The witches in the woods

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Shades of orange and red resembled an inferno, lighting the world outside my window on fire, warming even the coldest of dead trees with long, bony branches that are actually the spirits of evil witches stuck inside the trees. During the summer, they are lush trees with vibrant green leaves. But in the winter, when all of their leaves have been blown off and we see the core of the tree, the evil witches come out and torment souls who could believe in them. At least, that’s what Gran says. She tells tales of witches and fairies and bravery and chivalry, and her words are especially exciting when she’s lying in bed. 

Just yesterday morning, when I came to visit her this morning in her house in the middle of the woods, her house that smells of rose (classic grandmother perfume choice) of dust and of cigarettes, she was on the floor in the middle of the hallway. She didn’t have her walking stick with her, and her reading glasses were broken next to her, her wrinkled skin bleeding from glass from her glasses that cut her. Her cheeks were wet with tears, yet she was smiling. I tried to help her up, but she stopped me. 

“No, no. I like it here. It offers a new perspective.” She’d said. When I asked her why she was on the floor, she answered, 

“I wanted to go for a run in the woods. The trees were so inviting, and I swear the wind whistled my name. I just wanted to hear the crunch of the leaves under my boots again, or the smell of roasted marshmallows. I wanted to see if I could make it to the pumpkin patch. But the witches in the trees, they don't like me. They heard me get out of bed. I’m sure they cast a spell on my bones that made me fall.” 

I walk to her house again this morning, smiling at the leaves being the color of fire. For her, I pay attention to the sound of the inferno of leaves crunching under my boots, I watch out for the accusatory fingers and hands of the witches. I throw leaves into the air, laughing and dancing in the woods until I reach her house. I knock on her door, but no one answers. That’s good; she shouldn’t be up anyways. I pull out my spare key, twisting the doorknob into her home. I don’t go to the end of the hallway to the right just yet; instead, I pull out a perfume I found in mom’s things. I spray the scent of pumpkin spice into the air, smiling. If Gran ever falls again because she wanted to go outside, she can at least close her eyes and picture herself in the woods.

I step inside her room, sitting in an old armchair. 

“Gran!” I exclaim. Annoyance tinges my words, albeit a grin spreads along my lips. Her eyes are closed, her breathing regular. She could be sleeping, but I know better. Her lips are painted a warm orange, her eyes painted a dark green. She has an eye-liner on, probably some that I forgot here last week. Her cheeks have blush on, if not a little too much. Her salt and pepper hair is tied back into a beautiful braid. I don’t say anything, pretending as if I don’t notice anything amiss. Instead, I walk out of her room, though I leave the door open a little, enough for me to still be able to peak in. I step a few times, as if walking away. My eyes don’t leave Gran’s face. From here, she can’t see me, but I can see her. The house is ghostly-quiet for a few seconds, until Gran opens an eye, like an owl at night. I can’t help but chuckle, and her eyes snap shut. 

I leave her house, letting her marvel at how successful she was at applying make-up on without me noticing.

Back at home, I scavenge my room for a weaved basket I’d gotten for my birthday last year. Inside it, I put in a few baby pumpkins, golden leaves, a witch’s costume, candy, a knife, large, easy-to-peel-off stickers, and many fairy lights. I make a few calls, preparing.

The next day, I arrive earlier than I normally do at Gran’s house. I set up at her dining table, carving the pumpkins with the knife. I take out one of her bowls, placing the candy inside. I spread the fairy lights all around the house. I bake pumpkin-spice cupcakes, topped with a frosted leaf, candy apples, and her favorite chocolate-chip cookies.

“Gran?” I place my hand on her shoulder. She groans, some of her make-up from yesterday still on. I grab her cane, which I’ve glued a ball on the top decorated with fairy lights. It looks like a witch’s long wand. I shake her arm lightly again. She doesn’t budge. So, I turn the fairy lights on. The light forces her to open her eyes, which widen. 

“What?” She asks, but I don’t answer her silent question just yet. Instead, I lead her to the bathroom, preparing her. 

The doorbell rings. I turn to Gran, who’s grinning, missing teeth and all.

“They're here!” I exclaim. I look her over one more time. She looks like a real witch- her black dress trails behind her, her deep purple hat looks outstanding on her salt-and-pepper hair. Her face makeup, including fake warts, bring the witchiness out of her. 

“Well come on, open the door already!” She bosses. I laugh and open the door. 

“HAPPY HALLOWEEN!” 5-year-old girls and boys exclaim. All of the kids from the neighborhood are here, though they don’t recognize Gran. I glance at Gran, who is glowing. Her smile was definitely worth it. 

“Well, my children, do come inside. I have many stories to tell you… And yes, I have many treats for you!” Gran croaks, frowning, though her eyes are smiling. 

Children sit on Gran’s lap while munching on candied apples, while she tells stories of the witches in the trees.

“I’m one of the good witches. Out there in the woods, there are witches who live through the trees-” A small little girl, with brown pigtails and a sprinkle of freckles on her nose, interrupts. 

“Well, why don’t wizards just magic the mean witches away?” Gran smiles knowingly.

“The problem is that the mean witches have magic, too. Although, I’ll have you know that good witches like me banished them from walking the earth, long ago.”

“Well, I don’t believe you. I don’t believe in witches.” The same little crosses her arms over her chest. Gran tuts her. 

“Oh but honey, if you don’t believe in witches, you don’t believe in fairies or knights, either.”

“But those don’t exist, there is no proof that they exist.”

“But there is no proof that they don’t exist.” The girl still doesn’t look very convinced. “So what if they don’t exist? Believing is what keeps you young, what keeps your soul young.” 

“But… I want to be big! I want to be able to stay up as late as I want.” The girl glances at her mother, who sighs. 

“Believe me, when you’ll be my age, all you’ll want to do is be young again.” Gran looks wistfully into the air, her eyes glazing over. 

“Who wants more cake?” I ask. Everyone, including Gran, goes, 

“Me! Me first!”