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    Neighbourhood Witch (A Sweet Paranormal Romance)
    Neighbourhood Witch (A Sweet Paranormal Romance)
    Neighbourhood Witch (A Sweet Paranormal Romance)
    Ebook117 pages1 hour

    Neighbourhood Witch (A Sweet Paranormal Romance)

    By RK Moore

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    About this ebook

    A cursed witch is the loneliest kind.

    Henny Wilson knows this very well. Suffering constant accidents, she keeps away from people for their own safety. But her new neighbour, Nathan, has other ideas. He believes the curse is just in her head. As they grow closer and feelings develop between them, Nathan vows to show Henny that she doesn't have to suffer any longer.

    A sweet paranormal romance about taking chances in love and life.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRK Moore
    Release dateSep 30, 2013
    ISBN9781497796454
    Neighbourhood Witch (A Sweet Paranormal Romance)

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      Book preview

      Neighbourhood Witch (A Sweet Paranormal Romance) - RK Moore

      Neighbourhood

      Witch

      RK Moore

      Also by RK Moore

      BLIND DATE - ebook only

      DREAMING OF YOU - ebook only

      PASCO OMNIBUS: 1-3

      PASCO Episode 4 - ebook only

      For more information on RK Moore and her books, visit her website at www.authorrkmoore.wix.com/books

      Neighbourhood Witch

      Copyright © RK Moore 2013

      ISBN 978-1492779155

      Text copyright © RK Moore

      Image copyright © Can Stock Photo Inc./adrenalina

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

      This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organisations is entirely coincidental.

      Dedicated to accident-prone folk, witchy or otherwise.

      ONE

      No one had ever seen Mrs Bleasdale running, not even during her years as headmistress at the local primary school. So it was quite a surprise to find the elderly woman galloping along the high street of Little Changeling. She was going at such a speed, that she almost mowed down a pair of young mothers pushing prams past the Post Office.

      ‘Sorry,’ she shouted, with barely a glance back as she raced onwards. Giving the road the same amount of attention, she crossed the quiet street and barged through the door of the newsagent’s, startling the three people inside.

      ‘What on Earth’s the matter, Audrey?’ exclaimed Maurice, watching from behind the counter as Mrs Bleasdale leant a hand against the drinks compartment and got her breath back. ‘Worried we’d run out of the new scratchcards, or something?’ he joked.

      His wife, Meryl, sat on a stool nearby, applying a coat of bitch-red nail varnish to her talons. She gave the older woman a brief once-over. ‘No, Mrs Bleasdale thinks gambling’s a sin, don’t you, love?’

      ‘Hardly,’ Mrs Bleasdale answered between heavy exhaling. She cast a disdainful look back at her ex-pupil. ‘I said it was a waste of time.’

      ‘Do you need a seat?’ the young man, in for his morning paper, asked her.

      ‘Good idea,’ agreed Maurice, coming out from behind the counter. ‘Alfie, help me sit Audrey down.’ He looked across at his wife. ‘Meryl, get off there and let the poor woman rest for a minute.’

      Mrs Bleasdale waved a hand. ‘No, no. Thanks but I’m alright. Really. Not used to running, that’s all.’

      Accepting her reassurance, Maurice rested against the front of the counter and folded his arms. ‘So what’s got you flustered, Audrey?’ he asked.

      ‘She can’t keep away from you, Maurice,’ teased Alf, rolling up his paper and tucking it under his arm.

      Meryl, who hadn’t shifted from the stool, even when asked, let out a small ‘Ha!’ at the suggestion and continued painting her nails.

      ‘It’s about the house,’ explained the older woman.

      ‘Your house?’ echoed Alf.

      ‘No. Of course not my house. My goodness, how long have you lived in Little Changeling? I mean, the house.’

      Meryl’s ears pricked up at this. Putting the pot of nail polish on the counter, she looked up. ‘Someone’s bought it?’ With her question answered with a nod from Mrs Bleasdale, Meryl raised her freshly-plucked eyebrows. ‘It’s been so long I thought it would stay abandoned forever.’

      ‘I just got a call from my sister, Enid,’ Mrs Bleasdale went on.

      ‘Your sister’s bought it?’ Alf asked.

      ‘No!’ she answered, sounding a little ratty now. ‘Her neighbour, Derek, is an Estate Agent in the city. A man went in yesterday, saw the house in their books, and snapped it up, right there and then!’

      ‘God, it’ll be some nutter,’ Maurice said. ‘

      ‘I know,’ Mrs Bleasdale agreed. ‘According to Enid - well, Derek, really - the man’s coming to see the house tomorrow!’

      ‘We should warn him,’ Maurice went on. ‘Let him know what’s what.’

      ‘But that would mean someone actually going near the house. Near her,’ Meryl said, almost spitting out the last word.

      ‘Ah, come on, love. No need for that. The poor thing can’t help how she is,’ Maurice said, diplomatically.

      ‘I bet she can,’ Meryl shot back. ‘I bet she loves is, causing harm to innocent folk.’

      Alf regarded the couple for a moment. ‘This fella might be different. Maybe he’ll be immune to her.’

      ‘He’d have to be to live there,’ Meryl muttered. She addressed Mrs Bleasdale again. ‘Do we know the man’s name?’

      ‘Enid never said,’ came the reply.

      ‘So, do we warn him or not?’ Maurice prompted.

      ‘Why bother?’ sniffed Meryl. ‘None of the others listened. Look what happened to them.’

      The door swung open and an imposing black labrador bound in, causing immediate chaos. The dog nearly knocked Mrs Bleasdale off her feet as it scrambled around the shop.

      ‘Oi!’ Meryl screeched, watching as the creature paused to sniff a pile of broadsheets still bound by string. ‘Maurice, do something about that mutt!’

      ‘Oh Rupert, please behave,’ came a weary voice from the doorway. A tall, weathered-looking man stepped into the shop, carrying the unmistakable aroma of a farm worker. The labrador bound back to his master and giddily leap up but the man walked passed him and up to the counter.

      ‘Morning, Graham,’ Meryl said, a fake smile glued to her face. ‘Don’t say you never received your papers? I do remember putting them in the paper boy’s bag before he left.’

      ‘Oh no, I have them, thank you,’ Graham replied. ‘I saw Audrey running down the street and wondered if something was amiss.’

      Mrs Bleasdale blushed. It was no secret to the villagers that she had a fancy for the well-spoken farmer. ‘Oh, that’s very decent of you, Graham. I’m perfectly well, thank you,’ she said. ‘I was just telling everyone that someone’s bought the house.’

      ‘Really?’ Graham said, in a gasp. ‘How extraordinary. Who?’

      ‘A man from the city,’ Maurice chimed in. ‘That’s all we know.’

      ‘And is he aware of…?’ Graham’s voice trailed off.

      ‘Don’t think so,’ Meryl told him. ‘But apparently he’s coming by tomorrow to have a look. Can you believe he bought it without seeing the inside?’

      ‘Gosh. Well, I wish him the best of luck, obviously,’ Graham said. ‘Rupert, stop that!’ He slapped his leg sharply. The dog lowered its leg from the corner of the drinks cabinet and padded over to the farmer. ‘I’ll have to take him outside.’ He took hold of Rupert’s lead. ‘Well, glad that’s everything’s alright. Good day to you all.’

      The farmer hadn’t even closed the door properly behind him before other villagers started streaming in, wondering if Mrs Bleasdale was alright. Pretty soon, the news that someone had bought the house next to the witch had spread throughout the village, and that evening in the pub it was the hottest topic of conversation.

      Henny Wilson stood before the kitchen window, listening as the rain pummelled against the glass, her reflection staring back at her. 'You know, somebody could be standing outside, looking in, and I would be none the wiser,’ she said with a heavy sigh.

      'Like those ragamuffins that call you Professor McGonagall?’ came a plummy voice. ‘Turn the light out and see.’

      Henny smiled. ‘No, it’s okay. I was just... making conversation.’ She returned to the table and sat down.

      The turnip sitting on the table shifted its position until it was facing her. ‘What’s wrong?’ it asked. ‘Oh, I know. You’re lonely.’

      ‘No I’m not.’

      ‘Yes you are. You always get like this when you’re lonely, which is becoming more frequent, by the way.’

      Henny folded her arms and leaned back. ‘And why would I get lonely when I’ve got you to speak to?’

      ‘Oh, you can’t tell me that you’d rather spend time with a talking root vegetable than real people, madam.'

      She looked beyond Tip’s carved-out eyes to the glowing candle within. The flame which had brought him to life flickered in the draught of the room. ‘I’d only end up hurting them,’ she said finally.

      ‘It’s too early in the evening to get maudlin. At least crack open a bottle of wine first.’

      ‘You can’t drink,’ Henny said, nonplussed.

      ‘I know,’ replied Tip. ‘But you are rather funny when you’re tipsy.’

      Henny gave a tired smile and yawned. ‘An early night, I think,’ she decided and rose from her chair.

      ‘Watch out for the... shelf,’ Tip called out, a second too late. Henny had already hit her head against the book shelf above. ‘Are you alright?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said with a wince. This was the seventh time this week she’d hit her head. She was just surprised her skull was still intact. ‘Want me to snuff you out now or later?’ she asked, rubbing her head.

      ‘Um.... later, I think. I’m not particularly tired at the

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