Another broken bulb, Hilda thought glumly as she stared up the ceiling. It was the third one this week, and the first two took three days to get fixed since there wasn't a local repairman she could call or at least someone tall enough to reach the light fixtures.
Oh, well, magic it was then.
"Lickety, hickety, fix this light,
Swish and flick, make this alright,
With a click in a tick — "
The doorbell rang, halting Hilda's spell before she could finish. Consciously, she peered past the row of bookshelves and called, "Hello?"
A man emerged from behind a shelf, blinking. "Uh, yeah. Sorry about that, ma'am. You're open, yes?"
The first customer of the day, Hilda thought excitedly, the light fixtures completely forgotten. "Yes, we already are for a few minutes now. How may I help you?"
"Oh, I just need to get some books." He pulled out a list. "About the history of Greendale if you have them."
"The summarized editions or the extended ones?"
"Both will be fine. The more resources, the better," the man said.
Hilda would normally give a list of titles, but she believed always giving the first customer of the day the utmost assistance she could give. Something about the shop racking good fortune for the day. She fussed around the shop, taking a book here and there and adding it to the pile that steadily grew on her arm. The man politely offered to take the load off of her, and Hilda gratefully handed him the books. She made a mental note to remind Dr. Cee later that a proper organization should be done around the shop.
"Here you go," she said as she added the last book on the stack. It was quite plenty, Hilda suddenly realized and hoped that the customer didn't mind.
The man, however, hardly looked like he was struggling under the weight of it all and seemed to have appreciated them. "It'll take them. Thank you..."
"Hilda. Hilda Spellman," she said with a kind smile.
The man had no qualms returning the same gesture. "Sam Winchester."
"Are you doing research on Greendale, Mr. Winchester? If you don't mind me asking."
"You can say that," Sam answered vaguely. "We just moved here, and we want to know as much as we can around the town."
"Oh! We don't get many newcomers here in Greendale, but it's lovely of you and your family to join us."
Sam looked sheepish. "We're still adjusting, to be honest. I used to live with my older brother, and now I'm living with my nephew and… wife." He seemed rather embarrassed to mention the last bit, though more in a shy young boy manner which was funny because Sam towered over her.
Hilda found this giant of a man a tad endearing that it wasn't surprising anymore when she ushered him down to a stool and served him a milkshake.
"Have you been living here for long?" Sam asked.
"Born and bred here, mister. Spellmans have been in this town for generations," Hilda happily told him. "I live with my niece and nephew and my sister."
"That's nice. Is Cerberus Books a family business?"
"Oh, no, mister. Dr. Cerberus—Dr. Cee as he likes to be called—owns this shop. He's out at the moment," she said. "But us Spellmans do run a family business. The local mortuary."
Sam's brows rose. "Really?" He frowned. "That doesn't happen to be the one connected to the fork road by the woods, does it?"
"It is," she confirmed. "You might have heard our home being called a haunted house, but don't let it fool you. No ghosts live there."
Sam huffed a chuckle. "I might have heard the house dubbed as such, but I guess that says a lot about us moving nearby it. We're in the cottage on the other side of the road."
"Oh, that one." Hilda remembered it being unoccupied for quite some time now. "It's been a while since we have a neighbor. If I'm not mistaken, the previous owners refused to sell it, though I don't know why."
"It was difficult to ask them to part with it," Sam agreed, taking a sip of his milkshake and humming in approval. "We understood the sentimental value it had, but let's just say my wife could be quite convincing."
Hilda softened at how fond Sam spoke of his wife. "No children yet?"
"Ah, no." Sam began to fiddle with the silver band on his finger. "It's new. Like three-months-ago new."
"Congratulations to you newlyweds anyhow," Hilda said, beaming. "Bountiful years to come to you two."
"Thank you, Miss Spellman," Sam said gratefully, almost bashfully. He pulled out his wallet. "How much do I owe you?"
"It's on the house," Hilda chirped. "And it's Hilda."
"If that's the case, then call me Sam. You'll probably see me around here often."
"Hopefully with your dear wife next time. I'd like to meet her."
"She's not much for outdoors, but I'll see what I can do. I'm just out to see Greendale for myself and to see if there's a temporary job I can find within the town."
"I'll be honest with you, Sam. Greendale is small and the people few. You'll probably have more luck in the neighboring towns. Riverdale, for example."
Sam nodded. "Noted. I'll check it out later or tomorrow. See if there's anyone there in need of a repairman or something, but if you also need someone to call, you can ask for me," he offered kindly.
"You do repairs, huh?" Hilda considered for a moment. It was a very fortunate coincidence, come to think of it. "I think I might be in need of your service now, Sam."
Sam followed Hilda's line of sight when she stared upwards at the broken light fixture.
Agatha counted her last three wild berries and regretfully ate one.
She would die here. She would die here, lost in the same woods that should have been familiar to her after being here numerous times already. She didn't have water, didn't know where the nearest supply she could find. The wild berries she has were from the one flowering tree she passed by that should be several miles away now.
Several miles away if she was even truly moving forward and not turning in some unending circle Blackwood left her in.
He left her defenseless at the mercy of that creature he unleashed, not a split-second hesitating to bolt alone from the location. Agatha didn't know what Blackwood freed, and while it didn't take her as food, her current predicament was no better.
Or maybe it was preparing her as its food, letting her die slowly of starvation and dehydration, whichever came first. She wouldn't be found, not when there would be nothing left of her, not when no one would even look for her.
Prudence… Prudence would have if she didn't kill Dorcas.
And Dorcas, Satan, Dorcas.
Agatha wouldn't break down and cry. She wouldn't cry when it wasn't her fault she killed Dorcas. The Devil made her do it. Satan made her—
She tripped on a root and fell. She hissed at the pain on her palm and found a long gash where the blood flowed out thickly. Agatha hastily ripped a dirty cloth from her already torn dress and wrapped it around her hand.
Maybe she would die instead of an infected wound. She was too weak from the lack of sustenance to perform a simple healing spell. Agatha didn't know anymore, embracing herself with her dirty arms riddled with cuts from the wilderness.
She no longer had the strength to stand up, and she hoped that she would pass in her sleep, numb of the pain if not of the thought that Prudence thought her a sister traitor.
Not that it mattered in the end, sororicide or no, she would still end up in Hell.
Agatha laid there, feeling life ebb away from her. It was worse than the first time, yet she found it fitting for a stupid traitor like her.
It was a well-deserved punishment, she thought, as she believed she was closing her eyes for one last time.
Agatha, however, didn't miss the blur of striking red before darkness overtook her vision.
An inhuman shriek pierced the air.
A feeble old man sat up from his bed, woken from his afternoon nap. Unbeknownst to him, he was the only one who heard the inexplicable sound of wailing.
The lonely old man walked downstairs heavily, moving to the fireplace and stooping down to the framed pictures that sat above the hearth. He never had the chance to build a family of his own, though he had been in the pleasant company of friends and extended family.
Fondly, he stroked the frame of the old photo of his mother and found a surge of yearning to be that young boy once more who helped his mother selling clams and dried fishes. He remembered listening to her tales and superstitions she used to tell him over and over until he took them by heart.
It has been years, but no amount of time could heal the unexpected passing of a mother.
The old man looked outside the window and found the weather fine. He decided that he could visit her today.
And if the day was to turn out pleasant, perhaps today was also the best time to join his mother.
TBC