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Johnny stared at the strange purple door in front of him. Had he made a wrong turn? He’d been running the same route through town every single morning with such ease that he could do it blindfolded… if it weren’t for the large pedestrian crosswalk that took him across the main road and into the quieter part of town. He’d rounded the final corner and instead of facing his usual landmark, the breakfast cafe was instead a wide stone alley that framed an unfamiliar facade at the end.
When he turned around to retrace his path, he didn’t recognize the street he was on—which was alarming considering how well knew this town, and almost everyone in it, minus the occasional rotation of tourists during the summer months.
Earlier, while jogging in place at the crosswalk to wait out the light, he’d overheard two women beside him chatting about a new shop in town. A third in their group chimed in to say, and the tea is absolutely magical! By then, the crosswalk changed and Johnny went on his way. He hadn’t thought too much about their conversation because he had been too occupied debating what he’d eat for breakfast.
Shops came and went with increasing frequency these days. Johnny always stuck to what he knew, which was his daily morning run and the small cafe at the end of the route with its promise of delicious breakfast.
The women’s words echoed in his ears as he took in all the carvings along the door’s paneling. Upon a closer look, it wasn’t painted, the wood itself was a shade of rich lavender. Johnny knew that a purple door was supposed to signify something, but he couldn’t remember what it was.
Tree roots, tea cups, runes, and celestial patterns patchworked across the wood surface. The details were so meticulous in places, it had to have been hand-carved. There was no sign displaying the name of the shop, but Johnny thought himself smart enough to infer this was the tea shop those women had been chatting about at the crosswalk.
A witch’s tea shop?
There was no “Come In, We’re Open!” sign. No lights on inside; the windows were completely dark. Johnny had half a thought to turn around, but where would he go without risking getting even more lost on this strange back road? Just as he was about to knock, the latch clicked open and the door swung inward.
A cat slipped out from the cracked doorway and trotted off down the alley, carrying a kitten-sized bundle of purple fabric in its mouth. Perhaps it was cliché but Johnny was secretly disappointed to see a calico. Didn’t all gloomy back-alley shops that suddenly appeared out of nowhere—that were probably, definitely haunted—have a black cat or two guarding the grounds?
“Don’t mind him, he’s making a delivery for me. You must be thirsty. Join us for tea?” The door open wider and Johnny stared at the man the deep, velvety voice belonged to. He was tall, dusty blond and broad-bodied. A floor-length black cloak so thick that it obscured him from the neck down made him look like a bodiless shadow. Amber-brown eyes peered down at him with intrigue, and it took Johnny a long moment of silent staring to realize that his face was partially obscured by what appeared to be the upper half of a human skull (not a real one, Johnny hoped) that he wore like a mask. Too late to turn around now…
“I… don’t have any money,” Johnny lied. The man stared at him and tilted his head ever so slightly. Just a twitch of his mouth, enough for Johnny to fixate on the scar that split his upper lip, and Johnny knew he was caught.
“No charge,” said the stranger instead of reprimanding him. The cloak parted to reveal a black skeleton-painted glove that beckoned him inside. Suddenly, Johnny realized just how hungry and thirsty he was. Maybe he should come in for tea. “You’re my first of the day,” he continued, “and it’s your first time here. Shop policy, no charge.”
Johnny accepted the invitation, and an absurd thought flashed through his mind as he stepped into the shop: I thought vampires were supposed to be the ones asking to be invited in, not the other way around? Of course it was nonsense, this man couldn’t be a vampire; he was dressed far too plainly and didn’t cast glitter off his skin in the meager morning sun.
So what was he? Who was he?
“They call me Ghost,” he said, as if he heard Johnny’s thoughts. When Johnny cringed, he sighed. “Relax, mate, I didn’t read your mind—your face said it for you.”
“Oh.” With a frown, Johnny started to apologize. It really wouldn’t be good to get on this man’s bad side. “Well, I’m—”
“I know who you are. MacTavish, John James. Catholic. Baptized and Confirmed.” Ghost listed off each fact as he tallied them on his fingers, one at a time. So casual, like he was listing groceries to pick up for the day, and not facts about a man he’d just met. “SAS, Sergeant, ‘Soap’—but what the hell kind of a name is that, anyway?”
“The same kind as ‘Ghost’, I suppose,” Johnny stuttered out his retort, blindsided by the man’s apparent knowledge of who he was. “How do you know who I am?”
Ghost chuckled. “Well, I’m a tradewitch. ‘Ghost’ is my working name, and I specialize in herbal magic. No, I can’t raise the dead, I don’t do exorcisms—not anymore—and I don’t—” he wriggled his fingers in the air dramatically, “—fly around on a broomstick, dance naked under the full moon, or melt in water. I don’t need a wand, a cauldron, or a talking hat to cast spells, either. That’s all theatrics and bullshit.”
He paused and shoved his hands back under his cloak, and Johnny watched the fabric undulate while he fidgeted uncomfortably beneath it. “I suppose, in a way, it does help protect those of us that practice genuine magic. If you want a cackling green-skin-tongue-speaking kind of witch, you’ll not find one here. But, ah. Anyway. Now that the truth is out and we’re all nice and familiar with each other… let me go make that tea. You can sit down at the table over there. It’s already set for teatime.”
The table was cluttered with papers, quills and inkwells, and a pile of open books all stacked atop one another. The second Johnny sat down, the clutter cleared itself and in a blink was replaced by a full tea spread, with plates and silver sets to match. Sandwiches, crackers, sliced cheeses, miniature jars of jam, and tiny cakes decorated the three-tiered display now sitting at the center of the table. For a man that seemed so mysterious and brooding on the surface, his taste in teaware was… adorable.
The rim of each plate was decorated with a detailed hand-painted pattern of various cats doing various cat things (the plate in front of him showed a familiar-looking calico chasing butterflies, getting tangled up in a ball of yarn, and making a ‘cat loaf’ on a pillow). When Johnny glanced up at Ghost to ask about it, the witch was halfway across the room pulling a small assortment of tins down from the top shelf of a cobweb-coated cabinet.
“That’s Aster. He’s the one you saw out the door this morning,” Ghost said without turning around. “He’s a quick runner, when he puts his mind to it.”
“These are your cats? Did you paint these plates yourself?”
“Yes, and not exactly.” Ghost laughed softly as he approached the table and set the tea tins down on an empty space. “It was their idea. Feline magic is an entirely different beast—pun intended—but we work well together. Cats and witches are surprisingly similar… misunderstood and all that…”
Johnny wanted to know more but at the same time, he didn’t want to overwhelm the witch with his curiosity. Instead, he asked, “What kind of tea is this?”
“Which tea would you prefer? I’ve got the usual variety… matcha… Earl Grey… you know. This is the stuff I use for readings, actually. Is that alright? I’d like to see what the tea is with you.” He chuckled. “Sorry. Another pun.”
That one went over Johnny’s head, but he pressed further, “What’s your favorite? I’d like to try that.”
Ghost seemed caught off guard by the request. He blinked and looked away, suddenly focused on shuffling the tins around on the tabletop while he waited for Johnny to make a choice. “My favorite? What does my favorite matter?”
“You’re a witch, right? You said your specialty is herbal magic? I trust you. Make me your favorite? Please?”
“Since you asked so nicely… I can’t really refuse those puppy-dog eyes of yours. Guilt’s enough to kill a man! I suppose not being entirely human does have its perks sometimes.” Ghost picked up his tins and shuffled back over to the shelf to put them away. He returned holding a jar that looked suspiciously similar to an urn and when he opened the lid, he tilted the container to show Johnny the contents inside it.
Sure enough, it was tea, but a small handful of glimmering marble-sized clusters—sugar perhaps?—were mixed in alongside the leaves and spices. “This is my favorite. I grew and dried it all myself. If you think it smells good, I’ll make it for you. Go on, it’s not going to hurt you. I promise.”
Johnny stared dubiously at it, but slowly leaned forward to inhale the scent of smoky cloves and cinnamon and something vaguely citrusy. It was warm and comforting, like a hug on a cold day. Not too heavy, but bold and strong.
Ghost’s eyes narrowed for a moment when he sensed Johnny’s apprehension. “What? Is it the… oh. Oh! It was the only container I had at the time, and I promise this is the first it’s been used—it’s all just dried leaves and herbs and a little bit of orange peel in there. I would hardly stay in business if all I served was deadman’s tea.”
“Dead… man’s…?”
“Ashes make terrible tea, Johnny. I only use plants and spices and the occasional fungi or medicinal herb, depending on what my customers need. Despite the small army of cats in my shop, I make sure that everything I serve is completely free of cat hair.” Ghost set the urn on the table, measured out a few heavy spoonfuls, and motioned toward the teapot. It began to levitate toward him. Simon removed the lid, scooped the spoonfuls into the opening, and nodded as steam soon poured out from the spout once its lid was replaced. The teapot whistled softly, almost like it was singing, and Ghost hummed along.
After the initial shock of the ‘urn,’ a levitating teapot was somehow far less alarming. And not nearly as eerie, considering its surface was dappled with speckles of pastel paint and paw prints. Ghost joined Johnny at the table in the seat directly across from him as the floating teapot poured a steady stream of sparkling tea into each of their cups. The witch picked up took two feline head-shaped sugar cubes from the stack on a nearby tray with a pair of cat-paw tongs and dropped them into his cup, stirring it lightly with his spoon.
“You’re so interested in me. Why?” Ghost murmured as he folded his hands together and rested them on the tabletop, “I’m not sure what to make of that. You’ve stumped a witch; consider that a remarkable feat, eh? Usually my customers don’t bother to ask about me. They just come and go as they please, keen on using me for my magic to find love, or happiness, or whatever. They visit for the tea but they rarely stay to talk, unless it’s to vent about whatever is troubling them. I don’t mind it. Not too much. Not really. I mean, it’s not like I do business only for the money… though having a little cash helps in an absolute emergency.”
Johnny watched as the leaves left behind swirled along the bottom of the cup. This was a very unusual way to drink tea. But then again, nothing was usual about any of this. Not that that was a bad thing… it was all just so new and strange and interesting and he had far too many questions that he feared would not be answered. In the military, never having your questions answered was a staple of your employment. Maybe out here—wherever here even was—in a witch’s tea shop, he’d have a little more leeway.
He took a sip of tea, not sure what to expect in its taste. The flavor was similar to its scent, and the warmth spread through his body like a blooming flower on a pleasant spring day. Johnny closed his eyes and let the strange sensation work through him. His shoulders relaxed, he leaned back in the chair, and took a deep breath. He smelled smoky wood and cinnamon bark and citrus peels, and something else that Johnny could only guess belonged to magical ingredients. He hadn’t felt this relaxed in years, not even on the rarest nights he got a decent amount of sleep. Magic indeed.
“Well,” said Johnny with a small sigh, “it’s not exactly every day that I walk into a witch’s place. Part of me is still wondering if I’m dreaming, or hallucinating, or something like that. I’d just been out for my usual morning run, but now I’m here. If I knew this was how my morning would go, I’d have dressed more… appropriate?” He chuckled and gestured down to his overly casual, lightly sweat-stained clothes. “I feel like I really stand out in here…”
“You look fine, Johnny. If anything, I’m the one who’s overdressed,” admitted Ghost.
He was so used to being “MacTavish” or “Sergeant” or “John” that having someone call him the name he actually preferred was a nice change. It warmed his heart, and tinted his cheeks a soft shade of pink.
“I don’t think you’re overdressed. You look the part,” returned Johnny sheepishly. “In, um. In a good way. And… I like when you call me ‘Johnny.’ It’s what I grew up askin’ people to call me. Is ‘Ghost’ what you actually want to be called? You said it was your work name, but… why not use your real name, unless there’s some witchy rule against it that I don’t know about?” He grimaced. “Sorry if that came across as insensitive. Or… overly personal. I ask a lot of questions. You can tell me to shut up if I go to far.”
“Never, Johnny.” Ghost leaned across the table and plucked Johnny’s cup from the saucer and peered into it. “You can call me Simon. Or Ghost. I’ll answer to both. The cats will always call me Ghost because we have more of a… symbiotic work agreement going on. The cats would think it unprofessional. To them, eating rats and roaches is fine, but using your tradewitch’s first name is like pulling whiskers. Apparently making personal endearments with the tongue that cleans your arse is too much.”
Johnny chuckled. “That’s one way to put it.”
Simon swirled the cup once, then set it down on his saucer. A trickle of purple steam rose up from the cup until all the tea evaporated and only the leaves were left behind. Johnny watched silently as Simon’s gaze danced around the cup, reading, searching, analyzing. “Hm. You’ve got a lot on your plate. A lot more than I thought…”
Johnny flinched, caught, feeling exposed. “Aye, it’s true, I’ve been havin’ a wee bit of a rough time lately… ‘s fine, though.”
“Is it?” Simon’s sharp gaze lifted from the cup. “I won’t make you talk about whatever’s on your mind. But I am here to help you, if you need it. That’s my job. It’s okay to ask for help, Johnny. In here, you don’t have to put up any fronts or pretend to be someone you’re not—time doesn’t pass in this space the same way it does outside. You can take as long as you need. Whatever remedy I can provide, I’ll provide. Magic, or no magic.”
“That’s easier said than done,” admitted Johnny, sinking into his seat with a soft sigh of frustration. Was it safe to just let go, as Ghost was asking of him? It was too late to hold himself back any longer. “I’m so used to bottling up all my problems and putting myself on the backburner for everyone else’s sake. It’s too much, Simon, it’s eating me alive. In the military, it isn’t about you, it never is. There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team,’ but there’s definitely an ‘I’ in ‘anxiety’ and I’m pretty sure that’s what keeps me up at night. Then again, I don’t know a single person around me that doesn’t have anxiety… or PTSD… or both… or worse…”
Johnny frowned and rushed to add, “—I’m not here to trauma dump. I’m sorry. My Captain has done everything short of ordering me to go talk to a therapist, and I really ought to take him up on that… I don’t want to ruin your morning by complaining about how much my life sucks.”
“I’m no therapist, but I’ll tell you what I tell nearly everyone else that comes to me: stop worrying about what other people think,” Ghost declared, resting one gloved hand on Johnny’s knee, “and focus on your own needs. What you desire. Picture where you want to be in life, and do everything in your power to make it happen. That, too, is easier said than done. But it’s rewarding, and it’s healing—to decide for yourself who you are, where you want to be. How long have you been living for other people, Johnny? It’s time you start living for yourself. Otherwise, my magic can’t help you.”
“I… I…” Johnny stammered, “I can’t, because—”
“You’re military. I know,” said Ghost softly, “Who are you off the clock, Sergeant? Do you truly know yourself?”
“…”
“Then we’ve found our answer: that’s what I’ll do for you. We’ll figure out who you are. Together. Are you in?”
Simon raised his hand away from Johnny’s knee and held it out toward him, beckoning.