The Good Witch

It was dark. But it would had to be, wouldn’t it, if this was going to work properly? Because all the best ghost stories happened according to the rules: they happened at night, during one of the darkest nights of the whole year, when the moon is big and round and yellow in the sky; they happened in or around haunted areas, like a graveyard or a large, beautiful but rundown mansion let to wilt against the ages; they happened to beautiful young girls such as herself who have also a strange allure to the supernatural; and they happened in pairs, since it really wasn’t safe to be out in Old City Cemetery in the dead of night by yourself. Actually, Annie was pretty sure it was downright illegal. But nevertheless, here she was, peering in past the old black iron fencing as though she expected to see someone or something.

“Can we please just get this over with?” Neal asked behind her, his hands shoved in his hoodie’s pocket and he rocked back and forth on his feet. He looked cold, she thought, and then immediately added, He should have dressed warmer. Worn a different sweater. Yellow really is no color for a séance.

“Neal, we have to scope it out first, make sure it’s us and us alone.”

He glanced around and held his hands out wide then, as if making a point. “Do you see anybody else, Annie? Does it look like there’s anybody else out at this godforsaken time? Not that I don’t love conversing with the dead and all, but did it occur to you that maybe they too need sleep?”

He really was ridiculous. “Neal, don’t be ridiculous,” she said a-matter-of-factly, and then started up the sidewalk to the east gate. “Why would the ghost of a dead witch need sleep? Why would any ghosts need sleep?”

Neal ran a hand haphazardly through his sand colored hair and sighed. “I guess it just seemed like the thing to do at 3 AM. Pardon my gross error in judgment.”

She glanced back at him and grinned. “Come on, you’re gonna like it. I hear she’s a real babe. Really pretty and young.”

“Gee, maybe I can get her number,” he muttered, his hands stuffing themselves back into his front pocket somewhat sulkily. Annie tossed him a look over her shoulder and it prompted him to ask rather conversationally, “Oh, question. Isn’t the witching hour usually at midnight? I feel as though we’re a little late.”

Not for the first time, Annie regretted asking him to come out. She admitted that perhaps he hadn’t been incredibly well informed of what her plans were exactly, but ideally she would have had George out here instead of him anyway. At least George shared her strange enthusiasm for haunted things. But poor George was out of town, back in Sarasota for the weekend for his cousin’s wedding. He was going to miss out on all the fun.

Annie paused just inside the gate and squinted her eyes as she looked around. It really was surprisingly dark, as big and bright as the moon was. Maybe cemeteries just naturally produced more darkness. Maybe there were so many spirits that the air was thick and clouding with energy. Maybe it was—

“See any ghosts yet?” Neal asked, dropping his arm on her shoulder casually, as though she were some kind of conveniently located leaning post for tall guys.

She curled her lips up at him in a pretend growl and then shrugged his arm off. “We haven’t even started yet, you naysayer. Now come on, her grave is over this way.”

They turned left off of the little road almost immediately and gingerly moved around the other graves towards a large, looming obelisk. “Oh, I am very excited. Are you excited?” Annie asked, setting her bag down in front of the stone steps that led up to the towering tombstone. She didn’t wait for him to answer, though, and crept up the steps slowly, peering up at the marker before her. It was huge; she remembered the brochure she collected the other day saying something about funerary art denoting status,iii as well as public esteem. The tombstone – if it could even be called that, considering its size – looked much different at night though. It was imposing in the dark, when in the day it had seemed much more regal. It did set the mood very well, she had to admit.

“Wouldn’t you want something this cool for your tombstone?” She asked Neal, glancing back at him with a grin.

“I’m not really in a hurry to decide size and color yet,” he mused, “But I think the epitaph is the most important thing. It’s gotta be witty, maybe even rude. So I can piss people off in life and death.”

Annie began circling around it, running her hands over the stone. It was cold, but of course it would be. It was February; it was also one of the oldest graveyards in Florida. “How…democratic of you. It’s too bad I can’t remember what’s on here, though, because it’s a great one. Something about dying young.” She moved back around to the front to see if she could piece together some of the epitaph in the dark but found that it was next to impossible without some kind of light. “Yeah, I can read the word ‘dirge’ but that’s about it.”

Neal raised an eyebrow. “Sounds cheerful. Are we going to do this thing or not?”

“Okay okay, hold your horses.” Annie went to her bag and began pulling out its inventory. There was a small, scented candle, a silk scarf to set it on, and a couple small stones that she put on either side of the candle. “You have the lighter?”

He handed it over while asking, “What are those?”

“Runes. This one that looks like a warped bracket means ‘initiation’, and this other little triangle-y thing means ‘gateway’.iv Both will allow us to be fully cooperative with the spirits.” She set the lighter aside after lighting the candle and then leaned forward so that the little light the small flame gave off was dancing along her jaw. “Now, think about her.”

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” he said, sitting down on the other side of the candle. “What is our witch’s name?”

Annie blinked. “Where on earth are my manners? Neal darling, this is Elizabeth Budd Graham, also known as Bessie. You should probably get to know her before you start calling her that, though.”

Neal gave a slight wave to the tombstone. “It’s a pleasure. No, really, it’s all mine.”

“Okay, concentrate,” she said, and took his hands around the candle.

“Does this getup really work?” He asked, amused.

“Shut your mouth.” Annie closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. “Think about her. The young and beautiful witch, who died so early. She was a daughter, a wife, and a mother, and yet illness took her when she had so much still to accomplish. A good woman, a healer,v with a tragic ending.”

Neal rolled his eyes, unbeknownst to Annie, who continued on intrepidly. “We have come before your grave now to entreat you to speak with us, to share with us your wisdom, your ghostly reasons for staying on, your history. We open the door to you, and wait for your arrival.”

They waited.

Annie began to lose faith after a little while. The breeze had picked up a little in the last hour and it was much colder out than it had been before. She could also hear Neal fidgeting and she knew he probably wanted to go. It might be better just to leave, she thought, and wait for George to try again. At least then she would have a more willing participant. She opened her eyes at length and squeezed Neal’s hands. “Let’s end it for the night,” she said, and then blew out the candle.

He made a noise of relief and then shook like a dog. “Ugh, good. It’s frickin’ freezing out here.”

Tallahassee, 1887.

It was being spoken all around town that the new girl was incredibly beautiful. Her hair was dark and somewhat curly, and her gray eyes were wide and almond shaped. There was a certain quality about her mouth, too, that made people really look at her. Her arrival was somewhat odd, seeing as she was alone and without any apparent money or personal artifacts. She came with only the barest of necessities, and with the ring. It was big on her slender fingers, and the amber stone set inside was a stark contrast to her pale skin. It was, as the rumors went, an heirloom that belonged to her father, and the last thing she had of his beyond her own mortal form. She said she’d sold everything else she had to get here, but the ring she would not part with.

John Graham loved her almost immediately. The widower had not expected it so soon after the death of his late wife earlier in the year. She had been a pretty thing, in the flower of her youth, but her pregnancy was a struggle. Neither she nor the child had made it through, and John had taken it hard. He’d wanted that child so badly, wanted the family, the promise of a future. But it was taken from him, and so too had his hopes. The months had gone by and though the sharp edge of grief had somewhat lifted, he still felt the lack and knew that he would probably never recover.

And then she came in October, and she was like a breath of life in the little town of Tallahassee. He heard about her arrival first, heard that the new girl was fresh and beautiful and was the kind of youth that the town really needed. She would brighten things up around here. John could have never guessed how true this would be, and how quickly this melancholy period of his life was coming to a close.

They were married just over a month later. “November 24,” he said to her, “will forever be the happiest moment of my life.” Elizabeth always smiled and kissed his hands. Sometimes, during those first few months, she would tearfully thank him for all that he did, for taking such good care of her. She was to him the picture of graciousness and humility. She was often quiet but then again, Elizabeth rarely needed words to express her thoughts. Her eyes were so full of life and emotion that John always felt that he could live within them forever and never be unhappy again. He knew that he would do anything for her, would even die for her. Life had become wonderful, better than ever before, and he could not have been more thankful for anything.

But while things seemed to be going uphill for the Grahams, things around Tallahassee seemed to be taking a turn for the worse. Strange things had been happening lately, and occurring so often that the folks in town could no longer attest it all to mere coincidence. Slowly but surely the animals were getting sick. Some were physically sick, losing weight and hair and value, and some turned mad, as though struggling against some invisible force. The night suddenly seemed darker than before, and the townspeople began to look over their shoulders. The fire at the church happened just before the New Year, quick and terrible and deadly to one of its keepers. There was a rumor also that the Indians were circling closer to the town again, and that perhaps even one of the dirty savages had started the flames. But nothing was as shocking to the community as the disappearance of two of its youngest. Two little girls had mysteriously vanished; one disappeared in late February, and the second in May.

People began to talk about timing. Things had been going well enough for them before Elizabeth Budd Graham had arrived. The livestock were healthy, and the Indians were few and far between. The children remained safe in their beds, and things did not go bump at night. There were still some who did not believe that these occurrences had anything to do with the young woman, but she still remained a mystery to them all. Once married, the Grahams had retreated from society somewhat. John had never been a terribly cheerful person but he was at least a kind and generous one and easy company. And there was his wealth on top of that – was he hoarding it? Did his new wife have something to do with it?

Fear is the greatest tool in the hands of the greedy. Some became jealous of the Grahams, and became irrational in their jealousy. They began calling Elizabeth a witch behind her back. The nickname Bessie that had once been pronounced with such affection was now being spat out with condescension. They said that she had used a spell to make John fall out of his misery and so quickly in love with her.viii It was not natural that a man so affected by his former wife’s untimely death could suddenly and so easily change. It was not natural.

They began to eye Gallows Hill with a kind of thirst. It had been a while since they’d hung a witch – or anybody, for that matter – and it was clear to them that all these evils befalling them were because of evils within Tallahassee itself. They need to be cleansed; they needed to rid themselves of the stain of sin. Elizabeth Graham became their scapegoat. This minority of people began to call her a witch publicly, and asserted the need for a trial. Most of the other townsmen did not believe that Mrs. Graham was a witch, nor was the possibility of a hanging ever a real possibility at all. Mr. Graham, though reclusive of late, was much too important a man to ostracize in such a way. Bessie was as good as safe.

Safe. That being a relative term, John began to see that there were some things that his money could not do to save her. After giving birth to a healthy son, Elizabeth never seemed to fully recover. She grew even paler, and there were days when she was so weak that she couldn’t even leave the bed. He brought in all the best doctors he could get his hands on but none of them seemed to know what exactly was wrong. His public persona began to fall back into that perpetual frown, the unending state of sadness. The lines around his eyes grew deeper and more numerous and he spent most of his days at her side, reading to her, talking with her, sometimes just watching her sleep.

She died on November 16, 1989, not full years into her marriage. Her son, remarkably, lived on. He became the center of John’s life afterwards, and the father cherished his son dearly for all that he represented. Mr. Graham did not remarry afterwards.

Tallahassee, 2006.

Annie found herself visiting the grave again that later that weekend. This time she went alone, and during the day. She wrapped a scarf around her neck, slung her camera over her shoulder, and sallied forth. She was surprised to find that she was not the only one making a morning visit to The Tallahassee Witch. There was an older woman present as well, kneeling in front of the steps, her head bent in meditation. Annie felt a little weird about disturbing her, but just as she approached the woman looked up and smiled at her. “Hello, dear,” she murmured. She sounded much older than she looked. Her hair was mostly gray and surprisingly thick, though there were dark streaks of color throughout it. She had a kind face, though, and a smile that made Annie want to smile.

“Good morning,” Annie replied. “I’m not interrupting you, am I? I can leave if you’d like some privacy.”

“Oh no, child, you’re all right.” The older woman sat back and eyed her with hidden amusement, as though she could see through Annie, see what she’d done, what she’d hoped to find. Annie thought that maybe it wasn’t such a strange idea – people being drawn to cemeteries, being drawn to certain stories – maybe there was a common thread there somewhere. “I see you’ve brought your camera?”

Annie looked at it as though she’d forgotten she’d had it. “Oh-Oh yes, I did. I was interested by the local legend,” she waved towards the tombstone, “and I thought I’d capture a little piece of it for myself.”

The older woman smiled. Her smile seemed ageless, and so friendly, that Annie automatically smiled back. She felt a little younger herself. “It is an interesting story, isn’t it?” The old woman mused.

“Yes, very. But she was so young, too. It’s a little sad.” Annie found herself looking towards the epitaph, rereading the last few lines.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sad for her,” said the other. “There’s a lot of love on this tombstone. She was taken care of in life and in death.”

The urge gripped her suddenly and Annie took an unconscious step forward. “Would you… do you think I could take a picture of you here?” She asked, blushing a little. She couldn’t say way she wanted to, except maybe to capture something. There was a magic here now, a kind of youthful energy that certainly hadn’t been there when she’d come at night with Neal. She thought maybe if she took a picture of this wonderful old lady, she could hold onto a little of the magic for a while.

“I would be delighted, my dear,” the old woman said, and stood slowly, bracing herself on stone for support. “Is this all right?”

“It’s wonderful,” Annie grinned and stepped back a little, setting the picture up. “Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”

After the flash, the old woman clasped her hands together and looked out over the cemetery and smiled. “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome here,” she murmured. “You have a very lovely day, my dear.”

Annie watched her walk away, feeling much lighter than before, and wondered if she might ever run into her again. Maybe she would visit another morning and find her kneeling again. The thought made her smile and she looked down at the picture on the camera. What she saw – or rather didn’t see – shocked her, and she looked back up quickly. There was no trace of the old woman in the cemetery or the picture itself.

Annie leaned against the stone wall surrounding Bessie’s monument, and wondered. She looked at her camera again, and at the place where the woman should have been, and then smiled. It was, she supposed, the only thing she could do.

Ah! Broken is the golden bowl
The spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll! A saintly soul
Floats on the Stygian River;
Come let the burial rite be read
The funeral song be sung;
An anthem for the queenliest dead
That ever died so young.
A dirge for her the doubly dead
In that she died so young.

The End.

This was done for a seminar I had back in undergraduate. It's a little rough. But the story of Bessie, the impressively large tombstone, and the epitaph are all one-hundred percent true - the first, at least, in as much as folklore about witches can be. I'd started doing a re-write of this, hoping to incorporate some of the original ideas I'd had for it but had been unable to pursue, due to time, but as of right now that's more or less on hiatus. I get too many ideas, basically.