Marigo Stathis,  The Waving Witch

I am punch-drunk ecstatic, having just completed a tough Zoom meeting and still reeling from too little sleep, too much coffee, and multiple hours of preparation.  A storm’s wrath of papers surrounds me. Warren is giddy in a different way.  It’s Wednesday evening and his billiard team is on a winning streak.  The November air is crisp, as the early evening sky bleeds orange-gold.  As he leaves, I run to the door, kiss him and say, “Have fun and good luck!”

“Okay, but watch out for that witch,” he nonchalantly replies.

“Witch?  What witch?”

“THAT witch,” he says while bending down on the edge of the back porch to pick up one-inch straw textured doll with a green face, black hat, and raised right arm.  

“Wow.  I thought I heard someone shuffling around outside earlier, but couldn’t check.  That’s just weird.  It’s like she’s waving. I don’t like it!  Can you please throw it away, on your way out?”  I ask, shuddering.  He tells me later that he dumped it in a trashcan across the alley.

I recall the day before.  My friend Geri had just arrived to help with a de-weeding project in my garden of both native and peregrine species.  Soon after and out of nowhere, a stranger speedily sauntered up the private sidewalk and climbed our stone stairs to stare through our enclosed porch glass door, while saying (without making eye contact), “Mine is leaking and has mildew.  I want to see if your ceiling is made of beadboard.  I’m your neighbor.”  

“WTF?!”  I thought.  She wore a dark wool coat, hat, and fur-lined boots on a 70-degree day.  No ordinary woman does that.  Only after she was done porch-peering did I discern her name (Sabrina) and where she lived (three houses to the left).  Geri said she liked her.  I had my doubts.  Geri deferred to my assessment, understanding that I was highly observant, even psychic on many occasions. 

Back in the present, in my mind’s eye, I see Sabrina creeping up the side of our home and placing the witch doll under the wooden railing that faced the back door.  Why a waving doll, though?  I google the info but can’t find a hex specific to that gesture.  Maybe, it’s meant to be friendly?  What if Sabrina is testing me?!  Afterall, I have green eyes and our spooky yard décor is still up,  weeks after Halloween—I must be transmitting the wrong signals!

Suddenly, I remember something else, and rush to my messy desk, complete with lotions and potions situated to the left of a dusty keyboard, flanked by mini-cobwebs.  Rose hydrating spray, chocolate perfume, lemon rescue butter, and, YES—the amber bottle of holy anointed oil my uber-religious sister-in-law gave me a few months prior to skipping town, in her quest to join the unvaccinated in South Carolina. Greek Orthodox by baptism, superstitious by choice, I swiftly bring the bottle outside and locate the exact area where Warren picked up the cursed object.  I dab the holy oil on the concrete and repeat the gesture ten times before rubbing the mini pools until they all merge, forming a foot long, five-inch wide area of gooeyness.  Finally, I softly say the Lord’s prayer before Crystal, John, and their foxhounds next door notice. 

After returning inside, I pick up my cell and frantically dial Geri’s number.  I know it will only take three rings before she answers.

“Girl, you are NOT going to believe this!  Remember that weird neighbor yesterday who gave me the heebie-jeebies?  Well earlier, Warren found a creepy mini witch doll on the back porch, hidden right under the railing and in front of my office door!  I just know it was Sabrina who put it there!”

At first hesitant, Geri reluctantly says, “Oh, you know, I found a small witch doll in the soil when I was digging up weeds yesterday and placed it under the back-railing.  I’m so sorry I forgot to tell you.”

She laugh-coughs an apology as I focus on the nearly empty amber bottle still in my greasy, shaking hand.  I rub my eyes while reading the label, “Purely CBD Black Label”.  I then gaze to the left of my keyboard.  The holy anointed oil (in a slightly smaller amber bottle) is there, still intact.  My heart sinks as I realize my expensive mistake in having unsuccessfully purified an already uncorrupted area. 

I rasp, “Geri, I’ll call you back in a spell.”  Reflectionless in a hall mirror, I then pick up a broom and sweep the rest of the night away.