On a Witch and a Prayer: A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short

by Amanda M. Lee

  “The last time was in high school,” Thistle said.

  “I’ve seen you guys conduct séances,” I argued.

  “You saw us conduct séances to call ghosts who were stuck here,” Bay clarified. “Those are easy.”

  “We still always screw them up,” Clove said.

  I smirked. She hated séances. Bay and Thistle had to drag her kicking and screaming when it was time to conduct one. “Can we at least try?”

  “We can,” Bay said.

  “I would rather not,” Clove said.

  “You’ll be fine,” Thistle said. “We’ll be there, and the guys will watch your back. Nothing bad will happen.”

  “That’s what you said when we conjured Patricia Norton’s ghost in high school,” Clove said, crossing her arms over her chest. “No one wants that to happen again. I smelled like dirty water for a week.”

  Bay shuddered in my lap.

  “Who is Patricia Norton?” I asked.

  “She was this old woman who had a reputation for being really mean to kids when we were little,” Thistle said. “She died when we were in high school, so we got drunk and thought it would be a good idea to call her back over after she died.”

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t a good idea,” I said. “By the way, who was serving you guys under age?”

  “Are you honestly saying that you didn’t drink in high school?” Bay asked.

  “I’m saying we did it the normal way, by stealing from the refrigerators of our parents and paying a local bum to buy us liquor,” I said. “Something tells me you three didn’t have that problem.”

  “We stole from Aunt Tillie,” Thistle said.

  Clove glanced over her shoulder, as if making sure Aunt Tillie hadn’t managed to sneak in and eavesdrop. “We didn’t steal. We … borrowed.”

  “Oh, whatever,” Thistle said. “We totally stole from her. She caught us so many times I lost count.”

  “What did she do to you?” Marcus asked, intrigued.

  “Usually she just cursed us with the basics,” Bay said. “Our pants wouldn’t fit. We got tongue-tied when talking to boys. We’d blurt out strange things in the middle of conversations.”

  “Once she cursed us so that we had theme music whenever we entered a room,” Thistle interjected. “It took me forever to get the Facts of Life theme out of my head.”

  “That’s a better song than the Little House on the Prairie theme,” Clove grumbled. “At least your song had lyrics.”

  “Why the Little House on the Prairie theme?” Sam asked.

  “Aunt Tillie always thought Clove was a goody-goody,” Thistle said, smirking.

  “What was your theme?” I asked, poking Bay in the side.

  “The theme from Dallas.” Bay made a face. “It didn’t even have a dance beat.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Aunt Tillie always thought Bay was a drama queen,” Thistle said.

  I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. That made sense. “Why did you get the Facts of Life?” I asked.

  “Because she knew I hated that song,” Thistle said. “The best part was that she gave our mothers and herself theme songs for the week, too.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this,” Sam said, giddy.

  I couldn’t help but agree. “What were they?”

  “Marnie’s was The Addams Family theme,” Bay said, smiling at the memory.

  “She was really angry,” Clove said.

  “Twila’s was The Golden Girls. She actually liked her song,” Bay said.

  “Aunt Winnie’s was Charlie’s Angels,” Thistle supplied.

  “Why?”

  “She was going through a weird hair-feathering phase,” Bay said. “Aunt Tillie hated her hair, and it was meant to make fun of it from afar. It worked, too. Mom cut her hair three days later.”

  “What was Aunt Tillie’s theme?” I asked, readying myself for the ultimate punch line.

  “The Greatest American Hero,” Thistle said. “She even took to wearing a cape.”

  And there it was. Stories like this are exactly why I love this family. I just can’t help myself.

  “DID we really need the blanket?” I asked, spreading an old comforter on the ground and watching as Marcus and Sam deposited copious amounts of liquor, glasses and an ice bucket on the corners. “Are we planning on staying out here long enough to drink all of that?”

  “It’s a nice night,” Bay said. “We might as well enjoy it.”

  She had a point. Still … . “Can’t we just drink in the guesthouse?”

  “Are you afraid of the woods?” Thistle teased, placing candles in a circle on top of the bluff.

  The land surrounding The Overlook is extensive, but when it comes to conducting magical rites the Winchesters always pick the same clearing. It’s mostly bare, except for some distinctive rock formations cut into the hillside. I’ve thought about asking why they insist on going to the same spot, but part of me is perfectly fine being left in the dark. I want to know some things. Knowing too much is dangerous, though. “I’m not afraid of the woods. I just know when to give the woods a healthy … respect.”

  Bay helped Thistle distribute candles, but she stilled long enough to send me a searching look. “Are you afraid of the woods?”

  “I’m not afraid of the woods!” This conversation was starting to get away from me.

  “Don’t worry,” Bay said, smiling. “I’ll protect you.”

  Marcus and Sam snickered, causing me to bristle. “I’m not afraid of the woods!”

  “Of course you’re not,” Clove said, sympathetic. “If you were, though, I would totally understand.”

  “That’s because you’re afraid of the woods,” Thistle said, rolling her eyes.

  “I’m not afraid of the woods,” Clove said.

  I thought about stepping in and helping her for a moment, but since everyone had shifted their attention to her I didn’t want to give them a reason to come after me again. She’s used to it. She’ll live.

  “You’re afraid of Bigfoot,” Thistle said.

  “That’s because Bigfoot is scary,” Clove said.

  “I’ll protect you from Bigfoot,” Sam said, winking at Clove. “He won’t get near you.”

  “Bigfoot isn’t real,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Bay asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “A year ago you thought witches weren’t real either,” Bay reminded me.

  That was a good point. Still … . “Are you saying you believe in Bigfoot?”

  Bay’s face was serious -- for exactly three seconds. Then she couldn’t fight the spreading grin. “No. I just like messing with you.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “I’m going to make you pay for that later.”

  “I’m looking forward to your torture expertise.” Bay gave me a quick kiss and then moved to the circle. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”

  “One dead woman coming up,” Thistle said, extending her hands and linking fingers with Bay and Clove. “This is where the fun begins.”

  “THERE’S no reason to pout,” I said, topping off Bay’s chocolate martini with one hand and rubbing her neck with the other. “It was a good try.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “It was still a good try.”

  After forty minutes of watching Bay, Thistle and Clove chant at the moon – frustration becoming evident when Thistle’s chants turned to dirty limericks – the trio gave up. I was happy. The first five minutes watching them was exhilarating. After that, though? The real problem with the woods is that you can’t watch Sports Center when you’re bored.

  The six of us gave up on the séance and started mainlining chocolate martinis. We’d been at it for about a half hour, and none of us were particularly interested in packing up and returning to the guesthouse. It seemed Bay and her cousins knew what they were doing when they thought ahead and brought the comforter and alcohol.

  I relaxed on the blanket, propping myself up
on one elbow as I sipped my martini. “You did your best. Don’t let it get you down.”

  “We should have asked Aunt Tillie for help,” Clove said.

  “Did you take a stupid pill when I wasn’t looking?” Thistle asked, cuffing Clove’s head. “We can’t ask Aunt Tillie. If we put her in a position to add alcohol and magic to her already bad mood she’ll curse us to within an inch of our lives.”

  “I think you guys give her too much power,” I said. “She only curses you because she knows she can get away with it.”

  “She curses us because she likes it,” Thistle said. “Being mean is what keeps her alive.”

  “Sometimes I think you’re bitter,” I said.

  “Sometimes I think you’re right,” Thistle replied, leaning her head against Marcus’ shoulder.

  “Well, it’s not a total loss,” I said. “We have a beautiful night and a full jug of martinis.”

  “I thought you were afraid of the woods,” Bay prodded.

  “I thought you were here to protect me,” I said, grinning. “You’re going to have to stay close if you want to do that.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “The only thing that could make this better is a BLT,” I said, pouring another martini for myself. “And a few pillows.”

  Six

  “Well, isn’t this just a kick in the pants.”

  It took me a second to get my bearings, and when I did, I immediately wished I could go back to sleep. Bay was asleep beside me, her head tucked in next to my shoulder. The comforter from the night before was cluttered with four other bodies, too. Apparently the chocolate martinis claimed another night from us. I really should ban them. They’re the Devil’s drink.

  I shifted my attention to the figure standing at the edge of the blanket and sucked in a breath as the early morning light bombarded my eyes. If I was dreaming, this was surely the nightmare portion of the big event.

  Aunt Tillie, dressed in camouflage pants and a combat helmet, crossed her arms over her chest as she met my gaze. “This is undignified,” she said.

  “I’ve seen you get hammered and dance naked in this very spot,” I said. “At least we’re all dressed.”

  “What’s going on?” Bay murmured, shifting. “Oh, man, my back is killing me.”

  “Join the club,” I said, helping us both struggle to a sitting position. “I don’t know when it happened, but I’m officially too old to sleep on the ground.”

  “What’s going on here?” Aunt Tillie asked.

  “We conducted a séance,” Thistle said, pushing herself to a sitting position on the far end of the comforter. “It didn’t work, so we decided to get drunk. My head feels like it’s going to explode, by the way.”

  Aunt Tillie narrowed her eyes. “Why were you conducting a séance?”

  “We were trying to contact Peg Mulder,” Clove replied. “It didn’t work.”

  “Why do you want to talk to Peg Mulder?” Aunt Tillie asked. “What makes you even think she’s dead?”

  I froze, something in her question nudging the far corners of my muddled mind. “Oh … of course.”

  “Of course what?” Bay asked.

  “You guys couldn’t get the spell to work last night.”

  “I was there,” Bay said. “There’s no reason to rub it in.”

  “Maybe you couldn’t get it to work because Peg Mulder isn’t dead,” I said. “You were trying to talk to a ghost that doesn’t exist.”

  “Spirit,” Bay corrected.

  “Is there a difference?” Mornings aren’t my favorite part of the day. Bay is usually grumpy when we first wake up, and I like to blame our morning quiet on her, but I’m as bad as she is.

  Thistle made a sound like a cat in heat.

  I shot her a look. “Don’t push me this morning. I’m in pain.” I rubbed my lower back, pulling my hands away when I felt Bay’s fingers knead into the tender spot. “Oh, man, that feels good. I’ll buy you a car if you keep doing that for an hour.”

  Aunt Tillie rolled her eyes. “I’m not saying Peg Mulder is alive,” she said. “I’m saying we don’t know for sure she’s dead.”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I think she’s dead,” Aunt Tillie said. “That doesn’t mean you can call her spirit over if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “We know what we’re doing,” Thistle said. “We’ve done it before.”

  “Oh, you mean that time you called Patricia Norton back over?”

  Thistle nodded.

  “I did that,” Aunt Tillie said. “I saw you stealing my wine and wanted to punish you. If I remember that night correctly, you got exactly what you deserved for stealing from me.”

  “That was you?” Clove jumped to her feet, cringing when her sore muscles fought the motion. “Do you know what happened to me that night?”

  “You thought a ghost was trying to kiss you,” Aunt Tillie replied, nonplussed. “In your haste to escape, you ran right into a bog. A particularly smelly bog, if memory serves.

  “Your cousins then spent a week telling you that if a female ghost was attracted to you that meant you were a lesbian and you didn’t know it yet,” she continued. “Every time a woman touched you for the next month you thought she was hitting on you.”

  “I forgot about that,” Thistle said, chuckling throatily. “We paid Lydia Simpson twenty bucks to tell you that your hair looked particularly nice one day. You were convinced she was going to ask you to the prom. Oh, man, that was so funny.”

  “It was not funny,” Clove said. “I was a mess for … well … forever.”

  Thistle arched a challenging eyebrow. “Forever? Do you still think you have latent lesbian tendencies? Should Sam be worried?”

  “I’m fine if she thinks she’s a lesbian,” Sam replied, still flat on his back and staring at the sky. “As long as I can watch, I’m good.”

  “You’re a sick man,” Aunt Tillie said.

  “Whatever.” Sam didn’t appear to be a morning person either.

  “What are you doing out here so early?” I asked, shifting my attention back to Aunt Tillie. “It’s barely dawn.”

  “I’m … taking a walk,” Aunt Tillie said.

  The pause was brief, but it was enough to tip me that she was lying. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Did I have the energy to push her on this? My back, even with Bay’s magic fingers working out the kinks, screamed “no.” Aunt Tillie must have sensed that, because she started shuffling toward the edge of the clearing. “If you’re up to something, knock it off,” I said. “If you’re not … then … just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “I’m never up to anything,” Aunt Tillie sniffed. “You keep maligning me in your mind.”

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  “You should all probably get going,” Aunt Tillie said. “Breakfast should be on the table up at the inn in about ten minutes, and after missing dinner last night, you’re all in trouble.”

  “What about you?” Thistle asked. “Aren’t you eating breakfast?”

  “I already ate,” Aunt Tillie said. “Now I’m walking it off. I’m getting into shape. I’m going to run a marathon.”

  I didn’t know a lot of eighty-year-olds running marathons, but I let it slide. “That sounds good to me,” I said. “I need some bacon.”

  “I need some coffee,” Thistle said, getting to her feet.

  “I need someone to help me get up,” Sam said. “I think my neck is frozen.”

  “I’m never sleeping on the ground again,” Bay said, rubbing her sore bottom ruefully. “I think we’re both officially old.”

  I gave her a quick kiss. “At least we still have our looks.”

  “I SMELL bacon.” I pushed through the back living quarters and pointed myself toward the kitchen. “I’m going to eat a pound of it.”

  “You have a nose like a bloodhound when there’s bacon around,” Bay said. “I bought a new perfume last week and you sti
ll haven’t commented on it.”

  “Bay, when is the one and only time I commented on your scent?”

  “When I smelled like bacon,” Bay said, her smile rueful. “Is that a hint? Should I roll around in bacon all day?”

  That sounded messy. “Just take photos,” I said.

  Marnie, Winnie and Twila were working as I strode into the kitchen. They all looked up, bright smiles on their faces, until they saw our clothing.

  “Isn’t that what you were wearing yesterday?” Winnie asked, furrowing her brow. “Why are you all dressed in the same clothes from yesterday?”

  “They probably had an orgy,” Twila said. That was always her go-to answer for everything. I had a feeling her history was littered with a few more naughty secrets than her sisters’ – or maybe she was just worse at hiding it.

  “We didn’t have an orgy,” Thistle snapped, heading straight for the coffee pot. “We were trying to have a séance and we fell asleep in the clearing.”

  “Why were you trying to have a séance?” Winnie asked.

  “Peg Mulder,” Bay replied. “We were hoping we could call her and she could tell us what happened to her. It would be so much easier than trying to track down John Mulder – or even her – now.”

  “Her?” Winnie pursed her lips as she shook the pieces of paper towel the bacon was drying on. “Do you think she’s alive?”

  “I think it’s a possibility,” I said. “We don’t know for sure that she’s dead.”

  “We don’t know anything for sure,” Winnie said. “I would like to believe that she’s alive.”

  “That would mean she abandoned her son,” Twila pointed out.

  “She would still be alive,” Winnie said. “Maybe someone kidnapped her and she’s been held captive for twenty years.”

  “I think that would be worse than dying,” Thistle said. “If someone kidnaps me, they’d better be ready to kill me. I’m not built for long confinement.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “If someone kidnapped you they could only put up with your mouth for an hour … tops.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Winnie waved a spatula in my face. “Don’t poke Thistle when she’s just waking up,” she said. “You know very well she’s crabby in the morning.”