Dead Letter Office, Parish Mail #1

Chapter: 10

Parish Mail is written like a TV series–there are over-arching mystery and romantic story arcs that extend between the episodes, while each episode has a smaller case that is presented and solved. Along the way,  the reader will get the opportunity to make several small decisions. These choices do not impact the overarching storyline, however certain combinations “unlock” clues to the series’ mystery, which are embedded in the text. 

At the end of THIS chapter, readers will get the chance to vote on one of two choices. The path that gets the most votes by next week will get posted on Wattpad.  New chapters will be posted every Thursday, so get your VOTE in! 

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I’m up at dawn to meet Luc beneath the willow tree. “We’re going to try to find Abel Sims’ son after school today,” I say, after I finish telling him about our unusual trip to the mall and our encounter with Peyton. “I’m not sure how yet.” There’s no chance of Peyton helping us. Even if Donovan could pressure her again, I wouldn’t dream of asking. What he went through was private and weird enough that I’m shocked that he told us in the first place. Impressed and grateful too, that he’d go so far to help.

“Exactly how many witches do you know?” Luc asks. It’s not quite a joke. Something about witches puts him on edge, I can tell.

“More than I thought ever existed,” I sigh.

“Sun’ll be up soon,” Luc says, peering out past the branches. “Good luck today.”

“Thanks,” I say, starting to my feet. Then I stop. “Actually, could I wait with you? Until you’re…gone?” I reach out my hand for his.

Luc seems moved that I ask. “I’d like that,” he says, taking my hand. We sit beneath the willow until he vanishes from sight. His hand is warm in mine up until the moment it disappears. Then I feel a cool rush of wind through my hair, and I know that Luc has left.

Witches put me on edge too, especially when they’re the most popular girl in school with a lot of friends and influence. But if we were expecting any social retaliation from Peyton, we needn’t have worried. At school, she steers clear of all three of us all day. I notice her face grows guilty and a little sad when she passes Donovan, but Tilly and I get the ice queen treatment.

“There’s this automatic writing spell I’ve been dying to try,” Tilly tells Donovan and me after the final bell rings. “That will give us a name. But we should do it at the shop. I have better luck there for some reason.”

Donovan’s a little skeptical at this suggestion, but he drives us all to the Quarter. At Beauchamp’s, we gather in the backroom. On the table, Tilly’s spread out a sheet of paper, creamy and thick like fine stationery. She picks up a silver fountain pen, an antique from the look of it. She circles the pen in front of her three times as if she was stirring an invisible bowl, dips it into an inkwell of blood-red ink, and sets the nib to the paper, all while murmuring a phrase in what sounds like Latin. Then I realize with a fond smile that Tilly’s not murmuring Latin at all: “Please work please work please work,” is what she’s saying. But it doesn’t appear to be. We sit there and watch as red ink slowly seeps into the paper in a bloody blob. Lenore swoops in and alights on the back of Donovan’s chair, twitching her head to stare at all of us with her beady black eyes. “Great, now she’s here to laugh at me too,” Tilly mumbles, frustrated.

“Maybe there’s another way,” Donovan says, but we all hear the doubt in his voice. “I could probably get the law firm envelope out of the evidence locker.”

But as we watch, the pen suddenly comes to life, scratching along the paper. “I’m not moving it,” Tilly whispers. I can see she’s just holding the pen lightly, and that something else is propelling it to draw the letters now appearing in bold red on the paper.