The Bewitching

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

On the train she drew circles in her notebook and pondered her great-grandmother’s stories. She’d loved those fantastical tales of people transforming into animals and balls of fire flying through the night sky, but they always took place in what was to her an alien world. Long ago, far up the mountains. She’d never thought you could have a modern witch story. It was as if the glass and steel of office buildings repelled them. But in her backpack there was the talisman, and between her hands the notebook with her idle circles. Iron and glass might not be enough.

a wispy mist drifted toward the house, wrapping it like the silk of a spiderweb tightens around a helpless fly. It glowed, and that glow seemed to intensify as the mist coalesced, became thicker, concentrated in one spot until there was a floating green sphere perched in the air, looming close to the window. She held her breath. Her hand was frozen stiff upon the windowpane. The greenness pulsed and she had the thought to run, to simply get out of the house and run away. Normalcy had been annihilated. Now the uncanny pierced the night.

The phone in the library began to ring and she fumbled with the receiver, but the line was dead. She slammed the receiver down and it began to ring again, louder and louder, like discordant cymbals. It almost seemed to be shrieking at her. Minerva tugged at the cord, disconnecting the phone. She reached into her backpack and pulled out the bird talisman. The light was growing steady now, its emerald glow spilling eerily under the curtains and across the floor. She stepped back, avoiding the light, which slithered like long fingers that stretched into the room and threatened to grasp her ankles. She bumped into a couch and almost lost her footing. Something knocked against the back door and knocked a second time, louder, until it wasn’t knocking, it was like the pounding of fists. Then it moved to the right, scratching under a window, scratching against another. Its nails slid upon glass, raked against shutters. The noise changed again; it seemed to be moving all around the house. Above her, the wood squeaked and groaned, like the pipes sometimes groaned in the winter, rattling with the cold. The floor vibrated under her feet and then more strongly, as if this were an earthquake that was gaining in force, but she’d never felt a quake like this before, and she’d grown up in Mexico City and weathered the big one in ’85.

Dimly, she heard the tinkling of crystal: she realized it was the grand chandelier near the staircase, which now shivered like a tree touched by an icy wind. In the kitchen, the spoons and forks were rattling in their drawers, and pots clanged against one another. The lights were flickering. On the shelves, her books slid to the side. Her alarm clock in the bedroom started beeping. One of the shadow boxes on the wall tumbled to the floor. Its glass shattered; minuscule bright shards spread onto a rug, the delicate bodies of butterflies and moths pinned a century before now lying upon the floorboards. She clutched the talisman tighter. One of the pins scratched her hand, drawing blood. The curtains fluttered and a chair toppled over, crashing violently against the floor, but then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the movement ceased and the house was still. The glow had receded.

Beware. Beware. Place wards, lock windows, beware. This room is safe. They’re after you. They’re here—

“She was a year older than him. They played together. He knew a few tricks, she knew others. I’d taught her, and she shared my teachings with him. He’d come with his coins and ask me questions, he’d fetch ingredients, he’d listen and write in a notebook. So I taught him too, some things I knew. Others he found himself.” “You taught him black magic.”

People pick their path. Some heal bones, others break them. That boy was amusing. You don’t see many wealthy kids coming around here for that learning.” “He’s not a wealthy man.” “Wealthier than us, with a coin in his pocket to spare.” “And you sold him dangerous spells.” “I had a child to feed and there was little danger in it. They’ve taught you spells, I’m sure of it. Your father believed, same as the others before him.”

“He turned fourteen and your father sent him away. Off he went, and when he came back to visit, he was a young man. He must have honed himself in that time, because as soon as I saw him, I felt his power, and I was afraid because his heart was full of spite. I said, You don’t come back to bother us, you go away. The trouble was, my Elena was not afraid. All she saw was the pretty mister, and even though I told her, Don’t you go crossing that man’s path, she didn’t listen.” The wax from the candle had dripped down onto the table, tracing slow, pale rivulets. Alba touched the hardening wax with the edge of her fingernail. “One night, when I was busy with other things, she left the house. She didn’t come back. I looked, but I never found her. I know he killed her.”

“Teyolloquani, they make their magic with blood. They drink the blood, they eat the heart. If someone is favored, the blood is potent, and my Elena had the gift, too. He ate her heart raw.” “I know Arturo—” The woman smirked. “You know the pretty mister in his suits. You don’t know the warlock that turns his enemies into animals. Or maybe you simply don’t want to see him clear.”

Now he has the scent of blood, now he’s tasted prey.” “But there are stories of how to subdue a witch. Bullets! Bullets that are blessed!” “You’ve seen what he did to me. No bullets will nick his skin. Certain tricks will work on lesser warlocks, but not him.” “Valentín, he told stories, and the knots worked! They did…the…I killed…so something else…something must be possible,” she said, and then she couldn’t speak because the memory of her dead brother, of the mess of feathers and flesh that dissolved between her fingers, was too powerful.

There was her uncle, his head peaceful against the pillow, his eyes closed, his breath gentle, and he was no monster with vicious teeth that could gnaw hearts and pierce the skin. For a moment she thought to step out and let him be, but in her left hand she held the freshly cut carnation. She leaned over him and held the flower close to his lips. The carnation wilted between her fingers, each petal curling and shrinking and blackening. She sprang back in horror, and before she could even think to scream she was shoved against the armoire. She dropped the candle and it rolled upon the floor and was extinguished.

She remembered when she’d spoken that sentence to him, and she realized the power of such words. Magic wasn’t about powders or birds, like that witch had explained. It was more than the mechanical repetition or a list of ingredients. She’d undone any magic, canceled any wards that might have kept him away, because she’d wanted Arturo close to her.

She stared into the dark hallway, the pistol heavy at her side, and remembered the witch’s mangled hand. There was no use for bullets; she had been warned and knew it to be true. She’d felt his might. He’d shown her his true face. He’d done this because he knew himself invincible, immune to the petty weapons of men. Alba closed the door and slid the pistol back into the drawer.

“Betty, it’s me. I know who’s bewitched me.” Ginny’s voice sounded low and strained. I could hardly make out the words and adjusted the receiver. “Ginny? What happened?” “I know their names, but I can’t speak them. They’ve tied my tongue. If something goes wrong, find bell, book, and candle.”

When I reached our room, the door was wide open. Ginny wasn’t there. Her winter coat hung from a hook, her scarf and gloves were on the shelf where she normally left them, and her boots were tucked under it. Her knitting basket lay on the floor, overturned, but otherwise nothing looked amiss. She couldn’t have stepped outside without her winter clothes. She had to be inside the dorm. I rushed down the hallway, hoping I’d find her in Carolyn’s room or with another of the girls. Carolyn’s door was closed and she didn’t seem to be in. I bumped into Bertha Trumbull and asked about Ginny. Bertha hadn’t seen her. I ran downstairs and found the house phone. The receiver was off the hook. I carefully put it back in place. Dread pooled in my stomach. I felt that time was running out.

Abruptly, the footprints became a confused jumble and the trail ended by the bend of a road, under a tree. On the snow there was a single smudge, like a red flower poking through the bone-chilling whiteness. It was a drop of blood.

I had the sensation that there was something nearby, something dangerous and cunning and sharp. I saw nothing, heard nothing, yet my heart beat quickly and my dread was bubbling up, becoming panic. “Ginny!” I cried out. I stepped back, retreated toward the tree, my hand pressed hard against its trunk. The bark bit into my fingers. It was starting to snow again, and as I squinted into the dark, I felt a deep alarm. It spread down my nape, my back, down to the very soles of my feet, making my eyes water and my teeth chatter violently.

I can compare that moment in the snow to my encounter with the snake. It was as if the dark held a primeval terror, and upon encountering it my only possible reaction was the limbic response of flight. I ran away, stumbling madly through the snow, unseeing. I did not stop running until I reached our dorm, and it was only after I flung the front door open, clutched a cup of hot tea, and spoke in anxious murmurs to our house mother that the feeling that something hungry and dangerous lurked outside began to fade away.

The students walked in pairs at night and keenly observed any outsider who might park his car and knock on the door of a dorm. But the winter continued quiet and ordinary, and soon enough the students breathed a sigh of relief. By March, the house mother had boxed up Ginny’s belongings and shipped them to her family and returned her books to the library. I had a new roommate. Joyce House buzzed with preparations for the spring cotillion and Ginny had been forgotten.

A mystery is the most seductive of poisons; it intoxicates the soul.

Ginny’s disappearance remained unsolved. Unlike other people who went missing, she never had her face decorating any posters, she was not listed in any database, her story did not show up on a cheap TV show. Ours was a private pain. Perhaps some people might think this was a kinder fate, but it isolated us. It made us the lone receptacles of her memory. It made us morbid, that was what Carolyn said. She was correct. We swapped our newspaper clippings and told each other ghost tales to ease our pain. Why return to that moment, why return to her? It was not a choice we made. We were afflicted with a disease and it sprouted anew, like mushrooms that rise from the damp black earth, their long yellow filaments seeping into dead matter and decayed wood.

She didn’t really want to talk to either one of them, didn’t really want to dig into the mystery of this missing girl. She was tired. Everything around her was infected with the stench of witchcraft and she walked quickly, her hands jammed in her pockets,

After a while, she realized that the headache was not from the noise, but that once again there was that pernicious sensation at the back of her skull. A portent. She felt a pair of eyes boring into her back and turned around to find Conrad Carter staring at her. Of course he’d been invited. Patricia was friends with practically the entire student population of Massachusetts. He raised a bottle of beer to his mouth and smirked at her.

Minerva felt someone’s heavy gaze on her, although this time she could not say where it was coming from. It’s here, she thought. She couldn’t see anything strange, but the house seemed to have grown darker. Something stirred the shadows and made the CD that was playing skip. The light in the hallway behind her grew dim. Her eyes were watering and her throat felt constricted, as if she’d come in contact with a toxic substance. It was terribly warm inside. She stuck her hand into her purse, clutching the talisman, and hurried out of the party.

The clopping of her shoes seemed to echo down the street, clearly indicating her path. Behind her something was slithering along in the bushes; she felt it staring at her, trailing her, and went faster. Another lamppost flickered ahead and she made a sharp turn to the right, jaywalking across the street. It followed, sleek and silent. She ran, thinking of the safety of the dorm.

Christina held out a copy of Bell, Book, and Candle: Witchcraft in the New World. Minerva opened the book, her fingers careful upon the leather cover. On the title page someone had drawn a symbol she recognized: the witch mark with the overlapping circles, and underneath it the words “Look beneath the floorboards.” She flipped to the back of the book and found an ancient borrowing card with the dates on which the book had been checked out. Few people had asked for Bell, Book, and Candle. It had lain forgotten in the stacks for many years. Until, there it was, 1997, it had been checked out. By Tom. But decades before, in 1934, under the column Issued to, there was another name: V. Somerset.

“It’s very easy to cast a spell to prevent people from gossiping about you. You take the tongue of a small animal and drive a nail through it into the ground,” he said. “Sprinkle a smidgen of graveyard earth upon it and you’re done.”

Walking through Briar’s Commons did feel like walking through a witch’s woods that evening; the tree branches above her head seemed to meet and clasp one another and the path she followed was like a tendril of faded black ink, like in the illustration for a fairy tale. But her great-grandmother’s stories had been darker than most fairy tales, drenched in blood.

A few minutes later she stood in front of Ginny and Betty’s old dorm. She looked up at the second floor and felt the electric tug she often experienced when gazing at it, especially at that one window. Before, she had thought it was merely her appreciation of the old house, but now she recognized it as something else: the faint tracery of magic.

During her previous incursion into the room, on that night when she’d found the Ouija board and the candles, Minerva had been too busy talking to the security guard accompanying her to give the space a proper look. If she had been alone, perhaps she would have realized that this room was the same one she often stared at, her eye reflexively drawn to that particular window in Joyce House. The house had been interested in Minerva long before she had become interested in it. Now it welcomed her: a crackling, almost electric shock spread down her spine as she stepped farther into the room. It was the sharp sting of a whip and her ears rang. She rubbed her head, remaining still until the sensation dissipated.

Something brushed against her body, like the filaments of a spiderweb stretching against her skin. She turned around, the flashlight illuminating a bare wall. There was nothing there, but something was close to her. Something that could not be seen, but that she felt, inches out of reach. Ginny’s ghost. She knew it, could sense it. It was a talent.

Ginny must have tucked other pieces of paper under the floor, drawings with concentric circles, charms to keep evil away. But this one board and this one piece of paper were special. The floorboards creaked and groaned, and there was a bump against the wall, then another. The ghost in the room was restless, perhaps afraid. She unfolded the paper. There, in Ginny’s beautiful handwriting, was the name of her murderers. The name that Beatrice Tremblay had longed to know and never suspected. It was a familiar name. “Wingrave,” Minerva said, reading the piece of paper. The old lightbulb above her head grew dimmer and flickered. The silken, spidery threads brushed against her arm again, tugging at her with such force that Minerva stumbled back and bumped against the old-fashioned radiator. The ghost dragged her farther into the room, pulling her as far as it could from the entrance. The house seemed to shiver, unnerved.

“Your name. She couldn’t speak it, but she could write it. You were the one bewitching her,” she said, for it was useless to act coy now. There was only one reason why Carolyn would be standing beyond the threshold, staring at her. “If you want to be technical about it, it was my father.”

Ginny’s witch marks still had power. Especially with her ghost in the room. Something about the spectral presence combined with the markings helped maintain the space safe from the influence of an evil sorcerer. That was why the piece of paper had remained beneath the floor. That, and Carolyn probably had no idea it was there. Ginny had left a message for her friend scribbled inside a book, but Betty had never read it. Thomas might have been close to discovering the note, but Minerva must have interrupted his séance. Whether he’d had an inkling of the note’s existence or not, the room was shielded and Minerva was safe within its confines. The room would not allow Carolyn in, nor one of her minions. Dark magic had no place within it.

Carolyn sighed. She tapped the wall again, once, twice, thrice. Her eyelids trembled and her eyes rolled back until the whites were showing. “Your friend owns a blue car, doesn’t he? From his rearview mirror hang two air fresheners in the shape of palm trees.”

He stroked her like one might pet a favorite cat. She was a lovely plaything he’d wanted for so long. Now he owned her.

“What happened that night in December?” “She’d gone downstairs to the phone, and attacked me with a pair of scissors when she saw me. The idiot. I still carry the scar,” Carolyn said, and Minerva looked at her fingers upon the wheel and the ugly line that ran down the back of her right hand. “Then she ran off into the snow. My father was waiting outside. We both chased her and caught up with her.” That meant the blood in the snow had been Carolyn’s. She must have hidden her wounded hand under elegant gloves or warm mittens immediately after the incident. After winter break, the hand would have been healed, or an excuse would have been furnished. “She didn’t last long,” Carolyn said, and she sighed. “It was a pity. We’d planned to keep her for a while. Pain and fear sweeten the blood.” “Is that the way your magic works? You must drink blood?” “It makes it more potent.” “And the heart, it’s also potent.”

“You killed her because of business problems?” “Would it be better if I had killed her because I wanted Edgar for myself?” “Did you?” Carolyn looked ahead, her hands careful upon the wheel. The corners of her thin lips twitched into a smile. “I met him before she did. We were part of the same social circles. We were much better suited to each other.” “Yet he never forgot Ginny. He kept all those drawings of hers like a shrine to his true love,” Minerva said. Carolyn’s reaction was, as she’d expected, a mixture of irritation and pride. “No, Miss Contreras. I kept her drawings and Betty’s manuscript. I could have disposed of them after Edgar died, but I didn’t. And you know why? They were never a shrine to Ginny. They were a trophy. A reminder of my success. I killed Virginia Somerset and no one ever suspected the truth.”

“What about Santiago? What happened to him?” “We wanted two people. A man and a woman. The spell would work better that way. He also had the ability, though it was dimmer than in Ginny’s case. I flirted with him a few times, convinced him I was interested in him, and then arranged a rendezvous.” “Then the woman they saw outside with Santiago was you. But no one knew, and when she went missing you must have fanned everyone’s suspicions, told them she’d run off with him.”

“Weren’t you worried he’d find you out? That Ginny would tell him you were behind it all?” “She couldn’t. Ghosts are coarse things; communicating with them is difficult, and Thomas was not an experienced medium. At best, he learned enough to become terrified and paranoid.” “Which suited you.” “His blood did have a lovely tinge of dread. I kept him alive for a whole week. I might keep you longer.”

Minerva had the same impression, lightning quick, of a man. Santiago, perhaps, tethered to this room decades after his death, like Ginny seemed tied to Joyce House. “You won’t get away with it, you know,” Minerva said for the sake of covering the soft sound of the zipper with her voice. “They’ll investigate if I go missing.” “Students stop attending classes, they drop out.” “Wait. How many students from Stoneridge have you killed?” “Very few, actually. But when I did, nothing came of it. Thomas, Ginny, now you. Oh, a couple of others a few decades ago.

Carolyn unbuttoned her coat and carefully draped it over a corner of the table. She was wearing a white blouse, but the woman quickly grabbed a long red sleeveless tunic and slipped it over her head. Minerva almost laughed, thinking that it would cost a lot to get bloodstains out of the white fabric, and wondered if sorcerers had a special dry cleaner for that.

“The ability runs in my family. But sometimes it skips a generation, or if it manifests, it’s too weak. One of my sons had it, and he rejected it; he stunted his power with drink and drugs. And he wouldn’t let me near Noah.” Carolyn sighed. She picked up a golden pendant with a great red stone and placed it around her neck as she spoke. It occurred to Minerva that it was like watching a knight dressing for battle, or an actor putting on a costume. Perhaps it was necessary for whatever ritual she’d perform that night. Or maybe Carolyn also fancied the dramatic.

I’m going to die, she thought. I’m going to die, but I’m not going down easy. Without turning to look at her, the woman spoke. Her voice was magnificently serene. “My dear, it won’t do any good to try and attack me,” she said. “I had other plans,” Minerva said, and she slashed at her left wrist. Carolyn let out a furious scream. Minerva was shoved back by a powerful force, her chair toppled over, and she hit her back against the floor. The box cutter went flying through the air and landed in a corner of the room.

Carolyn chuckled; the laughter was muffled against Minerva’s skin. She tossed her head, tried to shove the woman off. Her body was a limp, useless mess, and the more she struggled the more tired she became. Minerva had drunk almost the entire contents of her thermos before venturing into Joyce House, the potion her great-grandmother had told her about. Poison for witches. It ought to work. Then again, it was simply a story she’d heard late at night. It might have been made up. It might not work on someone like Carolyn.

Carolyn shook her head and extended an arm. The ceremonial knife jumped into her hand. The sharp, ugly blade glinted as she stepped forward, ready to plunge it into Minerva’s chest. “Help me!” Minerva said, and this time the words were clear; the command echoed around the room. The shadow-thing seemed to acquire a solidness for a moment and sent the can full of nails flying. The rusty bits of metal hit Carolyn, embedding themselves in her face and neck. She shrieked, spinning around, her fingers madly trying to rip out the projectiles. You simply live through it. Minerva remembered the words and her fingers tightened around the handle of the axe. Her vision was a throbbing burst of red and her body threatened to sink into unconsciousness, but she bit her tongue viciously. The stinging pain, the blood on her tongue, awoke every nerve in her body. Minerva grabbed the weapon and rushed forward. She swung and stared into Carolyn’s startled eyes as the blade sliced her head off.

“We belong together, you know it,” he said, his voice raspy. “No one will ever understand you like I can. And I can give you everything you want, everything you’ve always dreamed of.” His eyes vivisected her where she stood, even as his voice was a velvety whisper, and she knew he did not lie. His sincerity made her want to weep. She cared about him, even if he was monstrous. More than once, Alba had comforted herself with the thought that they were the same, he and she. He had embodied gallantry and romance. Tarnished, lying in the muck, he still maintained a brightness to his expression, a terrible, damning beauty. And he was so young, boyish still, it made her hesitate. But Tadeo had been younger yet, as had Valentín.

Under his skin she felt the throbbing pull of magic, the power embedded in his bones, and, deeper yet, the awful extent of his appetite. He’d eat her whole. Maybe he wouldn’t savor the taste of her bones, but he’d eat away at a part of her anyway, mangle her soul. Pull her deep into shadows that she might dwell in darkness until the end of her days.

“I won’t let you destroy me,” she said. “I will live through this.” His eyes widened and he yelled for her to stop. She cut off his head all the same.

She blinked them away and looked down at Carolyn’s body. It was melting, like hot wax. Rivulets of darkness spread across the floorboards and bones poked through the softening, peeling tissue. With each minute the body decayed more, becoming, at last, nothing but a fine layer of dust. Even her jewelry, her vestments, her shoes, grew rusted and brittle and disintegrated. Every item she’d brought into that room vanished as if it had never been, leaving behind only a sour scent.