This is the first work of fiction I’ve created in a decade; written for Toastmasters as a speech. I enjoyed writing it so much I wanted to share it here as well! But I must emphasize that this is deeply fictional.
I’ve spent most of my life in the Appalachian foothills in one form or another so while I wouldn’t call myself a true Appalachian, I am a lot closer than most–and I’ll also note that I’m using the northern Appalachian pronunciation, for any purists in the audience.
Though a rambunctious child, I wasn’t what you’d call brave. Since I was old enough to understand the priest telling us of demons and hellfire, I’d suffered night terrors that left me permanently on edge as I waited for the monsters of the night to appear in my waking life.
This didn’t stop my love for the outdoors, though, and with my brother being more of an indoor cat, I spent a lot of time in the woods alone.
I came across all sorts of oddities, mostly harmless animal remains and oddly stacked rocks that freaked me out then but now I suspect were just the result of bored teens. So rather than tell you of my misadventures in the wilderness, I’m here to tell you about my nana, the witch.
My nana had the same ash blonde hair as me, though I think hers came from a box as she aged. She was the source of my father’s dominant gift to me--hard gray eyes that don’t miss much. Her graveled smoker’s voice lingered years after quitting and the smell of Marlboros mixed with the lemon soaps she always used remains one of my favorite scents. And around her neck always hung a simple gold locket featuring my brother and me, her only grandchildren.
We visited her and my Papap often enough that I felt comfortable exploring their property on my own, but not so frequently I could call us close.
When I was about 7, though, my Nana bridged that gap by casually mentioning, over an exceptionally good plate of spaghetti, that her secret recipe came from witchcraft.
“Oh, I’m a witch, you know,” she said, without a trace of humor.
No, I actually did not know, and I stared in shock, waiting for her to elaborate. She didn’t, and my mom shut down that conversation right quick, so I remained silent.
Later, during bedtime, I broached the subject. “Is Nana an evil witch?” I hadn’t heard of any other sort of witch.
“No, baby girl,” Mom said, “she’s only teasing.”
I considered. I knew witches were real, because the Church had warned us of them, and why would we be warned about something that wasn’t real?
But Nana never seemed particularly evil, just clever with domestic things and herbal remedies. And, in that time and place, it was more accepted to turn to ginger or whiskey than tums or sudafed so I never questioned her.
I got my answer--or what I’ll let you decide is an answer--a few months later, when my brother and I went to stay for a weekend.
Unhappy to be away from my friends and their swimming pools, but pleased to have uninterrupted witch-hunting time, I went to bed eagerly for the first time in years, ready to wait for midnight, the most haunted hour.
When my baby blue digital watch beeped its hourly call signaling midnight, I slowly creaked into the hall. Then I hesitated, having not thought the plan through beyond this.
Until I smelled the smoke.
Silent as a nearly 8-yr-old-ghost, I glided outside to see a small fire crackling in the yard. While the gentle August air danced around my bare legs, I marveled at my Nana, her back to me, dressed in a simple white linen dress.
She stood with her face to the bright moon, lost in her own world, and oblivious to my presence. Dangling from her hand was the ever-present locket, hanging open as the fire caught the gold and made my own image dance back at me.
Her only movement was a gentle sway, nearly mimicking the slow crackle of the fire. I stood, captivated by moonlight and its old magic for what could have been hours but was surely only minutes.
Eventually, I felt drawn back to my own bed, a peaceful sleepiness enveloping my tiny body and I collapsed into my first dreamless sleep in years.
I don’t know if my Nana was a witch. I don’t know why she changed her clothes and started a fire after everyone else had gone to bed and I don’t know why that was the last weekend we stayed over.
I don’t know if my Nana’s willful neglect of the church inspired my parent’s separation and I don’t know if my persistent passion for all things spooky is her genes running strong in my feral bones.
But I do know that after that night, I never had another night terror, and that whatever demons had plagued my sleep blew away with the smoke, curling up to the moon while she looked down on those Appalachian trees.