in triumph. Getting down on all fours, I trace the raised panel and feel it give under my fingertips. A piece of wood pops open, revealing a small, hidden compartment.
“What’s this?” I mutter, tentatively feeling round inside. There’s something there. In order to access it, I have to lie on the floor, staring up at the underside of the desk.
“Wow,” I whisper as I pull out a leather-bound book.
The cover is soft and worn, a thick cord binding it shut.
Returning to the chair, I run my hand over the leather. There’s no title, only delicate filigree carved into it and stained dark brown. I carefully undo the cord, and the book seems to sigh in response.
The black kitten hops onto my lap and then onto the desk, watching. The pages are brittle. The handwriting on them is delicate and old-fashioned, with flourishing letters. Is this Aunt Eliza’s? Libby’s? There’s no name inside, no dates, but the words written there draw me in.
I sit back in Aunt Eliza’s chair and take a sip of the fresh tea, my heart pounding as I read through the entries. They’re cryptic, talking about a book. The one, possibly, that Libby needs.
A manuscript, hidden in the library… My breath catches as I read on.
I have searched the archives, the forbidden room…
Forbidden room? That sounds ominous.
I cannot discover its hiding place. I am mad with frustration.
The more I search, the more elusive it becomes. The manuscript holds the key, but the library is keeping it hidden from even me. It almost feels like a game…or a test.
It seems to jump ahead and a new handwriting appears—a new librarian? I’ve hidden it where only the library itself can reveal the way. The magic within those pages is more powerful than I could have ever imagined…but I must not let anyone find it until I know the truth.
What truth?
The next one is even more disturbing. She came to me today, asking about the manuscript again. I fear for her safety, but I cannot reveal its location. The library seems to know what must be done, even when I do not.
But he last entry trails off mid-sentence as if the writer had been interrupted.
I’ve made a breakthrough, but someone is coming. I’m not sure who. If it’s who I think it is—
I blink at the words, the unfinished sentence. I flip past to the next page. The next.
Nothing.
The entry ends, and there are no others.
My fingers tighten around the edges of the journal as my mind races. The manuscript—Libby’s unfinished book—it’s here, hidden somewhere in this mansion.
And I’m going to find it.
I close the journal and stare into the fire. My tea continues to steam, having not cooled at all. The fire seems to respond to my attention, showing me flames of gold, blue, and amber.
The kitten scrutinizes me, cocking its head to the side. The others, including Nimbus, regard me as well. They’re sizing me up, questioning if I can handle this place. Them.
If I can figure out who and what I am, along with helping Libby and solving the mystery of my aunt’s death.
This place is full of secrets, and I’m just starting to uncover them. But one thing is clear—I have to keep digging.
I have to find that manuscript.
I have to uncover the truth behind my birthmark.
And I have to figure out what really happened to Aunt Eliza.
What do you think the truth behind Catniss's birthmark might be?
I hope you’ve enjoyed this episode! Don’t miss next week’s Witchy Wednesday episode and find out what happens next!
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 episode 3 and find out what happens next! https://www.nyxhalliwell.com/the-book-and-boo-kittens-of-haunted-libraries-episode-3