Cackle

Rachel Harrison

Scary stories not really for you, but want to get into the spirit of all things enchanting and magical? Lean into this cozy story about witchy friendship in a small town in upstate New York.

Our heroine Annie has a broken heart, the result of being newly dumped by her long-term boyfriend Sam. Their high cost of living in Manhattan requires that they continue to share their apartment while Annie figures out what to do with her life. Sam — ex-boyfriends make the worst roommates — has decided the best arrangement is to alternate bed and futon, so they rotate where they sleep. On Annie’s birthday (!), it’s her turn for the futon in the living room. Sam has left her a single cupcake and a greeting card on which a T-Rex wearing a party hat shouts, ‘Hope your birthday is dino-might.’

In desperate need of an affordable home and a change of scenery, Annie accepts a job teaching in a small town in the country. It is the very ideal of picturesque small town: Her apartment is in a white house with flower boxes and a tidy green lawn. Main Street is lined with Victorian cast-iron lampposts. The cheery shops look like gingerbread houses transplanted from Europe. There’s a pond and a retro train car diner and a stone church with a steeple. It’s almost too perfect.

After a tough first day at her new school — her students range from disinterested to openly hostile — Annie drops into Simple Spirits, Wine & Liquor. That’s where she meets Sophie. The beautiful, poised, somewhat inscrutable Sophie — with hair that cascades in shiny waves to her waist, almond-shaped hazel eyes, long black eyelashes, and eyebrows with steep arches. She wears a long black silky dress and somehow, the creaky floorboards don’t creak when she walks over them. Her voice is like smoke.

We know immediately, of course, that she’s a witch. Annie — distracted, sweaty, intimidated, and slightly smitten — does not.

Sophie takes Annie on as a sort of project, introducing her to the townsfolk and sharing pancakes at the diner. She invites Annie to her house in the woods — adjacent to a circle of lichen-covered headstones and a moss-covered stone well — to bake a blackberry pie. As Annie settles into her new life, and her friendship with Sophie deepens, mysterious things begin to happen around her.

There are some very entertaining hauntings and an adorable sentient spider named Ralph, along with Sophie’s homemade tonic, teas, and candles with sometimes unexpected effects. The further Annie moves away from the old version of herself — the in-a-relationship, people-pleasing parts of herself — the more she questions who she is… and what Sophie might be.

Rachel Harrison — author of the vampire story So Thirsty and the werewolf rom-com _Such Sharp Teeth— is brilliant at writing stories that blend horror and humor. And the dialogue she puts in her characters’ mouths always sounds like the way real people talk. Sophie and Annie have heartfelt conversations about what it’s like to be a woman and how we’re supposed to feel about romance while they spend hours watching reality TV together, drinking fancy coffees and baking. (The baking! Lemon cake, potatoes with cheese, caramel apples, shortbread cookies, pizza.)

This is the book to read when you’re craving pumpkin-spice everything, flame-colored leaves, hot chocolate with marshmallows, and a fire in the fireplace. It’s a cozy coming-into-adulthood story with a lot of hocus-pocus and a really nice ending. Read it while nibbling on pumpkin cake or caramel popcorn.

I didn’t brush my teeth today and I can smell my own breath. Acrid. Stale. My hair is still wet from the shower. I couldn’t be bothered to dry it, and I know when I wake up, it’ll be a tangled nightmare. I’m also 99 percent sure I forgot to put on deodorant. I should just live like this. Abandon my ablutions. Let my teeth go yellow with rot, gums red and receding. Allow my skin to break out, forget exfoliation. Let the dead flakes congregate, create societies of zits on my face. Evil empires. I should let my hair gnarl together. Form a giant nestlike mass on top of my head. I could keep things in there. Credit cards. Snacks. I should develop a smell so terrible that no one will ever come near me. Create a force field of stink. Wouldn’t that be easier? To be left alone in my misery. To lean into what I feel, match my exterior to my interior. I won’t do it, though. I’ll wake up in the morning and floss and brush my teeth and my hair. I’ll put on deodorant and perfume. A little mascara. Apply some tinted lip gloss. I’m not brave enough to be who I am. — Rachel Harrison

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