Della and the Witch: Part 3!
If she’d said anything like this before he died, I would have laughed in her face. I never bought into all that stuff, although we’d all heard the legends, all heeded the warnings: don’t rock an empty rocking chair, don’t sweep past sundown – and more. I did it mostly out of habit, rather than belief. Annemarie’s Meemaw June, however, was what they called a Conjurer. You wouldn’t think it, to look at her. She had a round, weathered face and kind green eyes, which was where Annemarie got hers from. Soft or sharp, depending on who they fell upon.
June was in the front pew of our tiny church every Sunday, and sang in the choir. You’d oftentimes find her on the porch, knitting something or other, humming gospel music. At least, that’s how she had once been. She’d been sick the last few months, and hardly left her bed or her armchair in the living room anymore. She seemed confused by things lately, and I knew it broke my friend’s heart. It broke mine, too. But her rare moments of lucidity were like a lightning bolt in the darkness, startling in their clarity and insight.
Annemarie used to tell me things about her. How people came to her in the dead of night, and how her Meemaw would send Annemarie into her room. The low whispers and cries of the needy. The tears of thanks. Apparently, she could stop blood and bury warts. I’d never seen her do it, but I’d heard the whispers around town. One time, I’d let her read my fortune with her battered old deck of playing cards. I saw a lot of spades and the king of hearts. Before I could get a good look, she lost her balance and swiped her arm across the table, knocking everything to the ground. She kept apologizing, saying how she was such a clumsy old woman. Then she offered to make us cookies and I forgot all about it.
But she didn’t ever read my cards again.
And I could have sworn a shadow passed over her face when she saw the hand I’d been dealt.
Hearing those words now, I jolted forward and grabbed onto my friend. My nails dug into her shoulders and she flinched. “She said that? She said he’s here? Can you see him? Can she?” I looked at the bedroom window, the wisteria, into the dark woods that seemed to beckon. “I can never see him. He’s at my window. But I can never see him.”
“Della…” Annemarie’s voice shook and she took my hand into hers. I wondered if she’d have bruises. I should have been ashamed, but I could feel something cracking and caving in my chest. It wanted out. I barely notice her fear-filled face. “What do you mean he’s at your window?”
My gaze drifted to the window again, and I swore the curtain moved. A shadow, there and gone. Anticipation tightened my gut. “In my dreams. He comes to my window and knocks. This morning I heard his voice, before you came over. He said he was cold and dark. And he asked if he could come in.”
Annemarie swore and turned away, digging her fingers into her hair, ruining her perfect ponytail. “Goddammit I shoulda come sooner, but Meemaw swore we had time. I shoulda known.” Her twang, which she’d worked so hard to abolish, was loud and clear. I had missed hearing it. She spun around to stare at me. “Did you say he could come in?”
“I…” Did I? I couldn’t remember.
“Della, it’s important. Did you say the words? Did you invite him in?”
I bit my chapped lips, gnawing on the dead skin. “I don’t think so? I mean, I don’t think I did. I don’t remember saying it out loud at least.”
She deflated a bit. “Thank god. Oh, thank Christ himself.” She quickly genuflected. “Sorry, Jesus. Ok. Della. Listen. I think you need to see the Witch.”
A headache was beginning to pound at my temples. I rubbed one side with my free hand, hoping to dull the pain. “You mean your Meemaw? I’ve been to her before. I don’t think she can help me.”
She shook her head slowly, and her voice was solemn. “Not Meemaw, Delly. The real witch of the woods. The one that walks the crooked path. The path you’ll need to walk to find her.”
“Annabanana, I think you’re the one who needs some food. Are you ok? I’ve never even heard of a witch of the woods, and I’ve lived here all my life.” I had heard every story, every legend. I learned them at my father’s knee, and he learned from his parents, and so on. I’d have heard of this witch by now, surely.
Annemarie opened her mouth to say something, but we both watched as a raven slammed into the bedroom window. It was closed, now. The bird fell to the ground and lay there, still. I went to check on the thing and saw that its neck was twisted, its body bloody. Some feathers surrounded it in a perfect circle. How had that happened, I wondered? And now it was dead and broken, because of me and my goddamn closed window. I bent to it and stroked its head, feeling unaccountably sad by the loss.
She came up behind me, whispering, “What the fuck?” And then she pulled me up and started pushing me to the front door.
Its broken body and lifeless black eyes seemed to watch me. Sad. Alone. Lost. “We need to bury it. Annemarie, please.”
“We will. But not now. Hustle.” She slammed the front door behind us and then stared at me, her whole body trembling. Strands of blonde hair were hanging in her bright, pained green eyes. The freckles across her nose seemed darker against her even paler skin. I waited for her to explain, trying to peer around her and out the window set above my front door. My mouth tasted metallic and I heard the angry croak of another raven. I wanted to say that I was sorry, to explain that I was coming back to give that feathered beast a proper burial, but Annemarie stopped my thoughts as she gripped my wrist. She whispered, urgently. “He knows. He’s looking for you, Delly. Della, he’s… he’s lost.”
I’m cold, Della. Will you let me in? His words came back to me, and a shiver took over my whole body. I tried to pull back but she tightened her hold, like she was afraid. Of me? Or for me? “Where? Where is he? I want to help him. Please! Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
She stumbled back and just stared at me, like she didn’t understand what I was saying. The house felt colder now, and I could see gooseflesh prickling her skin. “Help him? Hon, I’m here to help you. If he’s haunting you, you could be in trouble. I’m scared for you, Delly.”
I shook my head vehemently. “He would never hurt me. Never.” He was the kindest person I knew, even when I didn’t deserve it; and I often didn’t. My dad always joked that I should have had red hair, with how bright and fast my temper flared. He said it would have warned people. My husband was one of the few people who knew how to soothe my temper. Beyond that, he volunteered at the animal shelter whenever he could, and he became the “fixer” of the town. Needed a ride? Call him, he’d fix your car, or if it couldn’t be fixed quickly, he’d give you a lift home. Needed a tool? He would just hand it to you, never thinking to ask for it back. Needed some food? He’d cook up some of his famous kitchen-sink soup and send it right over. So the idea of him hurting me was outlandish- even impossible.
Annemarie wrapped her arms around herself as the temperature dropped even more. I could see her breath, and mine. “Delly. He’s not the man you knew. Once you cross over, things change. Meemaw told me that the ones who stay behind are… different. Sometimes they’re sad, and sometimes they’re… they’re really angry.”
Angry. That one resonated with me, somewhere deep in my gut. He did have reasons to be angry with me. But I still couldn’t believe in my heart that he would ever hurt me. Even if it was a different form, I knew him. I knew him better than anyone. And I needed the chance to explain. To make him understand. “I don’t care what he is,” I whispered, but she ignored me, pacing back and forth.
“Holy shit! Fuck. Meemaw did not prepare me for this, no ma’am she did not. Crows and ghosts playing harmonicas. Lord almighty, you’re gonna need to get your house blessed after your visit.”
“What visit? Yours?”
Annemarie paid me no mind. “No Bible here, that’s for damn sure, I know that. What did Meemaw say? Was it pine? Wash with pine? No, that doesn’t sound right. Dammit. I should have written it down.” She screwed her eyes up tight, mumbling to herself. I caught words like mirror, bottles, running water – but I couldn’t make sense of any of it. On a frustrated growl, she opened her eyes. The green in them looked deep and dark, like the woods. “Ok. You need to go. Now.”
I stared at her, uncomprehending. “Go now? Where?”
“To the Witch. You’ll find her if she wants you to, or if you need her. And you definitely need her.” She was twirling the stud in her ear again, tapping her foot as if she couldn’t keep still. I knew that in her mind she was going through every possible path, every risk and reward. Even as I wanted to shake her for answers, my heart warmed at how much she cared.
Putting on my most patient tone, I tried to calm her frenetic energy. “Annemarie, let’s just sit down here in the kitchen for a second, ok?” I led her towards the kitchen and sat her down, trying to soothe her. I sat across from her and stroked her hair, a habit from childhood. “Hon, there is no such thing as a Witch in the woods. And once again, I have never heard of her or even know where to go to look for her. How do you even know she exists?”
Annemarie looked lost in thought, gone to some strange place that I couldn’t reach. A place filled with dead ravens and lost husbands, with graves and blood and magic. She looked older, and more remote than I’d ever seen her. “She’s a well kept secret. You don’t speak her name if you do meet her, or if you hope to. I’m not even sure she has one, at least not one in living memory. She’s as old as the mountains that surround us. Older, maybe. And no, I haven’t met her. But Meemaw has.”
My mouth fell open. “How? When?”
“She wouldn’t tell me much, honestly. She didn’t want me to try to find her. She said that you only go in your deepest, darkest hour of need, because there’s always some sort of cost. Blood,” her eyes drifted down to my hand, “is only the first price she asks.”
Something like unease began to prickle in the back of my mind. “The first price? There’s more?”
“There always is. But blood is the way. It’s the path.” I digested those ominous as she stood and left the room, only to reappear with a backpack I’d shoved into the guest bedroom. It had a filmy layer of dust on it that didn’t seem to bother her at all, as she unzipped it and checked her handiwork. Nodding, she pushed it on me. “You’ve got a first aid kit in here, a flashlight, a water bottle, a compass, a blanket, and some other stuff. Just in case. I’m glad that he- that you used to hike.”
I noted the correction but didn’t say anything. He had loved to hike, and often dragged me with him. I tried to tell him I’d had enough camping and hiking for any lifetime, thanks to my daddy, but he wouldn’t be naysayed. And I did learn to enjoy it, though only with him. The way he’d sometimes just stop and look around with wide, happy eyes. How he always found a cool pebble or a bird feather, and acted like it was treasure. How proud he’d been when he caught his first fish bare handed, wading into the crick with his jeans rolled up. I’d howled in laughter as he tried and tried, and how he just grinned back at me. We were both surprised when he actually caught one. There was such joy on his face in that moment. I’d wanted to preserve it in amber. I snapped a quick photo of him, right as that slippery fish broke free from his grip and went back into the stream. He fell on his butt into the water and seemed truly confused as to how it had all gone wrong so quickly. I couldn’t help the giggles that burst out of me, at the sheer ridiculousness of it. And he’d joined in, too.
When was the last time I’d laughed?
Far before he’d passed, that was sure. No, before he’d left her, there had been fights. Fights about living here, in this town. Fights about the mortgage. Fights about coworkers. And that last fight. God, I remembered every word.
Shaking that memory off of me, like cobwebs I had no intention of keeping, I looked down at the supplies, puzzled. “I really don’t feel like hiking, but thank you?”
She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. “You’re not going on a regular hike. You know that.” She crossed her arms across her chest, her jaw clenched tight. I knew that look. My friend meant it.
“But… now? Can’t I go in the morning? It’s getting kind of late, and it’s cold at night.”
Annemarie shook her head. “No. Now.”
I was ready to argue with her, but there was a crash in another room. The bedroom? She looked towards the sound with wide, scared eyes, and then at me. She shook her head no, but I was already running, my bare feet skidding over the floors and the rugs. I rushed into the bedroom without looking and then screamed as something sharp cut my foot. Tears sprang to my eyes as I collapsed onto the bed, watching distantly as I stained the sheets and the hardwood beneath me. The bandages. Where did I put the bandages? He was the organized one. He was the caring one. I was the mess.
Annemarie appeared in the doorway, harried. “Dammit, Delly, if you could stop scaring the shit out of me–” But she stopped short when she saw me crying and bloody on the bed. “What in hell happened?”
“I cut myself on some glass… I don’t even know what it’s from… I can’t remember where the bandages are.” I couldn’t seem to do more than watch the blood. So much blood. There would have been blood with him, too. They’d done their best to clean it up when I identified him, but I knew. Blood, blood, blood dripping on the roads, dripping down his face, leaking from his eyes…
“Just stay there. Don’t move. I’ll find them, and a broom. Do not move.” With that final command, she hurried away, leaving me to the memories and my own imagination. My eyes tracked across the floor, wondering what fell, and how. Like a soldier medic, she came back and cleaned my cut with an antiseptic wipe, then wrapped it in gauze and tape. That done, she began to sweep up the glass, chattering about nothing: her job, her ex, her new car. And then her voice stopped. The broom went silent. She held a picture frame in her hand. Before I could ask what was wrong, she walked over to me, and set it down on my lap.
It was a photo from my wedding. The groom and I were in an old barn, and he had me bent in an exaggerated dip. Lavender and sweetpea flowers were in hundreds of mason jars, and tall vases with water and floating candles were on every table. We were under a white arbor that Annemarie and I had stuffed with sunflowers and violets and more lavender, until it looked like something from Pinterest. The groom and I were both smiling hugely. I’d put it on my wall as soon as we got the photos, a few years ago. He had helped me with the drywall anchors and then kissed the side of my face, holding me against him and admiring the photo of us. We’d been so hopeful. Now, through the broken glass littering the frame, I noticed the small details I hadn’t back then. The strain in his parents’ eyes as they watched us from the side. Was I imagining the blame in them? The blame they assigned me when their perfect boy gave up his big dreams to settle down here with me? My mother was trying to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. My father was distracted, looking into his drink. Only our friends, dressed in yellow and white, looked overjoyed for us. I remembered his groomsmen grumbling about their dandelion yellow ties and sunflower boutonnieres, but I knew it was just for show.
But his face. My husband’s big smile, even as he kissed me. That was the only thing I’d seen. The only thing that mattered.
“Oh my god.” I covered my mouth with my hands, a sob caught in my throat. I couldn’t help the smile that curled on my face, the tenderness in my fingers as I traced his smile. We were so happy. Did he remember that?
The curtains fluttered at the window and a low chuckle made us both look around wildly. Who was that? I was still looking for the source when Annemarie took the photo from me, her lips curling. She looked around her and then snarled, “Leave her alone. Leave her alone! You can’t have her.”
I wasn’t going to argue. But I disagreed. I didn’t want him to leave me alone. And he could always have me. Yes, I’d see the Witch. Not to be rid of him though, no, no. Never that. To communicate with him, though? To help him? Yes. I’d do that. I’d do anything for him. “Ok. I’ll go. I’ll go now.”
Her face crumpled in relief. “You will? Oh thank fuck. I can’t do more than this. I don’t have those powers, or what it takes to save you.”
A scoff came out of me before I could stop it. “Save me? That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“No, Della. It isn’t. I’m not Meemaw but even I can feel it. The anger. The hunger. The need. He wants to draw you out. I can’t see why… but it’s not good. Your house feels heavy. Can’t you feel it?” She grimaced as she looked at the tangled sheets, the tasteful art on the walls, the pottery we’d made together, the sherpa rug on the floor, as if they were all caked in blood and dirt. I didn’t notice it, whatever she was talking about. I just saw the view I always saw, with the painful memories attached. Nothing more or less. But maybe it was because I’d need carrying my own grief, drowning in my own secrets, for so long that this felt… normal.
She seemed so terrified for me, though. And it touched me. My only friend. And what would a walk in the woods do, really? I’d go in and come back out and tell her I tried. And if, on the slim chance, there was a witch? I’d ask for help. Just not in the way she thought. “Ok. I’ll go now.”
Her whole body sagged in relief. “Thank goodness. Oh, and one more thing. I want you to take this.” She pulled out the small silver cross from beneath her shirt and then took it off, offering it to me.
My eyes went wide. It had been her great grandmother’s necklace, and she never took it off. It wasn’t overtly beautiful; it was just a small and worn silver cross on an old silver chain. But she’d worn it since her first communion, even keeping it on when she showered and slept. I’d never seen her without it. “Annemarie I can’t take this! I know how special this is to you!”
She rolled her expressive green eyes, holding it out and shaking it in my face. “You don’t have a cross, or a crucifix, or anything of the sort, am I correct?”
“Well… yea.” Despite being raised in the church, and attending every holiday, I’d long since stopped practicing my faith. My mother was always trying to get me to go back, to renew my faith, but I thought it was all a crock of shit. I didn’t want to look up at Jesus’s sorrowful eyes as he bled on the cross and pretend that I wasn’t a sinner and a reprobate. Mom would call and tell me that she’d lit a candle for me in her new church, and I’d thank her and move along from the subject as quickly as I could. No, there was no faith for those things in my heart. Especially now. “I mean no, I don’t have one.”
A smirk curled her mouth as she tucked some hair behind her ear. “Thought not. You’re taking this. You’ll need it. Oh, and you’ll need a gift. Do you still have that old tobacco y’all used to roll?”
The constant changes of subjects were enough to make my head spin. “The tobacco? Yea. It’s in the guest bedroom closet.” I didn’t tell her that sometimes I went into that closet and inhaled the scent, just to remember how his shirts used to smell. He liked to come in here and smoke cigarettes, and I’d pretend I didn’t know. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to use any of that tobacco, but I had a carton of cigarettes in my own bedroom which I’d been chain smoking. I wondered if she could smell it in the walls and the blankets. She darted into the guest bedroom and came back in carrying the tobacco, which she tucked into the backpack.
“You have a gift. You have blood. Too much, honestly,” she said, eyeing my foot. “But maybe that’s a good thing. Here, let’s get you some thick socks and those old hiking boots, okay? We’ll make this as easy as possible.” She dressed me like I was a child, making me flex and twist my foot beneath her steady gaze before she was satisfied.
On impulse, I stood and hugged her. Whether or not the Witch was real, my friend believed her, and wanted to help me. “Thank you, Annabanana.” I buried my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her coconut shampoo and lilac perfume. It felt like goodbye- not for now, but forever.
She squeezed me right back, and we both stood there, holding each other and trembling. When she pulled away, her eyes were wet. “You’re welcome, Delly. And now it’s time to go.” I nodded and walked around, testing my foot against the wooden floor. It fucking hurt but it would do, I thought. For whatever was coming.
If anything was coming.
I put the backpack on my back and wrapped myself in a thick jacket of fleece and flannel. My pale legs stuck out from my shorts, thinner and whiter than I’d ever seen them. My feet were warm and I grabbed a hat, too, because I remembered my mother always saying that “heat escapes from the head and feet!” So, I’d be warm. I’d be fine.
We walked out the front door, off of the porch, and right to the edge of the woods. Was it my imagination, or did it seem quieter than it ever had? There were no birds, no crickets, and I barely even heard the wind. Annemarie grabbed my hand, squeezing it. I squeezed hers back, feeling a little frightened. “You ready, love?”
I wasn’t. But I nodded. “I’ll be ok. I’ll call you when I’m home, ok?”
“Be sure that you do. I’d stay, but Rupert needs me. It’s already been too long for me. Please call me the second you get home. And know that I’m with you.” She laid a hand on her heart and I did the same, feeling her silver cross under my jacket. It seemed to warm under my hand, and that gave me comfort.
I shooed her away. “Go feed my favorite dog-nephew. I’ll be fine.” She backed away, her eyes on me the entire time, as if she were memorizing my face. I waited until she was out of sight, the crunch of gravel and sticks under her tires as she drove down the driveway. Whatever was out there, I didn’t want them to get a glimpse of my friend- my sister in every way that mattered.
I started walking into the woods, listening and looking for anything that might lead me into the right direction. All I saw were maple trees and beeches, lichen on the rocks and the occasional deer print. The sun was rapidly setting, and there was no clear path to follow. I stumbled around a bit, cursing as the roots seemed to wander right into my path, as brambles tore at my jacket and branches tangled in my hair.
It felt like something was keeping me out.
