The Purrfectly Haunted Library, page 1
The Purrfectly Haunted Library
Nyx Halliwell
The Purrfectly Haunted Library
©2025 Nyx Halliwell
Beach Path Publishing, LLC
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Ready for more magick?
Meet Nyx
Dear Magical Reader
I have a secret to share with you
One
As I roll into the sleepy town of Briarwood, North Carolina, the quaint cobblestone streets and ivy-clad cottages feel like something out of a fairy tale—if the fairy tale included buckets of rain and a sky angrier than a wet cat.
The windshield wipers wage a frenzied battle against the deluge as my ten-year-old VW Bug chugs up to the grand iron gates at the bottom of Inglenook Hill. Brick pillars stand like silent sentinels, guarding the mansion at the top—my inheritance from my Aunt Eliza. With a sputtering cough that signals defeat, my car gives up the ghost, leaving me stranded in the storm.
“Great,” I mutter, resting my forehead on the worn steering wheel. The rhythmic drumming of rain is the only reply. At least we made it here. “Welcome home, Cat.”
Home. A funny word for a place shrouded in so much mystery, it might as well be an alien outpost. My parents bolted from this town when I was seven and never looked back. Through the years, whenever I asked about Briarwood and Aunt Eliza, they’d exchange nervous glances before distracting me with a trip to the beach or a new doll. As I grew up, I figured out early on that my family had a secret. One that was tied to my aunt and this town.
A soft light illuminates the plaque on one of the pillars, designating the official name as the Historical Inglenook Library of Curiosities and Fine Literature. It doesn’t mention that my aunt also lived here her whole life. What secrets does it hold?
The Victorian architecture is barely visible through the curtain of rain. I lower my voice to my true crime narrator tone. “A family secret. An eccentric aunt. What will Catniss Inglenook discover when she returns to her hometown and the haunted library her aunt left behind?”
A chill dances down my spine—not from the cold, but from the unknown. Great, I’ve scared myself.
If the conversations I overheard growing up about Eliza are true, she was a witch. Not in the strictest sense of the word, but in some odd, eccentric way I never quite understood. Not even the witches in the books I read by the bagfuls quite matched what I knew about my mysterious aunt.
Just because she collected cat figurines and dressed in head-to-toe black does not mean she was a witch. I force a chuckle, shaking off the creepy feeling crawling up the back of my neck.
I press the gas pedal a few times and try the ignition. The engine makes a grinding-whirring noise before it dies again. “Come on, sugar pie. Start for Mama, please?”
The Bug gives another disgusted cough that sounds like its last breath.
“I know.” I pat the dashboard, and it causes the lights to flicker. “It was a long trek. You deserve a rest.” I only wish Millie had waited until we got all the way up the drive before she gave up the ghost.
Yes, I’ve named my car. Millicent was a sassy girl in her youth, and she’s still a bit rambunctious in her old age, but this trip across the country from California may have been her final hurrah.
Sighing, I kill the lights, grab my trusty carpet bag from the passenger seat, and pocket my keys. “I’ll get you to a garage first thing tomorrow for a tune-up,” I promise. “You’ll feel good as new.”
If there’s one thing I have plenty of, it’s reckless optimism. I pat her dash again, debating… Should I stay put and hope the storm lets up or should I brave the wet path to the house?
Rain hammers on the car roof like an impatient and unwelcome guest at the front door. The darkness outside presses against the windows, and I can barely make out the path that snakes up to the veranda. I unearth my phone from the bag to check my weather app, but the screen is as black as the night—dead and utterly useless. I forgot to recharge it.
My stomach growls, a low rumble that protests the lack of a decent meal since that gas station sandwich at noon. It settles my debate. “Food over comfort,” I declare. I’m not sure what waits for me at the top of the hill, but I’m willing to bet there’s at least a can of soup somewhere.
I grab the bag, tuck my unruly curls under a sweater that I hastily pull over my head, and open the door. Wind whips around me, greeting me with icy fingers as I step into nature’s fury.
It’s October, for heaven’s sake. I was expecting beautiful fall weather.
Shielding my eyes, I glance up the path, catching glimpses of shadowy shapes that might be trees or...something else. “Haunted Victorian mansion, here I come.” I disregard the notion that this is how many horror movies typically begin. But this isn’t a movie—it’s my new reality.
With each step, the mud squishes beneath my shoes. The climb is longer than I anticipated, and my breath comes out in puffs of mist. Briarwood is tucked halfway up a mountain. The temps here will take some getting used to. When I left L.A., it was in the seventies. Here, it must be in the thirties—I’m not prepared for that.
I pause to catch my breath, peering up to where the house should be. It seems to play hide and seek in the fog and rain. It dawns on me that I’m actually doing this—I’m walking toward my future.
Or is it my past?
“Catniss Inglenook, you can handle this,” I tell myself. “This is the start of something new. Or the end, if I don’t find sustenance,” I add, trying to lighten my spirits. If I’ve learned anything from Aunt Eliza’s surprise inheritance, it’s that life—like this weather—is entirely unpredictable.
The rain seeps through my sweater as if the wool is made of tissue. The wind is horrid, blowing me one way and then the other. I stumble and step into a pothole. I gasp as my ankle gives a painful twist. Nothing broken, just bruised pride and a soggy sock. With a sigh, I hobble on.
The statues scattered among the overgrown vines and drowned wildflowers in the front yard stand like silent guardians. As I pass, they seem to watch me, some with faces frozen in expressions that seem too sinister for comfort.
The upper stories of the mansion vanish into nothingness, swallowed whole by the fog, and the structure sprawls outward in all directions. I feel very small in comparison.
When I reach the veranda, the steps creak under my weight, each groan of the old wood mirroring the protest in my ankle. I pause once I’m under the roofline, wiping water from my face, and that’s when I feel it—a shiver that has nothing to do with the frigid rain trickling down my spine. It’s like the house itself is sizing me up, deciding whether I’m worthy to enter.
“Hunger is getting the best of me,” I mutter. But it’s hard to ignore the way those big bay windows seem to follow me like a pair of unblinking eyes. And that gargoyle statue by the entrance doors... I swear it twitches. I give it a narrow-eyed stare, but it stands unmoving in reply.
Skeletons adorn the rocking chairs, surrounded by pumpkins and pots of hardy mums. Aunt Eliza definitely loved the season.
I lift the edge of the large mat where the lawyer told me the key would be. Sure enough, there it is—an antique skeleton key with an intricate symbol on the end that looks like something from one of my old fairy tale books. Matches the house, I suppose.
“Here goes nothing.” I slip it into the lock and give it a turn. I lean into one of the French doors, trying to push it open, but it doesn’t budge. Not even a millimeter. I jiggle the key, twist it left, then right, pull it out slightly, push it in all the way—still nothing.
I let out a huff of frustration, resting my forehead against the stubborn door. “Looks like you’re not rolling out the welcome mat, huh?”
That creepy sensation returns to the back of my neck. My birthmark twinges,
and I purse my lips, fighting the urge to glance at my arm where the twin vines reside. They look like a tattoo, but I’ve had them since birth.
I straighten and steel my backbone. There’s got to be a way in, and I’ll find it, with or without this blasted key’s cooperation.
I give the doors one last resentful stare before turning my attention to the ground-floor windows, hoping for a small stroke of luck. My fingers, numb from the cold, slide over damp glass and rusted latches, but it’s no use; each window is as unyielding as the last.
I peek in through the lacy curtains, but the interior is pitch black, revealing nothing.
I move on. The backyard is a shadowy expanse. The rear parking lot sits empty, framed by hawthorn trees swaying ominously in the wind, their thorny branches resembling twisted, clawing hands. There’s a more formal garden here, with benches that have seen better days. It’s probably a nice spot for reading on sunny afternoons, but it’s not so inviting tonight.
“Right. Let’s try this again.” Approaching the back door, I take in the ivy and vines that seem to have claimed the place as their own. They weave an intricate green tapestry over the wooden door frame. It’s there that I spot them—the symbols. Deeply carved into the aged wood, there’s one that seems to pulse with an unseen energy.
My birthmark pulses in response.
I rub my arm through the layers of my soaked clothing. “Curiouser and curiouser,” I say, borrowing a line from a book I once loved. Maybe Aunt Eliza had a little more witchiness in her veins than I thought.
Feeling compelled to trace the symbol, I reach out and touch it.
Zap! A sharp tingle electrifies my entire hand, and I yank it back with a startled yelp. “Ow!” Rubbing my tender skin, I glare at the still pulsing symbol. Is it some sort of magical security system?
Magic. Right.
I shake my head. I’m exhausted, soaked through, cold, and hungry. There is no such thing as magic.
With a determined squaring of my shoulders, I retrace my steps to the front. I’ll simply have to break a window.
As I reach the veranda, I’m greeted by the sight of the double doors standing open. On the mat sits a large Maine Coon cat, regal and dry as a bone. Its fur seems to scoff at the very concept of rain.
“Hello, there.” I scan the shadowy interior behind her, half-expecting to see whoever unlocked and opened the doors. “Do you live here?”
The cat blinks, regarding me with the kind of disinterest only a feline can convey.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” At least the doors are open. No breaking and entering tonight. I pick up my bag. “Lead the way.”
She flicks her tail in a nonchalant swish and saunters through the opening as if she’s the one who owns the place. I glance at the gargoyle statue, its fierce features unpleasant. “Behave yourself,” I warn, stepping across the threshold, “or I’ll sell you on eBay.”
As I enter, I squint into the dim surroundings. The doors bang shut behind me with an ominous thud, making me jump. Darkness engulfs me like a thick blanket, and an icy draft whispers down my spine.
“Not at all the warm welcome I was hoping for,” I joke to thin air, trying to keep my nerves in check.
Something soft skims over my swelling ankle. I yelp and leap back, only to collide with what must be a coat rack. We tango awkwardly before I end up sprawled on the floor, ensnared in a cobweb of coats and scarves.
I’m swarmed by more furry critters, tiny claws pricking my legs through the fabric of my jeans. There’s a sharp nibble on my arm, and suddenly, a small but irate voice pierces the darkness. “It’s about time. We’re starving!”
“Yikes!” I scramble to my feet in a mess of limbs and wool. My fingers dance along the wall like spiders on a mission, hunting for the elusive light switch. “Come on, come on,” I order.
As if I’ve willed it into being, the room bursts into light from an ornate chandelier overhead. It casts golden hues across an expansive foyer with double doors on the left, a center staircase, and private quarters on the right. Blinking to adjust my vision, I search the space for whoever’s here.
There’s no one but me and… I look down to find a circle of expectant feline faces at my feet.
“You…” I hold out a finger. “Did you just…”
The four kittens tilt their heads in unison, eyeing me with curiosity—and more than a little impatience.
None of them speaks, but the Maine Coon—their mother, I assume—flicks her tail again and strolls toward a long hall on the private side with portraits and artwork on the walls. A sign nearby with an arrow informs me that this is the way to the private residence. A second one, pointing to the double doors, is the way to the library.
She glances back once as if to see if I’m following.
I kick off my shoes, step over the pile of coats and scarves, and sigh. “Welcome to Briarwood,” I mutter under my breath, watching the kittens scamper ahead of me. “And the start of your new life, Catniss.”
Two
My hands shake as I stumble into the kitchen and flick on the light, my mind reeling from talking kittens and slamming doors. I swear I can feel my wet curls frizzing out from the chaos of the last few minutes, even though they’re still soaked.
“Okay, Cat, get it together,” I mutter, trying to steady my nerves. I still have the front door key in hand, so I shove it in a pocket. “You’re in a creepy old house with magical cats. No big deal. You got this.”
A chorus of impatient meows chimes in, five pairs of eyes staring up expectantly. Right, food. That’s why I came in here.
At least they sound like normal cats yowling for their dinner. “Alright, alright, I hear you. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
The kitchen resembles a turn-of-the-century magazine shoot, with a distinctly vintage cottage vibe. The cabinets are a soft sage green, a soothing color that reminds me of misty mornings in the forest. The speckled marble countertops have a worn elegance, telling stories of countless meals prepared and shared.
I start opening cabinets, searching for anything resembling cat food, and my fingers trail over jars of dried herbs and tins with faded labels.
The mother cat scratches at a door that looks like a pantry. Inside, more jars line the shelves. Cuttings of herbs and flowers cascade from hooks on the walls where they’ve been hung to dry.
I spot a bag with a cat face on a lower shelf. As I bring it out, I notice the bowls near the back door—each one has a name engraved on it.
“Nimbus, Stormy, Misty, Cloudy, and Rainy,” I read out loud. “Cute. Very...on theme.”
I scoop food into the bowls, trying to ignore the way my birthmark tingles. I scratch at it, raising the sleeve. I watch in horror as the vine-like pattern seems to be shifting. I blink, and it stops.
Lowering the sleeve again, I shake my head. I’m frazzled, that’s all. The stress of the drive and the storm is causing me to see things.
“There you go, eat up,” I tell the cats as they swarm the bowls. Momma goes to the bowl marked Nimbus. Good to know. “And no more talking, okay? My nerves can’t take it.”
As I watch them, dread and loneliness tickle up my spine. The kitchen feels too big, too quiet, even with the angry storm outside. The vast mansion is outside the kitchen doorway, and once again, I feel as if the place is holding its breath, waiting for me to walk the halls. I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the urge to run back out into the rain.
“What have I gotten myself into?” I whisper, the weight of my new inheritance settling heavily on my shoulders.
I turn away from the kittens, my eyes drawn to the rest of the kitchen. Copper pots dangle from hooks above a massive butcher-block island, their surfaces gleaming in the soft light. I run my hand along the edge of the island, feeling the smooth, well-worn wood beneath my fingers.
