PART I: CATHERINE’S STORY

There once was a time when man thought he understood how and why every natural event happened. Whether it was a story passed down about Prometheus stealing fire from the Gods in order to give it to humanity, or a creature in the sea who controlled the tides, at one point, man had a way to explain every occurrence regarding the classical elements: fire, air, water, and earth.

As technology slowly advanced, whether it was the creation of the watermill in order to generate hydropower, or the invention of the windmill to generate rotational energy, man continued to live comfortably with the knowledge of how every convenience he enjoyed, however mechanically primitive, operated. It was only after the Industrial Revolution arrived in the late 1700s, and increasingly complex machines became more common, that man’s understanding of how things worked began to get complicated.

Think for a moment about how your most basic household appliances function. Can you explain, without first researching, how your toilet operates without electricity? Do you know how your refrigerator generates and maintains its coldness in order to keep your perishable items fresh? Do you even know how water is brought into your home? You see what I’m getting at?

Okay, forget about your household appliances. After all, these inventions existed before you arrived and, until they’re replaced by more efficient technology, they’ll most likely still be here after you’ve departed this mortal coil.

Now, I’d like you to think about nature. How does sperm know where to go in order to fertilize an egg? How do animals instinctively understand how to survive and procreate? With no parent around to show them, how do newly hatched baby turtles know to run from the beach into the ocean?

After all the stories about mythical creatures and immaterial beings have been scientifically dismissed there are still questions. Even now, hundreds of years after the Industrial and Scientific Revolutions, some natural phenomena remain a mystery.

The real point of me bringing up all of this is to get you to think about magic. What is magic? Maybe magic is an answered prayer made in a church pew or at the edge of a bed. Maybe magic is the spell you cast when making a wish before blowing the candles out on your birthday cake. Much like the natural phenomena man can’t explain, even after ancient myths and archaic beliefs have been debunked, magic continues to be a mystery and as such remains out of humanity’s control.

My name is Catherine Howe. In some ways my story isn’t much different than that of relatable fictional characters from literary classics written over two hundred years ago, characters who lived in simpler times when everything was explainable. In other ways my story is completely fantastic, and most would say unbelievable. But it’s all true.

I am over two hundred years old and what most people, including myself, would refer to as a witch. My lifestyle and appearance are probably not what you’re imagining, however. I’ve never ridden a broomstick, and I don’t have a tall pointy hat. I don’t even have a cauldron or a wart. Regardless, there are certain things I do require in order to practice the dark art I was taught by a domestic servant in my native England well over a century ago. Perhaps it’s best to start there.

I was born in a small village near Yorkshire, England in 1815. I was the second child of my father, John Howe. Dad was what today would be referred to as an accountant. He was quite good at what he did and because of this he was requested by wealthy men throughout the United Kingdom to assist with their bookkeeping.

My brother, William Howe, was born five years before me in 1810. Our mother died of consumption while I was still very young. Since our father’s duties often kept him away from home, Dad employed a married couple to care for us while he was away.

James and Mary Childress lived in a smaller house on our property in exchange for groundskeeping and childrearing duties. The Childresses had no offspring of their own. Mrs. Childress would tend to my brother and I during our father’s absences while Mr. Childress was responsible for the upkeep of the land surrounding our homestead.

Our adopted younger brother, Max, was a surprise to all of us, not least of whom was Mrs. Childress who would henceforth be entrusted with the care of not only a toddler, me, and an adolescent, William, but from that moment forward an adopted infant.

It isn’t completely clear how our father came to take possession of Max. Over the years I’ve contemplated it and even thought long and hard about Max’s eyes and features, wondering if dear old Dad had an affair on the road and took responsibility for a child he helped to create. Regardless of whether or not Max shared our blood, Dad loved him like he was his own, and for a long time I loved him, too. The same couldn’t be said about William, however, but more on that in a moment.

The story we’d been told regarding Max’s origin was that Dad found him on the street, swaddled in a blanket. Our father was walking home late at night in London after having a bit of dinner and drink at a pub. He heard a baby crying, and in that moment, my father was said to have felt a certain homesickness and, missing his own children, a sense of paternal responsibility toward the seemingly abandoned infant. Dad picked up the crying child in his arms and brought him back to the inn where he was staying. The innkeeper’s wife agreed to watch and care for the baby while my father finished the business he’d been contracted for initially. After completing his work, and after nobody else came to claim the forsaken infant, Dad agreed to assume the role of the child’s adoptive parent.

Our father brought Max home in 1818. I was just three years old; William was eight. I loved having a younger brother. Along with Mrs. Childress, I helped care for Max. He was a smart baby and developed quickly. We kept no secrets, letting Max know as soon as he was old enough to comprehend that he’d been abandoned and rescued. Attempting to let him believe he was one of the family by birth would have been impossible anyway as William was immediately jealous of the new Howe and never let Max forget he wasn’t related by blood. Though both myself and Mrs. Childress did our best to attempt to nurture a bond between the two boys, we soon realized it was impossible to destroy William’s jealousy of our father’s obvious affinity for Max.

When he was home, Dad enjoyed spending time with my brothers. Our father loved fencing and took delight in sharing his enjoyment of the sport with William, teaching him how to duel, first with swords made from nailed together boards before eventually graduating to steel. As William progressed into his adolescent years, Mrs. Childress and a toddler-aged Max would sit nearby and watch my father teach William the art of swordsmanship.

As time went on, Max grew to be as fascinated with the art of fencing as our father. Even before he was able to run or climb, Max would get up from Mrs. Childress’ lap and pick up a stick, waving it in the air, imitating William and my father. Of course, Dad loved this. All our father ever wanted to be was a professional swordsman. His dream was derailed, however, when, as a young man, he fell off a horse and landed on his fencing arm. Our father saw in Max the potential to be a great duelist and live out his childhood dream through his adopted son. As you can imagine, this didn’t sit at all well with William who wanted every moment of our father’s attention. Because of this, growing up in a household with a jealous older brother didn’t make life easy for Max, especially when Dad was away.

You’re probably wondering what I was up to during all of this. Well, along with my love for my adopted brother, spending time with him, playing amongst the hills and climbing trees on our property, I was an exceptional student as well as a voracious reader. I would handily abscond with any literature our father brought back from his travels. When I wasn’t in a classroom, I was playing school, and, although my older brother quickly grew tired of this game, a toddler-aged Max was always a willing participant, acting as my student, staying put at a makeshift desk I’d constructed out of a bench and stool.

I loved having someone younger than myself to play with and teach. Max seemed quite taken with my game, watching me, a book in my hands, as I acted out the part of schoolmarm. My baby brother’s big eyes followed me carefully as I walked back and forth, perfecting the role.

I was told that I’d been blessed with my mother’s fine hair and fair skin. While the color of most babies’ eyes change as they age, mine never did. To this day they remain a remarkably vivid blue. My hair was light brown, and I wore it just over my shoulders. I was proud of my coiffure and took care to make sure it was always brushed and neat. My clothes, on the other hand, were another story.

Until I was a teen, I was considered a tomboy. Max and I would think nothing of rolling down hills or trudging through swamps looking for frogs and turtles. Due to this behavior, my clothes took a beating. Mrs. Childress quickly learned there was no point in dressing me like a lady as the most beautiful garments in my wardrobe were sure to get ruined within hours of me donning them. William would turn up his nose when he saw us, deriding our crude, rough-and-tumble childish games whenever possible, always being slightly crueler to Max than myself.

As William grew, he became increasingly envious of Max’s natural talents. As a pre-teen, Max proved himself to not only be deft and precise with a sword, but gifted with strength as well, growing more muscular and handsome by the day. It was obvious William’s jealousy stemmed from a place of fear, as my older brother hadn’t reached the height Max had when he was the same age, almost guaranteeing that, in time, Max would be both taller and stronger than William.

William once barricaded Max in a small closet in the kitchen. We were playing hide-and-seek, and when it was Max’s turn to hide, he secreted himself amongst a host of pans and crockery. I had no idea where he’d disappeared to, and after a time I began to worry. William was reading by the fireplace in our parlor. When I asked if he’d seen Max, he told me to shut up and leave him alone. After an hour, I knew something was amiss. Our father was away, and the Childresses were outside in the garden. When I walked into the kitchen, I heard muffled cries and saw the closet door shaking. That’s when I noticed one of the chairs positioned under the knob. When I pulled the chair away, the door flew open. Max was crying and trembling with fear. He hugged me close and sobbed into my dress. I sat him down at the kitchen table, then marched into the sitting room where William was.

“You monster!” I yelled. William casually licked his finger and flipped the page. “Do you know how long he was in there?”

William slowly looked up from his book. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, then slammed the book shut and walked out of the room.

“Why does he hate me so, Cathy?” Max asked, crying. I hugged him close and kissed the top of his head.

As time went by, William’s cruelty only escalated. I would always defend our adopted brother, and whenever I was there to protect Max, William would inevitably give up on his harassments and move on to some other distraction. When nobody was around to referee their behavior, however, William could be quite cruel, playing head games with Max and hiding his property, or even going so far as to ruin or break something that belonged to our youngest sibling.

“I’m going to run away,” Max said to me one day. He couldn’t have been more than eight-years-old. I was shocked.

William was now approaching sixteen. My older brother had met a young woman named Emily and their relationship was quickly moving ahead. Emily’s mother and father came to our house, and it was obvious they hoped that Emily and William would one day be married.

Because William’s attentions were on Emily and preparations for their life together, things began to get easier for Max. William gave up fencing and began to be more involved in our father’s business, often traveling with him in an apprentice role.

After William graduated school, he married Emily. They were both nineteen. The ceremony was held at a church in town with a reception on our grounds. Max had never forgiven William for the years of cruel treatment, and the two never got along, even during what were supposed to be the happiest of holidays and occasions. William’s marriage to Emily was no exception. My oldest brother’s bride, however, was always kind to Max, and she even danced with him at the wedding.

Our father’s health began to deteriorate a couple years after William and his new wife began their life together. Emily had given birth to a boy they named Archie, and she was soon pregnant again.

Max and I began to worry about our father. His coughing always seemed worse after returning from one of his trips. We would often beg him not to travel. I asked the Childresses to help convince Dad he was needed at the house in order to perhaps stave off his quickly regressing condition, but it was no good. Not even the Childresses could persuade our industrious father to stay put.

Finally, William had to get involved. Emily had recently given birth to their second child, a girl they named Polly. William had his own accounting practice. Emily was a housewife and was busy caring for their two children. It had taken much letter writing on my part before my brother would agree to come to the house and have a one-on-one conversation with Dad. The look on my eldest brother’s face upon seeing our father after not having visited for only a few months was enough to indicate how grave the situation had become.

Not long after William’s visit, a doctor came to the house and told us it was only a matter of weeks, if not days, before Dad would die. Soon our father wasn’t able to get out of bed by himself. Max refused to leave his side, helping tend to Dad’s every need. Before long, our father passed. Max was devastated, he was just sixteen, and I wasn’t yet nineteen.

There was no will. There was enough money to bury Dad, but that was about it. The Childresses cried when Dad died as if he was their own father. John Howe had been good to our family’s caretakers, always compensating them fairly for their time and never talking down to them or making them feel like they weren’t part of our household.

After the funeral, William announced that he and his young family would be moving into the house and that his business would be absorbing Dad’s clients. This did not bode well for Max’s future, and as soon as he heard this news he began to worry.

Because William and Emily were able to take care of the daily household duties themselves, my brother dismissed the Childresses. It wasn’t easy to say goodbye. They had been a part of our lives for so long. Our last day with them was sorrowful. Both Mr. and Mrs. Childress cried when we hugged them goodbye. William couldn’t be bothered with farewells, telling me he had business to take care of, then hiding behind his office door. Max and I helped the Childresses pack and watched them leave in a carriage with all their belongings.

After our oldest brother and his family moved in, Max was displaced from his bedroom in order that William and Emily’s children have it. Max was never considered for a position in William’s business. Instead, our older brother offered to let Max live in the Childress’ house, the condition being, if Max agreed to it, that he would be responsible for all the grounds work Mr. Childress had been taking care of. Not having any other options, Max yielded to this arrangement.

***

For the next two years, my younger brother and I spent a lot of time together. So long as Max kept up with his duties, William paid him no attention. Although Max was still a teenager, he was able to take care of himself and live independently in the small house outside of the primary homestead. During the day, Max took care of the grounds. He built a coop for chickens and harvested their eggs. He also constructed an outdoor cage for which to raise rabbits to sell.

Years passed. Max was now a young man. I would often ask him about the girls he’d gone to school with and if he found any of them particularly alluring. He’d always get embarrassed and would never give me a straight answer. Some afternoons Max would ask me to read to him. Bringing along one of our favorite books, we’d hold hands and walk through the nearby fields, eventually arriving at a favorite patch of heather. He would lie down with his hands behind his head and gaze off as I regaled him with stories of heroes and ghosts. We were both enthralled by tales of horror and would read these over and over. I loved Max, and I knew he loved me, perhaps more than I realized at the time.

One day, when I was in my early twenties, I went to the market with my closest friend, Olive. Going to the market on a sunny morning with my best friend was always a pleasure. We would enjoy the sights and smells and sample the many fine fruits and vegetables our neighbors had brought to sell and trade. Little did I know then, but on that day, I would meet the man I’d fall in love with and marry.

His name was Calvin Weathersby. I first noticed him walking through the market with an older man who all the people in the village, including myself, knew. Roger Weathersby, Calvin’s father, was the proprietor of the market. If you wanted to sell your goods, Roger was the man to see. He made a tidy profit renting spaces for townspeople looking to vend and trade their wares.

“Olive, who is that man with Roger Weathersby?”

“Oh, you fancy him, do you?” My friend asked, giggling.

I turned as red as a strawberry. “I’ve never seen him before,” I said, shyly.

“That’s Calvin Weathersby,” Olive said. “Roger’s son.”

It was at this point that the young Weathersby gentleman saw us looking in his direction. As his father entertained a small crowd of shoppers, Calvin turned and walked toward Olive and me.

“Good morning,” he said, removing his hat and bowing slightly. He had beautiful brown eyes and thick, curly brown hair.

“Good morning,” I said, curtseying politely.

“I’ve never seen you in the market before,” Calvin said. His voice was deep, and it was then I noticed how tall and strong he was. “What is your name?”

“Catherine Howe.”

“Howe,” Calvin echoed. “Your father wouldn’t happened to have been the late John Howe, would he?”

“He would indeed,” I said as I stared into Calvin’s beautiful eyes.

“I’m so sorry to hear of his passing,” Calvin said, wrapping my hand in both of his. I could tell right away that the Weathersbys didn’t want for anything. Calvin’s hands were soft and warm and looked like they’d never seen a hard day’s work. “Your father would come to our house and help my father with his finances. He was always very kind to me. Since your father’s passing, Dad’s been unhappy with the man we hired to replace him.”

“If you’re considering replacing your current accountant, I imagine my brother William would be interested in assisting with your family’s finances,” I said.

“We’ve yet to meet your brother,” Calvin said as he finally let my hand go. “Would it be possible for my father and I to come by your house this evening and pay our respects and perhaps introduce ourselves to William?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. “He will be home this evening.”

“Perfect! Then I shall see you then,” he said. He walked slowly backward, never taking his eyes off mine.

“You didn’t introduce me!” Olive exclaimed as soon as Calvin was out of earshot.

It’s true. When Calvin appeared, it was as if everything around me had vanished, including my best friend.

That afternoon, I notified William that we’d be having guests, and he made sure to dress in business attire and his wife in a fine gown. The children had been put to bed, and Max was in the small house that was formerly occupied by the Childresses.

From the moment the Weathersby men arrived, I couldn’t take my eyes off Calvin. He was so elegant and gentlemanly. I’d never felt the way I did when I looked at him about any other man. After Calvin and Roger Weathersby visited with my brother and Emily for a bit, William suggested that Roger join him in his office in order to go over the Weathersby’s financial history. While William and Roger were busy with money matters, and Emily was tending to the kitchen, I offered to give Calvin a tour of our house. I walked him around, showing him the various rooms and my book collection. He was intrigued as he was also a reader.

As Calvin and I were sitting and talking in the living room area, Max walked into the room with a basket of eggs.

“Oh!” I said upon realizing Max had entered. “Calvin, this is our youngest brother, Max. Max, this is Calvin Weathersby. His father is Roger Weathersby, the proprietor of the market.”

“How do you do?” Max mumbled, bowing slightly.

“How do you do?” Calvin replied.

Max didn’t smile. For a moment there was an awkward silence between the three of us. I could tell my brother was more than a bit jealous of this new man who was getting all my attention. With his head down, Max carried the basket of eggs into the kitchen.

“Well,” Calvin said, turning his attention back to me. His eyes met mine and we both smiled coyly as if we shared a secret.

“Well,” I whispered.

At that moment, William and Roger Weathesby entered from my brother’s office. Roger was patting him on the back.

“We best be going, Calvin,” Roger said as he entered the living room. “Let’s leave the Howe’s to their evening, shall we?”

Calvin took my hand in his and kissed it softly. It was at that exact moment that Max reentered and saw us saying our goodbyes. He again lowered his head and walked quickly through the room and out the door without uttering a word.

The next day, while Max and I were out for a walk with the dogs, he turned to me and said, “You like him, don’t you?” Neither Max nor I had been discussing the Weathersby’s visit, but he didn’t need to say who he was talking about. I hadn’t stopped thinking about Calvin since he departed, and I’m sure it showed.

“Yes,” I said. “I like him.” I couldn’t help but smile. Max didn’t say anything. I looked over and saw a tear run down his cheek. “Max,” I said, putting my hand on his arm. I stopped walking altogether. He pulled away and continued to walk. The dogs followed him. “Max!” I said as I ran after him. “It’s okay to be jealous. It’s perfectly natural.” I caught up to him. Both of us stopped walking. He brushed the tear from his cheek with his sleeve.

“Is it natural to be in love with your own sister?” Max asked, turning away.

I was shocked. I breathed in sharply. I’d known Max since he was an infant. My emotions never went further than that of a platonic love for a sibling.

“Max,” I said. “I don’t know if you’re truly feeling what you think you’re feeling. I know we’re not related by blood, but my love for you has and always will be that of an older sister for her younger brother.”

“I’m ashamed and embarrassed of my feelings,” Max said as he turned and walked back toward the house with the dogs. I followed him, attempting to keep up, but he moved quickly ahead and wouldn’t allow me to walk by his side.

I was confused. Was this my fault? Was it all the times I’d defended Max to William? While I certainly didn’t reciprocate my adopted brother’s feelings, and as much as I wanted to reassure my younger sibling and comfort him, I realized that my mere presence may exacerbate the issue at hand.

Weeks went by. Max stayed away. If he wasn’t taking care of the grounds, the door to his small house remained shut.

I began to meet up with Calvin in the market. We were quickly becoming better acquainted, and soon we were in love. After a short courtship, Calvin asked me to marry him. I said yes. With a generous donation from his father, Calvin began to have a house built for us on the opposite side of the village.

***

The day I told Max that I planned to marry Calvin was the last time I would see my brother as a mortal. I knocked on the door to the small house that Max occupied.

“Yes?” He said from inside.

“It’s me, Max. Can I come in?”

Max pulled the door open, then walked into the kitchen, never making eye contact. I walked inside and sat down at the tiny table. He took a kettle of boiling water off the fire and poured us each a cup of tea. We sat in silence for a long time.

“Calvin’s asked me to marry him,” I said, flatly. Max looked out the window, tears began to well up in his eyes. “I said yes.” I reached for my brother’s hand, touching it. He pulled it away. “Max, you need to get beyond these feelings,” I said. “I know you think you’re in love with me, but I’m fairly certain you don’t know what love is, and what you’re feeling isn’t love but jealous…”

“Get out,” Max said, swallowing back tears.

“Max,” I said, calmly.

“Get! Out!” He shouted.

“No,” I said, firmly. “I’m not leaving until we resolve…”

Max got up, pushing his chair backward, its wooden legs against the stone floor making a loud, sustained honking. He marched into the bedroom. I followed. He slammed the door in my face.

***

Max never attended my wedding. He disappeared two nights before the ceremony was to take place. I was worried sick. It wasn’t until Olive reported that she’d seen him walking through the market that I could finally breathe easy and concentrate on plans for the big day.

Olive had followed Max stealthily and saw that he’d taken up with the bloodletter who lived at the far end of our village. I felt better knowing he had somewhere to stay. I didn’t know how Max and I were going to get beyond this issue of his feelings for me, I only hoped one day we could be friends as we were before.

Although our wedding was a magnificent occasion, I couldn’t fully enjoy it. The one brother I cared about above the other wasn’t there.

“You look lovely, Catherine,” William said, moments before he walked me down the aisle. “Our father would have been so pleased. Calvin Weathersby is a good man. I know that he will provide you with a fine life.”

I nodded, solemnly. Although William knew exactly what was on my mind, he refused to acknowledge it. He’d never liked Max and had always only ever felt envious and resentful of our adopted brother. Max’s disappearance was all William had wanted since our father first brought him home.

Calvin’s mother, Elizabeth, had gone ahead and ordered that all my belongings be packed and moved into our new house on the day of our wedding. At the reception, an outdoor affair held in the courtyard outside of the small church where the ceremony took place, my sister-in-law approached me.

“This came for you,” she whispered, handing me two halves of an envelope. “I found it in the fireplace in William’s office.”

I immediately recognized Max’s handwriting on the outside of the envelope. My first name was all that was written. I took the two pieces and concealed them in my gown.

“Thank you, Emily,” I said.

“I’m sure William intercepted it and had no desire for you to see it as he knew how much it would upset you before your special day. I know that you’ve been concerned for Max. Perhaps there are clues in that letter that will tell you where he is. I realize William never cared for his younger brother, but I don’t share that sentiment.”

Later, as I waited for Calvin in the carriage outside of our new home, I read Max’s letter:

Dearest Catherine,

I’ve left home, never to return. Please don’t come looking for me. It would kill me to see you. I only want the most wonderful life for you, and I know that Calvin Weathersby can give you that. My heart is broken, but I will survive. Perhaps one day we will see each other again and the circumstances will be different. I’m sorry that I love you.

-Max Howe

I began to cry. My tears fell onto the paper. I heard my new husband returning to the carriage. I folded the halves of the letter and stuffed them, along with the torn envelope, back inside my dress. With my gloved hands, I wiped my tears away before Calvin opened the carriage door, picked me up in his arms, and carried me over the threshold of our new home.

I woke early the next morning while my newly betrothed was still fast asleep. I quietly dressed and walked outside. I put a saddle on one of the horses in the stable and rode it to the far end of the village where Olive had said the bloodletter lived. After stopping to ask directions from some farmers, I found the modest residence amidst overgrown heather and weeds.

The bloodletter’s house was small, and the clapboard exterior badly needed painting. There was a sign nailed to the door that read, ‘Otto Helmsley, Bloodletter’. I knocked, and after getting no response, I walked around the entire perimeter of the property, peering through the windows. The inside of the bloodletter’s house was dark, but I could see the tools of his trade laid out on a workbench: knives, small saws, and blood-stained rags.

From behind me, I felt an eerie presence and turned to see a tall man clothed in dark garments from head to toe standing in the street. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat that cast a shadow over his entire face. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of a long black coat. His nose and mouth were covered with a brown scarf. Beneath the shadow of his hat all I could see were two piercing gray eyes. The man was dressed far too warmly for the time of year. I felt a chill run through my entire body. I turned back to the door and knocked again, this time much harder. My horse, which was tied to a post at the top of the walkway, whinnied and raised up his front hooves, frightened by something. When I turned around again, the dark stranger had disappeared.

“You looking for the bloodletter?” Asked a middle-aged woman standing in the front yard of the neighboring house, holding a wicker basket and pulling apples off a tree.

“Yes,” I said.

“He’s left town. He travels quite frequently. He’s the only bloodletter for miles around, so he’s always in demand,” the woman said.

“Did you happen to see anyone with him?” I asked.

“You referring to his apprentice?”

“Youngish fellow, dark hair and eyes?” I asked.

“That would be him,” the woman said. “He left with the bloodletter. Just moved in recently. Rather quiet.”

“Could you please tell the bloodletter’s apprentice when you see him again that his sister was by for him?” I asked.

“Certainly,” the woman said as she pulled an apple off the tree and put it in her basket. “That your horse?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Would he like an apple?”

***

Upon returning home, I found the house empty. I fell asleep in the living room while reading a book. I was woken by the wind whistling by the eaves.

The front door blew open, startling me. An old African woman walked through the doorway carrying with her a large satchel. Behind her, Calvin stepped in, a trunk in each hand. I stood.

“Good afternoon, dear wife,” he said, smiling. “Did you have a pleasant ride?”

“Yes,” I said, rubbing my eyes and stretching. “Who is this?”

“This is T’Chuba,” Calvin said. She’s been a part of my family’s household for many years. How long have you been with us, T’Chuba?”

“Too long, Master Weathersby,” the old African woman said without smiling.

She looked at me. I smiled and nodded. She held my stare until it became uncomfortable, at which point I cleared my throat, sat back down on the settee, and returned to my book.

“Your room is over here, T’Chuba,” Calvin said as he walked toward the extra room. The old African woman turned slowly and followed him.

***

“We don’t need a servant,” I said to Calvin when we had a moment alone. Through the open window, I could hear T’Chuba singing to herself as she scrubbed our laundry in a barrel just outside.

He stopped unpacking a box of household items and turned toward me, taking me by the shoulders. “Darling, T’Chuba’s been in my life for as long as I can remember. She’s far too old now to keep up with my parents’ large house. You and I are just starting out. It only makes sense that she should at this point in her advancing age maintain a smaller household like ours.”

“I don’t know how I feel about this.”

“Catherine, listen,” Calvin said, taking my hands and making me sit down on our bed. “I’m going to be working a lot, and I will be away from home for days at a time. I don’t want to leave you by yourself. You can trust T’Chuba. She practically raised me. She’s a kind person and a hard worker. I wouldn’t leave you with someone I didn’t think you’d be safe with.”

I looked over Calvin’s shoulder and out the window. T’Chuba was hanging the scrubbed laundry on a line strung between two trees. Her thick arms looked strong and capable.

Calvin was scheduled to leave the next evening for a trip that would keep him away for three nights. Prior to his departure, I tried to spend more time with T’Chuba in order that I’d feel comfortable when it was just she and I.

Although our initial introduction had felt chilly, I found T’Chuba had a kind manner and a friendly way about her. She spoke slowly and deliberately. It was difficult for me to tell how old she was exactly, and I didn’t dare ask.

Together we prepared food for Calvin’s trip, working side by side in the kitchen. T’Chuba sang softly and beautifully. For as sturdy as she obviously was, she had a gentle touch when required.

“I’m leaving now, Catherine,” Calvin called from the doorway to the kitchen. T’Chuba put the last of the food into a basket. I carried it out to the front yard, following my husband who held in his hand a single trunk. “I’m going to miss you, dearest one,” he said.

“I’m going to miss you,” I replied. “I know everything will be fine without you here,” I said, perhaps more for my own reassurance.

“I’m sure it will,” he said. Calvin hugged me and gave me a kiss. “Take care,” he called to T’Chuba who stood in the doorway of the house, waving.

That night, I was woken by what sounded like water sizzling on a fire. I got out of bed and called for T’Chuba. There was no response. I walked into the kitchen to find a large black pot of water boiling over an open flame. The water foamed and bubbled over the edge of the pot, landing on the fire. I grabbed a rod with a hook. With both hands, I lifted the pot off and set it on a cast iron trivet nearby.

“T’Chuba!” I called. “Your water’s boiled!” I waited for a response but heard nothing.

Outside, the wind was steadily blowing. Tree branches and leaves rustled. As the breeze died down, a faint chanting could be heard. The voice was low, and the sounds were delivered in a monotone. I followed the sound of the chanting, leaving the house in my nightgown. As I emerged from a patch of overgrown bushes and trees, I saw T’Chuba kneeling at the edge of the small pond just beyond the woods. The water’s surface appeared as smooth as glass, which seemed odd considering how strong the wind had been.

“T’Chuba,” I said as I walked up behind her. From a small illuminated circle of water directly in front of the old woman came an eerie bluish glow that cast light upon her head and shoulders. The glowing space between T’Chuba and the water’s surface was filled with what looked like tiny floating stars that seemed to disappear like ashes from a bonfire just before they reached her face. “T’Chuba,” I said again as I approached. “What are you doing out here?”

I couldn’t understand a word of what she was chanting. It sounded like it was in a foreign tongue, perhaps African. I squatted next to her and put my hand on her shoulder. She turned toward me. Her eyes were completely black. In them I saw myself reflected. I gasped and stood, backing away.

The glow from the pond in front of the old woman disappeared suddenly, and T’Chuba fell onto her side. “T’Chuba!” I yelled. I knelt beside her and began shaking the old woman’s shoulder. She covered her face with both hands. I pulled them away. Her eyes were closed. When she opened them, they had returned to normal.

“Child,” she said as she reached for my hands, taking them in her own. “I have seen the future. There will be much death, and you have much to fear. He is the undead.”

“Who is the undead, T’Chuba? I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

T’Chuba closed her eyes and shook her head. I helped the old woman to her feet and together we walked back to the house. I sat T’Chuba down at the kitchen table and fixed her a cup of tea. She appeared weary. I took the seat across from her and watched as she stared into the cup, occasionally taking a tiny sip. She wouldn’t make eye contact, and neither of us spoke for what seemed like a long time.

“Child, I am over two hundred and fifty years old,” she said. “I was taught witchcraft by my mother before I was enslaved and brought to this country.”

“Witchcraft,” I said. “Is that what you were doing by the pond?”

She then proceeded to tell me of the dark art that she had practiced for years. T’Chuba explained how she was able to use the pond as a sort of crystal ball that allowed her to see things that happened in the past, present, and future.

She made me promise not to tell anyone. T’Chuba told me that during her lifetime she had witnessed with her own eyes the horror of women being burned and drowned after having been publicly called out for participating in witchcraft.

T’Chuba’s knowledge intrigued me. It was as if all the fantastical stories I’d loved as a younger woman were somehow now legitimized. I saw this as an opportunity to be educated in the art of the black magic that had always fascinated me.

I told T’Chuba I would keep her secret in exchange for her teaching me how to perform magic. T’Chuba told me that she didn’t have any children of her own. Before being separated from her family, she had promised her mother that she would pass on her secret knowledge. That night, T’Chuba and I agreed that I would be the one to receive this knowledge.

In the three days that followed, I began to learn witchcraft at T’Chuba’s side. Whenever there was an opportunity to do so, she would sit me down at the kitchen table for a lesson, taking out the herbs and tinctures she had brought with her when she arrived at our home. She would then carefully describe the uses for each item.

Henceforth, whenever Calvin was away on business, I learned more. T’Chuba showed me how to make potions for all sorts of enchantments. The spells she taught me frequently involved the burning of herbs and treated candles. Oftentimes, rituals called for the imbibing of an elixir made with roots acquired in the village market. These ingredients were boiled along with more exotic elements, like body parts of creatures that buried themselves deep in the dirt during the day and only surfaced after the sun went down. T’Chuba would use the blood of rabbits, which she caught in a trap she’d set in the garden. The tiny, nocturnal creatures we sought sometimes required us to wade in the pond just beyond the woods as well as in the swamps behind the village. We’d do this late at night, gathering frogs and tadpoles. Once the elixirs were boiled, we’d take turns ingesting them and, as a trancelike state set in, we’d begin to chant.

There were spells for love and romance, spells that would allow you to curse your enemies, potentially doing them financial or physical harm. There were spells for channeling the deceased, and spells that allowed you to see things as they happened far away from where you were. T’Chuba showed me how to cast a spell in order to locate otherworldly creatures that lived in the surrounding forest.

I’d always been a good student. When tasked with learning witchcraft, it was no exception. I wrote down everything T’Chuba taught me. All the chants were in an African dialect, so I had to spell each word out phonetically in order to be able to properly recite them. I kept my notes hidden in the basement on the other side of some loose bricks in the wall.

It was my hope that one of the chants I was taught would allow me to use the pond’s surface in order that I might see what T’Chuba saw and learn who the undead was she’d referred to on the night I discovered her secret. But it was too soon. I was still an amateur. I was privy only to the present and recent past. Whomever it was that T’Chuba had seen in her vision remained a mystery to me. I found that if my thoughts were turned to my adopted brother while gazing into the pond, I could observe him on the road with the bloodletter. It was difficult to tell, however, if what I was witnessing was the present or recent past.

***

William and Emily and my niece and nephew came to visit. My sister-in-law and I had a moment alone together while our husbands were playing with the children in the yard. I used the opportunity to inquire about Max. Had Emily seen him? How was he doing? Was he still living with the bloodletter?

“Something’s happened,” Emily said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The village constable found two men dead. One of the men was Otto Helmsley, the bloodletter.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. “And the other man?” I asked, hesitantly.

“A second body was found in Otto Helmsley’s residence.” I gasped. “The head had been removed and was found the following morning in the woods behind the bloodletter’s house. It appeared to have been set on fire.”

“Tell me it wasn’t Max!” I cried.

“No, no, Catherine,” Emily said, putting her hands on mine. “Although, for obvious reasons, the authorities weren’t able to identify the victim, the constable we spoke with knew your brother and said the second body was too large to be Max’s.”

“Oh, thank God,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “How was the bloodletter killed?”

“It’s so strangely ironic considering his occupation. The constable said Mr. Helmsley had been drained of his blood. Two marks were found on his neck as if pierced. The constable and his men are looking for Max. They believe he had something to do with the murders.”

“Dear Lord,” I said. Emily put her hand on my shoulder.

“You mustn’t blame yourself, Catherine. None of this is your fault. Has he been here at all? You can tell me. I won’t say anything to William.”

“Here?” I said. “He wouldn’t know to look for me here.” Emily swallowed hard and looked away. “Emily,” I said. “Why would Max come here?”

“Because I told him where you were,” she said.

“What?”

“You mustn’t be angry with me, Catherine,” Emily said, turning back toward me. “At the time, I hadn’t any idea about the two bodies or the fact that Max was wanted by the constable. I later realized he showed up at our house on the same night the murders were presumed to have taken place. He was looking for you. I was alone at the time. He must have been watching through the window, waiting for William to leave.

“When your brother retired to his office for the evening, Max tapped lightly on the glass. The children were already in bed. I went to the window and immediately recognized him. He looked frightened and pale. He was wrapped in a black coat. He pointed toward the back of the house, so I met him there.

“Max said that something terrible had happened and he had to see you. I told him you no longer lived at the house. He asked where you were residing, and without giving it a second thought, I told him. He said he needed to leave England at once but had very little money. I don’t know what came over me. It was as if while talking to him I was put into a trance. I went to where William keeps our money and brought it out to Max, giving it all to him. He thanked me and disappeared into the night.

“I still don’t know what compelled me to give him the money or tell him where you lived. It was almost as if he willed me to do it. I don’t know how I’m going to explain the disappearance of the money to William. He hasn’t yet discovered it missing. It was the next day that I learned of the murders and that the constable was looking to question Max.”

It was hard to believe that our younger brother would have had anything to do with the murders of anyone. Although he could have quite a temper at times, I could only ever imagine him acting out violently in self-defense.

After Emily and William and the children left, I consulted T’Chuba about using the pond to see into the past in order to find out what exactly happened on the night of the murders. She told me it would be difficult, but possible if we combined our powers.

After Calvin fell asleep, T’Chuba and I made our way to the water. There was a full moon that night. I knelt in front of the pond and began to chant. T’Chuba stood behind me and placed her hands on either side of my head. I felt myself fall into a trance. Through our combined powers, I was able to see the bloodletter’s house.

While in my trancelike state, in the pond’s reflection, I could see what was happening inside Otto Helmsley’s residence on the night the murders took place. I saw the bloodletter taking an inventory of his tools, picking them up one at a time as Max logged all the information into a small book. Moments later, there was a knock at the door. Max rose to answer it, but Mr. Helmsley raised his hand as if to keep him seated. While I could hear sounds and voices, they were severely muffled, and I couldn’t make out exactly what was being said. Still, I could see everything as if it was happening in front of me in real time. With T’Chuba’s hands upon my temples, I continued to stare onto the pond’s surface. The vision playing out before me in the moon’s reflection on the water’s face.

In the vision, the same dark stranger, whom I’d seen on the street the day I went to the bloodletter’s home looking for my adopted brother, was at the door. He pushed his way in and began to roughly look through all the cabinets and drawers. As the large man tore the place apart, Mr. Helmsley appeared, begging him to stop. Max, hearing the commotion, ran into the room.

When he attempted to block the dark stranger, the large man swiped at Max with the back of his hand. It was a motion that if delivered by an average-sized person would at most have caused the recipient to fall back slightly, but the big man’s backhand was delivered with such force that it sent my brother flying through the air and into the wall on the opposite side of the room.

The old bloodletter picked up an ax from next to the fireplace and ran at the villain. The man grabbed Mr. Helmsley’s wrist that was holding the ax and lifted him up. He squeezed Otto’s wrist so hard that he dropped the deadly implement. The dark stranger held the old bloodletter close to his face. When the monster opened his mouth, I saw two white fangs protruding. He bit down fast, sinking his teeth into Otto’s neck. The dark stranger’s eyes went white, and the old man quickly turned pale.

Max, recuperating from the fall, stood, and though dazed, ran across the room and picked up the dropped ax. The dark stranger, having apparently drained the bloodletter completely, tossed him away and turned toward Max just as he swung the ax. The man grabbed the weapon before it could hit him, pulled it from Max’s hands, and threw it aside. The stranger then grabbed Max by the hair, pulled him close, and bit down into his neck. Max pulled out a knife from inside his cloak and sliced the stranger’s throat. The monster screamed; his blood-covered fangs shined in the candlelight of the room. Blood poured out of the villain’s neck as if a dam had broken. He unhanded my brother. Max, seeing an opportunity, dropped the bloody knife and ran over to the ax and picked it up. This time he swung and struck the stranger’s newly sliced throat with such force that he completely lopped off the monstrous man’s head.

Max took the bloodletter’s bandages and wrapped them around his own neck like a scarf to stop the bleeding from the bite. He picked up the disembodied head of the dark stranger by the hair, dropped it into a sack, then ran into the woods with a lit torch and set the bag with the head inside it on fire.

The vision ended. I felt myself fall sideways, sliding out of T’Chuba’s hands and onto the grass. The spell was broken. My vision returned to normal, and the glow from the pond ceased. T’Chuba helped me to my feet, and together we made our way back inside.

“It was self-defense, T’Chuba.”

“Yes, Miss Catherine.”

“I need to know if he’s okay,” I said.

The following nights had T’Chuba and I taking turns staring into the pond, but neither of us were able to find my brother. I continued to learn the ways of witchcraft. T’Chuba taught me everything she knew. I carefully wrote everything down, always hiding my notes away in the basement behind bricks.

T’Chuba explained to me that for decades she’d used a longevity spell to extend her life. The spell was the reason she didn’t appear any older than the most elderly woman in our village. T’Chuba told me that while the spell didn’t make her immortal, it did slow the aging process. She then taught me how to cast it:

In her possession, she kept twelve ancient stones. The stones were smooth and oval, the largest no bigger than the palm of her hand. She heated these stones in a fire until they glowed red. Using iron tongs, the stones were carefully placed in a circle resembling the hours on the face of a clock. T’Chuba then knelt in the middle of the stone circle and chanted. One by one, the rocks’ red glow disappeared. The spell was completed when the last rock’s light completely died out.

T’Chuba told me that she knew how she’d one day meet her end, though she’d never said exactly when or how she was destined to leave her earthly existence. Whenever she’d teach me, using the tools she’d been handed down from her mother, she’d remind me that they would all eventually belong to me.

***

Olive came to visit one day that fall. She told me the village constable was all but convinced that Max had killed the bloodletter and the dark stranger. The constable deduced that only a bloodletter’s apprentice would know how to completely drain a body of its blood in the way that Otto Helmsley, the bloodletter himself, had apparently perished. Olive said that when my brother was found, he’d certainly be hanged, and she believed he deserved to be.

I took Olive by the hand and told her we should go for a walk. I wanted to tell her everything, but I knew that T’Chuba would be furious if she found out that I had disobeyed her order of secrecy. Still, I couldn’t keep my knowledge of what had happened the night of the murders from my best friend.

As we walked through the woods, I told Olive about T’Chuba’s witchcraft and the spells. I told her about the pond and the things I saw. I told her that I knew my adopted brother had acted in self-defense and that, even though I couldn’t prove his innocence, I would do anything in my power to protect him.

Olive wasn’t as receptive to this information as I’d hoped. Instead, she became scared and ran back toward the house. I ran after her, calling her name. I managed to catch her before she could reach the edge of the woods, tackling her. She screamed. I put my hand over her mouth.

“Olive!” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. Please don’t be afraid. I wouldn’t have told you any of this if I thought I couldn’t trust you.”

Olive was breathing erratically and trying to roll out from under me. I knew I couldn’t let her up until she was calm. Even after she relaxed a bit and stood, she still looked scared, but she was no longer breathing abnormally. I helped her brush herself off and tried to hold her hand, but she refused to let me.

I knew then that I’d made a mistake believing I could trust my best friend with these secrets. I made her promise that she wouldn’t tell anyone about the pond or T’Chuba or the journals or the stones or anything I told her regarding the dark art I’d been learning. When we arrived back at the house, she said a hasty goodbye and left quickly.

It had been just over a week since the murders. By now everyone in the village knew about the unusual deaths of the bloodletter and the dark stranger. There were sheets of paper posted on trees with a crude drawing of Max and a warning to be on the lookout and to alert the constable if he was seen anywhere near the village.

One night, when Calvin was away, I was awoken by the sound of something brushing against the window of our bedroom. No trees grew close enough to the house to make contact. I took a lit candle and walked to the window. Outside, I saw a large bat flying in circles, its wings brushing lightly against the glass. I pushed open the window in hopes of scaring it away, and it flew upward, disappearing into the night sky. It was then I saw him.

Max was standing at the edge of the woods, his figure unmistakable in the moon’s light. He brought a single finger to his lips as if telling me to keep silent. With the same hand, he then motioned for me to come to where he was. I closed the window, pulled my robe around myself, then tiptoed through the house to the front door, exiting as quietly as possible.

I made my way to the edge of the woods where I’d seen Max standing, but he was no longer there. I had no candle with me, but the moon was bright enough that I could see the yard and the trees.

“Max!” I whispered. “Where are you?”

“Catherine,” I heard him say from inside the woods. “Catherine, come to me.”

Although his voice sounded scratchy and dry, I had no doubt it was my brother. “Max,” I whispered. “I can’t see you.”

“Here,” he said as he stepped out from behind a nearby tree.

He looked pale and gaunt, the same way Emily had described him. His eyes were sunken as if he hadn’t slept in days. His hair appeared greasy and thin. He was wearing a long black coat. His pupils were fully dilated, appearing almost more animal than man.

“Max,” I said, stepping toward him.

“No,” he said, retreating into the shadows. “You mustn’t look upon me. I am no longer myself.”

“The constable is looking for you,” I said. “He thinks you murdered the bloodletter and another man.”

“Catherine, I didn’t murder the bloodletter. Please, you must believe me. Helmsley was the one person who helped me when I ran away. He took me in and gave me shelter and a trade.”

“And the other man?” I asked.

“Not a man,” Max said as he swallowed hard and shivered. “A monster. He killed the bloodletter, and he would have killed me if I hadn’t been able to gather my wits and strength. Helmsley knew all about that ghoul. The bloodletter said that the villain had been stalking him ever since he was a young apprentice himself. That monster had killed the bloodletter’s teacher, and Otto knew it was only a matter of time before he came for him.

“Helmsley warned me of the stranger weeks before he started showing up. Otto told me the only way to rid the world of that villain was to decapitate him and set his head afire. The only thing I’m guilty of is protecting myself and the rest of humanity. Please believe me, Catherine!”

Max began to sob and wheeze. His head was lowered. I could no longer see his ghostly face, but I could see his balding scalp beneath his thinning hair in the moon’s light. His shoulders shook as he wept.

What Max said confirmed that the incident I’d seen projected onto the pond’s surface was accurate. I knew my baby brother was telling the truth.

“I believe you, Max,” I said calmly as I again attempted to move toward him.

He stopped sobbing and looked up at me. Blood red tears streaked his cheeks. His face appeared even more ghostly in contrast to the scarlet lines staining his face. His pupils shrunk to pinholes. “No, for your own safety stay where you are!” He begged as he backed away. When he spoke, I could see two white fangs on either side of his mouth. I stopped in my tracks. “I’m unwell, and I have unnatural cravings. I’ve been compelled to do unspeakable things to stay alive. I’ve been living off small woodland creatures that only come out at night: rabbits, opossums, and skunks. For reasons unknown to me, the sun has become my enemy. I’ve been sleeping in barns. One morning, as the sun was rising, a single ray shown through a knothole and cast its light upon my bare foot. It burned me horribly. It was then I realized I could no longer be exposed to the daylight. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I believe it has something to do with an injury I sustained during a fight the night that the bloodletter was killed. It’s as if the curse that plagued the villain who killed Mr. Helmsley has been passed on to me. I must leave, or I will most certainly face hanging,” Max said.

“But where will you go?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I only know I had to look upon your face one last time before I left. Please know, for whatever it’s worth, that I’m sorry about what happened. Believe me when I tell you that I did what I had to do to save my own life. There was no other option.”

“I know, Max,” I said. He looked at me quizzically for a moment as if wondering how I was so sure.

“Goodbye, Catherine,” he said sorrowfully before walking slowly backward and disappearing into the dark forest.

***

The next day, T’Chuba and I went to the village market to purchase fresh produce. Calvin would be home that night, and I wanted to prepare his favorite stew. While we were walking past all the fruits and vegetables, I saw Olive by herself. I made eye contact and waved in order that she might stop and talk. Her eyes met mine only for an instant, and then she looked away, pretending as if she hadn’t seen me.

“Olive!” I called. She turned again toward me, and this time she held my gaze. She slowly shook her head no and turned, vanishing into the crowd. Minutes later, I saw her talking to two constables who were smoking pipes and chatting with a farmer. Olive pointed in my direction. A shiver ran through my entire body as if I’d been thrown into an icy river. I quickly found T’Chuba.

“We need to leave right now,” I said.

T’Chuba didn’t say a word. She put down the produce she’d been examining, and we began to walk rapidly away from the market area toward the road that led back to the house.

“Pardon me,” I heard a man’s voice say from behind.

“Keep walking,” I whispered. Arm in arm, T’Chuba and I made our way down the road that would lead us home. The two constables ran up and pulled us apart. “Excuse me. What is this about?” I asked.

“This woman says you have knowledge regarding the death of the bloodletter,” one of the constables said.

Before I could answer, Olive appeared, a frightened look upon her face, much like the one she had the day I told her about Max’s innocence and T’Chuba teaching me witchcraft.

“No, constable,” Olive said. “Not her, the African.”

The man released my arm.

“Constable, you can’t take her away. She’s done nothing wrong,” I said.

“This woman has accused your servant of using witchcraft and says that because of her knowledge of the dark arts she’s privy to the whereabouts of the bloodletter’s apprentice.”

“Constables,” I said as the two men began to lead T’Chuba away. “This is ridiculous. Our servant isn’t any more of a witch than I am.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a witch as well,” said a woman pushing her way through the thickening crowd. At first I didn’t recognize her, but then I remembered where I’d heard this woman’s voice. It was the bloodletter’s neighbor. “I saw that one outside Otto Helmsley’s house days before the murder,” the neighbor woman said, pointing at me. There was an audible gasp from the crowd. “She’s the apprentice’s sister, that young man whose likeness is posted all over the village, the one the authorities are looking for.”

In that moment, my stomach felt as if my heart had dropped into it. The crowd began to close in around me. I turned to look for T’Chuba and saw her being taken away by the two constables. I searched the sea of faces, but this time Olive couldn’t be found to save me. The villagers began to move toward me. I pushed through the crowd and made an expeditious exit.

I ran all the way home. Once inside the house, I shut the door and began to cry. I was alone. It was only a matter of time before the constables came to question me.

I knew where all T’Chuba’s amulets and potions were kept. I emptied a basket of vegetables onto the kitchen table and went into T’Chuba’s room. I loaded all the potions and amulets and stones into the basket, then took it down into the cellar and hid all the African witch’s magical implements behind the loose bricks where I’d kept my notebooks. By the time Calvin came home that night, I was no less distraught, and he could tell immediately.

“What is it, Catherine? Where’s T’Chuba?”

“Calvin, something terrible has happened. While T’Chuba and I were in the market, Olive told two constables that our servant had been practicing witchcraft and knew where Max was.”

“My God,” Calvin said. “Why would Olive do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” I said, feigning ignorance. I then had to explain the situation regarding Max being sought in connection with the murders of the bloodletter and the dark stranger.

“I’m friends with the chief constable. I’ll see to this first thing in the morning,” he said.

***

The next day, Calvin and I took a horse to the village constable’s headquarters. The chief constable recognized Calvin and invited us into his office to talk.

“It would seem your servant is believed to have knowledge as to the whereabouts of a suspect in a murder case. Your servant has also been accused of using witchcraft.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Calvin said. “How can this be?”

The chief constable leafed through some handwritten documents that detailed the incident in the market. “The other day a woman in the village square identified your servant as a witch, and another woman identified your wife as the sister of the bloodletter’s apprentice who went missing after the murders.”

“That bloodletter’s apprentice is not of the same parentage as my wife. He is the adopted son of Catherine’s deceased father,” Calvin explained.

“Chief constable, my adopted brother ran away from home some time ago and took up with the bloodletter,” I said. “Otto Helmsley was his only source of security and occupation. I know my brother. He’s not a violent man. If he was guilty of exhibiting any form of physical violence, I’m certain it was in self-defense.”

“If this is so, why wouldn’t he come forward? How can you be so sure he acted in self-defense? Do you have any evidence of this? Were you with him at the time the murders took place?” The chief constable asked.

I shook my head and looked at my husband.

“If you’ll let our servant go, I promise she won’t be left unattended,” Calvin said.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the chief constable said. “There will have to be a trial.”

“But this is absurd! You have no proof!” Calvin shouted, standing and pushing his chair back.

“There’s no need to take that tone with me,” the chief constable said.

Calvin removed his hat and ran his hand through his hair, frustratedly.

“Will you at least let us see her?” I asked.

The chief constable called one of his men into the office. I immediately recognized him as one of the two who had arrested T’Chuba. We followed the man outside the constable’s headquarters to a wooden door that led down into a dimly lit dungeon made of stone walls beneath the constable’s headquarters. In the dungeon were two small windows that looked out on the lawn. Both windows had iron bars over them. Outside the row of cells was an old man sitting on a stool, leaning back on the wall behind him, sleeping. There was a large keyring on his belt. Every cell was empty except the one that held T’Chuba. The old man woke upon hearing the door to the outside close. He got up off his stool, and we followed him to T’Chuba’s cell. The old man used the keys to open the door, and Calvin and I entered.

T’Chuba was sitting on a single bed. The only other item in the room was a metal bucket for waste. The humid cell had a dirt floor and smelled like a mixture of feces and urine. It was barely fit for an animal, let alone a human.

“T’Chuba,” I said. “I’m so sorry this happened.” She would not make eye contact with either Calvin or myself. In fact, she wouldn’t open her eyes at all. She merely sat on the edge of the bed with her chained hands in her lap, her head bowed. She was still wearing the dress she’d been wearing when she was apprehended in the market. “Must she be in chains?” I asked. “She’s an old woman. She’s not going to harm anyone.”

“I’m sorry, mum,” the jailor said. “Them’s the rules. Witches is a crafty lot.”

I looked down at T’Chuba’s feet and saw that they’d taken her shoes, and there were chains around her ankles.

“Her feet are shackled as well? What harm can she do with her legs when you’ve already got her locked in a cage? This is inhumane. How can you treat someone this way?”

“Them’s the rules, mum,” the jailor repeated, shrugging.

I began to cry. I hugged T’Chuba. She stayed as still as a statue, both of her eyes closed. Calvin pulled me away as I continued to weep. My husband walked me out of the cell. The jailor locked the door behind us.

“Catherine,” he said. “Wait outside. I’m going to have a word with the jailor and that constable to see if there isn’t something I can do to at least make her present situation more tolerable.”

I walked up the stone stairs, out of the dungeon, and stood in the courtyard just outside of the closed door, waiting for my husband to return. A moment later, a group of three women came walking down the street. One of them I recognized as the bloodletter’s neighbor.

“That’s her!” The woman said to her friends. “That’s the murderer’s sister. They arrested her servant for witchcraft the other day in the market.”

I didn’t know what to do. I attempted to go back into the dungeon, but the tallest of the three women pushed me away from the door.

“If you’re the sister of that apprentice, you must know where he is,” one of the other two women said.

“Please,” I said. “My husband is just inside that door…”

“I don’t care where or who your husband is,” the bloodletter’s neighbor said. “Maybe you can explain why our animals are being found dead since your brother disappeared, all of them drained of their blood, just like Mr. Helmsley!”

“Please,” I said. “I don’t know where he is. I swear to you!”

“You and that witch servant of yours both know,” the neighbor said as she slowly approached, an accusing finger pointed at my face.

“No!” I said.

The women advanced upon me. I was afraid to turn away. As I stepped backward, I tripped and fell, landing in the grass. Just then, Calvin walked out of the door to the dungeon with the constable.

“What on earth is going on out here?” My husband shouted, running over and helping me to my feet.

“Calvin Weathersby? The market owner’s son? This is your wife?” One of the three women asked.

The chief constable shooed the women away.

My husband and I got back on our horse and rode home. Soon the entire village would know that Calvin Weathersby’s wife was the sister of the man suspected of murdering the bloodletter and beheading the dark stranger. They would also know that the Weathersby’s servant had been arrested after being accused of witchcraft.

That night, while Calvin slept, I slipped out of bed and made my way to the pond behind the house. I knelt and began to chant, looking at the water’s surface, attempting to find Max. I needed to know where he was and if he was safe.

In the pond’s reflection, I saw him creeping around at night, slaughtering chickens, goats, and sheep as well as cats and small dogs before drinking their blood. This must have been what the women outside of the constable’s headquarters were talking about. In the pond’s reflection I also saw my adopted brother steal a horse and ride it to the ocean where he hid away on a ship. The last image I saw was the ship leaving the dock. I couldn’t tell exactly when these occurrences took place, but I knew they’d already happened as I hadn’t enough power on my own to see into the future.

The trance broke, and I fell over onto the grass. I blinked and slowly came back to my senses. The smell of smoke was in the air. I stood and walked back through the woods and found our house completely engulfed in flames. I screamed and ran toward the blaze.

I yelled for Calvin over and over as I circled the property, looking for a safe place to enter. But there was no part of the house the fire hadn’t touched. I coughed and gagged from the fumes. If my husband hadn’t woken and escaped before the flames had completely overtaken our home, there was no way to attempt to save him without endangering my own life.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go. It appeared as if someone had opened the stable gate. Our horses were gone. In that moment, I was afraid that if the fire had been started by one of the villagers, they may still be around. If I was the intended target of this possible arson, I couldn’t be found to have survived. Still in my nightgown, I ran far into the woods and hid under the overhanging portion of a giant boulder. That night I cried myself to sleep.

In the flush of morning I walked to the edge of the woods to survey the damage the fire had caused. There was nothing left of our once happy home. Our nearest neighbors were miles away, but people had traveled and were presently walking by, staring at the smoldering ruins and shaking their heads. I hid deep in the woods under the overhanging rock for the remainder of the day.

Everyone must assume I’m dead, I thought to myself. If the people who burned down my house think I died in the fire, and nobody is looking for me, I can leave England and start over without worrying about anyone trying to find me. This may be my only hope for survival.

That evening, I made my way back to our burned down house. I picked up a long stick to walk with and used an incantation to summon fireflies in the formation of a small globe that hovered just above my palm to light the way.

When I arrived at the site of where our house had stood, I found that much of the charred remains of our home’s structure had been moved, most likely by scavenging neighbors looking to salvage what they could from the wreckage. Fortunately, this cleared the way to the cellar.

As if blowing out a candle, I dismissed the globe of fireflies with a quick, gentle puff of air. I poked around in the still-smoldering cinders with my walking stick, eventually managing to ignite the end of it. Using the stick as a torch to light my way, I walked down the cellar stairs. After lighting one of the lamps hanging along the wall, I extinguished the walking stick’s flame, took the lamp off the hook, and brought it into the back corner of the cellar.

I pushed away the loose bricks in the wall and found T’Chuba’s satchel, the items of hers I’d hidden, and my notebooks. I put everything inside the bag. With the satchel in one hand, and the lamp in the other, I carefully walked up the stairs of the cellar and made the long journey through the woods to Olive’s house.

Olive lived with her parents and her brother and sister. She had her own room at the back of the house. I walked around to the rear of the home and tapped on her bedroom window.

“Who’s there?” Olive whispered as she opened the window and looked around.

“Olive,” I said. “It’s me, Catherine.”

“That’s impossible,” she said. I lifted the lamp to my face. Olive gasped. I put my finger to my lips. “What do you want?” She asked.

“I want to leave England,” I said. “The constables have locked T’Chuba in a dungeon. The women in town think she knows where Max is.”

“Everyone thinks you perished in the fire that took your husband and your house,” Olive said. “That I’m staring at you right now only confirms what those women believe. Only a witch would have the cunning to survive such a catastrophe.”

“That’s right, Olive,” I said, menacingly. “I’m a witch, and if you don’t help me get out of England, I’ll cast a horrible spell on you and your whole family.”

“You wouldn’t!” Olive exclaimed.

“Just try me,” I said, holding up the satchel containing T’Chuba’s magical objects.

“I’ll scream and wake everyone in the house,” Olive threatened.

I immediately dropped my menacing façade. “Olive, I said stepping toward her. Please, you know that even if I could, I’d never hurt you. Still, my life is in ruins in part because of what you did, and now I need your help. While I’ll never be able to prove my accusers are the ones who burned our house down, it’s a safe bet that the fire was intentional.”

Olive was quiet for a long moment. She looked away, guiltily. “Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll help you get out of England.”

That night, with a pair of Olive’s mother’s scissors, I cut all my hair off outside Olive’s bedroom window. Just before falling asleep on the floor of my friend’s bedroom, I cried thinking about Calvin whom I’d never see again.

The next morning, Olive secreted clothes from her brother’s room and gave them to me. I put them on and looked at myself in her mirror. With Olive’s brother’s pants and his collared shirt and hat over my short hair, I could easily pass for a boy.

The two of us set out just before the sun came up. We rode Olive’s mother’s horse to the ocean, with Olive in front and me behind carrying the satchel.

When we got to the ocean, Olive tied the horse to a post, and we made our way to where the shipping boats were docked.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I have a friend here. He works for my father. He’s a shipmate on one of these boats,” Olive said. “He’s quite fond of me and will do anything I ask.”

I was introduced to a young man named George. Olive promised him that in exchange for keeping me hidden on the shipping vessel on which he worked, she would compensate him handsomely. As we said our final goodbyes, Olive began to cry, begging me for forgiveness. I hugged her and told her all was forgiven. What else could I do?

***

George hid me below deck amongst crates that were filled with uniquely British exports. It was his job to make sure the cargo got to its destination in one piece and that every crate was present and accounted for when the ship arrived in Marbleport, Rhode Island.

The boat ride to America was long and unpleasant. I wore the same clothes, Olive’s brother’s, for the entire trip. I got seasick more than a few times below deck.

George made sure I was fed. It wasn’t difficult as he was the only person onboard with access to the cargo area and could come down where I was at any time.

Just prior to the ship arriving in America, George hid me inside one of the crates along with the satchel. He instructed me not to get out until the crate stopped moving.

When the crate I was in finally stopped moving, I kicked at the lid, splintering the boards. The top popped open, and I peeked out.

It was very early in the morning. Crates were stacked up all around me. I had no idea where I was, but I could see the sky. It was a clear day. Seagulls flew overhead. I hoisted myself out of the box. There was barely enough space between the crates for me to walk. When I finally stepped out from the maze of wooden boxes, I was on a cobblestone street. Men were moving the boxes onto carts which were being pulled into the city.

I hadn’t bathed since before leaving England. With the satchel in my hand, I made my way down the cobblestone street into town. I didn’t know where to go. I stole a loaf of bread from a bakery window and hid in an alley and ate it.

I needed to find a place where I could get cleaned up. My biggest fear was being discovered and sent back to England where I would most definitely be forced to stand trial for arson and murder if they thought they had enough evidence to convict me of the fire and subsequent death of my husband.

It began to rain. I needed somewhere to go. I ran inside a church and fell asleep in one of the pews, using the satchel as a pillow. I was awoken by a minister. He thought I was a boy and addressed me as such. I told him I was a woman and begged him not to throw me back into the street. I made up a story about an abusive husband in England and how I had to cut all my hair off and hide away on a ship for weeks until I arrived in America and could start my life over. I told him my name was Catherine Howe. I didn’t see any reason to continue with my married name. After all, everyone in England thought Catherine Weathersby was dead.

The minister lived in a small town nearby called Smithwick. He took me there, and I met his family. I bathed, and his wife cleaned my undergarments and gave me fresh clothes, a dress and a nightgown. For the first time in almost a month, I spent the night in an actual bed. It was the best sleep I’d had in a long time.

The next day, the minister took me back into downtown Marbleport where there was a market. He introduced me to a man with the last name LaSalle who ran a farm just outside the city. Mr. LaSalle had been looking for someone who knew how to grow and cultivate herbs. I’d been taught by T’Chuba all about herbs and how to identify and harvest them. I told the farmer I would be interested in helping him with his project. He was impressed and said he’d been looking to expand his product line.

I said goodbye to the minister and went with Mr. LaSalle. When we arrived at his farm, I was told I could stay in a small house just outside of the main one. In this smaller house I lived with two other women, a mother and her teenage daughter. These women also worked on the farm. They were at first wary of me, but after a time they became much more hospitable. In addition to gardening duties, the mother was a seamstress, and her daughter was responsible for milking the cows and collecting eggs from the chickens. I was shown to a green house and told I would be responsible for growing and harvesting herbs. I was paid weekly, and after a few months, I was able to get a room of my own in town.

I enjoyed my new freedom. I had regular income and a place to stay. Still, I needed to get to a small private body of water where I could attempt to discern where my adopted brother was.

In time, I quit my job at LaSalle’s farm and began to work for the owner of a candle shop and his younger brother. They didn’t ask me a lot of questions. The brothers fought with each other all the time. I made candles during the evening and sold them in their shop the following day. Eventually, I left the candlemakers and went to work in a bakery.

The old baker I worked for was quite successful. He had two homes, one of which was a small house with a pond behind it. He’d built the house for his wife and himself, but, over time, as his family grew, he needed something bigger. The small house was not currently occupied. I told him I would gladly live in and maintain it in return for part of my wages. He saw this as a win-win as he didn’t have to pay me, and his second home would be occupied and maintained. After a couple years of renting, he agreed to sell me the house for a modest price.

After the baker retired, I went to work in a bookstore not far from my house. The store was owned by an older man whose wife had died years before. During the day, I worked at the bookstore. At night, I began to look for Max.

Every night, I would walk to the pond behind my small house and kneel by the water. I would stare into it and chant the words I’d been taught. It took a lot of time, chanting a variety of incantations on different nights, before I was finally able to locate Max.

He was living in a cave on a mountain. By day he’d stay in the cave. While he was inside, I wasn’t able to view him. In the moon’s reflection on the water, I watched Max hunt for food, always at night. Most nights he’d kill small animals and drink their blood. Occasionally he would descend the mountain, seeking out derelicts under bridges in the small town below. After biting them on the neck and draining them of their blood, he would drown the bodies in the river, weighing them down with rocks. In addition, there was a whorehouse in the mountain valley town. He would often prey on the women who worked there, attacking them after they finished their shifts. He’d dispose of the prostitutes’ bodies in the same way he did the derelicts.

Just like the dark stranger, Max had become a monster. The stranger had needed blood to survive. That’s what he’d most likely been looking for when he broke into Otto Helmsley’s house.

Although years had gone by since I’d last seen him, Max didn’t appear to have aged. While his eyebrows had mysteriously vanished, as well as most of the hair on his head, his face still looked the same as I remembered from that night at the edge of the woods.

My brother still was not able to go out into the sun. It was as if the daylight would kill him. It would be years before I was able to give a name to what my brother had become. It would be years before I even heard the word vampire.

It took some time, but I was eventually able to determine exactly where Max was geographically. The cave he inhabited was on a mountain in Virginia, just outside of a town called Peakskill. It had been years since my adopted brother escaped England. How long had he been living on that mountain? How many lives had he taken? How had he survived the winters?

Because I worked in a bookstore, I had access to travelogues from all over the country. In addition to the travelogues, I was able to get my hands on some antiquated tomes that dealt with witchcraft. I soon began to create a private library of these books, some of which contained ancient spells and incantations.

Surely it was only a matter of time before Max was caught taking the life of a Peakskill resident. If he was apprehended and tried by the people of the town, he’d most certainly be sentenced to death. I loved my brother and couldn’t bear the thought of anyone hurting him. Still, I couldn’t let his murder spree continue. I began to search for a spell that would bind him and prevent him from harming anyone further.

In one of the books in my witchcraft library, I found what I was looking for. It was an incantation that would allow whomever cast it to freeze a living creature in time and space. Using a small mouse I’d found in an alley, I practiced the spell. It took a few tries, but I knew I’d done it right when the mouse finally froze in place, standing stone still. It was stiff to the touch but not dead. I put the mouse in a small wooden box and kept it on a bookshelf in my bedroom. The night after I’d perfected the binding spell, I packed my things and bought a train ticket to Virginia.

When I arrived in Peakskill, it was as if I’d lived in the town my whole life. From weeks of observing remotely, I knew where everything was.

Max never came out while the sun was still in the sky. I had to get to the cave before dark, otherwise I risked finding him awake. If I did encounter him, would he even recognize me? Would he kill me the way he did the derelicts and prostitutes? Did he still love me? These questions had to be pushed to the back of my consciousness in order that I complete the task at hand, stopping him before he killed again.

It seems like an odd thing to say in retrospect, but it was a beautiful day for a hike. The wind coming down from the mountain felt wonderful as it blew through my hair. From home I’d brought a leather satchel with a strap that was slung diagonally across my torso. Inside the satchel was some bread to sustain me on my journey. I also carried two tin canteens, which I’d filled with water. After departing the train and making my way to the base of the mountain, I began the trek to Max’s cave.

After an hour of hiking, I was able to find the path I’d seen Max take to and from the cave. As I got closer, I discovered a man’s boot prints in the dirt. A few hours later, I stopped and ate some of the bread and drank a small amount of the water I’d brought. I heard a sound above me and looked to see what appeared to be birds circling near the top of the mountain where the cave was. As I got closer, I realized what I’d thought were birds were actually bats.

Upon arriving at the mouth of the cave, I entered quietly, cautiously. The air inside was foul and damp, and there was water running down the walls, I assumed due to snow melting on the mountain’s summit. From my satchel, I took out the lantern I’d brought and lit it using a flint. As I walked further into the cave, I heard noises at my feet. I held the lamp low to the ground and saw rats running this way and that. They were small and white with red eyes. The rats scattered when the light from my lantern fell on them.

As I walked further into the cave, the foul smell became worse. I gagged and put my arm across my nose and mouth to block the stench. At last I came to a crude wooden box that lay on the ground. Upon closer inspection, I concluded that the box was a coffin. On the opposite side of the cave was the decomposed corpse of a woman, which I assume had been removed from the coffin by Max. The body was dressed in its finest Sunday clothes. The woman’s family must have walked the coffin up here with her inside in order to honor a final wish to have her body left on the mountain. Perhaps her family had no money for a cemetery plot.

The coffin was completely enclosed on all sides and had a wooden top. I placed my satchel and lantern on the cave floor and gripped the edge of the coffin’s lid. I lifted it and let it fall to the opposite side. At first glance it appeared to be empty, but I could hear faint breathing. I picked up my lantern and held it over the open casket. Inside was my adopted brother. His eyes and mouth were closed, but I could see his chest rise and fall with his inhales and exhales.

I touched his face. It was as cold as ice. I stared at him for a long time, half expecting him to open his eyes at any moment. His skin was pale, his fingers were thin, and his nails were long and pointed. From my satchel, I removed the book with the binding spell. I balanced it on Max’s torso, and in the light of the lantern began to read from it aloud.

My voice took on an odd and gravelly cadence as I recited the incantation. As I neared the end, it sounded as if two people were chanting simultaneously. My words bounced off the cave’s walls, and the air began to vibrate. I placed my hand on Max’s forehead as I completed the recitation. With one hand on my brother and the other hand holding the lamp, I cast the binding spell. I knew it had worked when I saw his chest freeze mid-inhale. I gently laid a kiss upon his cold cheek and replaced the coffin’s lid.

I still loved Max. I could never have brought myself to kill him. I knew without a doubt that my brother had only ever tried to do the right thing, and that what had happened to turn him into the blood-craving beast he had become was caused by the bite from the dark stranger.

Perhaps the reason the stranger had broken into the bloodletter’s home was to find a cure for whatever plagued him. Maybe he’d thought that the bloodletter was his only hope. I wondered if the old bloodletter had been followed by the dark stranger for a long time, perhaps decades.

Upon returning to Rhode Island, although I continued to use the pond as a crystal ball to observe happenings in my locale, I discovered that I could no longer view my brother, as he was in an immovable state inside thick rock walls which my remote viewing capabilities weren’t able to penetrate.

I began instead to make an annual trek up to the cave every summer to check on him. It was like visiting a grave. I’d lift the lid and look upon Max, frozen in time and place. Aside from some cobwebs and dust, his face was always the same. Time was having no effect on him.

***

Decades passed. I made friends, and I lost friends, usually to old age. I never went to a doctor. If I felt like I was starting to get sick, I’d find a spell to protect myself from a possible infection. My body remained strong. I regularly performed the longevity ceremony T’Chuba had taught me. It kept me healthy and made me appear younger than I was.

I’d never had any form of identification. I only ever had my name. I never remarried, and I didn’t have any children. I’d been around for a long time and knew I’d be around for a lot longer. Because of this, I avoided having my image recreated artistically in any fashion. As photography became more common, I avoided having my picture taken. I still aged, only much slower than everyone else.

Time passed. The world went through many changes. Still, I ran the bookstore. I’d owned the store for years and had the papers to prove it. I kept them in a safe in my bedroom. The building eventually became a historical landmark.

Many antiquated books found their way into my shop. One was a short story by a British author named John William Polidori titled The Vampyre. The story dealt with a suave British nobleman named Ruthven. In the story, Ruthven accompanies a man named Aubrey on his travels and soon people end up dead. Aubrey doesn’t learn what Ruthven is until it’s too late and he has seduced and murdered Aubrey’s sister by draining her of her blood. The Vampyre was the first of many books about vampires to come into my possession. I read everything I could find, quickly making the connection between these otherwise fictitious beings and the monster Max had become.

My brother had decapitated the dark stranger and set his head afire in the woods. Max had told me Otto Helmsley, the bloodletter, had instructed him to do this. Perhaps the bloodletter knew how to destroy the undead before they were called vampires. Given how specific the murder was, it seemed as if this was entirely possible.

During the last decades of the twentieth century, a customer arrived with a familiar book for trade. It was a children’s story titled Now We Have Nothing. It had always been Max’s favorite. The day the customer brought it in, I’d put it away in a drawer for safekeeping, looking at it on occasion and thinking of the times Max and I spent on the moors, reading and enjoying each other’s company. The same summer I’d acquired the book, I brought it with me when I made my annual hike up the mountain to Max’s cave. Before leaving, I slid the book into his coat pocket.

One night, on my way home from the store, I found a stray male black kitten in an alley. I brought it inside and cast a spell on it, turning it into a black panther. I named him Bregaris after a warlock from history whom I’d been reading about at the time. Bregaris became my pet and the protector of my house while I was away.

My panther wasn’t the only creature that kept me company through the years. I’d used a spell to identify any and all non-human lifeforms on my property. For a brief period, after casting the spell, I was able to see every insect living in the grass as if they were illuminated. Additionally, I was able to observe all the fish and sea life in the pond. Lastly, I was able to discover a humanoid-shaped lifeform living in one of the trees on my property.

Wood sprites have an otherworldly aptitude for camouflaging themselves amongst nature. They’re also often recognized for their innate ability to stand as still as a statue for hours at a time in order to maintain their inconspicuousness and their uncanny cleverness when it comes to accessing barred rooms and absconding with valuable items. In other words, wood sprites are excellent thieves.

Although the sprite tried his best to hide from me, because of the spell I was able to locate him. His home was in a nearby tree. He made his way through the woods via the branches, moving swiftly and silently from limb to limb well above the ground. I pestered him until he finally revealed himself. After a while, he didn’t even bother to hide when he saw me coming. He swore he’d never been viewed by a human before, and he took great pride in his decades of concealment.

He was no bigger than a human toddler and had curly black locks that fell over pointed ears, slightly covering his rather large brown eyes. The wood sprite and I would engage in lengthy discussions about the world and all its wonders. His name was Bolan, and he and I became great friends. He dressed in clothes made from leaves. His wardrobe wasn’t simplistic, however. He had quite a knack for tailoring, though with what materials I had no idea, nor would he say.

When I wasn’t using the pond as a crystal ball, I managed to keep things interesting by researching aquatic life. I brought home a small female octopus from a pet store. I named her Octavia and raised her in a saltwater tank in my living room. After experimenting with a growth spell, I was able to enlarge her to seven times her normal size. For a while, I had her living in a child-size bathing tub in my bathroom. It took some experimenting with spells before I was able to find one that made her cephalopod body able to exist in freshwater. After that, I moved her into the pond in my backyard.

Octavia ate small fish and crabs. As her tentacles got longer, she would think nothing of snatching up and consuming small rodents and neighborhood pets that wandered too close to her watery home. When neighbors began to complain about missing dogs and cats, I had a fence built around the pond. Octavia then began to snatch and consume low-flying birds and ducks who only wanted to cool themselves off in the water. Eventually, I had to pay a service to come by every other month and dump barrels of live fish and crabs into the pond in order to keep her satiated. Where exactly Octavia disappeared to when the pond froze over in winter I’ll never know. Regardless, as soon as the ice began to melt, she’d show up again without fail, hungry as ever.

I’ll never understand how Octavia knew not to harm a large white swan who lived in the pond for part of the year. I have to imagine that at some point the swan gave Octavia a run for her money and pecked the sea creature so badly that the octopus never again went anywhere near the beautiful bird. Then again, perhaps Octavia and the swan had made a deal. After all, any bird casually flying over who saw the swan leisurely circling the pond would probably assume it was safe to come down for a swim. Maybe the swan acted as Octavia’s living decoy.

Bregaris loved to roam the area around the pond. He was a good swimmer and would occasionally snatch a fish out of the shallows and eat it on the shore. The one time Octavia reached out one of her long tentacles toward the panther, he gave her such a powerful swat with his big paw that she never tried again.

Aside from Bregaris, who mostly stayed with me in the house, Bolan, Octavia, and the swan lived peacefully in my little backyard vivarium.

Wood sprites are known to live hundreds of years. In order to make sure my animal pets would be around as long as Bolan and I were, I began casting longevity spells upon Bregaris, Octavia, and the swan.

Over one hundred and fifty years had passed since I’d cast the binding spell on my brother. You know how people say change happens gradually? It’s a lie. Change happens all at once. Change began in my life when a boy showed up near the pond behind my home toward the end of the second decade of the twenty-first century.