Young Writers Society

I wake to an eerie silence. After the crickets have gone to bed, and before the birds have woken. An overlarge, quilted blanket weighs on my chest, like a roiling gray thundercloud. I can feel the floor through the thin mattress I slept on.

There isn’t a moment of befuddlement when I open my eyes. The memories from last night are fixed in my mind, as if someone nailed them to the side of my skull. I see my grandmothers withering face as clearly as I see the popcorn ceiling hanging above me.

The the dismal backroom Grandma calls a ‘library’ doesn’t hold a candle to the public one back home. There was a flicker of hope when I discovered I’d be sleeping in a room broiling with books, but that bright side was swiftly stomped out.

On my left is a tall wooden bookshelf, with thick tombs weighing it down. They look like bricks, but I’m tempted to get up and leaf through them. Beside the shelf is an old-fashioned dresser pushed against the wall. Far above it hangs a small square window, with frilly curtains pinned on either side. Through it, I see thousands of branches clambering up the sky, which is now a diminished shade of purple, with the barest dash of orange. Birds flit between branches, the first notes of their songs at last reaching my ears.

I’m cold. Even despite the blanket, which serves better to suffocate me than provide warmth. I toss it aside, but still don’t get up.

There’s the barest shuffling sound down the hall, and through the crack in the door, I see Beatrice slip past. She’s as quiet as a ninja, like she’s trying not to wake me.

I hear the clatter of dishes, then glass crashing to the floor. Grandma grumbles an expletive, (she can’t think I’m awake if she’s using such language) and I hear her go to the closet to grab a broom.

A couple minutes later, breakfast is sizzling in a pan and my grandma is humming a tune. The smell of pancakes waft into the so-called-library, and I’m yanked back home to my mom making me waffles on her days off.

I sniffle pathetically, then press my palms purposefully into my eyes to keep tears from bleeding down my cheeks. Only one escapes, and I scrub it violently away.

With a shuddering breath, I steel myself, then proceed to roll off the mattress with the elegance of a blobfish. My legs tangle in the mattresses sheet, and I tumble straight into the bookshelf.

I check to make sure I didn’t jostle it from its place against the wall, but that thing has been set in stone for longer than I’ve been alive.

Rising to my feet, I realize I slept in my shorts and t-shirt, the second still stained from yesterday’s cafeteria lunch.

School’s today. Did Mom even consider that when she abandoned me here? I shove that thought aside and make for the door.

Nudging it partway open, I peer into the hallway. It’s incredibly tight, similar to a crawlspace. No photo’s adorn the walls, nor any decoration of the sort. It’s a lonely sight.

Quietly, I edge into the hallway, and follow my nose to the kitchen. Though, it’s impossible to get lost in this house; aside from this one hallway, the only open area is the kitchen and the living room, which are completely joined together.

Beatrice has opened a window- the one I saw her through the night before- it’s only spring, but it’s already obscenely warm, (though perhaps it’s only the stove that makes me think so)

Unlike the hallway, the living area is incredibly cluttered. There’s a fat green armchair in the corner by the door with a pile of clothes strewn carelessly across it. The front is a footrest that blocks off the entryway, and a crap-ton of shoes surround it. (Mom would’ve reprimanded me for saying ‘crap,’ but she’s not here; ergo, she can’t complain)

Across from the chair is a square wooden table, with only one seat beside it, like Grandma doesn’t see guests often. On the table is a vase of dead flowers. Shriveled leaves are scattered about the room.

At the mouth of the hallway is a large brick furnace. An inch thick layer of dust coats the mantle, and my nose twitches slightly at the sight of it.

The last section of the room is dedicated to the kitchen, where my grandmother hurries about. It’s the only part of the room that’s remotely clean, but even then, the counter is riddled with dishes.

Still, though, it smells delicious.

Grandma flicks the faucet off, then turns and sees me.

I can’t quite place the emotion that flickers across her face. Her eyes widen a fraction, and in that moment, she looks less like a witch, and more like a deer in headlights.

Then, it’s gone, and she offers me a small smile.

“Morning. Did you sleep alright?”

She’s wearing a pajama shirt that says Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee, with a picture of a unicorn dabbing on it. My initial fear of her diminishes, though only slightly.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a wary step into the living area. “What are you making?”

Grandma glances down at the pan, “Hm, today it’s slightly charred pancakes.” She frowns at them, like they’ve somehow disappointed her, “I hope you don’t mind.”

I shake my head.

“Good,” she says, then ushers me to the table while she finishes making breakfast. I watch her fish a clean glass from the back of the cupboard, and quickly wash a formerly dirty plate.

I’m not a quiet person by nature, but I find myself fidgeting with my hands, words crumpling in my throat. Questions line my tongue, but none of them feel urgent enough to speak aloud. I stare down at the table.

Grandma sets breakfast before me. She was right- it is burnt. But when I take a bite, I find that it isn’t half bad, if a tad crispy. The pancakes taste like home.

“Thank you,” I muster.

Grandma nods.

She really is a mirror image of me, if more shriveled and disheveled. I can’t fathom myself ever looking so broken.

What had made her hide away like this? Was it her power? Had it twisted her spirit, somehow?

“Grandma- grandmother? What should I call you?” I ask, finding it easier to start there.

“Grandma is fine.”

“Alright,” I glance at my food for a moment, then back up at her, “And, just to double check, you’re my dad’s mom, right? Not my mom’s mom?”

“Yes,” she says, her mouth tightening slightly. She says, “Amelia, your mother, has kept in touch with me these last two years, but she never told me how much you know.”

I frown at her, my forehead creasing slightly, “I’m very smart. I’m super good at math, know my times tables and all that, and I’m a super good reader. But I love science. It’s my favorite school subject! I know all about habitats and ecosystems, and I can tell you everything that’s on the periodic table, and I can prove it to you-“

“No, no,” Grandma says in a hurry, laughing a little, “That’s alright, dear. You’re very smart, and I’m happy to hear that you have an interest in science, but that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh,” I deflate a little. I spent so long memorizing it. “Then, what did you mean?”

Grandma hesitates for a moment, her eyes flickering to the window, then back to me. “About our magic, Kimberly.”

I stare at her, then groan, “Oh, gosh,” I say, “Is this about the frogs again? I swear I had nothing to do with that.”

She raises an eyebrow, “What happened with the frogs?”

“They all came to life.” I say with a shrug.

At this, she bursts into a cackle. She slams the counter and presses a hand to her stomach. I shrink back, once more reminded of a witch.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry,” she says, “I don’t mean to laugh.”

I glare at her, shoving away my plate, “Uh huh.”

“It’s just,” she wipes a tear from her eye, smiling wider than ever, “I don’t know how else to tell you, you’re a necromancer, sweetheart.”

My brow furrows. Mom’s dropped me off with a mad woman. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I don’t even know what necromancer means, which irks me to no end. “That’s a kind of witch, right?”

“Sort of,” she says, “we can reanimate the dead.”

“Ah ha!” I cry. Slamming my hands on the table, I rise to my feet and point dramatically at my grandmother, “So you are a witch! I knew it!”

She quirks an eyebrow. Smiling proper now, she says, “As are you.”

I freeze, the gears in my mind clinking to a halt. I stare at my grandma, jaw agape, and then clamp both hands to the side of my head, and shake it so violently my brain batters against my skull, squeezing my eyes shut. Then, I open them, the puzzles falling into place, painting the most terrible picture possible.

“Oh no,” I cry, crumpling, “I am a witch!”

“Necromancer,” Grandma corrects.

“Whatever!” I say. I sink into my seat and fold my head into my arms.

“Oh, come now, I would’ve thought you’d be excited.”

“I’m most certainly not.” I say.A sick feeling is brewing inside me, like a slime monster has settled in my stomach. When I start to speak, it’s equally likely I’ll vomit. I choke, “That’s why Mom left me here, isn’t it? Because she doesn’t want a wicked witch for a daughter. She’s never going to come back for me. She doesn’t want me anymore.”

Grandma startles, “Uh, nope, no, don’t do that,” she walks over, and shakes me by the shoulder, “She brought you here so I can train you. It won’t be long before you have a full fledged frog army of your very own!”

“But I’m here because I created a frog army!”

“A very poor one, if I may hazard a guess,” Grandma says dryly, “I bet icky entrails were trailed everywhere around the classroom.”

I peer up at her and nod.

She says to me, “Don’t you want to learn how to harness that power for good? Necromancy can teach you a lot about the way our world works. It’s like science, if you squint at it a little bit. Or a lot at it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah!” Grandma says with the kind of cheer grownups only seem to have when you’re about to cry, “Your mom loves you very much. She just wants you to learn to use your power responsibly.”

“But,” I say, raising my head just a fraction, “isn’t magic evil? I bet it eats away at our soul, or something.”

Grandma crouches beside me, “You see that vase?”

The shriveled flowers sit just in front of us. I nod.

A slight crease forms between Grandma’s brows. Her hand on my shoulder tenses, and a sickness floods my veins. The world around us slides off kilter, like melted butter sliding in a hot pan. I squeeze my eyes shut, choking back a sob.

Grandma gives me a slight nudge, “Open your eyes.”

My hands, clenched against the edge of the table, are trembling. If I turn away, I can pretend that none of this is real. That Beatrice is senile.

I see Mom retreating into the shadows. If what Grandma says is true, then she might still come back for me.

I open my eyes, and bright pink peonies greet me. Their petals are soft as buttermilk. They buzz with life.

“Voila.” Grandma says, smiling, “That’s not so bad, is it?”

I stare at the vase, now in full bloom. They’ve alive.

But they smell dead.

“No,” I agree, as dread wells in my stomach. “Not bad at all.”

-

“We don’t need to get started right away.” Grandma says, donning a green trench coat over her pajamas. “I need to go to town to get some groceries anyway. Your mom didn’t exactly give me ample warning.”

“Sorry.” I say, watching her tug on some slippers. She grabs her purse, and is halfway to the door, before she seems to remember something.

“Will you be okay here by yourself?”

The thought of being alone is daunting. I shake my head.

“Hm,” Grandma says, her hand already on the doorknob, “Best hurry up and get dressed, then. I’d like to get there before the tourists.”

If she’s talking about the haunted town me and Mom passed through, I can’t imagine there ever being any sort of crowd. I wonder if that’s Grandma’s attempt at irony. Either way, I leave the kitchen, and return to the library.

The night before, I’d cast my stuff to the side of the mattress, next to the bookshelf. My suitcase had all my clothes in it, so I tugged it towards me. As I’m digging through it, I hear a strange, scurrying noise.

At first, I think it’s coming from inside the walls. Does Grandma have rats in her house? Maybe they’ve made a nest. I startle, as my backpack hops towards me.

Oh no, the rats are inside my backpack.

I dive for it, then pin it to the mattress. If this is how I die, to whatever diseases rats give you, then at least Mom will see how wrong she was to leave me here. I grin manically as I imagine her at my funeral. She’d weep about how she never should’ve have left her there, and I’d haunt her for the rest of eternity!

This gives me the courage to rip my backpack open. Books, papers, and folders spill across the ground. For a moment, all is still, and I take a breath. I live another day.

Then, something shifts, and from the dark depths of the bag, a draconic eye peers out.

Before I can shove away the backpack, or even scream, the monster emerges. It’s green, with an expression of pure rage written across it’s face.

It’s a frog.

“Woah!” I scoop the little guy up and hold him to the light, “Did you follow me here, little bud? You’re looking a little worse for wear.”

The frogs missing one of his eyes, and I can see where my classmates started dissecting him. One of his legs is entirely mush. He let’s out a cranky ribbit.

“Yeah, being half-dead can’t be pleasant.” I agree. “I wonder if Grandma can help me fix you up.”

He seems to perk up at that. (Or, at least, his eye twitched in an affable manner)

“I think I’ll call you François, if you’re cool with that. You seem like a Francois.” Francois croaks. “I’m glad we’re in agreement, then. Want to come grocery shopping with me and Gran?”

“Dear Lord, child, who in Gods name are you talking to?” Grandma yells from the kitchen.

“Not in Gods name,” I say helpfully, “In Frogs’ name!” I raise my new friend high above my head, and run into the living room. Grandma is sitting on the purple chair. “I named him François!”

Grandma doesn’t seem at all shocked by this development. She blinks slowly, just as a frog might, “That’s one tough familiar,” she says, her eyebrows high in the sky, “I was worried you’d have to make a new one from scratch.”

I hold François close to my chest, “What do you mean?”

Grandma scrunches up her face, like she’s eaten a particularly sour lemon. She scratches the back of her head, “Sorry,” she says, “I’ve never had to explain it to someone before. Think of familiars like- like apple trees, and magic is the fruit. But in order to get the fruit you first have to grow the tree, and to that you need to plant the seed, then water the seed, and the water and seed are also your magic, and-“ she furrows her brow, “Now I’m getting myself confused.” She mumbles beneath her breath.

“I think I get it. It’s like I’m making an investment. It requires magic for me to bring François to life, and then keep him alive, so he can help me cast bigger spells later, right?”

Grandma snaps her fingers, “Precisely so!”

“Could you have multiple familiars?”

“Hypothetically, but it would take a strenuous amount of effort.”

“Okay,” I say, then frown, “then, do we make a familiar every time we resurrect something?”

“No, there’s a difference, but we’ll get to that later.” Grandma says. She leans back into her chair, “All this- metaphoring, and explaininging, and teachinging is giving me a headache. Go get dressed so we can go to the store.”

“I will, but,” I glance around the house, hoping to see a cat, or an owl, or something, “do you have any familiars?”

“No.” Grandma says, her voice cold. “I’ve found their not worth the fuss.”

A shiver runs through the room, like a lost breeze.

Maybe there are no familiars, but this house sure is haunted by ghosts.

I run to the library, and finish getting dressed. I wear a pink skirt (with pockets!) and a blue t-shirt, both slightly rumpled. Normally, I’m very careful about folding my laundry, but Mom kept snapping at me to hurry up, so by the end, I was just tossing things in there.

I try to smooth out my t-shirt as Grandma and I walk down the front steps of the porch. This swamp looks different during the day, like it’s combed its hair and filed its fangs. What I thought was the bottom of an eternal abyss now appears to be a lovely corner of the world, lurching with life and filled with learning.

I want to bring François with me, but Grandma encourages me to leave him behind. But, while she isn’t looking, I fold him carefully into my pocket.

We walk through the trees to the gravel path Mom parked last night. Our car is long gone, though the tire tracks have left clear marks. Closer to the side of the house is Grandma’s truck. I’m in awe by how large it is. The wheels alone could be thrice my height.

Grandma sighs, “Alright, hop in.”

I clamber into the car. It takes me all of ten seconds before I’m able to right myself. The leather seat seems to swallow me hole. My head barely comes above the dashboard. I gulp. Mom’s still worried about me riding without a car seat, there’s no way she would’ve been cool with this.

But she’s the one who left me here, I think, clenching my fist around the seatbelt.

Grandma slams the truck door shut, and then we’re off-up the gravel road. As we drive, I try to conflate this idealistic marsh with the nightmare I fell into yesterday. Though the grees and blue blur of the forest paint a beautiful scene, it still seems sinister, like at any moment it might whip off its humble disguise, and reveal the monster beneath.

We leave the swamp behind us, and it’s not long after that the town starts to spring up around the truck. It, too, seems brighter in the daylight.

Almost all the shops and restaurants on the block are closed. There is no one out and about, either. A breeze brushes through the street, tossing leaves and litter across the road. It’s the only sense of movement for miles. This place is a ghost town.

Grandma pulls into a virtually empty parking lot in front of an old-fashioned supermarket. Through the large pane of glass, I finally see a few people inside shopping.

I step out of the truck, (and nearly fall flat on my face- seriously, if this whole witchcraft deal doesn’t kill me, this dumb vehicle will) then try and orientate myself. Grandma is already walking towards the supermarkets door, though, so I grit my teeth and chase after her.

A fancy little bell jingles as we enter the store. Grandma holds the door open for me.

It’s nothing like the grocery store back home, with its squeaky-clean tiled floors and fluorescent lights. This place has the size and feel of a log cabin, with low, wooden shelves and smaller selection.

There’s one counter, which is about my height. Outdated magazines cover the surface of it, and sitting on top of it is a cat!

She has long fur and an imperious expression. She raises her head, and blinks slowly at me, as if to say; what is wrong with this child?

“You can pet her if you’d like. She doesn’t bite.”

I startle, as a man with silver hair steps behind the counter.

He wears half moon spectacles, and an amused smile on his face. If it weren’t for the employee tag stuck to his shirt, I would’ve assumed he’s a wizard of sorts.

I look toward Grandma for permission, then step forward to pet the cat. She purrs.

“Kim, this is Sam, Sam, this is my granddaughter. She’ll be living here for the foreseeable future.”

My heart gives a lurch, at that, but Sam the Wizard only nods and says, “Well then, welcome to Place, Kim! We’re happy to have you here!”

Sam seemed to only speak in exclamation points, and I didn’t think I was up to matching his energy. “Thank you.” I manage to muster. “It’s good to meet you.”

Unfortunately, he seemed to have a terrible infliction known as extraversion. Worse, his bubbly personality was infectious, because now Grandma was smiling and talking, too. I roll my eyes all the way into the back of my skull and try to elevate my consciousness to a higher state of being, just to escape this drab conversation.

“Will she be attending school down here?” Sam asks.

“No,” Grandma says, “I will be homeschooling her.”

I snap to attention, nearly breaking my neck when I whip my head around to face Grandma. “You said what?”

Grandma raises an eyebrow, “Your mom and I already decided.” She says cooly.

“Since when?” I ask, my heart thumping painfully against my ribs.

She places a hand on my shoulder and meets my eye, “Amelia and I had plans in case something happened. She called me yesterday before she fetched you from school.” She looks up at Sam, “It’s always a pleasure seeing you, but Kim and I have some errands to run.”

“Of course!” He says, still smiling like a maniac, “Dear me, I am sorry. I do talk a lot, don’t I?”

Grandma nicks two grocery baskets and places one in my hands, before bustling through the aisles to the back of the store to the refrigeration section, where the milk, eggs, and butter are.

The stocked shelves are only as tall as my shoulders, so we can still see Sam standing at the counter, and the glass door with the bell above it. The whole store is completely visible, so I feel woefully exposed as I struggle not to cry.

Grandmas too busy picking through egg cartons to notice, meticulously examining each one for cracks. Quickly, before she can turn around, I scrub the tears from my eyes, and choke down my sobs.

I had already resigned myself to missing a couple days of school. I even thought it best, waiting for the frog fiasco to wind down. I still held hope that Mom would be back for me in a week, and all would return to normal.

But this whole time, she’d been plotting to send me away. She’s exiled me from my whole life, past and future. I want to be a scientist- what awesome scientist was homeschooled?

I already missed Mx. Archer, and even dumb Gilbert, with his stupid personality. (Though, he was surely telling all his friends about what a wicked witch I was) But above all, I wanted to kick a soup can right into Principle Gerald’s mean old face.

“Alright, here we go,” Grandma says, finally deciding on a carton of eggs. She sets them in her basket and draws out a grocery list from her coat, which she’d thrown on over her pajama’s. “Kim, would you mind fetching some vegetables from over there? We need green beans and carrots.” I make a face, and she adds, “-and some ice cream, if you wish.”

“Will do.” I say. I watch Grandma disappear to the other side of the store, before darting through the aisles to the vegetable section.

They are also kept in refrigeration, but they’re up against the other wall. I tug the door open, and the cold air washes over me.

As I’m digging through a disastrous pile of microwavable vegetables, trying to find the specific ones Grandma asked for, the entrance swings open and the bell rings. High pitched giggling floods the grocery store as three kids around my age shuffle in.

My first instinct is to duck behind the shelves, but I deicide that that would be pathetic. These kids don’t know me, they have no reason to tease me.

The girl in the front of the pack is very sunburnt, despite it not yet being summer. Her hair is as yellow as a highlighter, and it cascades down her shoulder in a frizzy mess, like she’s just tumbled out of a drier. Where her face isn’t beet red, a gazillion freckles dot her skin. She’s grinning so wide; it’s got to hurt her cheeks.

She wears a baggy t-shirt, green shorts, and really nice tennis shoes that I’m only a little jealous of.

She catches me staring, and flashes me the cheesiest smile I’ve ever seen before turning back to her friends. The two of them could almost be brothers, with the same bowel cut and pasty white skin, except one of them is a solid six inches taller than the other.

Suddenly, their chatter falls silent, and the three of them fumble to a halt. The short kid tugs on the sunburnt girls sleeve, and hisses something in her ear. Her laugh is like a thunderclap in the quiet. She says something to him that I can’t quite make out.

Just as quickly as they arrived, both boys vanish back out the store, the girl watching them go with her hands on her hips. She looks back at me and rolls her eyes, like we’re sharing some kind of inside joke.

I try for a smile, thinking, yeah, that’s what normal people do in this situation. Now go do whatever you’re here to do and leave me alone.

To my shock, horror, and utter devastation, the girl makes her way over to me. The refrigerator door slips from my fingers and slams shut, startling me.

The girl doesn’t notice. She stops a couple feet away from me, “Hi!” She says her voice as clear as shattered glass.

“Hello.” I reply, my words muffled in comparison.

“I’ve never seen you around here before. My names Minnie.”

“I’m Kim. And, like the mouse?”

Her whole face sours, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. “No, it’s short for Minerva. But I like Minnie better. Are you new here?”

“Yes.” I say. I glance across the store to my grandma, to signal for some help, but she’s turned away from me.

Minnie cranes her head around to see what I’m looking at. She smirks, and gestures for me to lean closer. She cups her hands around her mouth, and says in a stage whisper, “That scary lady over there is Beatrice. Watch out for her, she’s a witch. All the grownups are super frightened of her because they think she’s responsible for all the missing pets and the disappearance of our mayor. I’m not scared of her though, and you shouldn’t be either. I’m a detective, and I’m going to prove her guilty once and for all.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling quite lightheaded all of a sudden, “that’s lovely.”

“Will you help me?” She asks, “All my wimp-friends refuse to, and I could use an outsiders perspective.”

Maybe I shouldn’t be frightened of my grandma, but I am terrified of this girl. “Sure.” I say.

Minnie beams, “You’re awesome!” She says, “I’ll see you at school, then, and we can start making plans!”

I can’t find my voice before she darts off after her friends, and I’m left feeling as though I’ve been socked in the face.

Grandma spawns behind me with a basket full of groceries. “See, you’re already making friends here,” she says, “and you’ll be back home before you know it.”

“Yep.” I say.

Grandma frowns at my empty basket, then grabs the vegetables from the fridge. “Right, then,” she says, “are we good to go?”

I nod my head.