The Seventh Witch

by Shirley Damsgaard

  I wasn’t too sure she couldn’t, but I kept my mouth shut and let her continue.

  “Annie had a bad heart. She doctored herself for years, but finally it went beyond even her healing and just gave out.”

  Shooting a wide-eyed look at Lydia, I saw her face wore the same expression as mine. “But why—”

  Elsie flapped a hand at me, cutting me off. “Annie didn’t want anyone to know, not even Abby. When she told me about it, she made me promise not to say anything.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I mumbled. “Wouldn’t it have been—”

  “Annie didn’t want to be treated like an invalid,” she said in a rush. “All of her life, Mary had fussed over her, and Annie was afraid if Mary knew of her condition, she’d take over. Annie didn’t want to spend her days being waited on and bossed around. She wanted to live her life on her terms, not Mary’s.”

  I thought about all the years Abby had spent convinced that the Dorans killed her mother and the pain that it had caused.

  “But after she died, why didn’t you say something?” I cried in an angry voice.

  Elsie scowled at me as her own anger gathered in her eyes. “I did!” she exclaimed. “The night Annie died, I tried to tell Mary, but she wouldn’t listen. She didn’t want to believe that her beloved sister would keep such a secret from her. She said the spirits would have told her if Annie was sick. And then she told me to git and I did. I’ve not talked to the woman since.”

  With a groan, I covered my face with my hands and tried to calm down. “Elsie, you have no idea the problems that secret has caused,” I muttered. Dropping my hands, I looked over at her and she glanced away.

  “Well,” she huffed, “maybe I should’ve told Abby.”

  “You think?” I asked with a glare.

  Lydia’s hand gently touched my knee under the table, and I took a deep breath. “Did Annie tell you anything about old man Doran and his son?”

  “No, all I know is for some reason she deeded over the Seven Sisters to them after the old man died.” She traced a circle on the tablecloth. “I never could figure out why, and when I asked, Annie wouldn’t say.”

  I looked at Lydia and she gave me an encouraging nod. As succinctly as I could, I laid out the situation between our family and the Dorans to Elsie. I explained what had happened to Abby at the standing stones and why they’d come into the possession of the Dorans. By the time I was finished, I felt her skinny frame vibrating with indignation.

  “That dirty bast—” She snapped her mouth shut and rose to her feet. “He never was worth the powder it’d take to blow him to hell. And her…” She hobbled over to the bookshelf and grabbed a couple of books. “She was just as bad.” Crossing back to the table, she smacked them down.

  A cloud of dust rose in the air.

  “There”—she waved a crooked finger at the books lying on the table—“if that old biddy and her granddaughter have been using the gifts of the forest for their trickery…” Her voice faded as she tapped the worn cover of the top book. “…how they done it will be in there. And if it’s not,” she said with a nod of her head and a wave at the shelves behind her, “it’ll be in one of those. I’ve spent most of my life studying what grows in these mountains, and I wrote everything I learned in them books.”

  Two hours later I’d learned Elsie had spoken the truth. The table was covered with stacks of her journals, as Lydia, Elsie, and I poured over them.

  “What about this?” My eyes skimmed over Elsie’s spidery handwriting. “You wrote that bloodroot could irritate the skin?”

  “That it can,” she said with a nod. “The red sap causes a rash.”

  “Hmm?” I looked over at Lydia. “Any of Sharon’s victims ever think she hexed them with sores?”

  “Maybelle, over at the beauty shop, once broke out in a rash all over her hands and arms after Sharon was unhappy with the way she had cut her hair.” Lydia’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “But how would Sharon manage to get the sap on Maybelle’s hands and arms?”

  “Hand cream. Beauticians use a lot of hand lotion, don’t they? Sharon could’ve slipped in some poison.” I turned to Elsie. “That would work, wouldn’t it?”

  “It might,” she replied.

  Lydia looked down at the journal in front of her and flipped one of the pages. “I haven’t found anything that would sour a well, though.” She glanced at me. “Have you?”

  “No.”

  Elsie gave another one of her low cackles. “I declare—you girls.” Sitting back in her chair, she crossed her thin arms. “You don’t need poison to ruin water. A five gallon bucket of hog manure will do just as well.”

  “Would it make them sick?”

  “No, it’d stink so bad no one would be stupid enough to drink it.”

  I thought about Martin Thomas and his dead sheep. “Would sheep eat mountain laurel, Elsie?”

  “Sheep will eat anything you give them,” she said with a snort. “So will most livestock.” She pulled one of the books toward her and opened it. “I think it’s in here…yes, here it is…lambkill. It’s a cousin of mountain laurel.”

  I shut the book in front of me and folded my hands on top of it. “In other words, there are plenty of ways that Sharon could’ve poisoned livestock, caused rashes, and soured wells.” My eyes slid to Lydia. “But what about Oscar Nelson? Did she poison him, or did he just conveniently die of natural causes?”

  Elsie brushed a straggly gray hair away from her face. “If she’s been practicing on livestock, it wouldn’t take her long to learn what would work on a man.”

  “Any ideas?” I asked.

  “Water hemlock is the deadliest. There’s been many who’ve mistaken it for parsnips and died for their mistake.” She bit on her lip. “But that’s usually in the spring.”

  Lydia flipped her book shut. “What would cause hemorrhaging?”

  “Jeweled death cap would give you a bellyache before it killed you.”

  “Jeweled death cap?”

  “Poison mushrooms. Nasty way to die,” she said with a shiver. “One of the poisons shows up in the bloodstream right away.”

  “What else?” Lydia asked.

  “Cottonmouth venom.”

  “Ha,” I snorted. “I already know Sharon has a fondness for snakes.” I explained finding the rattler in the bedroom to Elsie.

  “Venom from a cottonmouth destroys tissue.” She frowned. “So if a snake would’ve bit him, or if she’d have stuck him with something containing the venom, there’d have been marks on the body.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about an autopsy—did they do one?” I asked, looking over at Lydia.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Everyone, including the sheriff, just assumed Oscar’s stomach ailment finally killed him.”

  “And if they didn’t do an autopsy, they probably didn’t do any blood tests.” I pulled my dusty hands through my hair in frustration. “Without tests, we have no way of knowing what really killed him, do we?”

  Lydia shook her head sadly. “No, we don’t. If Sharon did poison him, she could’ve used any number of things.”

  Elsie picked up one of the books and carried it over to the bookshelf. “Why don’t you ask him?” she said over her shoulder.

  “Huh?” Lydia and I blurted out simultaneously.

  Elsie turned and fisted her hands on her hips. “And you girls call yourselves witches?” Shaking her head, she joined us back at the table. “First thing you should’ve thought of was using a circle. Make one and have Mary ask him how he died. She’s always been mighty proud of her ability to talk to the dead. Not that she’d have a problem with him.” She gave a little snicker. “Oscar always did go on about his health in life…don’t imagine he’s changed in death.”

  Thirty

  Staring out the window, I thought over all the things we’d learned from Elsie. A lot to absorb in one afternoon. “She won’t do it,” I muttered.

  “Great-Aunt Mary?”
Lydia asked.

  “Yeah.” I turned and faced her. “All these years…what a waste. I can’t believe she didn’t tell Abby about Annie’s illness.”

  Lydia lifted a shoulder. “She didn’t think Elsie was telling the truth.”

  “But shouldn’t she have told Abby what Elsie said and let her decide whether or not it was the truth?”

  “I don’t know,” Lydia replied, her voice full of unhappiness. “Great-Aunt Mary has always had her blind spots, and one of those is accepting that someone knows more than she does.”

  “It’s called pride,” I snorted. “And her pride has caused too much pain for others.”

  She gave me a sideways glance. “You have to give her a chance, Ophelia. All of her life she’s relied on her gift to guide her. Often to the exclusion of all else.”

  “And if the spirits say no, then that’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if the facts say different?”

  Lydia nodded.

  “That’s nuts. I know she doesn’t think much of me, but at least I’ve grown to accept that what I see isn’t always right. That my interpretation might be off.”

  She gave a big sigh. “I guess that’s something she never learned. Mama once told me that Great-Aunt Mary was only eight years old when people started coming to her.”

  “That’s young,” I exclaimed.

  “I know…Mama always said the same thing. And even back then, Great-Aunt Mary was right more often than wrong. I guess over the years she just learned to assume that she was always right.”

  I turned back to the window. I’d never had that problem. All my life I’d second-guessed myself, especially after Brian’s murder and my inability to prevent it. I’d always wished for more confidence, but looking at the way Great-Aunt Mary had behaved, maybe my doubts hadn’t been such a bad thing. They’d left me open to consider other possibilities, they’d kept me honest. Maybe in the end it was all about balance—having faith in yourself, yet at the same time not letting that faith con you into thinking that you were never wrong.

  “Are you going to tell Abby about her mother?” Lydia asked, breaking into my thoughts.

  “Yeah, but not in front of the Aunts.”

  “Good idea,” she said as she pulled into their driveway.

  With Lydia and Jasper following behind, I walked slowly up the path to the Aunts’ door. I dreaded talking to Abby. Would she be relieved that there was an explanation for her mother’s death? That Annie had passed on because it was her time, and not because Granny Doran had put a death spell on her? Or would she be upset to learn that her mother had been ill and hid it from her? I didn’t know, but after all these years, Abby deserved the truth.

  After entering the house, the first thing we saw were stacks of boxes. Mom, Dad, Abby, Great-Aunt Mary, Aunt Dot, and Tink were all gathered in the living room, and the floor around them was littered with old newspaper clippings, photographs, and memorabilia.

  Tink sat at Great-Aunt Mary’s feet, wearing a hat that had to date back to the thirties. The floppy felt brim framed her young face as she read a yellowed newspaper article. Seeing me, she looked up.

  “Look what I found,” she said, fingering the brim. “Great-Aunt Mary said I could keep it. Isn’t it cool?”

  I forced a smile. “Sure is, kid. What are you doing and what’s all this stuff?”

  Placing the paper on the floor, she picked up an old sepia photograph and handed it to me. “Abby and I are making a display for Great-Aunt Mary’s party. This is a picture of Abby’s grandparents.”

  I looked down at the picture. An elderly man sat stiffly in a high-backed chair, his hands resting on his knees. Next to him stood a woman wearing a long black dress with a high collar. Her hand rested on his shoulder. They both looked rather grim.

  “When was this taken?” I asked, handing the picture back to her.

  “About 1920, I think,” Abby replied from her place on the couch. “Come here,” she said, patting a spot next to her.

  I joined her, and she held out another photograph. “You wanted to see a picture of Daddy,” she said as I took the picture from her.

  A young man dressed in an Army uniform stared up at me. A half smile lit his face and a familiar twinkle shone in his eyes. It was the same twinkle I’d seen many times in Abby’s green eyes. He looked so young, with his smooth skin unmarred by wrinkles. And his dark hair peeking out from under a cap set at a jaunty angle had no gray. I felt my throat tighten. Robert hadn’t had a chance to get wrinkles or gray hair. His life had ended too soon on a battlefield in France.

  But Abby had been right—I saw my mother in the face of the man staring up at me.

  “He was very handsome,” I said, clearing my throat and handing the picture back to her.

  “Yes, he was,” she replied as she gently traced her finger over his face. “He was a good man.”

  “Look at this picture,” Tink said, scooting across the floor on her knees. “This is Abby’s mom.”

  I looked down at the picture, then over at Abby. The resemblance was remarkable. Same high cheekbones, same mouth, same eyes—Abby was the spitting image of her mother.

  She took the picture from my hand and held it next to the one of her father, as if she was seeing her parents together once again.

  “I’d forgotten about this one of Mother,” she said, her eyes misting over. “It was taken the same day as the one of Daddy. Mother didn’t want to spend the money, but Daddy insisted.” She looked at Tink. “Now that I think of it—there should be one of the three of us together. Are there any more boxes upstairs, Tink?”

  “Tons,” she exaggerated, rolling her eyes.

  Abby chuckled. “Would you like to bring them down, please?”

  “Sure.” Tink hopped to her feet and skipped toward the stairway door.

  “Wait a minute,” Great-Aunt Mary grumbled. “I think we’ve drug out enough old stuff.”

  I stiffened and felt my eyes harden as I glanced over at her. Abby laid a hand on my knee. “Don’t worry—we’ll clean it up,” she said to Great-Aunt Mary. “Tink’s having fun digging through all these family memories. Just let her bring one more box down.”

  “Oh all right,” Great-Aunt Mary said reluctantly as she shifted in her chair. “Better make sure you put it all away. I don’t want to be tripping over anything in the dark.”

  As Tink disappeared up the stairs, I nudged Abby with my shoulder. “Want to go for a walk?”

  Turning her attention to me, a puzzled look crossed her face. “I suppose.” I heard the unspoken question in her voice.

  Great-Aunt Mary abruptly leaned forward. “Don’t y’all be running off and leaving this mess.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Mom piped in.

  The two of us rose, and leaving the rest of them in the living room, crossed to the door. Abby grabbed a sweatshirt from the coat hook. “Where are we going?” she asked softly as we went out the door.

  “I’d like to go to the outcrop, if you don’t mind,” I answered.

  “Okay.”

  We hiked along in silence, and as we did, I tried to frame how I would tell Abby about her mother. She seemed happy as she linked her arm with mine, and I hated to spoil her mood, but she had to know.

  When we reached the outcrop, I pointed to the boulder. “Have a seat.”

  With a small smile, she squinted up at me. “What’s this all about?”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Do you remember Cousin Elsie?”

  Her sudden laugh rang out over the valley. “The poison lady? I sure do. Why, I haven’t thought of her in years,” she mused. “She and Mother were close. I take it you met her?”

  “Yeah, Lydia and I had dinner with her.”

  “I should go see her.”

  “Don’t mention Great-Aunt Mary,” I muttered.

  “I know. Great-Aunt Mary had always been a little jealous of her relationship with Mother, but I think there was some kind of blow-up when Mother passed
.” A slight frown wrinkled Abby’s forehead. “It’s silly. At their age, they should let go of old hurts and bitterness.”

  I really hoped she meant that.

  Abby took a deep breath and tilted her head back, letting the late afternoon sun warm her face. And considering what had happened over the last few days, she seemed to be at peace. I hated the idea of shattering it.

  “Ah…” I said, and plopped down on the rock next to her. “Speaking of Elsie…Lydia and I spent the day snooping.”

  The corner of Abby’s mouth lifted in a grin as she opened her eyes and turned her attention to me. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Why were you snooping at Elsie’s?”

  I rubbed my legs. “I don’t believe Sharon Doran can cast spells.”

  Abby’s grin faded. “You don’t?”

  “I know she has everyone convinced that she can, and it’s evident that she’s trying to use magick to harm,” I said, remembering Sharon’s poppets, “but I don’t believe her spells work.”

  “I don’t know, Ophelia,” Abby said, slowly shaking her head. “Everyone says bad luck follows those who cross her.”

  I pivoted toward her. “But she’s making sure that bad luck happens,” I said, not keeping the excitement out of my voice.

  “How—” She stopped. “You were at Elsie’s? Poison?”

  I nodded. “I think she’s doing other stuff, too, but poison seems to be the biggy.”

  Abby bowed her head as she mulled over my idea. Suddenly, she lifted her head and I saw anger gathering on her face. “Mother? If Sharon’s using poison,” she clutched my knee, “do you suppose—”

  I grabbed her wrist, stopping her. “No, Abby, Granny Doran did not poison your mother,” I said flatly.

  “You can’t know for certain,” she cried, “and if she did, I’ll—”

  “Abby,” I said sharply, “Annie had heart disease.”

  Her eyes flew wide. “What? No!”

  I took her hand in mine and I felt her pain. “I’m sorry…I know what a shock this must be.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me?” she gasped, bowing her head.