Chapter 2 – The Witch

I was born into a small town in east Texas along the southern edge of Caddo Lake, and I’ve lived there all my life. Being out on the water is a big part of what goes on, but I have to admit that I’ve always found the lake a little creepy, with all its cypress trees and Spanish moss, all the animal sounds—especially at night. To tell you the truth, I’d rather be inside as opposed to outside, doing inside things. That’s probably one of the reasons I always liked school so much.

At the beginning of this school year, though—my senior year—things changed. Being the small town that we are, we naturally have a pretty small school; there are only twelve kids in my grade, for instance. That means we all know each other pretty well, just like we know the kids in the grades above and below us. It also means that you might have the same teacher for several classes in a given year—there weren’t that many teachers, either.

That’s what happened to me this year. Mr. Stewart teaches most of the math and science classes. I still needed to take physics, precalculus, and chemistry to get into most of the colleges I was applying to, and it so happened that Mr. Stewart was teaching all three. That meant that I’d have him first period, second period, and last period. Quite a lot of exposure to one teacher is what I initially thought, but in the end I figured it didn’t matter. One teacher per class—made no difference who the teacher was. Of course, I’d had no idea what I was talking about.

It started on the first day—first period, in fact. My last name is Smith. Mr. Stewart chose to call me Smithereens. Everybody thought it was funny. I didn’t, but it was only mildly annoying. I could tolerate a little ribbing on the first day of school. The thing is, though, that it kept on going—the name-calling was only the beginning. It soon got to where every time I opened my mouth in any of his classes, he’d have a smartass comeback. I’d become his foil, his mark, and it only seemed to get worse over time. In fact, after a few weeks, none of my classmates would laugh at his insults anymore; they’d stopped being funny, even to them, and were growing increasingly nasty.

Frankly, I didn’t know what to do about it. I couldn’t imagine spending an entire school year having to put up with that kind of harassment—and not just once a day, but three times a day. I tried talking to him about it, but that only seemed to make things worse. I talked to my principal, but he only laughed it off and told me to toughen up and be a man.

Had my daddy still been around, I would’ve told him. Based on what I remember, after giving Mr. Stewart a choice, Daddy would’ve handled the situation one way or the other. He didn’t take very kindly to folks disrespecting his kin, and made his points enthusiastically. Daddy wasn’t around anymore, though—he died when I was ten. I told my mom about Mr. Stewart, but she wasn’t up to doing anything.

It got to the point where I was fantasizing about things I’d like to do to Mr. Stewart, pretty vile things, things that would’ve likely gotten me sent to prison. I didn’t want to go to prison, though, so it was unlikely I’d ever act on any of them.

Chemistry was last period. One Thursday afternoon about a month into the school year, he basically called me a pussy in front of the whole class, and said I was too chicken shit to do anything about it. Of course, he hadn’t used any cuss words—I’m paraphrasing—but essentially that’s what he’d said. Then the bell had rung, and everyone filed out of the class, except for me. I just sat there in my seat, thoroughly humiliated, thinking that there was no way I could endure this for another eight months. It just wasn’t possible. If I quit school, though, I wouldn’t be able to get into college. I couldn’t let Mr. Stewart keep me from going to college, could I? It was a quandary, to say the least.

I’d headed quite a ways down into my daydream by then, but I was startled back by a hand resting on my shoulder. I whipped around, and there stood Missy . . . I couldn’t even remember her last name. She was a grade behind me and had just moved to our school middle of last year. I remember being interested in her at the time—all my friends had, because she was pretty cute, had long, wavy red hair and a fair complexion. She turned out to be pretty aloof, though, and never gave any of my friends the time of day, so I never even bothered. I found it odd that she’d stayed back, and was apparently about to talk to me.

She asked, “Why does he talk to you that way?”

I just shook my head. “I have no idea.”

“Why do you let him?”

As if I didn’t feel bad enough already. “I don’t let him—he just does.”

“Why don’t you do something about it?”

More ego bruising. I thought back to all the things I’d tried to do, all the supposed authority figures I’d spoken to, all the fantasies I’d had about what I’d like to do to him, but in the end I didn’t say anything. It appeared I didn’t have an answer to that question.

“I can help,” she said. “I can help if you want.”

“You?” Somehow, that was more degrading still. “What could you do?”

She went to Mr. Stewart’s desk and opened a drawer, where she found a comb. She examined it carefully, and then seemed to take several hairs from it, which she wrapped in a small piece of aluminum foil, and then she looked back at me.

“Come on,” she said, and started out of the classroom.

Probably because I didn’t have a reason not to, I followed her. She led me out of the school and started down the highway, and I followed. She led us down an overgrown dirt road, and I followed. We walked for ten or so minutes, and then she started down a trail that led away from the road and toward the lake. I started to follow, but then I stopped.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“My place,” she said without stopping, or even looking back.

I hesitated, not really caring to go to the lake for a variety of reasons, but then I followed.

We must’ve walked another five minutes or so through thick forest and underbrush before I saw it, a weathered little trailer house covered with vines and foliage sitting at the lake’s edge. There was a pier out front with a motorless boat tied to it.

“Wait here,” she said, and then went inside.

I waited there in the yard, keeping an eye out for snakes and gators. There were the usual noises around, noises that made me a little uncomfortable, but I stayed put. Only a minute or so later she came back out, and she was carrying a small clay canister, like what my grandmomma would put flour or sugar in. She walked past me toward the pier, and without being asked, I followed. She got in the boat; I stopped at the edge of the pier.

“Where are we going now?”

“Out on the lake—I need to get some things.”

Again, I didn’t want to; but not wanting to seem like the pussy Mr. Stewart had called me, I got in the boat. She told me to do the paddling, so I did. She directed me to a field of lily pads and had me stop. I started to say something, but she told me to be quiet—she had to concentrate. She seemed to whisper something to herself, and then she reached down into the water and yanked up one of the smaller lily pads. She put it in her canister, and then directed me over toward the bank.

I’d cringed when she’d stuck her hand under the water; I mean, there’s no telling what might’ve been swimming around down there. That had been nothing, though, compared to what happened next. When we got close to the bank, she stood up, looked around the surface of the lake for a minute, and then jumped it. Before I could voice a protest, she went completely under the murky water, and I couldn’t see her at all. I looked all over, but there was no sign of her. I don’t know how long she was down there, either, but I’m sure it must’ve seemed a lot longer than it actually was. I’d begun to worry that I was going to have to go in after her before she popped back up, right next to the boat, clutching a waterlogged stick that was covered with fish eggs—catfish eggs, she explained. She reached over the side of the boat and put the eggs, stick and all, into the canister.

Instead of getting back in the boat, though, she then waded over toward the bank and sort of got down on all fours, began rummaging around in the edge of the water. After a minute or so, at the end of which there was a brief but violent seeming little episode, she came back to the boat holding a large crawfish. It went into the canister with everything else. Only then did she get back in the boat, and then she directed me back to the pier.

By the time we made it to dry land, I was coming to have serious doubts about the wisdom of having followed her out here. Not only was I uncomfortable generally with the environment, she seemed unfriendly at best. To tell you the truth, she was sort of freaking me out with all her bossiness and strange behavior. I was starting to wonder if I was safe . . . was I a pussy?

Almost as though she had read my mind, out of the blue she said, “You’re not backing out now, not after everything I just did.”

“No, of course not,” I heard myself say, though I was thinking more along the lines of hell yes I’m backing out. I’m beginning to think you’re batshit crazy.

“Come on, then,” she said, and once again, I followed. I followed her into her trailer, and then into what I assumed was her bedroom. It was sort of dark, and there were sheer orange colored curtains over her windows. There were candles everywhere, and there were crosses and pentacles, on shelves and hanging from walls, lots of crosses and pentacles. Without speaking a word, she struck a match—I have no idea where the match had come from—and then she lit a dozen or so of the candles. They smelled sweet—like honeysuckles.

“Where are your parents?” I asked.

“Out,” was all she said in reply.

I honestly didn’t want to be there, but there was a small little corner of my brain that wanted to stay. Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to what was happening in my mind, because by the time I recognized what was going on, it was too late. The part that wanted to stay had consumed the whole of me—I was all in.

I sat on the edge of her bed and watched as she knelt on the floor and arranged the contents from the canister on a wooden tray—everything but the crawfish. She whispered a few words over the tray, and then she pulled her shirt up over her head and took it off. That had taken me by surprise, but I couldn’t keep from looking. She was beautiful, stunning even, and her deep red bra matched her hair perfectly.

It felt to me that I had fallen into some sort of trance, that I was completely in tune with the moment. She’d begun to sway gently back and forth, whispering all the while, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Bit by bit, she began placing small pieces of the items from the tray into a wooden bowl—the fish eggs, the plants, the hair she’d taken from Mr. Stewart’s comb, a single petal from the lily pad’s flower. I had no idea what was going on, but I’d come to feel pretty sure that I liked it.

“Stand up,” she said to me.

I didn’t question it—I stood up. Still on her knees, she moved in front of me and unbuttoned my jeans. Then she unzipped them, and pulled my underwear down just far enough for her to grab a small bunch of pubic hair, which she promptly yanked out. I didn’t even flinch. She threw the hairs into the bowl with everything else.

“Kneel,” she said. I knelt.

She took the crawfish from the canister, pierced it with a skewer and began roasting it over one of the candles. Notwithstanding the cruelty of it, I still couldn’t take my eyes off of her—her face, her body, her long red hair. Everything about her was exquisite—why hadn’t I seen it before?

Once the crawfish had turned completely red, she placed it on the wooden tray and pulled the meat from its tail. She ate half of it, and gave the other half to me, which I ate. The head went into the bowl. She took a pinch of white powder from a little brass box and sprinkled it over the bowl’s contents, and then she took a match, struck it, and tossed it in the bowl as well. There was a sudden but brief little explosion, and a puff of bluish gray smoke billowed up between us.

“Say your name,” she whispered. “Over the bowl, say your name.”

I did. I leaned over the bowl and said, “Brian.”

“Your last name. Say your last name.”

“Smith.”

I was completely caught up in whatever this thing was. The room seemed to have come alive, like there were unseen things swirling about us and whispers riding on the air. She moved close to me after I’d spoken my name, really close, so close I could feel her breath inside my mouth. I was sure she was about to kiss me, not a doubt in my mind she was about to press her lips against mine—but she didn’t. I don’t see how she kept from it, being that close, but she didn’t. I wanted her to, though. God knows I wanted her to. In fact, I can’t remember ever feeling such a powerful longing in all my life, almost like—no, exactly like desperation. I wanted her—I wanted her with every fiber of my being.

Then, with no warning whatsoever, she pulled away from me and said, “You have to leave.”

I was swimming with the fever, and didn’t quite understand. “What?” I managed. “What?”

“You have to leave. It’s time for you to go.”

With that, she stood and reached her hand to help me up. Completely baffled and thoroughly routed, I took her hand and stood. I tried to take her in my arms, but she held me at bay. I gave her what I thought to be my best expression of pleading, meaning to ask if she was sure, but she appeared resolute. I remembered to zip and button my jeans, and then I left.

It was getting close to dark and there was no moon, so I wasn’t too comfortable at the thought of walking back down the trail and up the little dirt road and then across town, but I didn’t really have a choice, so I did. I made it without incident, in fact, and even beat my mom home. She’d been at the bar.

I didn’t bother telling her anything about what had just happened, but I couldn’t get it off my mind. I went to bed early just so I could be alone with my thoughts, and the visions of what had happened in Missy’s bedroom remained vivid till the wee hours. I finally slept, though, and woke up feeling anxious about going to school; not because of the normal dread I’d come to feel over having to face Mr. Stewart, but because she would be there. I’d get to see her.

I got to school earlier than usual, hoping that I would catch her before first period, but I couldn’t find her. Reluctantly, I went to class, and only then did the reality of having to face Mr. Stewart and his insults set in. He started calling the roll, and I prepared myself for the sarcastic Smithereens that was bound to come my way; but when he got to my name, he stopped. I looked up at him, and found him looking back at me with a curious expression on his face. He looked back to his roll sheet and tried to say it: Smither—was all that came out. He tried again, but just couldn’t seem to say the word. Then he gagged a little, which led to a coughing fit. Once he finally settled, he looked back at me with a scowl, and then moved on to the next name. Interesting.

Later in the class I did something I’d pretty much stopped doing by then—I answered a question without being called on. Mr. Stewart rolled his eyes as he was prone to do whenever I spoke, and started to fling some smartass remark my way; but instead, he winced, almost doubled over. He glared at me over his glasses and tried to speak again, but once again some unseen pain gripped his belly, and he limped his way to and out the door. My classmates all looked around at each other, probably confused and a little concerned. I wasn’t confused, though, was I. I was coming to believe that I knew what was going on. Missy. Missy had done something to him last night—cast some sort of spell or something. I began to feel scared and excited at the same time.

Mr. Stewart stayed gone for the rest of class, but by the start of second period, he was back. He started to call the roll, and the same thing happened that had happened in first period. He tried to call out my name as Smithereens, but he couldn’t get the word to come out of his mouth. He paid for it, too—another coughing fit, more gut pain. Once he’d finally gotten it under control, he told us to read for the rest of the period—quietly. Several times during class I looked up and found him staring at me, half angry and half confused. I was starting to feel pretty smug.

When class let out is when I finally saw it. On the file cabinet next to the door there was a small package, no bigger than a matchbox, wrapped in a lily pad and tied with a thin vine. I didn’t have to look inside the package to know what was in it—it was the concoction from Missy’s bowl. Missy had wrapped it up and put it there—and it was working—holy shit.

I looked for Missy all break, and again at lunch, but I couldn’t find her. Come last period I made my way back to Mr. Stewart’s classroom, hopeful that she would be there—but she wasn’t. I was more than just disappointed—I was starting to get worried. I mean, I didn’t know anything at all about witchcraft—I’d only just begun to consider that it might be a real thing—but what was it, this thing she’d done? Could it have hurt her in some way? What if she needed me?

I looked up on the file cabinet, and I couldn’t see the lily pad package. I strained upward until I could see all the way back to the wall—someone had taken it. Oh no! Right then, Mr. Stewart began to call the roll.

Just as he called the third name on the list—Missy’s name—she walked in the door.

“I’m here,” she said.

“Glad you could join us,” Mr. Stewart said. “Find your seat.”

I stared at Missy as she walked across the room to her desk, but she never looked back at me. Why wouldn’t she look at me? Surely she could feel me looking at her. Didn’t she want me to? Isn’t that what all this was about? Didn’t she want me to like her?

By the time Mr. Stewart got to my name, I’d begun to think that none of this had been real, that what had happened this morning had been nothing more than a coincidence, just a trick of fate. And hell, for that matter, maybe I’d misremembered what had happened last night. If not, I’d certainly made it into something it wasn’t, probably out of the dread I’d felt about coming to Mr. Stewart’s class. Maybe I was a pussy.

But then, Mr. Stewart tried to say my name again. No sooner than he’d said Smither—, he broke into another coughing fit, only worse than before. There was gagging, his face began to turn bright red, and finally, he spat up what looked like a cat’s hairball, right on his desk. There were gasps in the room and quiet quips of disgust. Once he’d gotten his breath, his chest still heaving, he looked up at me for a final time that day. Unlike earlier, though, his expression wasn’t curious or confused, nor was it angry. It was fearful. Mr. Stewart was afraid, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. I looked back at Missy out of a sense of awe as much as anything, and this time she was looking back at me, wearing a thin smile of satisfaction. She was also holding the little lily pad package in her hand.

Once he’d caught his breath, Mr. Stewart got up and left the room. A few minutes later, the principal showed up and said he’d be sitting with us for the rest of the class. The truth of the matter is I had no idea what I’d just been a part of—none at all—but I did know one thing for sure. Come the end of class, I’d be following Missy home again.

I did follow her home, as I did every day for months to come. We’ve spent a lot of time together, and it’s safe to say that I’ve never known anyone even remotely like her. She has performed numerous incantations (as she calls them) during that time, and there have been many occasions when one or both of us wound up in some state of undress—but just like that first time, not once have I touched her in a sexual way. I’ve wanted to—I’ve wanted to bad, but I haven’t been able to. I know that sounds ridiculous on its face, but I can’t really explain it any better than that. It almost feels like she seizes control of me somehow and prevents me from acting on my desires. It’s excruciating, but it’s also astoundingly sublime.

Interestingly, I never have seen either of her parents. I’ve asked about them several times, and her only explanation has been that they’re out. Naturally, I’ve come to doubt that they even exist; or if they do, they do it somewhere other than here. All in all, it’s a strange situation, but one that I can’t seem to extricate myself from—not that I would even if I could. I mean, she scares me—a lot sometimes—but apparently, you get addicted to being scared. Also, there was a time when I decided I’d had enough, and stopped going to her house. A few days later, strange things started happening to me, things I couldn’t explain rationally. I decided to start going home with her again, and the things stopped happening. I wonder if I’ll get to go to college.

Oh, and one final note—for what it’s worth. Mr. Stewart stayed out sick for two weeks. Since he’s been back, he only calls me Brian, and he never asks me a question in class or responds to me if I speak. Go figure.