I feel so bad for anyone who didn't grow up in my hometown. It had EVERYTHING a preteen could want: a candy store, loads of cute boys, tons and tons of kids playing night games every night, sprinklers to run through, AND our very own neighborhood witch.
Now, this woman (whom I have come to really dig in my adult years) is a self-proclaimed eccentric, an artist who lives alone in a historic, victorian home which she painted bubble-gum purple with orange trim. I first became aware of her house when I was about 8. Our new bus route ran right past her yard. This woman (let's call her Witch Lady) proudly displayed a life-sized cutout of an almost naked girl (she did have on red boots) riding a zebra. Witch Lady was always painting- and displaying- stuff like that. You can imagine all us kids flying to that side of the bus to stare out the windows as we rode past every day. It made the bus ride very exciting. So exciting, in fact, that the bus driver complained and Witch Lady had to take her artwork down. Years later I told a few classmates about the naked zebra lady with some emphasis on the red boots, and for the rest of high school that crowd called me "Bootsie." Anyway.
It became a sort of dare amongst the neighborhood kids to be brave enough to knock on Witch Lady's door. Of course, having been raised in our particular community, kindness was a big thing, so we didn't do anything snotty like doorbell ditching or toilet papering. Instead, we baked delicious homemade cookies and shakily handed them to her and then ran off. It felt very daring at the time.
I was really shocked the first time I laid eyes on Witch Lady. She must have been at least 60 then, and she had a yellowish face and super long, black, scraggly hair. Such a strange voice, too. I'll never forget it. Plus, she didn't wear a bra, and that was like- WHOA.
Being into all things spooky and mysterious as I was, Witch Lady intrigued me, and I found excuses to knock on her door 4 or 5 more times. I guess that's why, later, she asked me to cat-sit for her.
Cat-sitting was no big thing. I liked money, and I liked cats, so the job itself was great. BUT. I could NOT get over that house. First of all, she never pruned her trees and there were lots and lots of them, so the whole house was very shaded. There was only dappled natural light in there, and the movement of the spots of light used to catch me off guard sometimes. Then there was the stuff IN the house. I remember her explaining to me about the deep claw marks on her mudroom door. She had written, "I'll huff and I'll puff" underneath them with a Sharpie. Witch Lady said her old pet, a wolf, had scratched the door so hard when he wanted to go out one day that it left those deep cuts in the wood. I genuinely don't know wether or not to believe her story, still to this day. There was a legit cauldron in her kitchen, too. I mean, I guess one could call it a cast iron pot now that I think about it, but it seriously was shaped just like a cauldron. She also had a giant treehouse out back full of crystal balls, strange trinkets, and corked bottles of different colored liquids. True story.
I really didn't care for her artwork then, and I still don't. Not the paintings and sculptures she had out in her house, anyway. They were disturbing and dark, and I don't like to think about them. I've seen some of her other paintings displayed in local libraries, places like that, and it's breathtaking work- stuff like gorgeous herons under a cubic-clouded sky. She should stick to birds and leave the creepy, limp dolls in chains, in my opinion.
Atmosphere is a funny thing. It can play tricks on the mind. I remember several instances where unexplainable events caused my skin to crawl, and I would bolt out the door and run home, sometimes even before I had had a chance to feed the cats. I just couldn't stay there for another second. Here's an entry from one of those days:
I had to go cat sitting alone today. When I was getting out the wet cat food out of the fridge, I heard a noise so I shut the fridge door and turned around. The fridge door swing open again and I got spooked, so I hurried home.
Old houses are like that sometimes. So are possessed ones.
The scariest experience I had was when I went upstairs to look for the cats. Let's be honest, I was snooping. Now, Witch Lady had told me a long story about how a past girl used to hang out at Witch Lady's house for hours while cat-sitting, just because she enjoyed being alone, and how it was totally fine if I wanted to do the same. One assumes that a little snooping would be expected with an invitation like that. At the same time, when I started up the stairs to "look for the cats," I found a butcher knife placed in the middle of the third step, so... mixed signals. I climbed past the knife (alarm bells going off??) to explore upstairs. Most of the rooms up there were within an acceptable range of normal for a woman who was into fun sculptures like mannequins laying on the bathroom floor, their plastic arms clinging to the tub. You know, art. But there was one room that left me feeling really... off. It wasn't carpeted, and the floor and walls and ceiling were all painted the same grey-blue color. The room was empty except for a bare mattress on the floor, and a wheelchair pulled up to the window. I don't know how to explain my reaction to that room except that I remember feeling light-headed, and desperate to get away. So I stumbled downstairs, and when I skidded into the kitchen, one of the counter stools was laying neatly on it's side. Lot's of possible explanations. The kitchen was carpeted after all, and the cats could have knocked the stool over, maybe even without me hearing. Or perhaps a friend snuck in to tease me. But there it is, an unsolved mystery that let's just never solve, k?
I saw Witch Lady the other day (actually like a year ago, so 20 years after my cat-sitting days.) We had a real nice visit over the fence. She was telling me about her house, and how when she dies she's planning on leaving it and all her money to an animal shelter that she's fond of (no doubt they take really good care of the cats there.) She invited me inside for a drink and I said I couldn't, but maybe next time. There won't be a next time. I'm never going into that house again.
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