A Cloudy Summer Day

By Leslie Johnson

 

The air hung from the clouds, unmoving. It was humid, hot with the anticipation of something … something wicked and otherworldly.

The dark-haired woman walked down the gravel road, kicking up the dust behind her. Short little puffs that spread the detritus onto her toes and sandals. She wasn’t walking with purpose; it was more like strolling along even though she looked neither left nor right but kept her eyes locked onto a place in the distance that only she could see.

As I drove past her, I kicked up enough dust to coat her from head to toe. I wondered where she was going. Was she heading to my house? Should I have stopped and offered her a ride? As an older frailer woman, I didn’t pick up hitchhikers. They might overpower me. It bothered me to feel so vulnerable. I hated getting old.

At the crossroads, I slowed and looked back. She was still coming this way. But would she continue? She could go left or right or stay the course. If I hadn’t been in a hurry to get home before the storm hit, I might have travelled slowly enough to see which direction she took.

I parked the car and headed to the backyard, where I hurried to take the clothes off the line. As I turned toward the house, the first big, fat raindrop landed on my arm. I rushed into the house and set the basket of clothes on the dining room table.

I stood at the window, folding the laundry as I watched the storm pelt the ground with force. The wind picked up and smashed some raindrops against the window. For a minute, the rain took on a more substantial form as small pellets of hail bounced off the lawn before settling into tiny white drifts. As quickly as it started, the hail turned back to rain and soon was falling more gently.

I carried the folded laundry up to the second floor and put everything away. When I came back down, I noticed a large puddle of water inside the front door. At first, I thought maybe the screen door window was up, letting the rain in. Then I noticed water puddles leading toward the kitchen. My heart leapt into my throat and goosebumps rushed up my arms. It was then that I remembered the woman on the road. What did she want from me?

When I came into the room, she was standing with her back to me, looking out the window over the sink. My heart raced and my breath caught in my throat as she turned toward me. When I had driven past, I had thought her to be a young woman in her thirties. Now I saw I was wrong. She was much older, even older than me.

The crone grinned. Her broken and rotting teeth were like monuments to something long dead. The stench that wafted from her made me gag, and my legs trembled before giving way. Sitting on the floor, I knew I was trapped. There was no possibility of rising and running before she surpassed me.

“What do you want?” I cried.

A high-pitched cackle broke her silence. “You know what I want, Velma my dear. I told you I would come. You just chose not to believe me.”

I remembered. It was a long time ago. I had been desperate. Desperately in love with Peter, who had eyes for Jillian and only Jillian. I heard there was a place where, for a small fee, you could make things happen. It was a gloomy place, down many dark alleys, with twists and turns. I had gone alone, knowing that my friends would not let me travel to some place so nefarious.

She was there inside the dank little shop. There were crystals and potions and tinctures on every surface—shelves and counters, windowsills and even some herbs hanging on thin threads from the ceiling. I shuddered as the door slammed closed behind me. Swallowing hard, I stepped toward her and she looked up from her crystal ball.

“I knew you were coming. I saw you a long way off. It is time.”

With a wave of her hand, she urged me closer, and I stepped into her presence. The cold swept around me, freezing my thoughts. She took my hand and with a long-pointy finger she drew a circle in the palm, not once but three times. My fingers jerked and my hand tingled and grew warmer. I didn’t understand a word she was saying, as a peace fell over my heart and the air cleared.

I don’t remember leaving the shop. I don’t know how I got home. Life went on as usual for a week, before Peter stopped and asked me if I wanted to go to the movies. The rest, as they say, is history. I never asked about Jillian, and he never mentioned her. We married, had three beautiful babies and eventually we moved to this tiny piece of heaven outside the city of Madison.

Peter had died earlier this year. Although I felt the loss, it did not devastate me. I discovered soon after we married; I was not in love with him, but I could not remove myself from this marriage forged in black magic.

As she moved toward me, I heard her words from the past echo inside my head. I had not heeded them. Instead, I pushed them deep into my subconscious and now she was here to collect. I was not ready. I could not believe she was here for my soul. Please no, I wanted her to leave me alone. I wanted to live; so I could enjoy my home without the restraints of an ailing husband. The freedom of a single life was enticing. Peter had never wanted to travel, but there were so many cities and sites I wanted to see before I died. I needed more time.

For years, I rued the day I had made the deal because Peter was not my perfect mate. She gave him to me because I had asked and back then, I willingly agreed to pay the cost.

“I don’t want to die.” I cried as I tried to crawl away from her advancing form. “I still have lots I want to do. Can we make a deal?”

“What do you have in mind?” she asked as she slowed her pace.

“You tell me what you want. I’m sure you want something.”

“I want the flesh of your favourite grandchild. Bethany. I will take her life and leave you alone. You will die an old woman many years from now. Or I take you and Bethany lives. Your choice.”

I thought of Bethany. She was only ten years old. She was beautiful and talented and had a promising future in front of her. I had lived a decent life and was in my mid-sixties. Not the life I wanted, but I could not find enough faults to complain about, other than Peter. I should let her take me, so my granddaughter could live out her potential.

“You can take Bethany. Just leave me be.” The words fell from my lips, though I didn’t feel like I had said them.

“Fair enough. You will have twenty more years. I will come for you again.”

I woke on the floor of the kitchen. How had I gotten here? I shook my head and wondered about the strange dream I had. It was unnerving and a little upsetting.

The phone rang. Call display revealed it was my daughter, Brianne. “Hello my darling. How are you?” I chirped.

“Bethany is dead, Mom. A car hit her while she was out riding her bike. She’s dead” The anguish of my daughter’s loss broke through the icy shield around my heart, and I knew then that the dream had not been a dream.

“What have I done?” I cried.

“What do you mean?” Brianne asked. “How could you have done anything—we live hours away from you.”

“It was … I was …” I couldn’t go on. “I will come immediately, Brianne. Just give me time to pack.”

I hung up the phone, but the words echoed. “Bethany is dead … Bethany is dead …” The voice belonged to the old crone. Her cackle ran up my spine as I stumbled to the stairs. I never made it to Brianne’s.

With suitcase in hand, I reached for the banister at the top of the stairs, when I felt tiny hands push me in the middle of my back. I tumbled down the stairs, my suitcase falling under, over and into me. The last thing I remember before I lost consciousness was looking into the smirking face of my beloved granddaughter.

It was three days before they found me. I lived twenty more years in a coma, strapped to machines. My mind was still active, so the doctors hoped for recovery. During this time, I could not speak or move or do anything for myself. I longed for death every day, but I knew this was my punishment for allowing my granddaughter to take my place. Bethany made sure I paid.