Witch

by Patrick Logan

“Come, sit down beside me.”

  Terry hesitated, but an encouraging tap was all it took to change her mind. The girl hopped up onto the bench and it immediately began to sway. Anne experienced a sharp intake of breath.

  “Careful! Please, Terry, you need to be more careful!” Anne steadied the half-full bottle of breast milk at her side. “We don’t want to waste any!”

  Terry looked frightened, and Anne immediately regretted her reaction. After all, what did it matter if one bottle spilled? She had so many tucked away in the cool cupboard.

  Anne leaned over and kissed her daughter on the forehead.

  “Sorry, Terry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  For a full minute, they both just sat there, listening to their thoughts or the swamp noises, or both. When Anne felt her daughter shift uncomfortably, her patience waning, she reached behind the bench and grabbed the object that she had hidden there in one hand.

  “Terry, I want you to close your eyes now, okay?”

  The whine was instantaneous.

  “What? Why? I don’t—”

  “Please, Terry.”

  Teresa responded by squeezing her eyes so tightly that creases formed on her forehead.

  Anne shook her head.

  Always so dramatic, this one.

  She pulled the gift from behind the bench and laid it gently on her daughter’s lap.

  “Now op—”

  But the girl’s eyes had already snapped open. And they opened... and opened... and opened. They opened until they were so wide that Anne thought that those beautiful blue orbs might just up and fall out of her head.

  “Mom!” Teresa shouted, holding the doll up to eye level. “I—I—”

  Anne stroked her daughter’s hair as she stared at the doll that she had had made to look just like her daughter: big blue eyes, long blonde hair. Even the dress the doll wore was fashioned after the very one that Terry currently sported.

  “I love it, Mom!” Terry shouted. The girl reached over to hug Anne, and for a moment she forgot all about the milk and the contraption on her breast.

  Seeing the expression of sheer joy on her daughter’s face reminded her that none of that really mattered.

  Anne hugged her back, hard and tight for a very long time. If it had been up to her, she would have stayed in this moment forever.

  Still embraced, Anne leaned in and whispered in Teresa’s ear.

  “I told you, Terry. I told you things would get better after the fire—after Daddy died.”

  The embrace lasted a little while longer, silent tears making streaks down both their red cheeks.

  Yeah, the milk business was good for Terry and Anne for a while.

  Things were really good.

  But that was before the knock at the door during the storm. That was before she came to visit.

  Part II - An Unexpected Visitor

  Chapter 8

  Thunder cracked through the night sky, temporarily cutting through the sound of the rain that pelted the roof like marbles in a metal basin. Terry cried out and Anne turned toward her daughter, both of whom had awoken from the sound.

  “I’m scared, Mommy,” the girl whispered, her eyes wide.

  Anne hushed her.

  “It’s just a storm, Terry. It’ll be okay.”

  She squeezed her daughter and then held her tight, feeling the doll squish uncomfortably between their bodies. Ever since she had given it to her, the two were inseparable. Anne’s scarecrow stick figures were a thing of the past, it seemed. But for once, Anne didn’t seem to mind.

  “Try to sleep, sweetie. Try to get some sleep; we have a big day tomorrow.”

  Anne wasn’t just saying this to calm Terry; she had cleared her schedule, planning to take Terry to the market. Normally, this wouldn’t have been considered a special occasion—they often went to the market—but this time was different. This time they actually had money to buy things.

  And Anne had plans to buy plenty of things.

  Terry squirmed in her arms.

  “What about the woman at the door, Mommy?”

  Anne felt her heart flutter.

  “What? What person?”

  And then, as if answering her question, Anne heard a light knock on the door that was barely audible above the din of the storm. For nearly a minute, Anne remained stiff, holding Terry in her arms.

  It’s nothing... just the rain.

  But then she heard the knocking again and knew that it wasn’t the storm.

  There was someone at the door.

  “Mommy?”

  “Shh!” Anne hushed as she pulled back the sheets and rose out of bed. “Stay here. Keep quiet.”

  The girl nodded, squeezing the doll even tighter now that her mother’s body was no longer in the way. Sleeping in the same bed had never been meant to be a permanent thing, especially now that Terry was getting taller by the day it seemed, but Anne didn’t have the heart to make her sleep alone.

  The nightmares that had started after Wallace’s accident, while less frequent, still reared their ugly head now and again.

  “That’s it, hug your doll. Everything will be okay.”

  Anne carefully lit the lamp and then slowly made her way out of the bedroom, listening to the rain that seemed to pelt the roof with renewed vigor.

  Who is knocking so late?

  It couldn’t have been any of her clients... after all, she had cleared her schedule.

  A shudder suddenly coursed through her as she passed the kitchen table.

  What if something went wrong? What if Christine or Laura or one of the other girls had a miscarriage?

  Anne shook her head.

  She tried desperately to rationalize another reason why someone would be at her door in the middle of the night—during a thunderstorm, no less—but nothing made sense.

  Cautious and alert, when Anne made it to the door, instead of opening it, she put her ear against the wood and listened.

  She heard nothing.

  “Who is it?” she asked quietly, her attempt at sounding strong failing miserably.

  “Please,” a woman’s voice, one that she didn’t recognize, pleaded. “Please, I need your help. I came a long way to see you, Anne. A long, long way.”

  Anne hesitated.

  She knows my name.

  “What do you want?”

  “Please,” the woman repeated. “Please, Anne, let me in.”

  There was so much sadness in her voice, such unadulterated emotion, that Anne felt compelled to open the door despite her better judgment.

  What she saw was nothing like what she expected.

  The woman that stood in her doorway was tall and thin, with at least three inches on Anne. Her face was downcast, her blonde hair hanging in wet strings on her forehead. Unlike the other women that came to visit, however, Anne got the impression that it wasn’t embarrassment that affected her posture so, but something else. Something more visceral.

  Even looking down at her through strings of wet hair, Anne saw sadness and desperation clinging to her visible blue eye.

  “Yes?” Anne asked tentatively. She glanced into the downpour and saw a horse and carriage pulled onto her muddy lawn. This woman was different, much different, than the other women that had visited her before. For one, Anne had never seen her horse or carriage before. And yet, even though there was nothing particularly ostentatious about either, there was just something about this woman that suggested a different class than even Veronica Thomas. She had an air of richness and aristocracy that seemed to flood off her like a strange aura.

  The woman slowly raised her head, and Anne’s breath caught in her throat. The woman’s left eye was swollen shut, the surrounding skin a gruesome purple.

  “Please,” she said again, her good eye wet now from something other than rain. “I need your help.”

  Anne pulled the door wide and ushered her in, staring out into the storm for a moment before closing the door behind her.

  Chapter 9


  Anne offered the woman something warm and dry to wear, but she refused. The only thing she would accept was a seat at the table, despite the water that dripped from her soaked clothing and formed a small puddle on the floor beneath her.

  After this short interaction, the two women sat in silence for some time. Twice, Anne had an inclination to say something, but the woman’s stooped posture and downcast eyes convinced her otherwise.

  Thinking people, not reacting people, Anne.

  Instead, Anne observed. Her eyes flicked to the woman’s wrists resting on her kitchen table. Both were adorned with jeweled bracelets, but not the tacky type that the Veronicas of the world liked to wear.

  Everything about this woman screamed opulence without screaming anything at all.

  Everything, except for her black eye.

  The woman’s back finally rose and she straightened as if she had just taken her first breath since arriving. Slowly, methodically, she reached into her pocket and pulled out one of Anne’s wooden scarecrow figurines. She placed it standing up on the table in front of her.

  Where the—?

  “News travels fast and far, Anne LaForet. I heard about you all the way from Charleston.”

  Charleston.

  Anne’s heart skipped a beat. Everyone in the swamp had heard of Charleston, but to her knowledge, Anne didn’t know anyone who had ever met someone from there, let alone have them sit at their kitchen table, soaked or not.

  “Who is your husband?” Anne nearly whispered. She swallowed hard, trying not to let her excitement show on her face.

  The woman leveled her crisp blue eye at her.

  “Benjamin Heath,” she said simply.

  Anne did her best not to gawk.

  Not only was this woman from Charleston, which housed one of the largest plantations in the entire Southeast, but she was the wife of one of the plantation’s co-owners.

  Anne was flabbergasted and at a loss of words. Thankfully, the woman continued speaking—Anne doubted that she would have been able to say a word even if pressed to do so.

  “My name is Jane Heath,” she said. “And I’m desperate. My husband and I have tried everything, but I can’t get pregnant. I’m afraid—I’m afraid—”

  Her voice hitched and her hand reflexively went to her bruised eye. Anne remembered the way that Ken Thomas used to holler at her, and how Veronica’s dress occasionally rode up, revealing dark bruises on her arms and legs show.

  Yeah, Anne knew just how desperate women like Jane Heath could be.

  “Please, can you help me?”

  The bluntness of the question took Anne by surprise, and she took a moment to collect herself. Unlike the women from the swamp that she had helped conceive, Jane Heath represented a unique opportunity for her. Anne licked her lips, knowing that she could extract immeasurable wealth from Jane, wealth of the like that would make Veronica Thomas’s stupid white dress look like it was crafted from shed snakeskin.

  But Jane Heath could offer more than money.

  Much, much more.

  Wallace’s words echoed in her head.

  Me, you, Terry, we’re thinking people.

  Jane Heath represented more than money to Anne and Teresa; she represented a way for her to get out of the swamp, away from the Veronicas and Christines and their petty rumors and judgment.

  Jane offered something that money simply couldn’t buy, that even Wallace couldn’t provide when he was still alive.

  Jane offered prestige, a name.

  Anne’s mind was already whirring, imagining extravagant parties, Terry playing with girls her own age, tiaras and castles... a child’s fairytale fantasy.

  Her fantasy.

  “Yes,” Anne said quietly, making the difficult decision not to ask for payment of any kind. “Yes, of course I can help.”

  This time, Anne couldn’t help but smile.

  Chapter 10

  Anne LaForet awoke the day after Jane Heath’s visit with a massive smile plastered on her face. She had been so excited about the possibility of leaving the swamp that sleep had been spastic, interrupted. But, surprisingly, she didn’t feel tired; instead, she felt invigorated.

  Her conversation with Jane had gone exceedingly well. The woman had drunk a full cup of tea with three ounces of her breast milk without hesitation. Desperation drove deep in this woman, and she didn’t so much blink an eye at the idea of drinking the milk. Then, after an awkward embrace, she had upped and left.

  Although Anne had asked for no compensation from Jane, there was an unspoken promise in the woman’s good eye.

  She would return, and when she did, Jane would announce her pregnancy with more than just words.

  Anne just knew she would.

  “Why you smiling, Mama?” Terry asked.

  Anne turned to her daughter as the girl rubbed sleep from her eyes.

  “I’m just happy, is all.”

  I’m finally happy.

  It had taken a long time to get over Wallace’s death, but with things looking up the way they were, Anne felt confident that she was finally free of the grief.

  She still missed him, and always would, but she had to move on—and now was the time.

  “I’m just happy.”

  Terry smiled, lifting the doll up for both of them to see.

  “Mother is happy too,” she said, her voice full of sleep.

  Anne’s brow furrowed.

  “Mother?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m going to call her Mother.”

  “The doll?”

  Terry flipped onto her back and held the doll over her head by the down-filled arms.

  “Yeah. Mother.”

  Anne shook her head, trying not to let Terry’s strange name for the doll bother her. Not today; she was too happy for something like this to bother her today. Anne pulled herself out of bed, glancing quickly out the window as she did.

  The rain had stopped sometime during the night and the sun was just starting to rise. Her eyes drifted across the wet grass covered in tiny spheres of rain creating prisms of light before evaporating in the morning heat. Eventually her gaze fell on the worn white cross at the corner of her plot.

  A single tear fell down her cheek, but it wasn’t brought on by sadness.

  We are going to be just fine, Wally. Everything is going to be just fine.

  “Mom, you okay?”

  Anne leaned over and tousled the girl’s long blonde hair.

  “Better than fine, sweetie. I’m great. Now get up and get dressed. We’re going to the market, remember?”

  Terry’s face went flat.

  “Who visited last night?” she asked.

  Anne stared at her daughter’s big blue eyes for a moment.

  “No one,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation. “No one important. Now get up—we are going to get some meat today.”

  Terry sat bolt upright.

  “Meat?”

  Anne chuckled.

  “Yep. Meat. Now get dressed, you rascal.”

  The Stumphole market wasn’t much of a market, not really. Located in a clearing near the center of the swamp, it consisted of maybe a dozen wooden booths set up by several of the townsfolk. They weren’t traditional vendors, but people of the swamp with items that they wanted to trade or sell.

  The Thomases had a booth filled with produce, while Christine Porsette and her husband had one flush with grains and oats. Others still had booths with household items like bedding or candles, lanterns and fuel.

  But today, as Anne made her way through the market with the smile from this morning still on her face and Terry’s hand cupped in her own, she had no interest in these booths.

  Today she only had eyes for one booth, the last booth, the one manned by the ever curmudgeonly Samuel Kitniss.

  The meat man.

  Rarely did she ever make it all the way to his booth before turning back, not wanting to deal with his scornful leer or the temptation, knowing that there was no way she could afford any of the ration
s of bacon or the sides of beef.

  But today was different.

  “Come on, Terry,” she said, tugging her daughter along. “Let’s go straight to the meat!”

  Terry smiled and turned to her doll that was clutched in her other hand. The doll’s large blue eyes rolled in her head as she shook her gently.

  “You hear that, Mother? We are going to have meat!”

  Anne chuckled.

  They passed the Thomases’ booth first, and she was surprised that Veronica was manning it instead of her husband.

  “Anne!” she hollered, waving a hand. As she stood, Anne noticed that she was wearing one of her tighter dresses, a bright blue number, that accentuated her growing belly. “Interested in any produce, today?”

  Anne shook her head.

  “No thanks, Veronica,” she replied. Anne wasn’t interested in vegetables, and besides, she still hadn’t finished the basket that had been mysteriously delivered last week.

  Veronica had never admitted that she was the one dropping it off, but Anne knew it was her nonetheless.

  Christine Porsette waved as she passed, and Anne waved back. Terry made Mother wave as well. Anne wasn’t interested in interacting with any of the other booths, so she fell into the center of the worn path, filing in behind the twenty or so other patrons that perused the market this day. To her surprise, she wasn’t greeted with the usual scorn; instead, people seemed to be smiling at her and little Terry. In fact, Georgia Perkins, a large, doughy woman who was always covered in flour, actually stopped to pat Teresa on the head and say hello.

  Wallace, things are definitely looking up, and as you look down, I hope you are proud.

  They were nearly at Mr. Kitness’s meat stall when someone grabbed Anne by the arm and squeezed tightly.

  “Ow!” Anne cried out, turning to see who had accosted her.

  She recoiled.

  The woman was short, her back so crooked that she was nearly horizontal to the ground. A quick glance at the woman’s hand revealed that it was a gnarled, leathery thing, the finger joints swollen and bulbous.

  “Let go,” she said, her voice still laced with pain.

  The woman looked up. Her face was not all that indistinguishable from her hands; old, worn, and weathered. But it was her eyes that were the most off-putting. They were a dark black, the pupils unrecognizable from the irises. She reeked of rotting vegetation, which was probably—hopefully—emanating from the soiled rags that hung from her wire frame body.