The Late Witch

by Charles C. Cole

When is a witch not a witch? On Halloween, when she can roam the neighborhood in business attire and be perceived as a holiday-minded adult pretending to be a witch. It is always best to take people as they present themselves — certain realities cannot be hidden by smiles or feigned civility — then you will not be surprised when your first impression turns out to be on the money.

Garrett Peeples, with the looks of a movie star and the personality of a miser, had a near-full bowl of bite-size candy by his front door. But this Halloween, like every year before it, from the daylight side of dinner to almost bedtime, there were no takers. Garrett lived alone, kept to himself and rarely decorated, leading the children and the parents on his street to presume he did not desire rowdy intrusions.

One small step forward and one giant leap back: He might have been unintentionally uninviting when he left his porch light off, but this was justified, because it was not an easy bulb to replace, requiring him to climb up on a chair, undo four screws, and reach his hand down into the narrow jar-like opening of the light cover. He considered leaving the bowl on the steps, but that might encourage greed or mischief or curious disease-carrying rodents.

By nine, Garrett was typically ready for bed. So, when the doorbell rang at 8:55, Garrett reasonably hesitated. But he’d been awaiting (sometimes dreading) this moment; now was his chance to celebrate the spirit of the season, rather than just his bare-minimum participation.

On his way, he poured out some of the individually wrapped, bite-sized candy onto his bare dining room table so the bowl didn’t appear so untouched. He turned on the light and swung open the door with forced enthusiasm. “Happy Halloween!”

“Trick or treat!” came the croaking whisper in response. The elderly woman he greeted was hunched over under a black snood, a nose like a gnarled carrot, skin the color of a turnip, with rheumy eyes and parched lips. Instead of a bag for collecting goodies, she carried a small, covered, cast-iron pot.

“To think, I almost closed up shop,” said Garrett jovially. “You’re a wee mature but worth the wait. Wonderful costume, by the way! And so traditional.” He held the bowl before him, arm straight out as if to keep his distance. “Here. Take as much as you like; you certainly deserve it.”

The witch hesitated, which Garrett took as timidity or politeness. “Really, dive in. I did.” He patted his stomach with his free hand. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

“It’s very generous of you, but I’m not much of a fan of chocolate,” she said. “I was making some homemade treats of my own, at my gingerbread house, in my cauldron over the fire, when I realized I was shy a crucial ingredient...” She smiled, her eyes protruding from her sickly face. “I was wondering...”

Garrett laughed awkwardly, intent on playing along. “Sorry, ma’am, I’m all out of little children, Gave away my last foundling to the old lady who lives in a shoe. But if you give me a moment, I might be able to find some eye of newt in the spice cupboard.”

“The one ingredient I never run out of,” whispered the witch drolly.

“Perhaps... a cup of sugar then?”

“It’s a wives’ tale that we witches prefer children; they’re too much work for too little result. And then the parents come snooping around causing nothing but a bad bout of indigestion.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Garrett. And, in truth, he very much was: sorry he’d opened the door. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“What about a trick?”

“Never understood that part. Do I trick you or do you trick me?”

The witch shrugged. “A trade then. I’ll give you what’s in this pot, a potion that’ll guarantee nobody ever bothers you again, for something I know you never use: access to your back yard. I’ve been watching you. You work from home. You rarely leave the house.”

“Saves on gas,” joked Garrett.

“The truth of the matter is: my eyesight’s not what it used to be. I don’t dare going on broomstick rides at night. My house is surrounded by trees. But your fenced back yard would make a fine airfield! We could even add a few landing lights. Something decorative, of course.”

“You’re serious.”

“About the landing but not about the children.”

“If someone sees you?”

“I’ll be disguised as an ultralight, one of those flying go-carts, but quieter. Please. You’d be doing me a favor.”

“Okay. But what’s in the pot?”

“It makes you hideous to people looking at you from the outside. Windows. The front door. They won’t be able to get away fast enough. Great conversation-stopper.”

“How do you know it works?” asked Garrett.

She smiled. Her eyes suddenly sparkled.

Garrett could feel his toes curl like there was some waking “chemistry” between them. “You’re testing it now!”

“Some day, when we get to know each other better, you can invite me in — and meet the real me,” promised the witch.

“I think I’d like that,” said Garrett. A pregnant pause followed. “Well, Happy Halloween! And see you soon!”

The witch looked back over her shoulder, as if suddenly remembering she’d left the car running, but there was no car.

“Problem?”

“I left my broom home. One more thing to carry. In retrospect, I suppose I could have strapped it to my back like a Samurai sword. Maybe you can give me a lift, not the whole way, of course.”

And thus, a holiday more often recognized for hungry child-sized monsters and teen mischief became an occasion for fellowship and goodwill, with a sprinkling of old-fashioned magic.