The Witch House P L E A S E R E A D F E E D B A C K N E E D E D

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The October heat bore down on us like hungry mosquitoes. Our bikes rolled lazily down the cul-de-sac, tiny beads of sweat glistening on our foreheads. The twilight brushed a gentle watercolor over the houses, casting them in a slightly faded tone. The trees were silent in their secrets, the asphalt sticky to the wheels.

We both knew where we were going, neither of us saying a word. I rolled my bike up the curb, the driveway that had no driveway attached to the other end of it, for the developers hadn’t “developed” it yet. For now it was just lonesome weeds and tall grass, mingled with forgotten orange trees, of which most of the fruit lay moldy on the dirt.

But at the end of the field was a dilapidated house: the kind usually seen in horror movies. The wooden floorboards were broken, leaving way to the ground below. Windows were smashed out, with spider webs crawling their way across the frames. Yet the house was captivating, the reason why Zoe and me were drawn to it.

Looking back I realize part of the awe was that both pairs of parents had forbidden the use of it, saying the homeless could easily live there, especially with the “river” just beyond the fence.

The river was hardly even a river, having been taken prisoner by two slabs of solid concrete on either side, the only sound it made was the burble of liquid trash flowing down from the streets, the life along the river consisting solely of sprigs of grass that had struggled their way through the cracks in the concrete. Shelters of the homeless were hidden in the underbrush to the side of it, makeshift structures of cloth and stolen grocery carts.

I rode down the hill from the non-driveway, pedaling hard through the brush. I finally leaped off the bike, Zoe following suit behind me. We both dropped out bikes, and headed on tiptoes (though neither of us knew why) toward the house.

I jumped up onto the cement porch, gazing into the house. Zoe pulled absentmindedly on some wires, and then dropped them as she realized what she was holding. I glanced down at the foundation of the house.

“Do you think it’ll hold?” I asked.

“I dunno. Maybe.” We stared at the lattice of wood supporting the house, split planks coating them intermittently. I stretched out my foot as far as it could go, testing the wood.

It was fine.

“You go,” Zoe said, breaking the silence. I smirked, and hesitantly stepped on a plank. It creaked. I leaped quickly across, excitement jolting my body forward like a rocket. I came out on the other side, jumping down into the tall grass. But something caught my eye: a gleaming silver pot, the kind you’d get in the pricey section of Williams-Sonoma.

“Whoa…” I muttered.

Zoe creeped across, not taking my get-it-out-of-the-way approach. She stopped when she saw me staring. She gaped, her mouth forming a perfect O. A board creaked, and she leaped across, and we ran back and back and back to the street, adrenaline surging us forward.

Twigs reached out and grabbed our shoes, the impending twilight making me shiver, and not because I was cold. I flopped back on the reeds, suddenly overcome with hysterics. Zoe crumpled next to me, and we collapsed into laughter together, rolling around in the grass, baking in the heat.

~~

In the next month tractors began to roll through to the Witch House (as it was promptly called thereafter), construction workers in orange hard hats and suits beginning to hack away at the loose boards.

Zoe and me sat on the curb, watching the Witch House get destroyed. It was solemn almost, like watching a burial, and a shiver came over me, again not because of the cold. The tractors motors started, and began to rip at the house. The Witch House put up no fight, no struggle, it didn’t even let loose a whimper. They tore it limb from limb, but encountered nothing until a clang echoed through the field. The driver stood, confused, but I got up and ran to the House, Zoe following.

In the middle of the wreckage stood, proudly, a gleaming silver pot.

THE END