Wednesdays were Lydia’s unlucky day—everything always went sideways. In the rental house on Turnpike Street, every day was Wednesday.
If Lydia Dreadknot, a skinny redhead in her early forties, were a real fortune-teller, she would’ve foreseen her future and not moved into that old house. She would’ve guessed that the monthly rent of $800 instead of the typical $1600 was too good to be true. But being an inexperienced witch and tenant, she failed.
Rather than trusting her instinct, she signed the contract, packed her stuff, grabbed her cat, and moved in. After dragging all seven plastic bins with her belongings into the house, she placed a handmade sign on the front door: Lydia Dreadknot, Fortune Teller. Open daily, 10-6, except Wednesday and Sunday.
The early October dusk settled in the corners of the old house while Lydia finished unpacking. Her cheap three-bedroom rental (pets allowed) came furnished.
“Muffin,” Lydia called to her black cat, “have you seen my cell phone?”
Lydia often talked to her cat, though he never talked back. Muffin knew how to find things because his owner was so good at losing them. His name came from his uncanny ability to look like a chocolate muffin when he curled into a ball.
Rather than sniffing around for the phone, Muffin curled his back and hissed.
“That bad, huh?” asked Lydia.
Muffin pressed his ears to his head and stared into a dark corner, where an old-fashioned sofa with floral fabric stood. The cat grouped his lean body, ready to pounce on something.
“What is it? A mouse? Well, if you are not helping me unpack, then go check the attic for more mice.”
Lydia could move objects a few feet with her mind and a wave of her hand. Placing the objects gently was a work in progress—she was still a witch in training. After unpacking, her front room looked like a beach after a storm, with her clothes, books, and fortune-teller trinkets in disarray. She would tidy it up later.
Exhausted as she was, Lydia dismissed Muffin’s strange behavior.
“Meowyal!”
Lydia’s cell phone glided across the floor from under the sofa. Muffin scrambled to the kitchen.
Lydia stumbled backward. The sound of stomping boots in the hallway made her jump and drop the stack of books she held in her hands. She stretched her arm and pulsed the energy in the direction from where she heard the noise. But nothing happened. There was no resistance or the sound of a fallen body—only tapping inside the walls and a distant door slam.
