Shrouded in secrecy, witches are born with only one ability they learn to master over a lifetime, and they have one primary rule: never fall in love with a Warlock.
When 18-year-old Phoebe Larson unexpectedly finds herself in danger at her ex-boyfr...
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THREE YEARS AGO. . .
Despite living in Virginia state her whole life, Phoebe Larson had only ventured into the city of Norfolk a handful of times. Her mother, Rebecca Larson, hated crowds, traffic, and loud noise. This meant that trips into the city were a rare and exciting experience. Especially for a fifteen-year-old girl who didn't get to leave the small town of Misty Hill very often.
Phoebe walked with her mother on the sidewalk connected to an old brick building selling antiques. It felt like every street had an antique shop on that side of the city. They'd already visited three other shops and turned up empty-handed.
"It's not what you picture when you think of a city, it's more like dirty, suburban sprawl," her mother complained. "All low, flat, ugly buildings and tacky signs. No highrises and skyscrapers."
"You don't like skyscrapers anyway," Phoebe said with boredom. She was tired of going through stores with old things, she wanted to shop for cute new things for decorating her bedroom. "What are we looking for again?"
"An apothecary cabinet," her mother reminded.
"And why can we just order one online?" Phoebe asked, stopping her tracks in front of the glass door to yet another antique shop.
"This cabinet is special, you won't find it online. It's only available to select collectors and you have to negotiate for it in person," she answered and pulled open the door handle. "Now go inside and look around. I'll talk to the store clerk and see if it's here."
Phoebe groaned but complied. She decided to search down the aisles while her mother struck up a conversation with the old woman behind the front counter.
Phoebe liked old furniture, but what she didn't like was how creepy each store they went to became. This one was filled with old dolls. Some of them had wooden faces, and the paint had clipped off in certain parts like their eye or their cheek, revealing a red-clay-colored wood beneath. Each doll had a somber expression, accepting the cracks, tears, and chips time had given them.
The further down the rows she drifted, she discovered more twists and turns, more shelves, and more dolls. The damage on the dolls' faces progressed until it reached a point where some were naked wooden peg dolls, with bendable joints, red cheeks, and stark white painted faces that were scraped half off.
It didn't feel right, it didn't look right. Why collect so many dolls? And who would be crazy enough to buy dolls so broken and terrifying?
"Surprising isn't it?" A man's voice grumbled.
Phoebe turned to see an old man with a frosty long beard. He wore a shop keepers apron and thin-framed metal glasses. He looked like a skinny Santa Claus.
