Page 75 of The Witch

“Well, how many people are close with their great-aunt?”

“Some people are.” Especially if that great-aunt is actually their grandmother. “Did you ever wish you were closer with my father?”

A look I can’t quite interpret flashes on her face as she rinses off the plates. “At times, yes. But as I’m sure you know, I didn’t get along with my parents, so I avoided family get-togethers.”

“It must’ve been hard,” I acknowledge, “having a falling-out with your parents like that. Did you ever make up with them? Before they died, I mean?”

Ethel places the last of the plates in the drying rack. When she turns to look at me, her expression has morphed into suspicion. “Why all the questions, Julia?”

I shrug weakly. “No reason. I was just curious about you.”

“What’s that expression again?” She plants her hands on her hips, and the lights above us flicker. “Curiosity killed the cat?”

I stare at her, not sure what she means by that. Yes, I asked her a few questions, but nothing out of line. And it’s been so many years. Why is she still so reluctant to talk about the falling-out she had with her parents? Maybe it would be cathartic for her to discuss it.

But I can see in her eyes that we are not having that discussion right now. And if I push my luck, she’ll throw me out.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry…”

“Then don’t,” she says sharply.

With those words, she turns and leaves the kitchen. I’ve still got a damp paper towel in my right hand and a countertop that needs to be wiped down.

Fine. Ethel doesn’t want to talk about this. And my grandmother is not in any condition to accurately recount the past. Plus, I’m sure the last thing she wants is to admit that she’s been lying to her son all these years.

But then I realize there is one other person in this house who knows the truth. Their maid, Celia, might have moved on, but her boyfriend, Mick, has stuck around.

56

I’ve got to get Mick alone. At a time when Ethel and my grandmother are both not around.

Thankfully, the opportunity arises two days later, when Ethel says she’s going to the grocery store and Gram heads back upstairs to take a nap. Ethel leaves right after breakfast, and as Mick scrapes his chair back and gets to his feet, I jump to my feet as well.

“What are you up to?” I ask him, as casually as I can.

“Just spreading some mulch in the yard.”

“Sounds like fun,” I lie. “Can I help?”

At first I think he’s going to scold me for offering to help, telling me he’s been heaving sacks of mulch around since I was in diapers. But instead, a smile lights his face. “Why, I’d love some company while I work, Julia.”

“Great!” I rub my hands together, which I suspect will soon be covered in mulch (whatever that is). “What can I do?”

“Why don’t you grab a sack of mulch out in the shed and meet me in the back?”

I get my boots and head out to the small shed all the way at the periphery of the back grounds. I have to pass the tree where I saw that noose hanging from my bedroom window, and a chill goes through me. I must have hallucinated it—that’s the only logical explanation.

The shed is a small wooden hut that I’ve seen from the yard but never entered. I pull open the rickety door and step inside. It’s a claustrophobic space with no electricity, and the only light is from the two small windows at either side of the shed.

I spy the sacks of brown mulch in the corner—even though I’ve never laid eyes on one before, they are surprisingly easy to identify. I start to walk over to one of them, but I stop myself, having almost tromped right into a pile of mud on the ground.

Except it’s not a pile of mud. Not exactly, anyway. It’s two dense, muddy footprints.

I stare down at the footprints, perplexed. There’s nothing intrinsically strange about seeing a pair of footprints on the floor of the shed. But there are a few things that give me pause. First, the only person who ever goes in this shed is Mick, but these prints are much smaller than his giant feet—almost certainly belonging to a woman. Also, there’s only the two prints right near the bag of mulch, whereas if someone were walking through this space with muddy shoes, you’d think there would be prints leading all the way from the door.

As I stand there staring at the two mysterious marks on the floor, I feel a sudden blast of cold air. I hug my arms to my chest, shivering.

I’ve got to get out of here.