Hex Life

by Rachel Deering

  I’m not listening to this girl. She keeps talking, saying something about Levi, something about the deer, something about biscuits and gravy she’s made, but I don’t hear her. Her voice is just static, a low buzz I don’t register. I’ve come around the side of the house and see the doe strung up by her back legs, hanging from the low branch of the maple in the backyard.

  All the air leaves my body.

  I’m lightheaded, swaying like the hung-up deer.

  He’s field dressed her: cut her open from her tail to her sternum, opened her up and taken out her insides. Gone are her entrails and organs, all that was once tucked neatly inside her. The only thing he’s saved is the heart, which he has in his hand as he turns to me, his face grim but triumphant, his hands sticky with her blood.

  Then, he smiles as he holds her heart out to me, showing off his trophy.

  I look from the heart to her face, tongue protruding from her mouth, eyes glassy in the way that only dead creatures become.

  “Isn’t she a beauty?” Sophie asks from someplace close behind me.

  Isn’t she?

  Isn’t she?

  “Yes,” I say, forcing the word out, surprised by my own voice; surprised that I can speak at all.

  But there is a reason I can open my mouth and say the word.

  It’s not her.

  This deer is too small, too young.

  I back away slowly, eyes down, shuffling along the trail of fresh blood. I turn and walk past the open front door of my house, the place I’ve called home for twenty-five years now. I leave all my useless belongings behind: the clothes in the closet, pans in the kitchen, hairbrush and toothbrush and the framed wedding photo on the mantel.

  * * *

  “I’m ready,” I tell her when I show up at her door.

  It’s the first time I’ve ever been able to find her cabin on my own. I can’t say how I did it, how I found my way through the dark and tangled forest; only that something guided me, pulled me along. A little voice (her voice?) said, This way, come this way. Told me that it was time.

  She does not question, does not say a word.

  She just holds the door open, inviting me inside where a fire crackles, candles are lit.

  She knew I was coming. She’s been waiting. There, on the table, is the ointment. The tea we must drink. And next to it, a necklace matching hers with a piece of antler strung up on rawhide. Candles flicker as she places it around my neck, passes me the cup of tea, begins to chant the words as she undresses me, anoints my body, then her own, with the ointment.

  Together, hand in hand, we leave the cabin and slip into the woods and soon, her hand is no longer in mine but I feel her beside me, walking, moving. The forest is alive around us. I hear every sound: leaves falling, a mouse scurrying. I see perfectly in the dark, in front and to the sides, the whole landscape vivid and clear, seeming almost to glow. And the smells! The rich smells of the loamy forest, the lake, a distant fire.

  I follow her, at first slowly, then we break into a run following a trail that takes us out past the lake, over a distant hill, through a field.

  We move so quickly, so perfectly together.

  We are lithe and supple and full of grace.

  We do not make a sound.

  There is nowhere else I’d rather be.

  THE DANCER

  Kristin Dearborn

  Pink and white cherry blossoms carpeted the long dirt road that led to the Weavers’ farm.

  As Paul Baker passed in his dusty old Volvo, the dirty, faded petals swirled in intricate patterns before dropping back to the road. The unseasonably warm spring was the driest on record. The land ached for rain.

  Baker crossed an adorable covered bridge, beneath which a weak trickle of water flowed. Cherry trees lined Weaver Way, and perhaps a month ago they would have been beautiful. Now the new leaves drooped yellow instead of green, craving hydration, but no rain was forecast. Only sunny skies and warm temperatures. Baker rounded a corner and caught sight of the Weavers’ house. Once upon a time it had been a Morgan horse farm, but now it had been converted to a private residence. Too big and too expensive for locals to maintain, it was just the sort of home that people from away would love. Mr. Weaver commuted to New York City for work. Three days in Vermont, four days in the city. Rinse, repeat. More landowners who wouldn’t get involved in local politics or step off their land to become a part of the community.

  Baker parked his Volvo behind a spotless black Mercedes SUV. The driveway terminated in a well-maintained loop with a struggling brown flower garden in the middle. Smudges of dried color lay dead against the soil, and dust hung in the air. A picturesque red barn hunkered off to one side, and the pastures lay empty. Baker wondered if the family had plans to purchase and raise horses. If not for the drought and everything brown, the tableau would have belonged on the cover of a magazine.

  He stepped out of the car, straightened his jacket, and ensured the cookie he’d eaten on the way hadn’t left any crumbs.

  Mrs. Weaver opened the door before his feet hit the first step. A tidy mat bade him welcome, and stated the names of all the occupants. The Weavers: Bruce, Terry, Zach and Ani. Ani. The reason he was here.

  The drawn expression on Mrs. Weaver’s face contrasted with the cheery mat.

  “Are you Paul?”

  “I am Mr. Baker.” He hated when people he didn’t know used his first name.

  “Please, call me Terry.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.” Baker would call her Mrs. Weaver.

  The house smelled of flowers. Baker glanced around and saw them: in vases on an end table. Roses that rested in a low, open bowl. Flowers everywhere.

  She led him into the living room. The space featured cathedral ceilings, with a wall of huge windows showcasing dry yellow pasture and a forest where the pines were starting to go orange. A stone fireplace dominated the room, nearly big enough to stand in. Baker wondered what it cost to heat the place in the winter. Inside, a bank of houseplants flourished, a bright, sharp green.

  Mrs. Weaver gestured for Baker to sit on a white sofa that didn’t seem intended for casual use. Certainly one would not enjoy red wine on that furniture. Baker wondered if there was another living room where the family would watch TV and let its guard down.

  “Ani will be down in a moment, she was just stepping out of the shower,” Mrs. Weaver said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  A sudden sound might startle her into hysterics, Baker feared.

  “No, thank you.”

  Mrs. Weaver lowered herself into an uncomfortable-looking chair and let her hands rest on her knees. She kept her ankles and her knees together, and sat with perfect posture. They didn’t have long to wait.

  Ani descended the stairs into the living room. She was seventeen and wore a lightweight pink sweater over black leggings. Her hair was wet, and she wore no make-up to conceal the circles under her eyes. Ani was a ballerina. Band-Aids and deep purple bruises covered her bare feet, and she looked too thin. She had no breasts to speak of. Her movements were graceful and lovely. She chose to stand.

  Baker smiled at her. “A pleasure to meet you. Now why don’t you start at the beginning? Your mother has emailed me, and I’d like to hear your side of things.”

  Her eyebrows, immaculately and severely plucked, furrowed. Baker could see lines on her forehead, and she looked, in that moment, much older than seventeen. “They blame me,” she said.

  “Darling, it’s only—”

  Baker raised a hand to silence Mrs. Weaver.

  Mr. Weaver appeared and parked himself in a doorway, scowling and gesturing that they continue.

  Ani turned back to Baker. “We moved into a haunted house, and somehow it’s all my fault.”

  “That’s not true, pet,” Mrs. Weaver said.

  “When did you move?” Baker asked.

  “November 25th.” Mr. Weaver was fast to answer. “The place was a steal. Look at all this land. Look at that view.”

&nb
sp; Baker wondered what the steal was… 1.2 million? Only a million?

  “What made you decide to leave New York and come to Vermont?”

  Ani’s jaw tightened.

  “Our daughter was having trouble at school. Eating trouble. We needed her in a place where she could get healthy and build up her strength again.” Mr. Weaver locked eyes with Baker. Challenged him to argue.

  “I was fine,” Ani whispered. “I’d never danced better. And you took me here.” She seemed to steady herself. “I hate it here.”

  “We all hate it here.” A new face, a new voice in the conversation. Zach. The fifteen-year-old son. “It’s haunted. Let’s go back to New York.”

  “We are not going back to New York,” Mrs. Weaver said. “We’ve always dreamed of a house in Vermont.”

  “You have. What do I want with a place where the grocery store’s, like, an hour away? We’re being homeschooled. We haven’t met anyone yet. It’s boring here.”

  “They don’t mean it.” Mrs. Weaver smiled at Baker, you know how children exaggerate. No, he didn’t. He cared to listen to them, to actually hear them.

  “Tell me about the haunting.” Baker pulled the conversation back on topic.

  The family got quiet for a moment. They exchanged conspiratorial glances. No one spoke.

  “It’s why we brought him here,” Mrs. Weaver finally said. “How can he help us if we don’t tell him?”

  “It all started when Ani went on the rag again after being off it for so long because she starves herself,” Zach said.

  “Paranormal activity is often tied to menstruation—” Baker started, trying to be helpful.

  “Zach!” Mrs. Weaver spoke over him. “Watch your mouth. Go to your room!”

  “Make me.”

  Mr. Weaver took a step toward his son. “Upstairs. Now.”

  When Mr. Weaver spoke, Zach listened. Father herded son up the stairs. A door closed, a quiet click.

  “I’m so sorry…” Mrs. Weaver’s voice trailed off, and Baker wondered what life was like if that was the worst she’d seen from her children.

  “Don’t worry about it. Ani, please go on.” Baker favored her with a warm smile. She twisted a long strand of auburn hair around her thin fingers. The nails were gnawed to the quick.

  “Like a week after we got here, I had this dream.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to tell this part,” Mrs. Weaver said, staring at her shoes.

  “Whatever you think will help, Ani.”

  “I dreamed I was flying. Soaring. It was fantastic, the best dream I can ever remember. Like dancing in midair, and everyone was applauding and applauding, a standing ovation. For me.” She dropped her gaze from Baker’s face and stared at her hands.

  “Then I woke up. I sleep with a nightlight—” Baker made a note of this. People who sleep with lights on can’t create melatonin properly. “—so I could see something was moving. I thought it was a shadow, like from a waving tree outside, but then I saw it was my toe shoes. They were floating. I screamed, Zach came in.” Ani blushed. “He noticed I’d started my period. Like, a lot.”

  “Did he see the shoes?”

  Ani nodded. “He saw the blood, then the shoes. He cursed really loud, and the shoes dropped. Then I had the most horrid cramps of my life.”

  “The shoes were floating. You and your brother both saw it.”

  “Not floating, that isn’t right. They were dancing.” She turned her gaze out the window. “It was the wedding from La Sylphide.”

  “You can’t possibly know that,” Mrs. Weaver said.

  “I know the piece. I danced it myself.”

  Baker studied Ani. Too thin, but because the girl starved herself for her craft. She looked like an average, self-destructive teenage ballerina.

  “May I see your room? The shoes?”

  Ani tensed. “Sure,” she mumbled. “Follow me.” Baker lifted himself off the couch and ascended the hardwood staircase. He could hear father and son talking behind a closed door, the bathroom, he suspected.

  Ani’s room was designed to please a very small girl. Pink everywhere, glitter, pictures of ballerinas—but not of specific, real ballerinas, engaged in challenging, technical work—they were cartoons on the wall. The carpet was a rich, plush pink. Baker imagined it felt good under her toes. Around her messy desk, patches of the carpet were burned and singed. To one side, a closet door hung open. To the other, a door opened to Zach’s room. Baker didn’t see a lock. Curious, but sometimes with old houses they didn’t include them on all the doors. Ani’s windows overlooked the driveway and the bank of dying flowers, a flagpole where an American flag drooped in the heat.

  “Get them to send me back to New York,” she whispered. “Please, I can’t stand it here.”

  Baker heard a heavy footfall in the hallway outside. “Tell me about the next incident.”

  Mr. Weaver filled the doorway.

  “The fire,” Ani pointed.

  “She stared setting fires because we made her eat.”

  “I didn’t… they just started.”

  If the girl was a liar, she was brilliant. Her expression begged her father to believe her.

  “Fires don’t start themselves.”

  “You saw the things floating… flying.”

  Mr. Weaver made a gruff sound of disapproval.

  “You saw them.”

  “I don’t know what I saw.”

  “Why don’t you believe me? About anything?”

  Mr. Weaver turned away. “Tell the man your story about the fires.”

  Ani told him about a fight with her family—at first against her mother, then her mother and father, then Zach joined in the fray against her. She stormed to her room, threw herself on the bed weeping, then discovered her trash can on fire.

  To Baker, this was all cut and dried. The girl had latent telekinetic—and, it seemed, pyrokinetic—abilities. The distress of leaving her home in New York, leaving her passion, had brought it out in her. He let her finish speaking.

  The details lined up. “Your daughter is under stress, and is reacting to it. Remove the stress and the problems should stop.”

  “The stress of this fantastic farm? This view? The wind in the trees?”

  Baker remembered Ani’s plea. “Find her a boarding school. An arts school. She needs an outlet for her energy. Like dance.”

  “Thank you.”

  He hadn’t done anything, just pointed out the obvious.

  Mr. Weaver bubbled with rage. “As you’ve solved the problem so neatly, I suspect we won’t be needing your services again. I’ll show you out.”

  “Good luck,” Baker said to Ani.

  * * *

  The Weavers called him nine days later. An emergency. Could he come right away? They needed his help. They’d pay, and they’d pay well.

  It was the last bit that convinced him. Baker needed the money. So he folded himself into his ancient white Volvo and repeated the two-hour ride south.

  He cranked the windows down as he drove. At least that way the hot air blew over him, cooling his sweat a bit. There was relief in sight. Thunderstorms and rain were in the day’s forecast, about a week too late to save most of the early spring crops. It would be a bad growing season for Vermont.

  Sad brown leaves decked the once-handsome cherry trees flanking Weaver Way. Like autumn, but without festive colors. Under the covered bridge, the stream-bed baked in the sun. The flower garden in the driveway was reduced to a jumble of brown, wilted stocks.

  Zach stood outside, waiting for him. Dark clouds loomed in the distance.

  “Go back. We don’t need you.” Zach’s eyes were cold.

  “Get in the goddamn house.” Mr. Weaver didn’t have to raise his voice. His tone sent Zach scuttling away like a timid cub.

  “Come in, please.” Mr. Weaver pronounced please as an expletive. Mrs. Weaver hovered behind him.

  The vast array of windows in the living room showcased a bank of angry purple clouds.

&n
bsp; “It’s Ani. She attacked Zach. And me, when I tried to help him,” Mr. Weaver said.

  Mrs. Weaver nodded in agreement.

  “Where is she?”

  “Her room.”

  They ascended the stairs.

  Ani lay tied to her bed with straps that seemed made for the purpose. Did the parents have a fetish? Baker didn’t allow himself to think past that. He noticed the door to Zach’s room standing open, and nudged it closed before going to Ani’s side. They’d used a bandana as a gag.

  “I will not work with you or your family until she is untied.”

  “She’ll get you if you—”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Mr. Weaver thundered at Zach. The boy melted out into the hall. Mrs. Weaver pulled the bandana from Ani’s mouth, and undid the Velcro strap on her left hand.

  “You have to save me!” Ani’s voice was a rasp. Ribs jutted beneath a black lycra shirt—even thinner than the last time he’d seen her.

  “What is going on here?” Baker asked.

  “She attacked him,” Mr. Weaver said. He sounded ashamed. Good. He should be. “She made things fly at him. Books, heavy things.”

  The girl’s room seemed in order.

  “If she did that with her mind, what good would tying her up do? Have you taken my advice? Made any plans to send her away?”

  “They won’t let me go…”

  “We are a family, Mr. Baker. We’re going to live as one.”

  Untied now, Ani curled into a ball on her bed, knees drawn to her chest.

  “What happened?” Baker asked Ani, his voice gentle.

  “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

  “I can teach you some exercises to learn how to control it.”

  “I don’t want to control it, I want to go home. To New York. I want to dance!”

  Mr. Weaver boomed at him. “Control it? Stop it. Tell me straight, Baker. Can you stop this?”

  Baker spoke past a tight throat. “This would stop if you weren’t holding the girl a prisoner. Quite literally, it seems. I am a mandated reporter. I need to report this. Ani, if you come with me, I will bring you to Burlington and find a place for you for the night.”

  He would not be around these people another moment. How often did they tie up their children?