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The witch lived on the northeast side of town, on a winding street that followed the creek at the foot of Owl Hill. All the backyards on that street looked out onto unabated wilderness, which started, with astounding impetus, just ten feet away from the fences, normally on the inside. Frontyards, demoted to the storage of junk and sale ads, had long lost all appearance of tameness. Houses stood in the middle, half digested by the forest.
Debo?n’s house, which Andy and Nate still remembered from hushed pointing and rumoring when they used to cycle by, stood slightly prouder than the rest, having apparently agreed on a fragile nonaggression treaty with the invading rain forest. The front garden could almost have been described as beautiful, until on a closer look the observer noticed that most of the blossoming whites and pale blues were actually wild species in their early-spring exuberance, unassisted by gardeners. Junipers and blackberry bushes coexisted peacefully with cast-iron lamps, a bird fountain, and a moss-ridden set of garden furniture, and the brownstone building tried its best not to cramp the hill’s Gothic sense of style.
Crows perched on a fig tree announced the arrival of visitors. A squirrel fled the rough path of sandstone slabs at the sight of Tim. As they pushed open the gate, Nate pointed out that the name on the mailbox was Morris.
They resolved to knock anyway and ask for directions.
Andy rubbed the verdigris off her fingers as they waited by the front door.
“So this is a witch’s house?” she said. She checked the spiraling ornaments of the porch lamps and the handrail, the silent wooden wind chime, the withered Christmas wreath on the door. “Looks like the place of an old lady who never got married.”
“That’s Puritan for ‘witch,’?” Nate said, and he knocked again.
Tim finished wreaking havoc among the abnormally dense animal population of the tiny garden and climbed up to the porch, the trip having already been well worth his time. Andy and Nate deliberated wordlessly.
They were coming back down the stoop when a figure under a wide tornado of a coat and a flower-bearing hat shuffled through the entrance gate, towing her shopping bags, negotiating the sketchy garden path in her high-heeled boots. A black-eyed face looked up from under the hat.
“Can I help you?” she said, with the exact tone of someone whose next line is going to be Yes, I heard of this Jesus Christ guy, but I’m not voting for him.
“Are you Ms. Debo?n?” Nate asked.
“It’s Morris now,” the woman said, hurrying up the steps past them to drop the bags on dry land. She examined the visitors while producing a jingling tangle of keys. “Who are you?”
She had a flimsy, high-pitched voice, kind but tired. Andy poked herself out of confusion.
“Uh, my name’s Andy Rodriguez; this is Nate Rogers. We are…uh, doing some research on the history of Blyton Hills. We wonder if you could spare some minutes to answer a few questions?”
“About what?”
“Your…I mean, the Debo?n family.”
The woman managed to find a key that agreed to fit the lock and opened the front door. An unsubtle aroma of thyme and tobacco rushed out.
“I’m not sure I’m the best person to tell you. Why don’t you ask, I don’t know, every other man or woman in town?”
“We did,” Nate lied, softly blocking the door after her. “We heard some unflattering gossip; we were hoping to get the facts from you.”
“Okay,” she said. “My father was such a creep that just for carrying his name I’ve been getting the worst cut at the butcher’s and having to cut my own hair for thirty years. How’s that for a fact?”
She held looks with Andy, Nate spying his favorite brand of canned mac and cheese inside the woman’s shopping bags. Then they all checked on Tim. He had half his body inside the house and was carefully inspecting the umbrellas by the door.
“What kind of researchers are you?” the woman inquired. She had manga-sized eyes, emboldened by mascara.
“History.”
“Folklore,” Nate began to say just a little before Andy. Then he continued. “We’re interested in the legends of Sleepy Lake.”
The woman examined them again, squinting now. The realization triggered the most volatile, ghostly memory of a smirk.
“You’re the kids,” she said. “The teen sleuths who caught the Sleepy Lake monster.”
“Yes,” Andy said, kind of embarrassed. Being recognized like this would be the closest to flashing a badge she would ever do. “Can we ask you a few questions about the house up there?”
Tim was already inside the hall and ready to make himself some toast as soon as he found the kitchen.
“All right, come in,” the woman said, yielding the lead.
The house was smaller than Kerri’s, but way more cluttered. The tiny entrance hall alone held so many pieces of furniture—all dark wood and aged cloth—but with each piece having a seemingly good reason to be there, that Andy felt she was in the rare presence of a hoarder with a sense of taste. It did look like a witch’s house—one that would be featured in the fall ’68 issue of Country Homeowners.
“Sit wherever, I’ll be with you in a second,” the witch said while she hatched from her scruffy overcoat and hat, emerging at least two sizes tinier, her miniature hourglass body clad in a tight sweater and leather pants, perfectly adjusted to gracefully navigate through the crammed space. The word “voluptuous” came to Andy’s mind, mainly because she thought of it as a word for sexy that was used decades ago, while she watched the little woman drag her groceries into the kitchen.
An iron lattice separated the hall from the living room, where the stuffiness expanded in the shape of megafauna-skin cushions and junglesome indoor plants. Andy called the dog away from the many objects she felt like sniffing herself. Nate orbited toward the books on the shelves—old dusty leather-bound volumes flanked by Tiki book stoppers and luxurious plants. On a closer inspection, they were just jacketless editions of fantasy romance.
“Can I offer you something?” the woman called. “Coffee? Tea? A toad’s eye in syrup?”
“No, thank—” Andy stopped short, an eyebrow triggered to stand alert.
Their hostess appeared in the doorframe. “Just kidding. Gotta live up to my reputation, you know.”
She closed the fridge and stepped out to join them.
“Please, sit down. Where are the other two?”
The guests exchanged puzzled looks.
“You used to be five, didn’t you?” she said, settling on a beanbag sofa and opening a tin cigarette box. “Three boys, a girl, and a dog?”
Andy smiled, thinking how flattered that would have made her teenager self.
“Only one came; she’s pursuing a different lead,” Nate answered.