Witch Tales

"Horror stories show that the control we believe we have is merely an illusion."

-Clive Barker

***

Getting out of the car, Herb looked at the house and whistled. "Are you sure this dame's not a real witch?" he said.

Herb's wife shushed him. "What kind of a question is that?"

"A good one. Just look at this place."

The old iron gate around the property's dying lawn creaked when he pushed on it, and a winding path of broken stones led up to the tall, dark house with Gothic turrets and staring windows. You'd basically have to be a witch to move in here, he thought. The realtor was probably even running some kind of witch special: "Extra large broom closets, new cauldron included with down payment," that kind of thing.

Herb's wife tsked at the overgrown flower beds as they approached the front door. "This looks so unhealthy," she said. "You don't think Willie caught anything while he was here? From fleas or something?"

Herb thought it was more likely that fleas would get sick from biting their son than the other way around, but said nothing. When he pushed the doorbell he expected it to make a scream, like on an old TV show, but all he got was a perfectly normal ring. And when the door opened, he was surprised again: A pretty young woman with a figure and a big smile stood on the threshold, and she smelled like cinnamon. Herb took off his hat.

"Pardon me, Miss," he said. "We're looking for your...mother?"

The woman's bangs bobbed when she shook her head. "No, you're looking for me. I'm Nancy Brookwood. And you must be Mr. and Mrs. Beaser. Come right in!"

The house was all angles and wood paneling and as dark as pitch on the inside, but it wasn't dirty or rundown. In fact, it seemed tidy and pleasant; cinnamon and other baking scents were everywhere, as well as smells like burning candles and incense. It was immediately one of the most comfortable places Herb had ever been in. No wonder Willie is always trying to sneak over here, he thought.

Furrowing her brow as she followed, Herb's wife said, "Are we expected? We shouldn't be. Oh, that sounds rude, doesn't it?"

The Brookwood woman shook her head again. "Not at all. The only reason I knew you were coming is you're the third parents to stop by today. I'll probably get the whole neighborhood before the weekend is over."

She brought Herb and his wife to a library of sorts, with big windows and thick carpet and a monstrous fireplace. Herb recognized it from Willie's description of the house. A plate of cookies sat on the table, apparently baked just for their arrival.

The Brookwood woman was small, the antique chair she sat in bigger than she was. Sitting showed off her dynamite legs; Herb couldn't take his eyes off them. "Have as much as you want," she said.

Herb blinked. Then he realized she was talking about the cookies.

"Let me understand," said Herb's wife. "You're the only Nancy Brookwood who lives here? I don't mean to be rude, but you're just—"

"Not what you expected?"

"You're not an old broad with a hump and a glass eye who smells like dead cats, so no, not what we expected," said Herb. His wife shot him a glare that could peel paint, but the Brookwood woman laughed..

"Not yet," she said. "There is another Nancy Brookwood in the family but she's not around at the moment. Mostly it's just me here. I know the assumptions people make; it comes of being a shut-in. But we're here to talk about Willie, aren't we? He's a very smart boy. And such a little cutie. He looks just like you, Mr. Beaser."

He almost grinned, but caught himself. The Brookwood woman's smile thinned out to a knowing expression when she turned to Herb's wife.

"But you don't want Willie coming here after school anymore. That's why you came, isn't it?"

Herb slouched. His wife sat up straighter. She said, "It's nothing personal, Miss Brookwood—"

"Nancy."

"It's just that I don't entirely understand what you're doing here with the children every day. I want to be sure that it's not anything...unwholesome."

A stuffed owl decorated a nearby table, and the Brookwood woman touched its tail feathers in an absent way. Herb expected it to move and turn out to have been real all along, but it didn't. He did spot movement underneath her chair, though, and realized that a cat was staring up at them. His wife hated cats, but she didn't seem to have noticed it.

"It's nothing sinister," said the Brookwood woman. "The neighborhood kids just come in after school and I bake them cookies, and they look around the house. It's an old place with lots of interesting rooms and old junk. Kids like to explore." She paused. "And I tell them stories."

"What kind of stories?" Herb said. This was the part that had gotten him out of bed early on a Saturday morning (his only day off from selling mattresses the rest of the week) to come over here. Willie had mentioned stories when Herb got after him for being late coming home so often. It seemed they made quite an impression on the kid, but when Herb asked what kind of stories they were Willie clammed up.

The Brookwood woman shrugged. "You know: ghost stories. The kind children like. Mostly ones my grandmother told me when this was her home. I could tell you one, if you like? So you'll see that they're not so bad."

Herb almost agreed, but when opened his mouth all the spit dried up. Nice as she seemed, he had a feeling that he was better off not sampling Nancy Brookwood's talent for ghost stories; Willie had been having trouble sleeping lately too, and Herb imagined he knew why. To cover himself, he reached for a cookie.

"And as for me, well, I live alone," Nancy continued. "I have a condition that makes it so that I can hardly bear to leave the house, and I get lonely. When the kids started showing up, I found I rather liked having them around."

"Willie says you're a witch." Herb had not really meant to speak up. Words were just flying out of his mouth today, it seemed, and even his wife's Medusa glare couldn't shut him up.

The Brookwood woman nodded, almost enthusiastically. "Oh, I know. Isn't it funny? That's why they came in the first place; you know, daring each other to knock on my door. The first time I answered I think I about scared poor Willie to death. Scared the life right OUT of him."

She laughed again, a much higher, more uncomfortable sound this time.

"But I'm not so bad. Kids like being scared."

"Dr. Wertham says your stories aren't good for Willie," Herb's wife said, sitting on just the very edge of her chair. "He's a very respected child psychologist who spoke at the soroptomists last week. He says stories like yours lead to juvenile delinquency and all sorts of problems."

"Why Mrs. Beaser. How do you know what my stories are like if you've never heard one?"

Herb's wife frowned. That shut her up, Herb thought. "Won't you have a cookie?" said the Brookwood woman. "They're snickderdoodles. Willie's favorite."

She pushed the plate forward again, but Herb's wife looked at it like it was a plate full of dead mice.

"We're sorry to bother you, ma'am," Herb said, standing up with hat in hand.

"Please call me Nancy," she said again, walking them to the door. "I understand why you're so protective of Willie. He's a darling boy. You're both welcome to come over anytime when the children are here, so that you can see that nothing strange is going on."

"I'm afraid I can't," said Herb's wife. "I can tell you have cats in here. I'm deathly allergic."

"That's just Trullibub. She's harmless."

The cat peered at them with round yellow eyes from the library, eventually joining the Brookwood woman to stare from the front door as they made their way back down the walk. Herb's wife slammed the car door when she got in.

"That woman IS a witch," she said.

"I think what you really want to call her is a word that rhymes with that. Anyways, she seems harmless enough to me."

"You would say that. Don't think I didn't catch you peeping at her legs. Willie won't be associating with THAT woman anymore, mark my words. Her stories are giving him nightmares."

That part was true. Or at least, it was true that the kid was having trouble sleeping the last three weeks. Herb wasn't really sure if it was the Brookwood woman's stories to blame...but what else could it be?

Herb looked at the house again as he started the engine. From the outside, it was a looming heap. You'd never guess how nice it really was, he thought.

"Are you going to hang onto that old thing the entire way home?" Herb's wife said.

He realized he still had one of the snickerdoodles in his hand. The icing was a bunch of lines in a six-pointed shape; a hex mark, they were called.

For some reason, he nearly threw it out the window, but after a second of consideration he ate the whole thing in two bites. The taste of butter filled his mouth, and he felt gratified when he swallowed it, a feeling that lasted all the way home.

***

For the next week, Herb couldn't sleep.

It was ruining him on the job. He'd lie in bed for hours looking at nothing, and when he couldn't get a wink he'd go downstairs and try to read. But this didn't work, because he hadn't read anything except a newspaper since he was ten years old and he couldn't concentrate on anything. He wasn't even sure who all the books in the living room belonged to; had they come with the house?

Tonight, like most nights, he kept reading the same couple of sentences over and over:

"'A witch is born out of the true hungers of her time,' she said. 'I was born out of New York. The things that are most wrong here summoned me.'"

What in the hell did that even mean?

His wife was upstairs, snoring away; it seemed like the worse he slept, the heavier she did. Herb glanced toward Willie's door; the kid was sleeping again, at least, ever since they made him swear off seeing the Brookwood woman.

Willie was sullen about it, mind you, but he'd get over it. It wasn't good for a kid to spend so much time around some spooky woman with nuts in her head.

And she WAS a spooky woman, Herb had decided later. A peach, but spooky all the same.

Hours passed. The old grandfather clock in the corner struck three. The witching hour, he told himself, and laughed. He went to the fridge; the same three cans of Coors had been in there since Labor Day, when his wife had insisted he quit drinking.

(She didn't think he had a problem, she just didn't like buying it at the store. "It makes me look like a bum" was the only explanation she gave.)

He cracked the can and drank almost the entire thing while standing in his underwear in the yellow fridge light. Life was so much better with a good beer in your hand. The word "brew" stood out on the label. That made him think of witches again, and now it seemed even funnier.

Strange how Willie always insisted that Brookwood woman was a witch, but he never seemed afraid. He even seemed to like it. Weird damn kid. The wife was starting to make a fuss about those comic books he reads, and maybe she was right about those too. Maybe he'd pitch them all out in the morning.

Finishing his beer, Herb grabbed another and closed the fridge. The kitchen went pitch black, and it was a second before he realized why this was surprising: He'd left a light on in the living room, and now it was out. Maybe the bulb had gone bad. This almost cheered him up. Changing it would give him something to do for a minute.

Then he heard a voice: "Herb..."

He froze. It hadn't been his wife's voice. Had he imagined it?

Herb's bare feet sank an inch into the shag carpet as he made his way back to his chair. He gave the lamp a rattle and turned the switch, and it flickered back on right away. Nobody in the room; o one hiding in the corner or behind the coat rack. His imagination, then. He chuckled, but it was a worn out sound. Damn I'm tired, he thought...

Then a hand touched his shoulder. "Herb."

He nearly jumped out of his skin. No less a surprise when he saw who it was: Nancy Brookwood had snuck up behind him. Now she was looking at him like the cat that ate every canary in the store.

"Hello, Herb," she said, sitting on the arm of his chair.

He actually grabbed his chest, like a guy having a heart attack on TV. "Holy cripes, woman! Are you trying to kill me?"

"Are you hurt? Should I kiss it and make it better?"

Herb stammered. "I'm not—what the hell are you doing here? And what in the name of Mike are you wearing?"

She had on something that looked like a ladies' sleeping gown, maybe one of those Japanese numbers, but it didn't tie up in the front, and it had a hood that covered her face down to the eyes. Underneath it she was naked as a jaybird.

"I came to see you," Nancy said. "I was hoping you'd stop by again, but since I haven't seen you or Willie all week I decided to visit."

Holy Pete, thought Herb, this broad really is nuts. He squirmed.

"Miss Brookwood—"

"Nancy."

"Nancy, I don't know if you're, you know, healthy. Upstairs. Did you take anything tonight, or drink anything? Do you know where you are?"

"I'm right here. Can't you feel me?" She put her hand on his chest and then, before he could react, she put his hand on hers too. Her skin felt red hot. Herb dropped his beer. He didn't notice.

"My, uh, wife's in the other room," he said.

"I made sure she won't hear anything. And Willie is asleep too. Nobody will bother us. I've got a story to tell you, Herb."

"A, uh, ghost story?"

"A story about me and you."

She took off her robe. Herb couldn't take his eyes off of her. No, scratch that: He could, but why the hell would he want to? She pushed him down into his chair and climbed onto his lap. When she put her face next to his, her hair hung around him like a curling curtain.

"I thought you never left the house?" he said. The feeling of her round ass rubbing through his shorts immediately gave him the most urgent hard-on he'd had since he was 22. He touched her bare legs tentatively at first, like he was checking to see if a stovetop had been left on.

"I don't," she said. "Stop asking questions and kiss me."

She kissed him first instead. Bizarrely, he was expecting it to be like biting into one of her cookies, but of course it wasn't. Her kiss was warm and wet, and as he eased into it she turned on his lap and straddled him with her thighs open. Herb's hard-on bulged against the flap of his boxers, like it was trying to get up and go for a walk without him.

He put his arms around her and she wriggled, a hot little bundle that could keep both of his hands full. How long had it been since Herb had a real woman like this? Her skin was soft and smooth as a peach. Touching her made him feel like he had big, clumsy hands, too stupid to do anything right, but she seemed to like everything he did, gasping and sighing and cooing whenever he touched and squeezed and stroked her.

Her tongue danced across Herb's as her kisses came faster and more eager. Her mouth devoured his in a long, open embrace, while his hands reached around to squeeze her round, white backside. She moved her hips in a tight circle, rubbing around and around on him. Jesus, a body like hers ought to be criminal, Herb thought. I ought to be able to lock her up and throw away the key. His cocked throbbed to beat the band.

Herb caught his breath when Nancy slithered down the front of him like a snake and reached into the flap on the front of his shorts. When she cooed, the air tickled the hard, hot shaft of his naked cock. He scarcely had time to shiver, though, before she slid the entire thing into her mouth in one gulp.

Herb groaned and very nearly let it all go right there. He kicked back in the chair, slid his fingers through Nancy's silky hair, and relished the long, slow, gratifying attention of her mouth expertly working on him. This took Herb all the way back to his college days. Whatever happened to those years?

(Oh, that's right, he thought, you got married...)

When Nancy finished with him down there she reached up and grabbed him by his undershirt, pulling him down with her as she fell back onto the living room floor. He landed on top, seemingly crushing her smaller body against his, but she didn't object or try to escape. Her little frame was strong and tightly wound. He pressed her into the floor with a hard kiss while one of his hands fumbled around down below, trying to find the proper place.

Nancy guided him in slowly. Her thighs were wet and inviting. Herb savored the clash of feelings: first the immediate, cold shock of touching wetness with the sensitive tip of his cock, followed right on its heels by its heat. He wanted to do it all at once, really drive it home and show her he knew how to treat a gal, but she coaxed him along instead, letting out a perfectly formed little "Oh, oh, oh!" every time he sank in a little deeper.

She wriggled her hips when he finally got it all the way in. What a woman, he thought again, as she leaned up to kiss him over and over, small, girlish kisses on his mouth, chin, neck, and collar bone. She rocked back and forth on the smooth lines of her ass as he banged away on top of her.

Inside she was smooth and tight, as good as he'd have imagined. He cupped her small breasts in his big hands as she arched her back, bending like a bow as he fucked her into the carpet. "Ohhh, yes," she said, drawing the letters out between her teeth.

He wanted to hiss at her to keep it down, but on second thought, what did it matter? It would serve his wife right if she walked in on the two of them right now. That would teach her a lesson, that's for sure. Herb squeezed her tits harder and Nancy's whole body shuddered. She squeezed his cock tight between her thighs and squirmed, crying out as he pressed against the inside of her every time he pulled out.

He was driving up a good head of steam now, sweating as he exerted himself. In another minute or two he could have given her the big finish and sent her home happy, but all of a sudden she tensed up, and Herb froze. Was something wrong?

She was looking at him funny now, her pupils shrunken down to pinpricks. The look made all the hairs on him stand straight up. All of a sudden he remembered how spooky this dame really was. And the fact that she'd broken into his house naked. Not that he minded either of those things as much now as he had just a little while ago, but they were still worth considering...

Just as he was about to ask what she was doing, she scratched him. Not on the back or the arms, like a hot ticket will do sometimes when you've got her really turned on. Instead she raked her fingernails across his chest, suddenly and violently, like an animal tearing into its prey. What the fuck?

Before he could even react, she did it again the other way, slashing a bloody X across his heart. He screamed, and she went for his throat next, and Herb covered his face as he fell backwards onto the floor...

But then nothing happen. Herb opened his eyes. He was in the chair again. A book was open on his lap, and the clock said a quarter to four.

Thank Chris. It was a dream. The craziest dream he'd had in his whole life.

He mopped the sweat off of his face with the sleeve of his undershirt. At least I got some sleep, he thought, standing. But at this rate, I don't mind if I never sleep again.

It wasn't until he tried to stretch that he noticed the pain in his chest. Oh no, he thought, it can't be, but the pain was definitely there. And he knew what he'd see before he even looked down:

The scratches on his chest were still bleeding, turning his shirt into a red crisscross.

Herb's heart rate accelerated, and for a panicked second he expected to see the blood coming out faster, like a water balloon with a leak. He ran to the bathroom and, wincing, he washed the cuts, then snarled as he swabbed them with alcohol from the medicine cabinet. That crazy dame, he thought, she was really here! He should call the police. He should—