Among the many strange creatures that inhabited the Kingdom, anyone who wielded magic was looked upon with great suspicion. You may find this strange, but think of it this way: if you know your neighbor is a vampire, then you know roughly what to expect. Garlic on the windowsills and doors will keep them at bay if they are feeling truly ravenous. Even werefolk can be kept out with a well-placed silver doorknob. But a neighbor with magic? Why, there’s ten-thousand ways they could kill you and not even realize it. Spells of flame, spells of snow, spells to unwind health and bestow old age. A sorcerer has so many ways to make your life hell, and there’s not one good folk remedy to stop it all.

What happened was that Ella had to go grocery shopping.

While it is true that Ella’s step-family subsisted off the blood of mortals, there is nothing to say that such blood should not have a little seasoning to it (except garlic, of course). Being that they did not have much money, Ella used what little they did have to frequent a local grocer who was willing to barter with her.

Once upon a time, there was a rich man who loved his wife very much. Together, they had but one daughter, a beautiful, delicate child named Ella. When Ella was eight years old, her mother fell terribly ill. As her end drew near, Ella’s mother called for her only child to come near her bed. And when Ella approached, her ailing mother rose up and tried to tear the girl’s throat out.

Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Did you think you knew where this story was going? I suppose I rather misled you. Because while this is a Cinderella story, it is not that Cinderella story.

The stairs leading down onto the ballroom floor are ablaze with ghostly light when I arrive. Strains of orchestral music float up the staircase, a dark waltz that mixes with the sounds of laughter and the beating of wings. From where I stand on the stairs, I see imps flitting through the air, chasing pixies and witches on their brooms. On the dance floor, ghostly couples swirl together.

The stairs come out of the ceiling with a dusty thud, and each step creaks as I ascend. Yellow sunlight, coming through a round window that hasn’t been cleaned in far too long, illuminates crates, boxes, old furniture, discarded knickknacks, and forgotten clothes. Dress forms with sheets draped over them like simulacra ghosts peek out of the shadows.

I pause on the threshold. Moonlight fills the room through the huge glass windows, edging the plants in silver. A fountain, water trickling out of the mouth of a stone sea serpent, sits in one corner of the room, ringed with wrought-iron furniture that glows black in the dim light. The air in here is thick with moisture and heavy with floral scents. There is only one other door from this room, leading out into the cemetery, and it is padlocked. The Keeper has the only key.

Everyone has different notions of what the dead eat. Fruits and breads, sugar skulls, the souls of the living. Fairy folk are just as enigmatic, with dishes of milk and honey favored as offerings, though many of the fae creatures I’ve met prefer flesh to any dish of warm milk.

Under different circumstances, I would be more precise in my culinary efforts. But All Hallows Eve is coming up, and I don’t know what I’m dealing with. I don’t want this thing—whatever it is—wandering the House any longer than it already has.

The library stands behind an unassuming oak door in far-flung corner of the House. The brass knob is shiny and smooth from years of use—the room is a favorite among the House’s residents. Jack, the Keeper before me, tried at one point to install a television set, but something about the House’s location meant that it never worked. As a result, our primary forms of entertainment here continue to be dances and books. Books are generally easier to come by.

I’ve always quite liked the House’s cemetery. It doesn’t even seem strange to me anymore that the House has one. Of course it does. It sits on the crossroads after all. A cemetery is probably a requirement.

It’s late in the evening
When I hear a tapping,
A murmurous sound in my room.
The flutter and mutter
Of one of the murder
Of crows that circle the moon.

He sits at my window,
Inviting me onward
With just a slight tilt of his head
As if to say, “No one
Will know if you wander
While everyone else is abed.”

In her finest black gown, Branwen stood and surveyed the place where The Game would be played. The flat stone sat at the peak of the hill that rose out of the bog, its edges worn soft by time. Two large mushrooms (grown by herself, thank-you-very-much) faced each other on opposite sides of the stone, ready seats for tonight’s encounter. Around the hillock Branwen had lit an army of candles, their flames giving a flickering, unsettling light to the darkness of the bog.

I was staring up, waiting for my Lady’s eye to become visible, when a shadow peeked over the rim of my prison. I blinked, wondering if I was seeing things, but when my eyes opened, the shadow remained, resolving itself into a head with a pair of pointed ears. A pair of eyes, green as glittering emeralds, stared down at me from high above.

Why languish you there, moon sister?

“Would you just come and look?”

Grumbling, Leah came up behind Claire’s shoulder. “What?”

The waitress tapped the page she was on. “It was in lost and found. It’s been there for, like, a week. Charlie pulled it out earlier.” She turned and grinned at Leah. “It’s a spellbook.”

In hindsight, Robbie should have been more nervous about going up to the old Marshway place. It was the kind of house kids would ding-dong-ditch on Halloween, daring each other to set foot on the porch. Three stories tall, with iron railings along the roof, it looked a little bit like the Addams Family mansion.

The knock comes after the sun has set, a steady beat against the wood of her door.

Thump…thump…thump.