Fiction

I was always a bit rambunctious as a kid. I suppose that’s why I enjoyed tormenting the old hag so much. She lived in a shack on the deserted Pitcairn property outside of Brunton, a small town in southeastern Pennsylvania. Looking back, she was a forlorn creature from whom the adults of the town averted their eyes. To the youngsters of the town, she was an endless source of cruel amusement, once we got over our initial fear of her, which for me was about age eleven. If she had been a fly, we would have reveled in pulling off her wings, trapping her in a bottle while her wings grew back, and then pulling them off again.

My best friend Greg and I would sneak through the trees and bushes of the Pitcairn place to spy on the old hag. We would throw stones at her and run. When she was away, we would sneak into her shack do things I’m ashamed to write about now. In a word, we weren’t very nice to her.

Whenever she saw me on the streets of Brunton, she would stop and give me the most god-awful smile. When she caught me out with my mom and dad, she would shuffle our way in her long, tattered dress that always made me think her clothing was made from spider webs, and my heart would pound.

“Your little boy has been out to see me, haven’t you, sonny?” She’d stare at me as my flummoxed parents stood mutely aghast. Then she would reach out to tousle my hair--something I would never permit--and cackle, “I love little children.” I always expected her to follow up with, “I had two for breakfast just this morning.” But she would simply shuffle off as we shook off the stupor she had caused.

My father would immediately demand--under the threat of the worst punishment imaginable--that I never go near “that woman’s house.” I promised, of course, but went right on doing it, each time with increasing glee.

But all good things come to an end, and my friends and I pretty much lost interest in her once we reached high school, and our pastimes turned to other things.

I’d heard chilling stories back then--even from my parents when they didn’t know I was listening--of people paying the old hag for favors--asking that their bad luck be transformed into good. The story I remember most was my best friend Greg’s parents going to her when he had a strange fever the summer we were nine. The fever would not break. Out local GP was stumped and recommended a trip to a Philadelphia hospital. Greg told me that his parents went to the hag, and two days later the fever was gone. Other people did the same, though rarely would anyone admit ever having gone to her.

She was one scary lady.

I moved away from Brunton for college and stayed away. The only people I kept in touch with were my family, of course, and Greg. We’d catch up on the phone or through emails once in a while, Greg and I, and when I went back to visit mom and dad, Greg and I would always get together.

I married and settled in Wayne, Pennsylvania, a suburb near Valley Forge of George Washington fame. I worked for a computer software firm that sold tracking systems to trucking companies and did well.

Jean my wife and I had just had our first baby, Melody. From birth, though, Melody did not prosper. The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong, but she failed to gain the weight she should have. She ate poorly. She slept poorly. Many nights Jean and I sat up consoling the poor baby, who would wail and whimper.

Jean especially was crushed by this stroke of bad luck. She’d quit her job, eager to be a full-time mother. She’d bought toys, dolls, and clothing galore for the kid. We bought a fancy video outfit, ready to record the baby’s every move. But soon, the baby wasn’t making many moves. She just lay in her crib, eyes searching. She didn’t cry as much, resigned it seemed to her bad fortune.

“If only she would fuss or do something,” Jean would say. “Anything where I could feel that I was helping her. Seeing her just lie there…” It was devastating to be impotent at resurrecting the happiness we’d anticipated from Melody. It was an awful trial no one should have to go through.

Jean convinced me to take a couple days off. I didn’t want to, but I was exhausted. I’d been working a full schedule on little sleep. It was impossible to rest with Melody the way she was. I finally agreed only when Jean consented to go away for a few days when I got back.

It was July, and I headed for Brunton to spend a few days with my parents. On my final night there, a Saturday, Greg and I were sitting on his porch drinking beer. I was telling him the full story of Melody.

“You really look beaten down,” Greg said. “I don’t ever remember you being so…so serious.”

“Serious?” I said. “You should see her. It’s torture to go through this. The worst moments are when I see Jean, tears rolling down her cheeks, holding the baby. And then the poor kid, she just lies there. I really don’t know how we face each day.”

“Why don’t you go and see the old hag?”

“What?”

“The old hag on the Pitcairn place. She’s still there. The stories still go around of her curing for money. You remember my fever, don’t you?”

“You must be kidding. She’s still there? She was a hundred years old when we were little.”

Greg smiled. “No, she only looked that old to us.”

After a moment of quiet I said, “You know, I’d almost be willing to do that. What have you heard lately?”

“Once in a while--just like when I was sick when we were kids--someone gets better unexpectedly. Somebody who’d been out of work forever finds a job. You lived here. It’s no different now.”

“Do you think she can really do it?”

Greg slowly shrugged. “The most you can lose is a little money.”

I poured myself another beer and gave it some thought. When my glass was empty, I was full not only of beer but of courage--of a sort.

“Will you come with me?” I asked. “I don’t want to go alone.”

Greg laughed. “This sounds like the conversation we had the time we dug the hole in front of her door.”

“I remember.” I don’t recall how we managed to be out so late for that little escapade, but we were. At my suggestion we took two small shovels and luckily for us, the hag’s shack was quiet. We dug a shallow hole in front of her door, ready to bolt like bullets if she appeared. When we had the hole to our liking, we ducked back into the bushes and threw stones at her door until she came out. She went right into the hole and down with a cry of pain. We dashed off through the trees as subtly as fire trucks heading for a three alarmer.

“She was hobbling for quite a while after that, remember?” Greg said softly.

“Broken ankle, I think. Man, we were crazy. Next time she saw me, she waggled her fist at me. I was convinced she knew I was responsible. That’s about the time we started tapering off with her.”

“You didn’t want to go alone that night either. You asked me to go with you and carry out your big idea.”

I shook my head, regretting my bizarre behavior. “Yeah, some big idea. But you went, so go this time, too.”

“Let’s have just one more beer. It’s only seven-thirty. It’s still light.”

And so we did.

The light was fading when we approached the same weather-beaten shack I pictured from years before.

“This is ridiculous. Here we are and there’s the shack. It’s like we’re in a time capsule---eleven years old again. You think she’s in?” I whispered.

Greg belched. “Oh, one beer too many. Let’s go see.”

With a slight wobble, Greg led the way to the door and knocked. We heard shuffling inside. My heart began thumping as if I were lying in the bushes with a handful of stones. The door opened and there she was--the same worn face and threadbare clothes. She still scared the marrow out of my bones. With my history with her, it was going to be very difficult dealing with her adult to adult.

The old hag’s eyes narrowed as she inspected us. “You I know,” she said to Greg. She brushed a fly from her cheek and turned my way. I gave her what I thought was a friendly grin. Her eyebrows slowly rose, and she wheezed, “You lived here once. You were a…child here, weren’t you?”

I had to cleared my throat before any words could get through.

“Yes, I was a boy here.”

She searched my face a moment more and then her gaze hardened. “The boy who liked to dig,” she said. “Come in.”

She led the way into the dark shack, but even in the dark I could see that she walked with a limp.

“My friend wants to ask you a favor,” Greg said.

“He does, does he?” she said. “I was hoping it was him and not you.” Then she looked at me and said, “Do you mind if I sit. My leg isn’t any too good.”

She sat on a wooden chair at a small table and indicated we could sit, too. We did and then she lit a candle.

“Don’t you have electricity?” I asked in what I hoped was a friendly manner.

“What is it you want?” she asked, ignoring my question.

“How much?” Greg asked.

“Ah, yes, money. I’d nearly forgot.” She bent her fingers in and out a couple of times. I dug into my pocket and counted off a hundred dollars.

She nodded as she studied the bills, and I looked into the dark corners of the room, wondering what was hidden in the gloom. She rose and disappeared into one of those dark corners, and Greg and I exchanged looks. He rolled his eyes. I heard the click clack of a metal box opening and closing. She returned to the table and sat.

“Tell me the favor,” she said.

“I have a baby. She’s ill. I want the baby cured. I’m afraid for her life.” I wasn’t afraid of sounding overly dramatic because but I wanted the hag to know I was not there on an idle errand.

She reached under the table and opened a large wooden box I hadn’t noticed. She lifted a cloudy round ball about half the size of a bowling ball from the box and put it on the table.

“You must believe,” she said, covering the ball with both her hands. “Or I can do nothing.”

“He believes,” Greg said.

“I believe,” I said at the same time. Greg and I looked at each other.

“Did I tell you that I remember you? You lived here once. I know.”

“You did, yes,” I answered in a whisper.

She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead onto the back of her hands, which still enveloped the ball. “Stones and torment,” she mumbled as she rocked slightly side to side. “Memories. Memories. Tell me all,” she demanded, lifting her head and staring into my eyes. She returned her forehead to the back of her hands as I spoke, and she continued to sway side to side. Her breathing was unnervingly sibilant. When I stopped talking, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. “It is done. You once did for me, and now I have done for you.”

“Just what is it you’ve done?” My stomach was clenched tighter than a miser’s fist around wad of cash.

“Here is my promise. Your baby will be alive and not bothered by her sickness Friday noon. Now go.” Then she gifted me with a satisfied smile.

We got the hell out of there and didn’t discuss the visit the rest of the night.

I planned to leave Brunton the next day, Sunday, but late that night, around two, I got a call from Jean. The doctor said that Melody was dying, and I should come right home. Three hours later I held my daughter in my arms as she passed.

Like two uprooted trees leaning on each other for support, Jean and I somehow found the strength to go through the burial formalities. It was the hardest, most painful thing I ever did. There’s nothing more I can say about it.

It was Saturday night of the next weekend, Jean had already gone to bed. I couldn’t sleep so I paced the living room floor, thoughts of Melody dogging me. Finally, a little before midnight, I sat down and was simply staring into the dark when headlights flashed past my picture window. The curtains were closed, but it was obvious that a car had pulled into my driveway. I got up and inched aside the curtain. It looked like Greg’s car and sure enough, Greg got out and took a step toward the house. As I was about to let the curtain drop, he turned and got back into his car.

“What the hell?” I muttered.

I was still dressed so I went outside and walked up to the driver’s window.

“What in the world are you doing here?” I asked.

“You’re up?” Greg said.

“So it would appear. But what are you doing here this time of night? Everything all right? My parents okay?” I noticed two long shovels tossed across the back seat.

“I…I…”

“What’s wrong with you? Your voice is shaking. Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not. Get in. I would have gone straight there, but I knew I’d never be able to find it.”

I got into the car. Greg pulled out and headed down the road.

“Never been able to find what?”

“It’s the hag.”

“What about her? You’re looking for her? I’d like to find her and tell her her damned magic didn’t work.”

Greg looked over at me. “She passed me on the street today. Do you remember what she said to you. The reason she would help.”

“Besides the money?”

“Yes.”

I thought back. “Something like I did her a favor, now she’d do one for me.”

“Not exactly. She said, ‘You did for me and now I have done for you.’”

“Greg, you’re getting on my nerves. Where the hell are we going?”

“She has the power, Jim. She does. She can do what she says. When I passed her today she looked at me and said, ‘It’s too late now.’”

“So what does that mean?” I asked angrily. “Of course it’s too late. Where are we going? The cemetery? Why are we here?”

Greg had turned onto the main road in the cemetery where Melody was buried. He stopped the car, his foot on the brake, and turned to me.

“She promised that Melody would be alive and healthy on Friday. I’m afraid Melody was alive yesterday. Just as the hag promised. Where is the grave?”

“Are you crazy? She was buried on Thursday. She died early last Sunday morning. What are you talking about?”

“Where is the grave? The grave! There may still be time.”

An explosion of goose flesh burst from my skin. “That way.” We pulled to a stop, and Greg left the headlights on, illuminating the gravestone with Melody’s name.

“Dig!” he commanded, grabbing the shovels from the car.

We dug like mad dogs until we were able to hoist the tiny coffin onto the grass.

“Open it,” Greg said softly.

When the coffin lay open in the glare of the headlights, Greg and I saw a sight to freeze the blood of any man or woman.

Greg whispered. “My God, she brought her back to life.”

If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the look of horror on that poor baby’s face. Her eyes open in terror. Her open, toothless mouth. Her tiny fists clenched in agony at what had been done to her. Made well by that damned hag’s magic only to die again after lying screaming for God knows how long in her own grave.