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On the night of the new moon evil witches liked to dance against the treetops; that was what her great-grandmother used to say. They’d slip out of their human skins and grow wings, turn into balls of light, and cavort in the sky. The teyolloquani, the most fearsome of all, drank the blood of their victims and ate their hearts.
That’s what their name means, “heart eater,” Nana Alba had said. Listen, this story, you should hear it and learn how to fight them. About how to know them. Know the signs. A true witch is born, the day of their birth marks their path.
“Virginia Somerset was wealthy and very different from Betty. That was her name, the girl who vanished. They were roommates.”
Because of the Great Depression, many women found it harder to secure work. If you were married, they wouldn’t hire you. Men were supposed to be the breadwinners, and if you were married and working, you were stealing a man’s job.
Yes, when I think of it, it must have all started during the Halloween Ball, even before the séance. That was when I spotted that terrible darkness in Virginia’s eyes. The seeds of tragedy had taken root by then.
She had that terrible split second of panic in which she did not know what shape a man’s rage might take.
“Is someone born to be a musician? Those who have gifts may have an easier time walking certain paths, but it doesn’t mean they will.”
“There’s a theory that it was moldy bread.” He stared at her. She took a bite out of the sandwich. “Linnda Caporael theorized that there was an outbreak of ergotism. Basically, there’s a type of fungus that can grow on crops and cause hallucinations in people who consume it.”
“I’ve always been concerned with the idea of absolute evil. There’s cruelty in all those stories. Witches committing terrible deeds to get their kicks—but then if you spin it around and look at the witch trials, you have innocent people who are being accused of something simply because their neighbors have a petty grudge against them.” “A petty grudge, and they ate moldy bread.”
“The romance of it. It’s as if you’re conducting a secret, passionate love affair. You know every detail about someone, their every word and thought. When you look at their writing, you swoon over a sentence fragment or a turn of phrase. It’s as if, through the mists of time, someone reaches out and touches your hand.”
Time is a treacherous mistress. In our youth it flows slow and deep; the days stretch out endlessly. When we are children, a summer lasts for a century. As we age, the flow of time speeds up. Suddenly, a year vanishes with the snap of one’s fingers. How quickly time eludes us, how easily it tricks us.
“I’d tear the world apart to have you. Say you love me.”
