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    Twixtmas: An Aunt Enid Christmas Story of sorts: The Aunt Enid Mysteries, #3
    Twixtmas: An Aunt Enid Christmas Story of sorts: The Aunt Enid Mysteries, #3
    Twixtmas: An Aunt Enid Christmas Story of sorts: The Aunt Enid Mysteries, #3
    Ebook182 pages2 hoursThe Aunt Enid Mysteries

    Twixtmas: An Aunt Enid Christmas Story of sorts: The Aunt Enid Mysteries, #3

    By Karen J. Carlisle

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    About this ebook

    It's Twixtmas – the odd, dream-like time between Christmas and New Year, where time slows, days blur, and the connections between the Otherworlds and ours are their thinnest. Anything is possible. And accidents can happen.

    Sally's fellow Protectors are nervous. Her Great Aunt Enid has insisted they spend Christmas holidays at her house - surrounded by her army of garden gnomes, the very creatures that still haunt her nightmares. 

    When Alfred goes missing, Sally must travel to an unknown Otherworld with an unwanted companion, unsure if she can access magic.

    Will Sally learn to control her fears? And will she survive her first Christmas as a Protector?

    Twixtmas is a portal fantasy with characters from The Aunt Enid Mysteries.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKraken Publishing
    Release dateMar 1, 2025
    ISBN9798230993483
    Twixtmas: An Aunt Enid Christmas Story of sorts: The Aunt Enid Mysteries, #3
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    Author

    Karen J. Carlisle

    Karen J Carlisle is a writer and illustrator of speculative fiction - steampunk, Victorian mystery and fantasy. She graduated in 1986, from Queensland Institute of Technology with a Bachelor of Applied Science in Optometry and lives in Adelaide with her family and the ghost of her ancient Devon Rex cat. Karen first fell in love with science fiction when she saw Doctor Who as a four-year old (she can’t remember if she hid behind the couch). This was reinforced when, at the age of twelve, she saw her first Star Destroyer. She started various other long-term affairs with fantasy fiction, (tabletop) role-playing, gardening, historical re-creation and steampunk – in that order. Her first book, Doctor Jack and Other Tales, was published in 2015. She has had articles published in Australian Realms Roleplaying Magazine and Cockatrice (Arts and Sciences magazine). Her short story, An Eye for Detail, was short-listed by the Australian Literature Review in their 2013 Murder/Mystery Short Story Competition. Karen's short story, Hunted, is featured in the Trail of Tales exhibition in the Adelaide Fringe, 2016. She currently writes full-time and can often be found plotting fantastical, piratical or airship adventures. Karen has always loved chocolate - dark preferred - and rarely refuses a cup of tea. She is not keen on the South Australian summers. 

    Read more from Karen J. Carlisle

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      Book preview

      Twixtmas - Karen J. Carlisle

      ​CHAPTER ONE

      Ahot wind blustered along the driveway. Small dust eddies settled on Agnes’ freshly polished Wolseley in the driveway. In the back yard, bees buzzed around Enid Turner’s head. She muttered, trying to settle the bees as she lifted a damp tablecloth from a bare patch in the scorched grass.

      The ancient washing machine clanked and groaned intermittently in the old laundry shed, as Agnes wrestled it into submission.

      The bees pirouetted and danced around Enid’s head.

      Not now. She waved them away with her silver walking cane.

      A loud bang shuddered the laundry walls. Smoke erupted from the door.

      The bees darted back to their hive.

      Blast! Agnes emerged from the dispersing smoke.

      Another clatter of metal.

      You’ll need a new one, said Agnes.

      Enid sighed. Electrical appliances never fared well near Protectors. Keeping it, and her freezer, in the laundry shed provided a buffer zone. Still, she was surprised it had lasted as long as it had.

      Perhaps we should get the freezer checked, she said. I can’t let it break down. It’s full of cakes for the New Year’s charity stall.

      The grandmother clock chimed faintly in the hall.

      Alfred will be here soon. Enid flicked the soiled tablecloth. A dust cloud enveloped her. She frowned.

      I’ll be with you in a minute. Agnes wiped grease off her hands and stared back into the laundry.

      Enid sniffed the air. There was a faint odour, mixed with the smell of hot oil, coming from the house. The smell of burning—

      She dropped the tablecloth. The gingerbread!

      Enid raced inside. The screen door slapped behind her. A charcoal-coloured feline padded along the hallway after her, trailing silver tinsel behind him.

      Bells tinkled on the bead curtain as they entered the kitchen. Smoke licked the ceiling.

      Enid snatched up a quilted oven mitt, flung open one of the oven doors, and rescued a baking tray from the belly of the old, wood-burning stove. The metal tray clattered on the bench.

      The cat’s fur tickled her as he wrapped around her legs.

      Not now, Mr B. Enid slumped into a kitchen chair and ignored his affections.

      Jingling bells danced on the bead curtain as Agnes rushed into the kitchen. She threw open the window above the sink, and fanned the smoke outside.

      Mr B took shelter under the table.

      No clean tablecloth, and now no gingerbread. What will Alfred think? It’s our first Christmas dinner.

      I don’t think he’ll be examining the tablecloth, replied Agnes.

      Enid felt her cheeks burn.

      Mr B growled.

      Enid patted his soft fur. He rubbed his head against her hand, circled the chair, and paraded out of the room. Tinsel sashayed and shimmered in his wake.

      Another wind gust caught the lace curtains. Dust filled the room. Enid swallowed; the scorching heat had already heralded hordes of Darkness this summer, and raging bush fires the year before. What would the new year bring?

      Her chair scraped along the tiles as she jumped to her feet. She emptied the coffee grounds from the percolator, strode out the front door, and sprinkled them around the hydrangeas.

      Heat radiated off the concrete driveway. The air shimmered. Enid shaded her eyes and searched the bushland beyond the hawthorn hedge. It was a dangerous time of year. The barriers between connected worlds were thinning; anything could breach their protective shells. And this heat only made it easier.

      It was her job to protect this world.

      She pushed the grounds into the soil with her shoe as she rubbed the petals through her fingers, and clicked her tongue. They could never be too blue.

      The hum of a perfectly-tuned engine purred along the road. A sleek BMW turned into the driveway. The gravel crunched.

      Enid’s heart leapt.

      Alfred leaned out the window, tipped his hat, and smiled.

      You’re early. She dusted off her hands.

      Agnes joined her on the verandah and waved a tea towel in his direction.

      I thought I’d help with setting up. He reached into the back seat. Has the tree arrived? I’ve got a box of decorations in the car boot.

      It was a lovely thought, said Agnes. Sally will love it.

      We had to rearrange the furniture to fit it in. Enid retrieved the cardboard box from the boot.

      I’ll put the kettle on. Agnes returned to the house.

      They followed Agnes inside.

      Mr B skittered along the tiles past them.

      ALFRED REMOVED HIS hat and hung it on the hallway hat rack. Enid continued into the lounge room. Mr B was already there, curled up on Alfred’s usual armchair, his tail batting the Christmas tree.

      Alfred grinned and placed a box, wrapped in silvered paper and tied with curled green ribbon, on the coffee table. He scanned the decorations; old-fashioned strung popcorn and paper chains hung amongst ivy and holly. Miniature candles were clipped to the ends of the branches. I haven’t seen paper chains since I was a boy.

      Enid clasped his hand. Good memories, I hope. She leaned her silver walking stick, etched with spiral vinework, against the settee and sat down.

      Very. He sat next to her.

      Mr B’s eyes narrowed.

      Enid eyed the box. For me?

      For everyone, he replied. You’ll get yours later.

      Mr B launched off the armchair onto Enid’s lap, circled twice and lay down. Alfred leaned back.

      Enid glared at the cat. I’m sorry.

      Teacups rattled as Agnes entered the room.

      He’s jealous. She placed a tray with four teacups - one full of coffee - on the table and sat on the vacated armchair opposite them. Sally’s shift is finished. She should be here soon. She lifted the teapot. I’ll be Mother, shall I? Agnes filled two of the teacups.

      Mr B sniffed Enid’s cup and purred. Enid ignored him, and sipped her coffee.

      Agnes eyed the present. Well, open it.

      Enid finished her coffee, slowly slipped off the ribbon, and carefully removed the wrapping paper. Inside was a flat, square box, an envelope and a brown paper parcel wrapped in plastic.

      She opened the box first. The rich smell of fruit, brown sugar, and brandy enveloped her. Agnes licked her lips.

      Alfred smiled.

      I soaked the fruit for three weeks. And this... Alfred pulled out the envelope and handed it to Enid. This is for you, he said.

      Enid opened the envelope. Inside was a page of yellowing paper, with fine handwriting in faded ink.

      My grandmother’s recipe, he said. I haven’t any sisters, so it passed to me. I wanted to pass it onto someone special.

      But your son? asked Enid.

      Alfred chuckled. He’s not a fan of fruitcake. They have a barbecue for Christmas. All the sausages and chops you can eat.

      Enid slipped the recipe back into the envelope and hugged him.

      Mr B’s fur prickled. His tail twitched as he stared at them with slitted eyes.

      Who’s this one for? Agnes retrieved the plastic-wrapped parcel.

      A present for Mr B, said Alfred.

      The cat’s tail froze. He sniffed the parcel.

      Best put it in the fridge, said Alfred. Roo meat. Don’t let him scoff it all at once, mind. My old tabby was addicted to it.

      Agnes winked at Enid. I’ll fetch the bowl.

      Mr B licked his paws, stepped off Enid’s lap, and trotted into the hallway. The bells on the kitchen door’s bead curtain tinkled. He yowled for Agnes to hurry up.

      I should help Agnes in the kitchen, if we’re going to get the baking done before Sally arrives. Enid rested her hand on Alfred’s arm. Well played.

      Alfred smiled and sipped his tea.

      ​CHAPTER TWO

      The car radio crackled . Sally twiddled a knob on the dash. Music blared, then faded into an intermittent hiss. She thumped the dash, and groaned. The plastic beads of the friendship bracelet, on her left wrist, caught on the indicator lever. They clacked as she unhooked them.

      The pale blue hatchback turned into her Great Aunt Enid’s driveway. Tinsel glinted on the rearview mirror; a kaleidoscope of sparkling red, green, and gold tracked across the roof. The car shuddered to a stop behind Alfred’s Beamer.

      Hot air blasted through the open window. The aircon had long gone, thanks to Aether-interference. Sally tapped her gloved fingers on the steering wheel and huffed; no wonder the aircon in her aunt’s house was always on the fritz.

      She rolled her shoulders; it’d been a long shift, full of drunks, broken bones, and accident-prone patients.

      A bee hovered outside the window, dipping and rising with each wind current.

      Sally cranked the window shut, retrieved a brightly-wrapped present and a large duffel bag from the back seat, then opened the car door. A hint of smoke and oil lingered in the air. She scanned the back yard. The washing line was empty and the laundry shed, behind Agnes and Alfred’s cars, was shut tight. A flank of mismatched garden gnomes had already formed behind her. Red - her aunt’s favourite - stood point.

      She hesitated. Though her aunt’s garden gnome army had proven useful last summer, they still unnerved her. She sucked in a deep breath, snatched up a length of tinsel from the mirror, and slammed the car door shut with her foot. It creaked ominously.

      Her muscles flinched.

      They’re on our side, she whispered. Where’s my— She turned on her heel to avoid the nearest garden gnome. Where’s my aunt? she asked the bee.

      The bee buzzed and flew towards the house.

      It’d been agreed - at least between Aunt Enid and Aunt Agnes - she’d stay with her Great Aunt over the Christmas break. Both aunts had been adamant about it. All weather predictions were for another hot summer. This was a bad omen apparently, and the Protectors needed to regroup. Exactly what that meant, and why, Sally wasn’t sure, but the aunts had promised they’d explain when she arrived.

      Another scorching wind rushed up from the gully, whipping her hair across her face. She inhaled slowly, drinking in the crisp scent of tea tree and eucalyptus. The wind whistled along the verandah and circled back, ripping through the long grass to reveal the pointed ceramic caps of more garden gnomes dotted throughout the front yard. Waiting...

      Sally swallowed. They’re on our side. Heat pricked her fingers as her magic rallied to her defense. She avoided their black pupil-less eyes and concentrated on their leader, Red. He’d protected her when it mattered.

      The wind changed direction, bringing with it the heady perfume of her aunt’s hawthorn perimeter hedge. Her aunt had constructed an enchantment to keep it in flower, providing limited protection all year round. She allowed her muscles to relax. Her fingers cooled.

      Another deep breath. It was a contradictory aroma. To her, it smelled of the reassuring almond-like spiciness of vanilla, and aniseed; to others, the sickly stench of death.

      The bee returned, buzzing insistently.

      Merry Christmas, Red. She patted his head hesitantly, wound the green tinsel around the garden gnome’s red cap as she dragged the duffel bag over her shoulder, and picked her way through the grass towards the house.

      An old shovel leaned against the wall by the front door. The aroma of coffee grounds and chicken manure originated from beneath the hydrangeas

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