Charmed

The fire flickered low, sending a comforting glow and warmth throughout the sitting-room. Scarlett’s eyelids were growing heavy as she gazed into the fireplace. She supposed she would go to bed soon – if she didn’t fall asleep right there and then. It had been the sort of day that justified an early bedtime.

A series of sharp knocks rapped upon her front door, causing her to jolt upright out of her stupor. She sat still, alert, listening closely to see if she could hear...

There. Harsh whispers began coming from beyond the wooden door – a sure sign that the voices belonged to children. Scarlett couldn’t make out what was being said, but she didn’t have to understand them to know why they were there.

With a heavy sigh, she rose from the comfort of her chair and rubbed her eyes. It wasn’t particularly late yet, but the unwelcome guests should have been at home – having supper, perhaps – not sneaking about the woods where they didn’t belong.

She walked over and put her ear to the door, listening to try and catch the conversation.

“We should go,” a girl’s voice hissed. Scarlett wondered if she recognised it.

“But we’ve only just got here!” said an older boy.

A younger child then piped nervously, “This is dangerous!”

A small smirk crossed over Scarlett’s lips. The second boy wasn’t entirely wrong, though neither was he altogether right. All the same, she was pleased to hear genuine fear in his words.

“Come on. Jack, please, let’s go!” the same boy insisted, his voice pitching up higher. Scarlett heard the faint rustling of retreating footsteps in the leaves.

The elder boy, the one Scarlett had no doubt was the one that had knocked, sighed. “Fine, fine; in a minute. Doesn’t seem as though she’s here right now, anyway.”

Scarlett debated on whether she should open the door or stay hidden inside. Curiosity was beginning to prick at her: How would they react if she made herself known? Reactions varied from person to person – typically she found it quite amusing.

“Are we even sure that a witch lives here?” asked the girl, her voice heavy with doubt – and a bit of irritation, Scarlett noted. She certainly understood that.

The girl’s question settled Scarlett’s mind. With a great long sigh, she unhurriedly opened the door and stepped onto her porch. “No, I’m not a witch,” she said, voice dry with the weary familiarity of the phrase. She leaned back against her door with arms crossed, looking slowly over the trio through dull eyes. They were all standing rigid upright after having taken a quick collective intake of breath. She had to fight not to laugh, though she couldn’t stop a small smile from curling the corners of her dark lips.

They looked so afraid now: The smaller boy stood frozen a few yards behind his companions; the girl clutched onto the arm of the eldest – the boy Jack – who looked truly frightened himself. Scarlett almost pitied them – and herself, just a bit.

Then something beyond them caught her eye. She lifted her gaze past their heads, far down the leafy trail and across the old cobbled path. A familiar figure was glinting gold in the last light of the setting sun. She smirked and decided to tell them; she couldn’t resist it:

“He lives over there.”

She pointed down the way, at the shining young man standing in a sunbeam on his porch, waving at her with bright eagerness.

With that, she closed her door on the children, leaving them to decide what to make of what they had just been told. She leaned back against the door, her gaze drifting to the wall to her right.

With a tired exhale, she took the small knife from its shelf and carved a short, careful line into the wall – the third tally that day. The sharp sound felt out of place in the quiet.

She hadn’t counted them in some time, so she decided to do so now. After a minute or so, she concluded that the tallies from this month alone now totalled two hundred and sixty-eight – about average compared to the past few months.

She looked in contempt at her bare, scratched wall, slowly but surely becoming scarred with tally marks. She sighed again in defeat. If only she had known what she was getting herself into when she had first moved in.