Chapter Text
Isabel Noble never thought she’d find herself on the east coast ever again after moving to Los Angeles. In her defense, it wasn’t her fault. No one ever willingly went to New Jersey unless they lived there or had a mission, and Isabel had a mission.
An entire town had been held under a curse, and there was virtually no news about it. The only reason she found out about this place was through a Reddit thread. And maybe it was just a hoax. Maybe the original poster was nuts. Or maybe there was a real story here; a book just waiting to be written.
And, of course, part of her was hoping to sate her curiosity. A curse so large required a lot of power. It was only natural for a witch to want to find out more. What did the curse do, and why was no one talking about it? Witchcraft wasn’t much of a secret anymore, so she doubted a Witches Council was behind the cover up. She didn’t have a tendency to believe in government conspiracies, but given the political landscape the past few years, it didn’t seem entirely out of the realm of possibility.
The town sign came into view finally: Welcome to Westview.
A little further into town she came upon a coffee shop. Perfect. She pulled up alongside the sidewalk and got out, desperate for caffeine and for a lead. Her time as a writer had taught her two important things: local cafes were horribly overpriced but delicious enough to almost seem worth it, and baristas always had information.
The line was thankfully short and she reached the counter in no time. “Lavender latte with oatmilk please,” she said to the barista before tapping her credit card. “And maybe some info?”
The barista barely looked at her as she started working on the coffee.
“I was wondering if you could tell me about what happened here three years ago.”
That made the barista stop. She met Isabel’s eyes and was about to say something, and then they were interrupted. “’Scuse me, official police business.”
Isabel turned to see a woman with hair that clearly hadn’t been washed in three days pulled back into a messy ponytail. She was holding up a wallet as if it were a police badge, though the wallet was empty. No badge, no license.
Unfazed by the lack of identification, the barista abandoned the latte and filled two To Go cups with black coffee. “On the house, detective,” the barista said.
The so-called detective just gave a little nod before leaving the coffee shop.
“Who was that?” Isabel asked.
“Agnes O’Connor,” the barista answered. “Bit of advice: no one here likes talking about what happened. The person who did this to us? We don’t even say her name. You’re not gonna get answers from anyone.” The barista glanced over to the door where the detective had walked through. “You’ve got questions about that hex from three years ago? Agnes is the one you wanna talk to.”
“Because…?”
“Because she’s still under it.”