Signal to Noise(83)

The music began to play. Daniela and Meche held hands tight as the building groaned, reverberating to the sound of Greg Lake’s voice.





DANIELA WANTED TO pull her hand away, but Meche dug her nails into her palm and Daniela stopped fretting.

She was scared. The windows were tinkling, the glass straining in the frames and Meche’s hand felt like it was a hot iron poker. When she looked at Meche’s face, her eyes looked darker and older.

Shadows seemed to cloak Meche. She was robed in darkness. And the power in her burned, making Daniela wince.





SEVERAL BLOCKS AWAY Sebastian turned a corner as he had done many times before. But this time something felt wrong. Invisible hands seemed to hover on top of his own hands, invisible fingers making the motorcycle speed up, howl and screech and rush down hill.

He knew the hands.

This was Meche’s doing. She was trying to scare him.

“Screw you!” he yelled.

He didn’t know if she could hear him, but she hoped his defiance reached her.

The pressure of the hands increased, he swerved and almost lost control of the bike.

A cold bead of sweat dripped down his forehead and he was suddenly afraid. He realized she was not playing. It was not a prank.

“Mercedes!” he yelled.

The car hit him right at that instant and sent him flying through the air, tumbling over the pavement.





DOLORES WAS HALF-ASLEEP on the couch, her hands resting over a ball of yarn, when she felt the tugging. The web of magic drifting through their apartment shivered and moaned. She opened her eyes slowly, specks of darkness dancing before her eyes.

And she knew what was happening all of a sudden. Meche was casting a new spell. A very dark spell.

A spell of death.

Dolores stood up and shuffled towards her bedroom without bothering to put on her slippers. She opened a drawer and pulled out her thimble. She looked at her sisters in the photograph and wished they were still around. Lone witches are never much good. Maybe if the others were still alive they could have taught Meche the way Dolores couldn’t. Because Dolores had never been the head witch. Just a minor echo for her eldest sister. Always half-afraid of the spells and now unable to even remember most of them. They’d poured out of her one summer, long, long ago.

But perhaps there was one last spell she might remember.

Dolores put on the thimble. She took needle and thread and began stitching a handkerchief. Sweat beaded her forehead as she worked. The needle rose and fell, dipping until she tied a knot and cut it with her scissors.

There was a hiss, like steam escaping a kettle. Dolores winced as the thimble burned her finger.

She felt Meche’s death spell eroding and decaying, bits of it falling to the floor. The thimble also slid from her finger, shattering, bits of white dust scattered all around her.

Dolores closed her eyes and sighed.





DANIELA SAT ON the couch, heart beating fast, and stared at Meche. Meche was on the floor wrapped in a blanket, a cushion behind her head, eyes closed and humming. Daniela could barely breathe but Meche seemed to be making a quick recovery.

Watching her from her position on the couch, Daniela knew her friend was dangerous. She felt the same horror she might feel at discovering a scorpion in her shoe and though she was exhausted, hungry and in desperate need for a nap, she pulled her knapsack over her shoulder.

“I should go,” she said.

“Go,” Meche said, eyes closed.

Daniela walked out quietly, looking over her shoulder before she closed the door.





MECHE WALKED HOME listening to los Fabulosos Cadillacs sing Mi Novia se Cayó en un Pozo Ciego. She felt festive, moving to the rhythm of the trumpets, bobbing her head and smiling. By the time she stepped into the apartment she was dancing.

“Hey, mom,” she said, noticing that the kitchen light was on.

She poked her head in the kitchen. Her mother’s eyes looked raw and red.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“I was hanging out with Daniela,” Meche said. “What’s up? Is this about Sebos?”

“Sebastian?” her mother said. “No.”

Odd. Because Meche thought maybe Sebastian’s mother had already called to give them the bad news: that her son had a little traffic accident, that he’d broken his leg and Meche could feign innocence. Buy flowers. Take them to the hospital. The joy of his pain would be like a candy, melting in her mouth. Perhaps he would think twice about messing with her again. He thought himself a warlock? Fine. She was a witch.

“Then what’s with you?”

“Your grandmother had a stroke. I just came to pick some clothes for her, some things—”

“She didn’t have a stroke,” Meche said.

“She did have a stroke. This evening.”

“But she couldn’t have.”

“Meche, I need to go to the hospital,” her mother said, rubbing her eyes and reaching for her purse. “I have to get a cab and get back there.”

“Can I go?”

“All you’d be doing is waiting.”

“I can wait.”

Her mother nodded and they hurried down the stairs.

The telephone began to ring when they shut the door, a lonesome and sad cry.