She Walks in Shadows(43)

There were no stories that night. Instead, Keziah instructed me on how to get to the Witch House, the building in Arkham where she’d once lived. The original building was gone, she said, but something else was there now, though she wasn’t certain what. The building had changed ownership more than a few times since she’d left this world and it was difficult for her to keep track of our timeline. I’d need to get into the attic there, she said. I’d need to bring someone with me — a child, preferably no more than three years of age — to use in the ritual.

I never thought I’d miss Brown Jenkin’s hideous form, but I cried when I woke up and the warmth of his small body was absent. Arkham was a fair distance from my home in Vancouver. I’d need a passport and money for traveling. These weren’t things I could acquire quickly.

The next four years were easier than the months I’d spent waiting for Keziah to visit me. I had a mission, a purpose, and I was moving towards it as fast as I could go. I found a job, and saved up as much money as I could. Keziah’s Witch House had become The Witch House Brewery and Pub, who, as luck would have it, were looking for a new server.

It wasn’t hard to get access to the attic after closing time. I thought it would take them longer to trust me to be there alone, but on my third shift, I was given the keys and asked to close up.

I had a difficult time maintaining my composure until everyone else had left. Once the pub was empty, I ran up the stairs to the attic and squeezed myself in amongst the boxes of supplies. I closed my eyes and called to her.

Brown Jenkin came to me first. Tiny claws pierced my shirt, scraping flesh underneath, as he scaled my back and settled on my shoulder, chattering gleefully.

“Where is the child?” Keziah’s raspy voice came from behind me.

I turned around and opened my eyes. Brown Jenkin jumped down from my shoulder and returned to his mistress.

“Can’t,” I breathed, “can’t it just be me?”

Keziah arched a thin eyebrow. “You realize what it is you are offering.”

It wasn’t a question. Her eyes, sharp like a crow’s, stared into me, through and through. I closed mine, terrified that she would find me unsatisfactory and I would see it written in her face. This way, she could just disappear back into the shadows if she didn’t want me, an easier letdown.

“Please,” I whispered in a voice that was barely audible even to my own ears.

“Come with me, then.”

She walked into the darkness of a corner that should have been solid, and then through it. I followed, but carefully, unsure of how to proceed. As strange as visits from a haggard crone and her monstrous familiar had been, I had gotten used to it. Walking through walls, though, wasn’t something I had ever done — or even considered possible — before now. I couldn’t let on, though. Keziah had put her trust in me, I realized, and I needed to act like the kind of person who deserved such a precious thing.

Keziah led me down a spiral staircase that seemed to be floating. No handrails, no walls, just infinite blackness and stone steps that hung in the air. I was scared of falling off, but I was more scared Keziah would change her mind if I protested, turning me back out to live the rest of my days in the world of dullards, so I feigned bravery and followed her down.

The stairs ended at a small space that was lit with the same violet glow I had seen in Keziah’s room. There were no walls: The edges of the room were marked by the same empty abyss that bordered the stairs. A stone table sat in the middle of the floor.

I knew my role as if I’d done it a thousand times before. Perhaps that’s part of being the Chosen One. I climbed up onto the table and lay down upon it. Brown Jenkin scurried up after me, holding a metal bowl with strange inscriptions on it. He brushed his rough cheek against mine then hurried off.

As Brown Jenkin began a strange, tittering chant, I felt my body relax into the hard, stone surface of the table. This was my fate. This was my gift.

Keziah produced a long, wickedly sharp knife from within her robes. It gleamed in the soft light.

I had never known it was possible to be so happy. I was being carried off by a tidal wave of ecstasy. A smile blossomed on my face and I shone like a beacon, radiating joy throughout the tiny room. This was what I was made for. I wasn’t one of the sheep, one of the stupid cows. I was different. I was chosen.

Keziah raised her arm, aiming the knife at my heart.

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for choosing me.”





BITTER PERFUME


Laura Blackwell

I KISSED MY great-grandmother on the top of her dusty black wig and asked what she would like for her birthday. I had already sewn her a jewelry roll and mixed her a new skin-softening oil — the best I could afford to do since I had lost my job — but you don’t turn a hundred and twenty-five every day.

Abuelita turned her milky eyes to me and lifted a trembling, withered hand from her rosary to beckon me closer. “Quiero morir,” she whispered in my ear. I want to die.

I shivered, not from the cold of the windowless room, but from recognition. “Yo también,” I told her in a voice just loud enough for her to hear. “Espera, por favor. Espera.”

Me, too. Please wait.

Grandpa Estéban eyed us suspiciously from his recliner. “What are you talking about, Melissa?”

I straightened up and forced a smile, raising my voice a bit more to carry over the hum of the compressors. “I promised her some birthday cake. Would you like some? It’ll be good. Sara made it.”