In the moss-cloaked heart of Parkside Square, beneath the filigree of fairy lights and midnight ivy, Mara Hexley slung espresso shots with a practiced hand and a pointed, slightly wicked grin. The moon tonight—two elegant crescents, curved and luminous—dangled over the city like a sly, silver grin. Mara always got restless on nights like this. She chalked it up to ambient magic, but she could never quite decide if it was sublime or just plain aggravating.
Her coffee shop, Hex & Grounds, vibrated with customers. Out front, a string of gossamer lanterns bobbed on the breeze, illuminating an eager line that was even more eclectic than usual: tall vampires shrouded in velvet sipping low-caf with anise, fey twins arguing over oat milk, and a bespectacled mundane anxiously flicking tarot cards for tips.
Next door, a neon palm sign pulsed above Madame Toby’s fortune studio, while on Mara’s other side, the haunted record store gently crooned old ballads into the street. But tonight, those notes slid sideways when the night inched closer to midnight. Spectral musicians wailed from vintage vinyl, their music threading through the air, weaving mischief into every nook and cranny.
Mara barely kept up. Every order required not just the right syrup or espresso shot, but also a dollop of Hexed Barista Technique: confidence in a mug or tranquility in a cup. “Large jasmine-lucky for you, don’t spill.
Café nervosa decaf, trust me, you need it. Next!”
Then she noticed it. The shift. The jittery mundane, Alison, suddenly glowed with palpable fear; she shrank back, eyes wide, as shadows along the walls solidified into dark, writhing shapes. Behind Alison, a gruff goblin in a suit began to laugh, then sob, alternating in wild surges. The platinum-haired fey at the counter—Gen—clasped his hands, and Mara watched his innocent crush on the werewolf baker across the street shimmer into physical form: hearts beating drum-tight, flowers sprouting from his pockets, pulses of longing skating across the tiled floor.
“Oh, stars,” Mara hissed, frantically warding off an outbreak of conjured-to-life butterflies. This wasn’t mischievous magic. It was seeping, raw, and dangerous. Most worrying: her careful doses, designed to tinker with feelings, were fizzling—overridden by something else.
Before she could stop him, Gen darted outside, a storm of roses in his wake. The jackal-headed local deliveryman gazed slack-jawed at a bouquet of cupcakes hovering midair. Chaos unspooled.
Mara stormed next door on a tide of panic as haunted sonatas spilled from the record store, cloudy and sharp. Inside, four phantoms jammed on trumpet and upright bass, their spectral fingers blurring, but the vinyl beneath the needle pulsed with a sick, silken distortion.
“Carl!” she barked at the record store’s human clerk, who cowered beneath the desk.
“I never heard this track before,” he whimpered. “The sleeve was blank, just showed up tonight!”
From the back, something in the shadows pressed up—a fifth ghost, laced in smoke and red eyed with grief and rage. In her next breath, Mara realized what must’ve happened. On a double-crescent night, two spectral moons meant double the bleed. Something old had slipped through—a spirit, once contained in vinyl, now free to gorge on feelings until the city tore apart.
Back at her espresso machine, dread twisted tight. It didn’t help that the regulars’ worries—what if he likes me? what if I’m not strong enough? what if I disappear?—kept popping into the open, tangible beasties feeding on the mood, waxing monstrous with each cuppa.
Mara needed answers. With a flick of her spatula-wand, she conjured a Quickshot Truth Brew—three sips, no lies. Rushing next door with still-warm cup in hand, she confronted the phantom, now coalescent, hunched and breathless behind the counter.
“I know you’re feeding off my customers,” Mara growled, tapping the mug. “But why now? Double-crescent doesn’t usually mean destruction.”
The ghost turned, her form gaining definition: a young woman, hair wound in ringlets barely anchored to her wisp-figure, eyes wet as stormclouds.
“I wrote a love song on that lost record, you know,” the ghost whispered. “It was never played while I was alive. But on this night, the double moon called me. I’m still anchored to those old emotions…and the music brought everyone else’s roaring into the open. I—” She hesitated. “I’m starving. The longer I’m here, the worse it gets.”
Mara’s mind raced. There had to be a way to break the loop before emotional monsters overwhelmed the city. She glanced at the vinyl on the deck, then at the sheet music swirling about the room.
“Fine. Make me a deal,” Mara snapped. “You get to play your song—just once, before sunrise. The REAL song, not the rage and longing. In return, you stop feeding, give me the magic back, and promise to let the shop breathe.”
The ghost hesitated. “And you’ll help me… finish it?”
Mara sighed. “Ready those lyrics. I make a hell of a cappella.”
Moments later, customers old and new filed silently into the crammed coffee shop, drawn by rumor, fear, and the thick promise of something extraordinary. Mara cleared the counter, rolled up her sleeves, and angled her spell-soaked semiautomatic next to a ghostly turntable.
Outside, the double crescent glowed butter-yellow, dreamy and tense.
The ghost tensed—then sang. Her song ached with longing but sparked with hope. Mara harmonized, each note laced with choice bitterness and wryness, swirling through the ether and quelled monsters inch by inch. Customers felt their grief and hunger melt into bittersweet remembrance. Tears shimmered, but so did fragile delight.
But Mara, mid-chorus, spotted something off: Madame Toby, the fortune teller, mouth knitted tight. Her fingers twisted an amulet—one that glowed brighter every time a sorrow abated. Mara let the final note falter, frowning.
“You, Madame, mind explaining?” she called out.
All eyes turned as Toby stood, cursing softly. “I did not summon the ghost outright,” she confessed. “But I might have, you know, tipped the magical scales. The neighborhood’s gotten complacent. Mundanes forget what emotion is for, the way magic works—we all do. I wanted to remind us, just a bit.”
The crowd muttered. Mara glared.
The ghost, now a luminous shade, turned to Toby. “You woke me, and now you set me free,” she murmured. “No more feeding, just the song.”
With a last smile, she whispered a benediction—her lingering magic shivering through heart and cup. The emotional monsters collapsed into laughter, fading like caffeine jitters after dawn.
The next morning, Parkside buzzed with stories—of love, fear, regret, and song. Mara ladled a mood-balancing blend into a new urn. Her smile was tired, but real, the air scented with hope and the distant hum of ghostly bass.
Late that night, Mara found an untouched record sleeve on her doorstep—the ghost’s album, complete with lyrics and a thank-you note. She cued it up and sipped her own special brew. The city felt lighter, resilient, even after all the chaos.
For beneath every emotion there was a song, and for every magical mess—well, there was always another morning, another cup, another chance to get it just right.