Lindsay was sure the old woman was a witch, she just felt it. There was something about the way the old woman was always so sure of herself, despite being so old - so unequivocal, and it wasn’t just a being older thing. No, there was something in her demeanor, the old woman’s, that spoke of some unsung power, something thrumming just under the surface. Lindsay was determined to find out what it was. She told her friend Syrah about it, and Syrah kept laughing at her, but by the end of the night and a second bottle of pinot, Syrah had committed to the bit: they were going to find out the background of the witch woman.
Lindsay’s first impulse was to bake a cake and bring it over to the woman, which she did. A coffee cake. Baking was fun, and the whole dirty reason behind it made it more thrilling. When it had cooled, she popped in toothpicks, wrapped it in plastic and drove it over, her heart racing ever faster the closer she got to ringing the bell. The old woman came to the door and eyed Lindsay and the cake with deep suspicion. “What is this for?” Lindsay hadn’t thought this through and stumbled upon a stupid, innocuous lie. “Oh, I was making one and made too much batter and figured I’d make another and thought I’d be a good neighbor.” The old woman almost smirked, but was also frowning and her brain churning away trying to figure out what Lindsay’s motive was, beyond raw curiosity. “You’ve lived here for seven years and never said a word,” the old woman replied, throwing down her gauntlet of truth. Lindsay was nearly agape at the realization that the old woman knew exactly how long she had lived nearby. “Oh, I didn’t know you noticed me,” said Lindsay. “I could say the same,” came the reply and the old woman made her move. “Come inside for tea and have a slice. I insist.” Lindsay could feel herself recoil, but told herself that this is what she wanted, to solve the mystery. She could already hardly wait to tell Syrah.
Crossing the threshold into the house, Lindsay already regretted her choice, and she followed the old woman down a long hallway to the other end of the house into the kitchen where she put a kettle on. Of course there were no teabags, just jars and jars filled with herbs and mushrooms and things she couldn’t recognize. It was cozy, almost cottagecore, although a lot darker and more rustic and real. A wildly colored cat emerged from a side room to eye Lindsay. “Isis, this is - what’s your name, girl?” “Lindsay, Lindsay.” “Isis, this is Lindsay, and I’m Cora.” The old woman looked very determinedly at Lindsay’s face, searching it - for what? Lindsay wanted to leave but didn’t want to offend Cora or make trouble, it was already going too far.
The old woman turned to fix the kettle and make a plate, and Lindsay looked around the room, eyeing all the items in the jars more closely, answering the simple questions that Cora was asking. “Where are you from? What brought you to the area?” When the kettle sang, Lindsay was noticing some dolls in the next room and moved to look closer at them. “Don’t touch those,” came the sharp, commanding voice from the kitchen, and Lindsay pulled her hand back fast. “Those aren’t to be played with.” Cora smiled, but it did not hide a pointed intensity that was aimed at Lindsay. “I can’t really stay long,” Lindsay started to plan her escape. “Who said anything about staying long? We’re going to share some cake and tea.” Cora nodded her head in a direction and Lindsay followed the hallway to a door that led outside to a garden, a lovely little garden. They sat down and Lindsay sipped her tea when it was cool enough to drink as they picked at the coffee cake, still warm inside.
Lindsay awoke in the middle of the night, feeling like she couldn’t breathe. The walls seemed to be breathing, pulling back and forth, and her heart was beating so hard she thought she might die at any moment. Her last memory was sipping the tea. A light seizure passed through her and left her shaking with chills. Her face hurt, like her skull was pushing its way out of her. Swooning, she ran to the bathroom to throw water on her face, and that’s when she saw it, the beak pushing out of her face, the feathers pushing out of the skin on her arms. Her eyes were black and beady. She wanted to scream, to call Syrah, call anyone, was this real? She must be hallucinating. She must be dreaming still. And those were the last conscious thoughts that Lindsay had as a human being.
October 2, 2022