LOWRI

The bell above the door hadn’t stopped jangling all morning. By noon, witch and normie bodies packed my apothecary, each of them more frantic than usual. Halloween always brought a rush, but this year was different. More desperate. 

The stench of fear overrode the warm, grounding veil of patchouli.

Almost like the residents of Tenby expected the monsters to come waltzing in with the tide.

Every year, they scrambled for protections, and every year, absolutely nothing happened.

At this point, it wouldn’t shock me if the Council had invented the whole monster threat to keep us in line.

I wedged myself between Mrs. Cadwallader and a nervous-looking teenager, both clutching protective charms. I smiled at them as I grabbed ingredients I needed, but neither managed more than a shaky nod.

“Three children vanished from Swansea last week.” Bryn perched on the edge of the counter, elbows braced, drawing the crowd in with a conspirator’s grin. “Found their beds empty, windows torn open, claw marks gouged right into the stone.”

I rolled my eyes as I returned to the counter and started measuring protection oil for Mrs. Pugh. Bryn had spent the entire morning spinning increasingly gruesome tales for his captive audience. For supposedly rational adults, they devoured his stories like chocolate.

“Windows don’t tear themselves apart,” Mrs. Ffion said, though her knuckles had gone white around her iron amulet. “The Council would’ve warned us about monster sightings.”

“Would they?” Bryn leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “My cousin works for the constabulary. Says the claw marks gouged three inches deep into the stone. Nothing from this plane can do that.”

A collective shiver rippled through the shop. I tried focusing on my work, but Bryn’s voice had that hypnotic quality that made even sceptics hang on every word. When we were kids, I’d teased him about having siren blood. Until Mam caught us and hexed us both to speak only the truth for a week.

Worst seven days of my life.

“The youngest was little Cerys Morgan,” he whispered, making everyone strain to catch each word. “Four years old. Sweet as summer strawberries. They found her favourite doll in the garden afterwards, ripped to shreds. Stuffing scattered everywhere like something had tasted it first.”

“Sweet Goddess preserve us,” someone breathed.

The colour drained from every face in the shop. These were grown witches, most of them twice my age, and they appeared ready to bolt at the first creaking floorboard. I shook my head and went back to measuring herbs.

Drama queens, the lot of them.

“They found her a few days later with her father,” I muttered, my tone dry. “Stop trying to scare them, Bryn.”

We didn’t need monsters to do wretched things. The kid’s father had staged the whole thing, hoping no one would look while he fled the country with his daughter after the courts ruled against him.

“Of course, that’s nothing compared to Aberystwyth, two summers past. Five generations of the Gareth family, allegedly wiped out in one night.”

“I remember that,” Mrs. Cadwallader said, voice cracking with age. “Police blamed wild dogs.”

“Wild dogs don’t arrange bodies in ritual circles.” He flashed a quick smile at the crowd, milking every second like a macabre tour guide. “Or drain every drop of blood while leaving the meat untouched.”

No but serial killers do. Perfectly human-shaped monsters. 

“Monster work, through and through. They feast on terror first. The soul comes after.”

The shop had gone tomb-quiet except for ragged breathing and the nervous rattle of charms against my glass potion bottles.

Right. So much for rational adults.

“They can smell witch children from miles away,” a young mother whispered, pulling her toddler closer. “My gran always said their hunger for our magic drives them mad. They’d rather devour one witch baby than a dozen norms.”

“Wise woman, your gran.” Bryn nodded. “My da says monsters can sense power in the blood. Halloween’s their hunting season. The veil thins, and they pour through like starving wolves.”

I bit my cheek to contain my laughter. Goddess help me, he’d had me believing him for a while there. The whole veil concept had been debunked years ago by actual scholars. If monsters entered our world, it wasn’t through some mystical curtain going threadbare once a year.

“What do they actually look like?” A teenager asked, her voice cracking with terror. She clung to her mother’s sleeve, her feet shuffling as if she was ready to flee.

“Pumpkin-headed beasts with ember eyes burning in hollow sockets. Antlered shadows that speak in stolen voices. Scarecrow things wearing human faces like masks, stitched on with black thread.” He caught my gaze, daring me to contradict him. His eyes gleamed with a storyteller’s joy. “If you hear your mother calling from the garden at midnight, run the opposite direction.”

The crowd pressed together like frightened sheep. Someone actually whimpered.

“They hunt in packs during dark hours,” Bryn said. “Silent as morning mist until they strike. Lucky children die quickly. The others...” He let the silence stretch until Mrs. Pugh made a strangled noise.

“Enough.” I slammed my measuring cup down hard enough to rattle the counter. “You’re terrorising people with old wives’ tales.”

Every eye in the shop swivelled toward me. Heat crawled up my neck under their collective stare. Brilliant. 

Now I was the spoilsport witch who didn’t believe in monsters.

“Those aren’t tales, young lady.” Mrs. Ffion’s eyes narrowed, chin jutting forward. “My sister’s boy went missing during the last great thinning. Police never found so much as a shoelace.”

“My scrying mirror cracked yesterday morning,” another woman said. “Split clean through for no reason. Something’s stirring, mark my words.”

“The wards on my cottage have been sparking for days.” Mrs. Pugh gripped her protective charm tighter. “Iron charms don’t turn black overnight unless something powerful’s testing the boundaries.”

I forced myself to take a deep calming breath. These women had known me since I was small enough to hide behind Aunt Ceridwen’s skirts while she mixed potions. They’d watched me grow up in this shop, learning herbs and remedies from the most practical witch in Tenby.

If anyone should dismiss monster stories as superstition, it was me.

So why did their words make my skin crawl?

“Listen,” I said, trying to inject some sanity into the madness. “These stories always get worse around Halloween. It’s natural to be anxious, but—”

“Anxious?” Mrs. Cadwallader’s laugh came out bitter. “Child, anxiety is forgetting to ward your windowsill. This is something else entirely. The veil’s been restless for weeks. Any witch worth her salt can sense it.”

Murmurs of agreement swept through the crowd.

The shop fell silent except for the steady tick of the old mantle clock and someone’s laboured breathing. Even I could sense the weight of their collective fear pressing down like humidity before a thunderstorm.

Halloween brought out everyone’s worst superstitions, and I shouldn’t complain. Better for business than the February love potion rush. Still, the intensity this year was...unsettling.

Bryn cleared his throat. “Of course, there are ways to protect yourself. Iron and salt, rowan wood, running water. They can’t cross a proper threshold uninvited, and blessed silver burns them like acid.”

“What about the children?” Someone asked. 

The teenager clutched her mother’s arm tighter. 

“Yeah!” Another witch shouted. “How do we keep them safe?”

“Ward every window, salt every sill,” Mrs. Ffion said, her tone hard and filled with an authority that came with age. “Keep iron under their pillows, and never, ever let them answer voices in the dark. No matter how familiar they sound.”

I watched the customers nod along, memorising every word. I plastered on what I hoped was a reassuring smile and went back to work. Aunt Ceridwen had always dismissed monster stories as superstition designed to keep witches obedient and afraid. 

“Enough gossip!” Old Mr. Cadwallader waved a gnarled hand at the herb display. “I need mugwort, Lowri. The stuff up here’s dried to dust.”

I frowned. I’d restocked that display this morning with fresh herbs from the garden. But the mugwort did appear oddly withered, like something had sucked the life right out of it.

Strange.

“I’ll check the basement stores.”

“Be quick about it.” His eyes darted toward the darkening windows. “The sun’s getting low, and I won’t be caught without proper protection tonight.”

I squeezed through the crowd toward the basement door, Bryn’s voice following me as he launched into another tale about bleeding trees and stirring evil. The stairs creaked under my weight. A perfectly normal sound that I wouldn’t usually think about. Today it had me freezing up, like the old wood was trying to warn me about something lurking in the depths below.

Shaking my head, I grabbed my lantern from its hook and descended into the musty darkness, Bryn’s stories echoing in my mind like half-remembered nightmares.

Tales and superstition. Nothing more.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

The backup mugwort sat right where I’d left it. Only it wasn’t as fresh and bushy as it should have been. Just like the branches upstairs, the leaves had withered to brittle husks, brown and useless.

That made no sense.

Mr. Cadwallader was going to lose his mind if I returned empty handed.

My gaze drifted over the dusty basement. Somewhere in this labyrinth hid Aunt Ceridwen’s enchanted herb cabinet. She’d spelled the thing to keep a steady supply of fresh ingredients. Of course, I hadn’t seen the damn thing since she’d died three months ago.

Who the hell loses a cabinet? The thing had been huge.

I wouldn’t ask why she’d stored it in the basement of all places. Most things she used to do and say made no sense to me, but she’d always been right or ready when needed.

“What’s taking so long?” Bryn shouted from the top of the stairs, his storyteller joy well and truly snuffed out. “They’re getting ready to start a mutiny up here.”

I considered screaming right back at Bryn, but that would’ve proven worthless.

Besides, he was doing me a favour. He had stepped up to help me out in the aftermath of my aunt’s sudden death. 

Resigned to disappointing Mr. Cadwallader, I walked back to the stairs. A strange sensation prickled the hairs on my neck and stopped me dead in my tracks. 

I turned and frowned at the strange glow rippling along one of the far walls.

“That shouldn’t be here anymore.” 

A month ago, the Council declared every lingering ward in our shop officially dismantled. 

I stepped closer as the flicker brightened in a slow pulse. A slight breeze tickled my arms, and I pressed my palm to the wall. Faint sparks zipped across my skin and lit up old runes I recognised from Aunt Ceridwen’s private journal.

A shiver teased my spine, an unexpected urge drawing me deeper rather than sending me back upstairs. I couldn’t shake the compulsion, even though logic warned me to ignore it.

The stone hummed under my palm when I pressed against it. Warmth spread up my arm, followed by a strange tugging sensation in my chest. Every rational thought screamed at me to back away and flee upstairs to safety. But something deeper than logic held me rooted to the spot.

The runes flared brighter. A hairline crack split the stone, right where the light pulsed strongest. Another swirl of sparks danced around the stones. 

A rough scraping noise startled me, and I jumped back. The stone shifted, revealing a seam where I’d never noticed one.

A door. A bloody door in the basement wall.

Aunt Ceridwen had told me to never open the door in the basement, but in all the years I’d apprenticed for her, I had never been able to find one. I’d always assumed it was a figment of her imagination. 

My hand shook as I slid my fingers along the carved edge. It felt cold, like a breeze from deep underground. One cautious push and it eased open, wards crackling around the frame.

Swallowing back my nerves, I lifted the lantern and peered into a narrow corridor. The stones dripped with condensation while faint torchlight flickered further in. 

Odd. There were no modern bulbs, retrofitted wiring or extension cords lining the walls.

“What the hell did she need a secret tunnel for?” I whispered, but my feet moved forward anyway.

The corridor stretched only a dozen paces before ending at an iron-bound door. Council marks glowed along its frame.

Whatever lay beyond that door had been locked away for good reason.

I should’ve turned around and pretended I’d never seen it, never felt the pull that tugged at my ribs like invisible rope. 

I reached for the latch.

As before, the wards almost melted away from me. The lock clicked and the door groaned open.

I braced for a gust of magic or a trap, but nothing pounced. I took a cautious step inside, a deep thrum in my chest urging me forward.

Cool air rushed past my ankles as the door swung wide. I peered into shadows that seemed to writhe and shift. Something moved in the darkness. Chains clanked and my stomach flipped as I unconsciously backed up a step. I murmured a faint illumination spell, and watery light shimmered over the dark corners of the room.

Chained to the wall was… a man. Sort of.

His torso was decidedly human. Broad shoulders, sinewy arms bound by metal shackles carved with runes. He wore scraps of tattered cloth across his chest, like a ruined cloak or what might once have been a shirt. 

Beneath those ragged remains, defined muscles rippled along his abdomen. His clothes had all but dissolved to dust, so he should’ve been skin and bones, but everything about his physique screamed raw power. It made my mouth go dry. His large hands clamped inside the shackles, fingers twitching with the faintest motion. Something deep in my belly flipped in a way that didn’t make sense.

A carved pumpkin glowed on his shoulders, candlelight flickering through triangular eyes and a jagged grin.

Yes, an actual carved jack-o’-lantern. 

Bryn was right.

They were all real.

I screamed and slammed the basement door shut.