Superstition, p.1
Superstition, page 1
SUPERSTITION
By
James Blakey
Copyright © 2024 James Blakey
Edited by Danielle DeVor.
Cover Design by MiblArt.
All stock photos licensed appropriately.
Published in the United States by City Owl Press.
www.cityowlpress.com
For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at info@cityowlpress.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior consent and permission of the publisher.
CONTENTS
Want More City Owl Press Books?
Prologue
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 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Sneak Peek of Witchy Way to Murder
Find Your Next Read
Want More City Owl Press Books?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
Additional Titles
To Dr. Churchill L. Blakey, M.D. (1938-2023)
I still miss you, Dad.
PRAISE FOR JAMES BLAKEY
“James Blakey’s Superstition is a fast-paced mystery filled with twists and turns that kept me on my toes and guessing until the final reveal. Brimming with action and lead by dynamic characters, Superstition was a perfect balance of sharp-edged crime and lighthearted comedy; of bouncy cheerleaders, charming nerds, and rebellious journalists. Van Buren University has some serious secrets, and you'll finish this book thirsty for more.” — Meagan Jennett, Author of You Know Her
“Blakey delivers a quirky ‘whodunit’ murder mystery with Superstition. A coming-of-age story, readers will be hunting for the truth right along with Jerry, a dedicated student reporter facing the social and academic challenges of navigating collegiate life, until the dramatic conclusion.” — H M DuVal, Author of the Dream Walker series
“Is it appropriate to call a series of tragic deaths a fun read? Perhaps thrilling is a better description? Entertaining? An easy read? Blakey skillfully manages to make Superstition all of these. I felt like I was sitting at the same table with this cast of characters.” — William Zanotti, Author of The Link series
“What the Final Destination films do for cheating death, Blakey’s Superstition does for anyone cursed with bad luck, giving it a fun and deadly twist.” — Bill Blume, Author of West of Apocalypse
“Superstition is a riveting, twisting puzzle that conjures up the question: what would you be willing to sacrifice in order to be successful - or lucky in love? Derringer Award-winning author James Blakey masterfully interweaves dark magic, Superstition, and cool, scrappy tech in this bewitching and highly addictive paranormal thriller.” — Lisa Nanni-Messegee, screenwriter of Holiday for Heroes, and author of the upcoming four book series, The Triumvirate
“James Blakey’s skills as a short story writer shine just as brightly on the larger stage of his debut novel. The tensions and turmoil of university life, expertly detailed, provide a rich landscape for this taut, twisty thriller.” — Art Taylor, Edgar Award-winning author of The Adventure of the Castle Thief and Other Expeditions and Indiscretions
“James Blakey’s Superstition is a fresh, funny novel brimming with magic and mystery. Lucky readers are in for a treat!” — Adam Meyer, Author of The Last Domino
“Great story with likable, believable characters and a fun, action packed plot.” — A.K. Lang, Author of The Gathering of the Three
“Blakey’s solid storytelling has tons of potential. An author to watch!” — J.S. Furlong, Award-winning author of The Unimaginables series
WANT MORE CITY OWL PRESS BOOKS?
Click here to sign up for the City Owl Press newsletter and be the first to find out about special offers, including FREE book days, contents, giveaways, cover reveals, and more!
Sign up now and become a City Owl Reader today! And join our City Owl Reader-Author group here for even more deals and a whole lot of community and fun!
CAST OF CHARACTERS
“I know he’s a good general, but is he lucky?”
— Attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte
PROLOGUE
SEPTEMBER
SATURDAY 1:13AM
Her headlamp illuminating the way, the college student trudged to the campfire circle and dumped another armful of sticks and leaves.
Satisfied with the pile, she rested on a boulder, her breath visible in the chilly air as she retrieved a bottle of water. To her right, an Adirondack 46er loomed. Above, a cloudless sky of stars twinkled, no city to drown their light.
Easier to try this at the nature preserve back on campus, but even at this late hour that risked awkward encounters with pot-smoking art majors or insomniac townies.
From her overstuffed green-and-gold backpack, she retrieved half a dozen copies of the college newspaper. She crumpled the pages, placing them strategically amongst the branches, then marinated the heap with charcoal lighter fluid.
She struck a match and tossed it. Orange flames erupted, blinding her for a second, enveloping her in a wave of heat. The hypnotizing fire reminded her of summer camping trips with her father. Should have brought marshmallows.
Her phone chimed. Five minutes until the new moon.
She pulled out the shrink-wrapped lamb chops, on sale for $9.99 per pound at Price Chopper. The student wouldn’t, couldn’t, sacrifice a living animal for the power she craved. Even the thought of touching raw meat filled her disgust. She slipped on a pair of latex gloves liberated from biology lab, then tossed the chops into the flames.
The scent of burning meat filled the air. She hoped to finish before any bears or wolves arrived.
She retrieved the blue textbook, turning to the marked page. Squinting at the diagram, then the sky, she oriented herself, zeroing in on Orion’s Belt. A couple of moon widths to the east, she located Alpha Monocerotis.
Of course, that wasn’t what the Picts called the star two millennia ago when they ruled what today is Scotland. No one knew their name for it. Almost all their knowledge had been lost. One scrap that survived: their high priestesses worshipped this star for luck.
No bars on her phone. Not a problem. The student pulled the folded printout from her pocket, silently rehearsing the spell. There wasn’t a person alive who could reconstruct the enchantment the way the Picts originally spoke it. Her new friends on the dark web assured her that Modern English would work fine, as long as it rhymed.
The past few weeks, she experimented with charms and simple conjuring. Enough to prove to herself that magic was real, and she possessed the power to wield it.
The phone beeped. Now.
She stood before the fire, hand raised to the sky, pointing at the faint red star.
The paper rippled in the wind. She focused on the magic, emptying her mind of all other thoughts.
As she recited the words, all feeling receded, as if her consciousness left her physical form behind, merging with the fire, the star, the spell.
Goddesses of the Night, hear my plea
Bring Success and Prosperity
My offering to you, a favored sheep
A promise to you, I will always keep
To my endeavors great and small
I call upon you, one and all
With a whisper soft and a heart so true
I conjure Fortune to come anew
Bring me riches, bring me fame
And banish all my doubts and shame
I summon the forces of Star and Sky
To grant me Destiny that cannot die
By my will and desire so strong
This Magic now shall not go wrong
Bringing Luck to my life at last
So mote it be, this Spell is cast.
She became aware: clothes sticking to her sweat-drenched body, mouth dry, hair plastered to her head, heart pounding. She stumbled to the boulder, resting, regaining her strength.
An owl screeched in the darkness. Good sign? Owls were supposed to be magical. Or was that some Harry Potter nonsense?
The owl quieted. No crickets at this altitude. No sound but the wind and faint jet engines as red-and-green navigation lights hurried across the sky.
The student didn’t look or feel different. No supernatural power coursing through her veins. No enhanced perceptions allowing her to observe a secret world. No ethereal light enveloping her.
How anticlimactic. What do you expect for $9.99 per pound?
No way to know if she cast the spell correctly.
No way to test if the magic was working.
No way to tell if this ceremony was a big waste of time.
Not waiting for any predators that caught the scent of the sacrifice, she doused the flames with three bottles of water, then buried the ashes with her collapsible shovel.
Only you can prevent forest fires.
She scoured the area, gathering any trash.
Leave no trace.
She slipped the pack on her back and began the four-mile hike to the trailhead. She stifled a yawn. At least it was downhill.
Thirty minutes on the trail and her mind was numb. Legs on auto. Step, step, step. Leaves crunching in her feet. Another three miles to go. All she wanted was to get back to her dorm, make a cup of hot cocoa, and crawl into bed.
Gack! A spider web across the trail on her face, in her mouth. She spit and raised a hand as the toe of her hiking boot caught a root. She pitched forward, losing her balance, falling toward the sharp rocks on this section of the trail. Arms flailing, she couldn’t stop herself. In the darkness, her hand grabbed a branch, wrenching her shoulder, but arresting her fall.
The student righted herself, let out a deep breath, her palm scraped and scratched. Need to be careful. Could have broken a leg or worse. Been stranded with no way to call for help. And no one knew she was up here. Pretty lucky.
A smile spread across her face.
Pretty lucky.
“It works!” she shouted into the night.
CHAPTER 1
OCTOBER
WEDNESDAY 3:55PM
Darla Jaggard’s calves burned as she dashed up the concrete steps two at a time. The air was unusually warm for early autumn in upstate New York, and perspiration trickled down her back. Behind her, three trim figures in shiny green-and-gold warm-up suits, carrying matching gym bags, struggled to keep pace.
“Last one to the top is a rotten egg!” With a burst of speed, Darla, her honey-blonde hair secured with red ribbons, pulled away from the others. Two older brothers and a beauty queen mother made life a contest for as long as she could remember.
Descending students, coeds with a glare in their eyes, boys twisting their necks to watch, hustled to one side for fear of being run over.
Darla reached the top, tossed her bag, planted her feet, and launched into a backflip. Knees tucked tight to her body, she spun like a pinwheel and nailed a perfect landing. Flashing the smile of an Olympic champion gracing a box of breakfast cereal, she raised her arms in a V and announced, “I win.” Her green eyes grew wide, and a frown replaced her smile. “You split the group!” She pointed an accusing finger at Cassie McGlaughlin.
Cassie, a dark-haired freshman and last of the four girls, slowed as she approached the top step and dropped her bag. “What are you talking about?” She leaned over, hands on knees, catching her breath.
“You ran up the other side.” Darla pointed to the rusty metal railing dividing the steps. “The three of us were on this side.”
Darla sneered and crossed her arms. The other two girls, Talia and Veronica, flanked Darla, striking identical poses hands on their hips, auburn hair pulled back, hazel eyes narrowed, and lips pressed into thin lines.
“And?” Cassie arched an eyebrow.
Darla let out an exaggerated sigh. “Everyone knows that’s bad luck. Worse than taking a selfie with a black cat. Who knows what could happen? We might not get a bid for Dallas or lose a sponsor.” Her eyes sparkled as she concocted the solution. “Unless you go back down and run up our side.” She made a walking motion with her fingers.
Talia and Veronica nodded in simultaneous agreement, as if Darla’s brain controlled both girls’ actions.
Clouds darkened the sky, and a few scattered raindrops fell.
“Where do you come up with all these nutty ideas?” Cassie shook her head, “You’re all delusional, and we’re late. Coach isn’t going to be happy.” She picked up her gym bag. “If you think it’s such a big deal, why don’t you and the Olsen twins run back down and come up my side?” She stuck out her tongue, turned, and disappeared through the glass double doors of the gymnasium.
Darla’s face reddened. “Sometimes she can be such a b—”
Inside the poorly lit gymnasium, a single faded banner hung from the rafters: Van Buren University Men’s Basketball — 1947 Presidential Conference Champions. The ancient air-conditioning system rattled loudly as if to announce it wasn’t dead, while circulating muggy air filled with the scent of bubble gum, cherry lip gloss, and sweat.
Marcus Reed, six-four with dark, curly hair, stood on the ratty black safety mat covering a third of the basketball court. He supported Cassie with a muscular arm and a sturdy hand. With a plastic smile, she leaned forward and raised her right leg, her body contorting into a capital T. She counted five, her body becoming more unsteady with each number. As she shakily returned to an upright position, Marcus’s arm collapsed. Cassie tumbled through the air, but Marcus recovered, grunting as she landed in his arms.
Nearby, twenty-five other cheerleaders in T-shirts and shorts practiced tosses, leaps, and flips. A few girls stretched on the mat, gossiping or scrolling through phones. Heavy rain pounded the gymnasium roof. A couple guys placed buckets to catch the water dripping from the ceiling.
Coach Erica Nightlinger, her mousy brown hair pulled back in a perpetual ponytail, observed her squad. Perhaps half the boys were on performance enhancers, while a third of the girls could have eating disorders. She hadn’t specifically encouraged her team to endanger their health through drugs and starvation, but she did turn a blind eye. According to the rumblings from the Athletic Department, this was her last year unless she brought home a championship. If she couldn’t transform this third-rate cheer team into a contender, Nightlinger would be back to teaching dance in strip malls to uncoordinated tweens and their helicopter mothers.
“Okay, let’s bring it in. Stragglers too!” She waved at the three late arrivals running penalty laps around the perimeter.
The team assembled on the mat in a semi-circle facing Nightlinger.
“It’s less than a month until Nationals. We can’t let up now. No matter how hard you’re trying, no matter how sore, how tired, you can always give more. Here’s proof.” She held up her left hand to display a gold championship ring. “I wear this ring every day to remind myself of what I’ve accomplished. You can achieve this, too, if you make the commitment.”
The truth was that Nightlinger bought the ring off eBay. The year that Lyndon Johnson State won the National Championship, she was on academic probation. Too many late nights at Smokey Joe’s combined with eight a.m. Intro to Statistics.
She raised her hand over head. “Do you want this?”
“Yes!” the squad replied in chorus.
