One handed Nic cracked an egg against the large jadeite mixing bowl. Behind him a generous pat of butter surrendered to the warm cast iron griddle. Nic reached for the cutting board. With a graceful butcher’s knife, Nic swished sliced portobello and oyster mushrooms into the golden puddle of sizzling butter.

“Mmmm that’s looking good,” Peterson said. “I don’t know what I love more eating your omelettes or watching you cook your omelettes.”

Nic stirred the mushrooms and turned to his partner to give a sexy comeback. Nic noticed the dusty bottle in Peterson’s hands. He turned his head back to the stovetop and began to angrily grind pepper over the sautéed mushrooms.

“Another one?” Nic said with an impatient sniff.

Nic had followed Peterson from always sunny Burbank to the sleepy New England college town of Hollyhock. Peterson was the new English department chair with faculty housing on campus. Nic encouraged him to cash out the housing allowance and with their savings they purchased the old McClean estate. There had been rumors about the estate being haunted but Nic used the ridiculous legends to knock an additional $100,000 of the asking price.

“Yes, another. Clare says they’re witching bottles, charms to ward off—“

“So we are consulting checkout girls now,” Nic snapped.

Nic returned to the milky green bowl. He cracked four more eggs deftly, flinging the shells into the sink. They found the first bottle that first night, rolling down from the back staircase. Thick grey glass filled with hand hewn nails, the bottle was corked and wrapped haphazardly in rusted wire. More bottles were found. Bound bottles filled with silver pins and needles, bottles of nails, bottles of sharp stones.

A true lover of stories, Peterson was part terrified, part enchanted. Soon the dining room table was covered in old maps and history books. Peterson was filled with witch trials by water, an enchanted duck pond, and hereditary madness.

Nic whipped the eggs sun yellow and frothy. He added sel de mer and Parmesan to the eggs. There was a soft tinkling sound as Peterson turned the bottle in his hands. With a hiss, the eggs were poured from the mixing bowl onto the griddle.

“I will get rid of this, shall I?” Peterson said.

Nic concentrated on his spatula testing the edges. Peterson hesitated before heading outside. With a slight smile, Nic returned to his cutting board. He chopped crisp blades of chives. Peterson leaned against Nic from behind. Nic leaned back. He scraped the herbs into a tidy pile. He turned to an empty kitchen. Nic felt the room sway. In the window Nic watched Peterson walking towards the burn pile. On the counter sat another witch bottle. This one filled with brown hair. Nic sprinkled the chives on the eggs and plated breakfast.