The Witch of the Winter Woods Page 3
Nicole couldn’t even think what to say. How to react. Nobody had ever been this kind to her, showed her this quantity of mercy and care. It was unreal.
And to think: if her van hadn’t burned to a shell, they probably wouldn’t have asked her to relocate, live here with them. It was true, when people said trying times can lead to the greatest happiness. She’d never believed that before now.
The day went on, one blissful moment after another, until Nicole caught the three of them whispering among themselves as they prepared Christmas dinner. The conversation seemed serious. And she heard her name mentioned.
That’s why she burst into the kitchen, asking, “Were you just talking about me?”
Darla’s mother said no while her dad said yes.
It was Darla who whispered, “It’s not what you think.” Looking beseechingly to her mother, she said, “I think we should tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Nicole begged. “If you don’t really want me living here, it’s okay. I’ll find my way home. You don’t have to let me live here just because you feel bad for me.”
“No, no, no,” Mom said, leaving the cranberries to bubble while she wrapped both arms around Nicole. “It’s nothing like that, honey. It’s… it’s… complicated.”
“You’ll think we’re crazy,” Darla added.
“Try me.”
Darla’s mother sat Nicole at one of the stools by the island, and said, “The night of the accident, you said there was an old woman.”
Nicole nodded. “I saw her in the street first. I swerved because of her.”
“And she said to call her Ma?” Darla’s father asked.
“Yes.” Nicole knew not to nod. She was learning what her head could and couldn’t do these days. “Ma. She said to call her Ma.”
The cranberries were spurting redness all over the stovetop, so Darla took over stirring as she asked, “Is it possible she said to call her Moll?”
“Mall?”
Darla’s dad spelled it out: M-O-L-L.
“Oh, like Moll Flanders?”
“Like Moll Dyer,” Darla replied quickly, like she didn’t want the name sitting on her tongue too long.
Nicole had never heard the name before, but it gave her a frisson and she didn’t know why. Nobody was talking, or even looking at her. The only sound in the kitchen was the gloopy popping noise of cranberries and the lid on the potato pot simmering away.
“Who is Moll Dyer?” Nicole asked anyone willing to answer.
Darla’s dad stepped up, telling the tale as he shaped rolls and set them on a baking tray. “Moll Dyer lived around here in the late 17th century. She lived alone, kept to herself for the most part. Lived very near here, in fact.”
“In that stone house we showed you,” Darla’s mom added. “The one in the woods.”
Nicole had a sinking feeling, and she wished she had something to do with her hands. She felt fidgety, couldn’t sit still.
It was Darla herself who continued the story, saying, “Moll Dyer was really into plant-based medicine, so naturally all the jerkwads in town here called her a witch.”
“Naturally,” Nicole replied.
“And when a harsh winter came along, who do you think the townsfolk blamed?”
The answer was obvious.
“Lots of people were dying,” Darla went on. “They weren’t used to temperatures like this. There was disease and famine, all that stuff, but Moll Dyer seemed to be doing okay. The townsfolk were not cool with that. The took up their torches and their pitchforks—”
“Literally,” Pop cut in.
“—and they set Moll’s house on fire. That house in the woods. They burned it down.”
The image of her crisp black minivan flashed across Nicole’s field of vision. The vehicle that had once been her home. Clearly, it had been set ablaze. But how, why? These were questions she couldn’t answer.
“Do you think the ghost of Moll Dyer set my van on fire?”
Darla’s dad said, “Moll is said to have put a curse on this town.”
“And there have been a strange number of accidents along that stretch of road,” Darla’s mom added.
Darla didn’t seem to like this line of reasoning. “After all these centuries, people still think she’s evil. That’s what happens when you’re accused of being a witch: even hundreds of years later, the label sticks. Just because she made medicines didn’t mean she was a witch. Just because it was a cold winter didn’t mean she was to blame. And just because she lived on the fringes of society doesn’t make her a bad person.”
Nicole slipped off her stool, skidded around the kitchen, and wrapped Darla in a heartfelt hug.
“Watch out,” Darla warned her. “You don’t to get splashed by cranberries—those stains never come out.”
“I don’t care,” Nicole said. “I want to be near you, stains or no stains!”
Darla’s father said, “You’re right, kiddo. We talk about the witch’s curse, blame Moll for accidents and such, but she was the one who was ostracized. She’s the one whose house was burned down. Why don’t we ever blame the townsfolk for their atrocities? They set an old woman’s house on fire, for goodness’ sake!”
“Exactly, Pop. If you ask me, bad stuff happens around here because their hatred poisoned the land. Their actions replay themselves over time, again and again. But nobody wants to hear that version of the story. It’s more exciting to say a witch cursed the place.”
Is that what set Nicole’s van on fire? The ages-old malice remaining on this land? The hatred still held against those who lived on the margins of society? Those who’d been homeless, who’d lived in a van? Those who were rejected by their families? Those who dared to love according to their hearts’ desires?
“Do you think that’s why she stepped in out in front of me?” Nicole asked. “Moll Dyer, her ghost, her spirit, whatever that was. Gosh, she looked so real. I could have sworn she was real…”
“Why?” asked Darla’s father. “Why do you think she stepped out in front of you?”
“Maybe she knew my van was going to blow. Maybe there are dual forces at work here, dueling forces: hatred and help. Maybe she knew the hateful force would set fire to my van. So she got me out of it. She drew me into the woods. It all seemed so real, the house, and Moll herself. I remember hearing voices, crackling fire. And she picked me up, lifted me. I felt her bony shoulder digging into me. I really felt it.”
The kitchen went quiet again, aside from the pots burbling away on the stove.
Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble…
Setting her head gently against Darla’s shoulder, Nicole asked, “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“No,” Darla replied immediately. “I think you’re the best. I’m so glad you’re staying here with us. One big happy family.”
Darla’s parents replied in kind, making her feel more welcome and at home in their house than she’d felt anywhere else she’d ever been.
And that’s when Nicole’s mind started to construct an alternate theory about the van, about the fire. Maybe it had been set ablaze to keep her close. But close to what? To Darla, she would hope.
Or was it Moll Dyer who wanted her around? Moll Dyer who wasn’t done with her yet?
For better, or for worse…
The End
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Want to stay up late with a spine-tingling supernatural story? This chilling new collection includes two teen novels featuring strange small towns, historical hauntings, and lesbian main characters!
In Tiffany and Tiger’s Eye, it’s the summer of 1986. Rebecca meets Tiffany: a water-skiing blonde who dresses like Madonna, makes her own jewellery, and claims to see auras. Strange things happen when the girls get together. Everyone thinks Rebecca’s the one setting fires and destroying property, but she’s convinced the culprit is a creepy antique dol
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Foxglove’s fiction has been called SPECTACULAR by Rainbow Reviews and UNFORGETTABLE by USA Today.
Foxglove Lee is a former aspiring Broadway Baby who now writes LGBTQ fiction for children, teens and young adults. She tries not to be too theatrical, but her characters often take over. Her debut novel, Tiffany and Tiger’s Eye, is set in the 80s and features an evil doll! Other books by Foxglove Lee include: Truth and Other Lies, Sylvie and the Christmas Ghost, Rainbow Crush, Rainbow Elixir, Top Ten Ways to Die, You Can Never Go Home Again, plus children’s titles The Secret of Dreamland and Ghost Turkey and the Pioneer Graveyard.