You’ll Be Sorry
I see you. Is that your second or third nightcap? Or maybe fourth or fifth?
Are you grateful to have another day behind you? Collapsing into your favorite chair, exhausted by the relentless grind of pretend-normal?
Your dreams are growing more turbulent. You’re catching other sounds in a sudden gust of wind, maybe the shriek of a young woman while a creeping sensation of bony fingers crawls up your spine. You’ve taken to whirling around suddenly, but no one’s there.
Blood. You can smell it. Gore. You can taste it. A crack of violence, you can hear it. Things that both do and don’t belong to you. Things you can and cannot explain.
You want to say, This is my life. I know exactly who I am and precisely where and when I fucked up.
But lately, you’ve been wondering. Your nightmares are that much more vivid, including shadowy scenes that are both foreign and familiar. Almost as if there’s something for you to see.
You remember something more?
You are something more?
It’s okay to admit it. You don’t understand everything yet, but on some level, you know.
Here, let me help you.
A second memory for your consideration:
I can’t tell you why I did it. I want to say I was responding to instinct, but more likely I was acting out of rage. The four Dixon kids, standing on my front porch with their bright, shiny eyes and headstrong ways. The four Dixon kids, without a care in the world. Witch hunting.
It ate at me. Day after day. I resented their happiness.
And I was jealous.
How dare they race around these mountains in blissful ignorance, when I was too early forced to know too much? The past shouldn’t have to be solely my burden. Certainly, in the sins of the father department, I didn’t stand alone. This town was built on blood and secrets, and lies.
Why were we all still pretending otherwise?
Brewing and stewing until in a fit of self-righteousness, I decided to do something about it.
If a moth is drawn to a flame, then the Dixon family has always been my bonfire.
The past fifteen summers, watching them from the safety of the tree line.
First Dave and Janet. Then Janet pregnant the first time, second, third, fourth.
Until there were half a dozen Dixons swarming the land.
Dave puttering about like some gentleman farmer, the kids dashing off on various madcap adventures, and Janet…
Janet settling in on the front porch, content with her glass of iced tea and latest paperback novel.
She’s the one who gave me the idea.
I did what I did best. I watched. I waited. And then, I made my move.
I remember when the previous generation built the “new” Dixon house.
So many of us locals wandering through the bare-framed skeleton of such ridiculous proportions.
Watching the bones of the house get covered in their drywall sheath, the picture windows so heavy they required a winch hoist to lift them into place. And then the fireplace, that mantel.
We sniggered, swapped snide comments at the local diner. Oh, the pretentiousness of it all.
But also, we paid attention. And possibly roamed the house after the family left for the season, trailing a finger across their dining room table, putting our feet up on their sofa, lying in the middle of their massive marital bed. So this is what it felt like to be a Dixon.
It made it a simple matter for me to ease in the back door. Kids had taken off first thing this morning, Janet had headed into town with the family van, while Dave had set out whistling for the fishing pond. The house so empty and quiet.
And yet still screaming family. The pile of dirty dishes in the sink, half-filled glasses dotting the table. A sweater hanging over the back of a chair, a pile of dirty towels there, scattered shoes in different sizes and shapes everywhere.
I’d never visited the house occupied. It was…different.
While the old homestead had been torn down and completely vanquished, some of the furniture, including two early-American pieces, had been preserved.
I made my way to the commode dresser now, a relatively simple but gracefully curved three-drawer chest that had been positioned against a wall in the dining area.
I imagine the Dixons used it to store table linens and the like.
But because I actually knew my history, I understood the commode had been engineered to hold more than the obvious.
You know what the original settlers didn’t have in the eighteenth century?
Access to banks, or vaults, or safes. They hid their valuables instead.
Sometimes tucked beneath the floorboards or wedged up in the rafters.
But for the more prosperous ones—say, the Dixons of the world—often in secret compartments built into their furniture.
I started with the side trim pieces, using my nails to search for invisible cracks and crevices. Third time was the charm. It took several minutes to carefully pull out the panel, revealing a small, rectangular hollow. Perfect.
I eased the battered journal from my pack.
Had a moment’s hesitation. Then hastily shoved the book inside the cavity before I could change my mind.
Because discovery was the name of the game, I made sure I left the front panel partially ajar.
My gift to Janet Dixon. My curse to the rest of the family.
And then, having completed my mission, I turned around to leave…
And discovered the little Dixon, William, and a dog staring at me.
“Hey, I know you,” the boy declared. He was clutching the front of his pants in a distinct gesture. “You have a cute dog. Look, now I have a dog.”
The dog and I had recognized each other immediately. It quickly glanced away.
“Why are you in my house?”
“I’m…looking for your parents.”
“They’re out. I don’t know when they’ll be back.” William shrugged.
“And your siblings? Should”—the thought came out of nowhere—“should you be home alone at your age?”
“Oh, I just came in to pee. I wanted to go in the woods, which Henry says is okay. But then Violet saw me and got all”—the boy pitched his voice higher—“‘Oh gross!’ So I had to come back to the house.” He finished on a glum note. “And now I’m missing everything.”
“What is everything?”
“At the cave! We’re fixing it up to be our secret hideaway. We might need a safe place to protect ourselves from enemy invaders. Or witches.” He paused, regarded me solemnly. “I don’t think you’re a witch.”
“You don’t?”
“Nah. You don’t even have a black cat. Plus your dog is too nice.”
I glanced at his dog, who now whined softly and pressed himself tighter against the boy. He was worried I’d come to take him away, but not even I was that cruel.
“Are you lonely?”
“What?”
“Just…You seemed kinda…alone.” Then when I continued to stare at him wide-eyed, William continued in a rush. “You don’t have siblings, do you? I got three of them, which means I’m never alone, and sometimes, I really want to be alone, but most of the time it’s nice cuz I’m never alone.”
I could almost follow that. “My family is gone,” I heard myself say.
“They live somewhere else?”
“They died.”
“Oh.” His little face furrowed. “That must be sad.”
Again, I surprised myself. “It is.”
“You have a dog. I have a dog.” The boy patted his mutt affectionately. “Maybe sometime you and your dog could come, like, have a playdate with me and my dog. I like to build forts and climb trees. What do you like to do?”
“I like to read. I read…a lot.”
The boy nodded thoughtfully. “My mom reads a lot, too. And sometimes, when she’s close to the end, she uses her not-so-nice voice cuz she HAS TO finish her chapter RIGHT NOW. You don’t wanna hear my mom’s not-so-nice voice.”
He gave me a serious look. I returned it.
“I…um, your parents aren’t here,” I managed at last. “I should go.”
“You can leave a note,” he offered helpfully.
“I’ll just try again later.”
“And bring your dog? What’s its name?”
“Lovey.”
“My dog is named Dog. Mostly cuz we couldn’t agree on anything else. But he likes being Dog, don’t you, boy?”
Another pat on the head, the dog now gazing up at him worshipfully. I did my best not to roll my eyes at the display.
“Still gotta pee,” the boy said.
“Oh, yes. Right. Um, I’ll see myself out.”
He and the dog pivoted toward the stairs. I exited, feeling slightly dazed and confused. Fortunately, the porch and front yard remained clear. In a manner of seconds, I melted back into the woods, breathing a sigh of relief at being invisible once more.
I returned later that day. And the day after that and the day after that. It took a week, and then I was finally rewarded: Janet Dixon, sitting in her favorite chair, moldering journal in hand.
I had a moment of guilt. But mostly, intense curiosity.
After all this time, finally…What would happen next?
You might not believe me, but later that evening, when the entire family came out to roast marshmallows, I gazed at them with something akin to affection.
Especially the little boy and his three chattering siblings.
I allowed myself to see them, and only them.
No past. No future. Just this present, where two indulgent parents enjoyed a beautiful night under the starlit sky with their four rambunctious children.
I should’ve walked away then.
I could’ve.
Maybe that would’ve made all the difference in what happened next.
But here’s the thing, from one local to another: When you go looking to kill a witch, you’d better make sure you get the job done.