Inna V. Lyon
Shishok, Russian Domovoi

Wednesdays were Lydia’s unlucky day—everything always went sideways. In the rental house on Turnpike Street, every day was Wednesday.

If Lydia Dreadknot, a skinny redhead in her early forties, were a real fortune-teller, she would’ve foreseen her future and not moved into that old house. She would’ve guessed that the monthly rent of $800 instead of the typical $1600 was too good to be true. But being an inexperienced witch and tenant, she failed.

Rather than trusting her instinct, she signed the contract, packed her stuff, grabbed her cat, and moved in. After dragging all seven plastic bins with her belongings into the house, she placed a handmade sign on the front door: Lydia Dreadknot, Fortune Teller. Open daily, 10-6, except Wednesday and Sunday.

The early October dusk settled in the corners of the old house while Lydia finished unpacking. Her cheap three-bedroom rental (pets allowed) came furnished.

“Muffin,” Lydia called to her black cat, “have you seen my cell phone?”

Lydia often talked to her cat, though he never talked back. Muffin knew how to find things because his owner was so good at losing them. His name came from his uncanny ability to look like a chocolate muffin when he curled into a ball.

Rather than sniffing around for the phone, Muffin curled his back and hissed.

“That bad, huh?” asked Lydia.

Muffin pressed his ears to his head and stared into a dark corner, where an old-fashioned sofa with floral fabric stood. The cat grouped his lean body, ready to pounce on something.

“What is it? A mouse? Well, if you are not helping me unpack, then go check the attic for more mice.”

Lydia could move objects a few feet with her mind and a wave of her hand. Placing the objects gently was a work in progress—she was still a witch in training. After unpacking, her front room looked like a beach after a storm, with her clothes, books, and fortune-teller trinkets in disarray. She would tidy it up later.

Exhausted as she was, Lydia dismissed Muffin’s strange behavior.

“Meowyal!”

Lydia’s cell phone glided across the floor from under the sofa. Muffin scrambled to the kitchen.

Lydia stumbled backward. The sound of stomping boots in the hallway made her jump and drop the stack of books she held in her hands. She stretched her arm and pulsed the energy in the direction from where she heard the noise. But nothing happened. There was no resistance or the sound of a fallen body—only tapping inside the walls and a distant door slam.

Lydia found Muffin shaking under the kitchen chair. She picked him up and gently patted him.

“I guess, the previous tenants left something besides the furniture. Let’s check it out.”

The spiritual world opens only to those who listen and believe. The stomping boots started a game without rules. If the unknown instigator of the sound didn't know the rules, Lydia did. Ghost or monster, he must answer three questions to the new owner. She grabbed her cell phone and marched to the end of the hallway to the attic entrance.

The house had no basement, but a vaulted roof meant there had to be a big attic. She tugged a cord near the light switch and pulled down the ladder. Considering the age of the house, the folded metal staircase looked like a Tesla dashboard inside a carriage.

“Let’s go,” Lydia called to Muffin, who plodded reluctantly behind her. “We are in this together. I didn't pay the animal deposit for nothing.”

Muffin crawled up the stairs behind Lydia, ears still pressed backward. She expected a dusty attic with useless junk and the overpowering scent of mouse droppings. Instead, she found a neatly organized storage space with a few trunks and boxes in one corner and a red velvet armchair in another. The smell of pine-scented floor polish greeted her.

Lydia rubbed her forehead. Spirits and ghosts didn’t wash the floor; it must be some flesh-and-blood being. Supernatural or not, Lydia wouldn’t give up her awesome deal.

“Creature of the house, show yourself to me,” Lydia ordered.

Silence.

“If you are bound by previous ownership, I free you as the new house owner. Leave this place and be at peace.”

No response.

Should she report this anomaly to the coven? Lydia’s mother had served as coven secretary for years, and she would know what to do.

“I demand you answer three questions: who are you, where do you come from, and why are you still here?”

Whatever this was, completely disregarding the rules of magic was definitely an anomaly. Pulling energy from the air, Lydia moved the armchair closer to her. She could manage only a couple of feet. A few uneven stitches of red thread on the hand rest showed someone had mended the fabric. Lydia had never learned to sew a button by hand. That’s what magic was for.

Muffin took a few steps and jumped on the chair. He sat up straight and purred a few times.

“I wouldn't recommend staying here,” said Lydia. “This place might have rabies.”

Then she heard it—a sneaker. Lydia jerked, and Muffin closed his eyes. She went downstairs alone.

The stomping on the ceiling, the rattling of dirty dishes she’d left in the sink, books falling to the floor, and Lydia’s blanket sliding off the bed lasted all night. She woke up with a headache.

Lydia called her mother in the morning to see if she could resolve the problem, but she didn't answer. Then she remembered Mom was away with the Department of Unexplainable Phenomena to consult on The Witcher movie. The first available appointment was a week away. Lydia sighed and took the Monday evening opening.

Seven more days. She could deal with it herself until then. She knew spells and magic for removing unwanted spirits. She didn’t know if they would work on the attic anomaly, but who said she couldn't try?

But first, her day job. Two morning clients showed up back-to-back.

A mother of three and her husband, with stage 4 pancreatic cancer, wanted to take their final trip together to Disneyland. Money was short, and the mother debated if she should spend their last savings on the trip or the treatment.

Lydia struggled with crystal ball visions. She managed a couple of images and saw the client’s husband's face with kind eyes and a sad smile. The crowd behind him could've been anything from park visitors to hospital staff.

Both tarot cards and coffee grounds foretold his upcoming death and the mourning for the family. Lydia excused herself to the bathroom and looked up her husband's page on Facebook. His coworkers had created a GoFundMe account for the family's trip to Disneyland. Lydia donated $15 to the fund and returned to the living room.

“Please, put your right thumb into the coffee cup, touch the grinds and swirl it right. Let’s see if we can change the future.”

Lydia’s grandmother taught her that trick. The picture of the swirled coffee grinds was always the same—rigid mountains that the fortune-teller could interpret into anything. But if you placed an idea into the client's mind that they could change the future, they would do anything to follow the empty coffee cup predictions.

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