The Bewitching

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

The light filtering into her room, however, was odd. It had a greenish tinge that made her frown. She stepped toward the window and tugged at the curtains, looking out. The light did not come from the moon. It seemed to drift down from one of the peppercorn trees as if someone had hung a lantern among its branches. Unlike the light of a lantern, this greenish glow had no source—it was diffused, as hard to pinpoint as mist. It was, in fact, so faint you could hardly see it, and for one moment Alba thought it was an optical illusion. Yet as Alba looked at it, the mist seemed to coalesce, its color growing stronger, from a faint green to a brighter hue closer to the shade of an emerald. It looked now like a sphere, trembling in the tree branches and burning like an ember. The phantasmagoric light made Alba think of diseased flesh, of rot and decomposition. She stepped back from the window, recognizing this strange light. She’d never seen it herself, though she’d heard about it enough times growing up to name it: it was the glow of a witch, outside her window, like a hideous, gigantic firefly. The ball of light let out a long, doleful cry, an ululation that resembled that of an owl. Except she’d heard owls all her life, knew their hoots and the noise of their wings, and this was different. The branches of the peppercorn tree drooped, as if pressed down by a great weight.