The Trouble with a Witch: Part One

When I look back, I think "was it a dream or did it really happen?"  To this day, I can still hear her talking to me.  I can smell the foul mixture in the brass kettle over the fire.  I can see the jars and bottles of brews and potions. The coarse upholstery of worn furniture. And of course, her. I don't think anyone would ever forget a witch.

*****

It was summer of 1938 and I had gone to stay with Grandma Alfred and her sister Aunt Lela.  Mama was ill with fever and Dad wanted me to stay away for a week so Mama would get better.  "She'll be fine," the doctor told us. "She just needs rest." It was only about an hour's ride to Grandma's house and I usually didn't get to see her that often.  

They lived in a little house on a farm out in the country. Mr. Pruitt lived across the packed-dirt road. He was kind of keen on Aunt Lela.  And next door stood a ram-shackled house, overgrown by brush and weeds.

"Tommy, now don't you be a goin' any wheres near that place," yelled Aunt Lela as strolled along the fence separating the two houses. "If you get eaten by that witch, I ain't gonna feel sorry for ya."

"Ah get out," I said. "There's no such thing as witches."

Aunt Lela laughed and lazily pointed towards that house. "Well, ya'll so smart, why don't you run on down there and see for yurself?"  I was never afraid of Aunt Lela. She was always nice and read me stories.  

Through the oaks and maples, I could see the roof line, but most of it was hiding behind the overgrown bushes.  If I was the loft of the barn, I could see the side and back of the old house. Trees hadn't been trimmed in years. Some of the battered shutters clung for dear life. A few had given up and fell off. I always thought it was odd that none of the windows had been broken. Those would have been perfect targets for rock throwing.

It looked like a sad and lonely house.

*****

One lazy day, I was hanging onto Mr. Pruitt's picket fence across the road, watching him sweat from turning up potatoes and turnips in his garden.  He grabbed weeds up by the roots and tossed them into a compost heap in the corner. He sure did have a nice garden.

"Looks like you've got a good crop, sir."

"I do. Very good crop this year. Lots of manure. That's what ya need to make a garden grow well, Thomas. How are you enjoyin' your visit?"  He always called me Thomas.  I didn't mind it one bit.

"It's good, sir. I'm glad it's cooled down."

Mr. Pruitt nodded.  "Cooler than any August I remember.  But we don't always remember the weather much past yesterday.  Unless it's something really out of the ordinary."  He knocked dirt off the carrots he'd just yanked up. "Glad for the rain. It's helps with the root vegetables when you're tryin' to pull them up."

"So I heard you're Aunt tellin' ya to stay away from the Stemm place. I'm not sure that there's a witch, but I would advise stayin' away. I figure one or two more good storms and that old place is going to fall down."

That was the first time I ever heard it called the Stemm place. Grandma or Aunt Lela never talked about it that much.

"Mr. Pruitt, whose house was that?"

"The story my Grand-dad told me was back about hunderd years or so, a man named Stemm built it and moved in with his three daughters.  Two of the daughters later moved away and one stayed behind. Her name was Marigold. The old man died, although some say disappeared. The youngest, Marigold, lived there until she died."
Mr. Pruitt struggled to uprooted another batch of stubborn potatoes. "But there are some who say she didn't die either and she still lives in there."

"Ah, that sounds like hog wash."

Mr. Pruitt grinned.  "It does, does it? Well, be warned. That house ain't safe. Wouldn't want to be in it if a stiff breeze came along."

All I could think was "I know I shouldn't..."  But curiosity always gets the better of ya and always leads to trouble.