Virelight Trilogy - Book One - The Witch of Westwood Lane

The house groans. 

Not in the way a haunted mansion moans in a cliché horror film, but with the slow, deep creak of something waking from a very long, very reluctant nap. The sound traveled up the floorboards, through the walls and finally into Elara's bones, stirring a curious mixture of unease and wonder.

She hesitates on the threshold, feeling the air shift around her, like stepping into a breath held for decades. The warmth wasn't just from the hearth…it was a pulse, a heartbeat beneath the floorboards. The house wasn't merely a building. It was alive. Breathing. Waiting.

Soft lights wink on along the panelled walls…no ordinary candles or electric bulbs, but delicate lanterns carved from honeyed amber. The amber sconces brighten in a lazy ripple, spreading pools of golden light that shimmer like liquid sunshine. Shadows dance and stretch, playing hide-and-seek with the glow, but never quite disappearing. The light is welcoming, yes, but watchful, like an old friend who knows your embarrassing secrets and wasn't quite sure if you'd brought pie.

Elara blinks. The scent of the room is a blend of comforting nostalgia and mystery…like a library mixed with a herb shop owned by a crotchety but loving old witch. Notes of dried lavender, dusty parchment, faint traces of cinnamon and something smokier…something magical…weaving together in the air.

A clawfoot coat rack stands nearby, gnarled and twisted as if it had grown from the floor itself. It leans towards her, almost encouraging, like an ancient tree stretching a branch. Elara gives it a cautious glance before shrugging out of her rain-soaked jacket and hanging it on the nearest hook.

From somewhere deep within the house, she hears a faint piano melody…no, not a melody exactly, but a fragile attempt at one, as if a ghostly pianist was fumbling with the keys, remembering a tune half-forgotten. The notes fluttering in and out like cold fingers tracing the air, hesitant and unfinished.

Her boots click softly on the old wooden floorboards, and the house sighs again…a deep, slow breath, like it was settling itself after decades of silence.

Elara feels a shiver run down her spine, though the room is warm and cosy. Is this real? Or just her imagination running wild after days of travel and too much city noise?

Behind her, the familiar presence of the cat padding quietly. She turns and smiles despite herself at Moony, the black cat with eyes like molten gold. His tail flickering like a royal banner as he surveys the room, his whiskers twitching with evident approval.

"It remembers you," Moony says softly, voice low and knowing.

Elara's eyes narrow. "You mean it remembers her. Aunt Isadora."

"Nope," Moony replies, tail flicking again with impatience. "Magic never forgets bloodlines, especially not when they're as tangled and stubborn as the Finches. You're part of this legacy now, like it or not."

Elara swallows hard, feeling the electric hum thrumming beneath her skin. The house isn't just bricks and mortar…it is an extension of her family, their magic, and their secrets. And it is watching her.

She steps forward and further inside the home, the first room unfolding before her like a dream or a half-remembered story.

The sitting room is cluttered with armchairs that look like they'd swallowed guests whole and spat out only their memories. A fire roars to life in the hearth, but it was no ordinary flame. It shimmers and dances, like a liquid gold, conjured not from wood or coal, but from memory and magic. It feels warm and alive, flickering with stories trapped in every flicker.

Elara blinks as a copper kettle floats across the room, floating on a lazy invisible breeze. Steam curling from its spout in the shape of tiny, chasing cats, weaving loops and twirls above a tea tray that has somehow set itself with mismatched porcelain cups and a silver spoon stirring gently in one of them. The spoon clinking delicately, like a lullaby whispered just for her.

Isadora's magic was everywhere…in small, playful details and grand, unspoken gestures.

Elara's mouth twitches with the faintest smile. "Is this place... enchanted?"

Moony leaps onto the arm of one of the armchairs with the grace only a cat can manage. "Not quite. Enchanted is a nice word for a spell with a time limit. This place is alive. There's a big difference. It's more aware. Mostly benign. Occasionally dramatic. It's been asleep since Isadora vanished, but now you're here... well. Things might start waking up."

She crouches beside a small cabinet, polished wood glowing softly in the amber light. Rows of tea tins line the shelves, each labelled with names that could only have come from Isadora's wicked sense of humour: "Courage & Cardamom," "Anti-Anxiety & Apple," and the particularly relatable "Don't Answer That Text – Jasmine."

Elara plucks one at random and sniffs. The aroma was instantly comforting…peppermint with a sharp twist of spice that made her smile. "Isadora always had a flair for naming things," she murmurs.

Moony stretches out, claws extending and retracting rhythmically, clearly pleased with the small domestic moment. "She once named her broom Kevin. Hexed a suitor who laughed at it. Said he deserved a lifetime of misfortune and a permanently wonky left shoe."

Elara chuckles, the sound surprising even herself. Despite the weight of the house, the history, and the mystery, this moment was lighter, almost warm.

Her boots sink slightly into a thick Persian rug that shifted colour like a mood ring…right now, stormy slate grey, mirroring her tangled thoughts.

Her gaze is drawn to a large portrait above the fireplace. It is a younger version of Isadora, wild-haired, eyes sparkling with mischief and a smile that clearly said she'd just pulled off something delightfully illegal. Her robes shimmering with embroidered stars, casting a faint, ethereal glow in the flickering firelight.

A brass plaque beneath read:

ISADORA FINCH

Archivist. Alchemist. Aunt. Menace.

Smaller portraits cluster around it…some groups of people unknown to Elara, others more familiar: a grumpy-looking owl with evident disdain, and, curiously, several of Moony in various poses…one with a tiny wizard hat, another mid-pounce.

The mantel was cluttered with curiosities: wax-sealed scrolls piled haphazardly, a glass jar full of floating eyeballs that winked in turn, and a decorative crystal shaped like a snail, pulsing softly with an inner light. On one wall hung a sword made entirely of delicate bone china…both beautiful and terrifyingly sharp.

Elara shivers, though the room is cosy.

Her fingers brush the edge of a mirror framed in twisted iron. For a split second, her reflection lags behind her movements…then, impossibly, it winks.

"Nope," she mutters, stepping back with a small grimace.

Before she can dwell on it further, a nearby door creaks open slowly. Beyond, a steep curved staircase spiralling upwards, the wood worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Dust motes floating lazily in the sunlight, filtering through a cracked window, giving the stairwell an ethereal, otherworldly glow.

Elara's steps are cautious as she ascends. The stairs groan under her weight but hold firm. Each step feels like sinking deeper into the house's bones, deeper into its dreams and memories.

At the top of the first floor, the hallway stretches out, swallowed by shadows.

Two doors stand waiting:

One opens into a small, cosy bedroom. Lace curtains fluttering faintly, stirred by a breeze she couldn't feel. The bed is half-made, and a journal on the nightstand lifts briefly as Elara enters, as if considering whether to reveal its secrets, then dropping back down with a soft sigh, too tired and weary.

The other door bears a sign, hand-painted and peeling: Beware: Sudden Fog. Definitely the bathroom.

She turns back, hesitant, then presses onward up another flight.

Two more doors greeting her:

One sealed shut with a carved rune frame glowing faintly in the gloom. A Brass Plaque: Northward Spell Repository & Interpersonal Disaster Records A whispered voice…barely audible, like the house's own warning…murmuring, "Nope, you don't want to go in there."

The other is slightly ajar, a soft glow spilling from inside. Not harsh, not warm, just...present.

Drawn forward by some instinct older than herself, Elara nudges it open.

The room is large and dusty, heavy with stillness. A skylight above frames a perfect patch of moonlight, illuminating a circular table in the centre. Cobwebs hung like silken curtains from the rafters, and trunks line the walls, their carved labels faded to illegibility.

The air smells of peppermint, cedar, and something ancient…old magic woven and forgotten.

On the table rests a box. Deep walnut wood, etched with silver runes that shimmer faintly at the edges of her vision. The symbols seem to dance just out of focus, like a puzzle teasing her attention.

The lock is a crescent moon, pulsing gently in time with her own heartbeat.

Moony appears beside her, his voice barely a whisper: "Touch it."

Elara's fingers tremble as she reaches for the box. It is warm, not with ordinary heat, but with recognition…as if it has been waiting for her, waiting for when she finally arrived and claimed it.

Something rustles beneath the box. She slips her hand under and pulls out a slip of parchment, folded with care.

The paper shimmers faintly in the moonlight, almost alive.

She reads it out aloud:

Elara,

If you're reading this, it means I'm dead. Or trapped. Or possibly on vacation in a dimension with poor reception…unlikely, but I won't rule it out.

You've inherited more than a house. You've inherited a legacy. This town, this place...it needs a pure and true Finch. And apparently, you're all that's left.

Inside this box is the first piece. The truth has been hidden, scattered, and glamoured out into the world.

Start here. But be careful. Nothing in Westwood stays buried forever or is as it seems.

Especially not the murders.

With love,

Aunt Isadora

(P.S. Don't trust the wallpaper in the east wing. It's been cranky since the 1940s.)

Elara blinks, reading the note again. Then again.

"Murder?" she whispers, voice catching.

"Mhmm," Moony replies, hopping onto the table with dramatic flair. "Interesting start, huh? She left you a murder box. Whose murders, we'll find out soon enough. Lucky you."

Elara runs a hand through her hair, eyes locked on the lock as it clicks softly open on its own accord.

She hadn't even touched it.

The house creaks again…this time a sound almost like amusement…as if it was listening, laughing quietly at her, aware of what the box held and knowing it was something she definitely wasn't going to like.

A whisper curls through the room, just beyond comprehension, a secret waiting to be heard.

Whispering...

"Welcome home, Elara Finch."