Little Sister Witch

Agnes had on her black witch’s hat again, the same one she wore last year for Halloween. Only this year it seemed less comically huge on her 9-year-old head. She was sitting on Brandon’s chair, costumed in a matching black dress. What looked like a yellowed old dictionary sat open on her lap, drawing her full attention, when her brother entered the living room.

He sighed. “That’s my chair.”

Her eyes remained focused on her book.

“We talked about this,” he said, exasperated. “The recliner faces the TV. I’m the only one here who watches TV. That’s my seat.”

Her body was curled up, catlike, on the chair, her dirty bare feet, pulled up close. For some reason, the girl never wore shoes unless it was compulsory, even outdoors.

Just as he was about to complain again, the girl stood up, not taking her eyes off the old book, and walked over to the couch where she settled into the same position. He took a seat on his recliner and tried to focus his attention on the TV. However, he kept glancing over at the peculiarly dressed girl.

“You know,” he informed her, “Halloween is weeks away, still.” He located the TV remote and started streaming the show he had been following.

Again, Agnes showed no sign that she had heard him, her eyes still focused on the huge tome.

It was then that he noticed the polished wooden wand that sat like a bookmark between the pages of her book.

“Where’d you find that?” he asked, curiously, not sure of which object he wanted explained.

“The attic,” she replied, leaving it at that.

Brandon sighed.

Everyone agreed that his little sister was an odd one. That was nothing new. For example, she had a fascination with insects, keeping a number of them as “pets.” Also, she collected rodent bones in jars, piles of mouse skulls gazing out of the glass with empty eye sockets. He generally avoided her bedroom. However, as bad as she was most days, she became even worse as autumn arrived and the air cooled and the leaves changed color. Something even darker would wake up in her, keeping her up all hours of the night.

That oddness must have been something Agnes got from her father, whoever he had been. Brandon’s own father had left his mother following a mysterious infidelity that occurred less than a year before his sister was born. Being only 5 years old at the time, he had not connected the divorce with his sister’s birth until he was much older. By then, there was not much to do about it. His father had moved away, but Brandon had wanted to stay in the town where his friends were, so he lived here with his half-sister and his mother and his mother’s secrets.

Those secrets included objects in boxes, stored away in the attic. Strange antiques that made no sense to him—old books, liquids in foggy glass jars, incomprehensible metal tools—all of them gathering dust up there, seemingly forgotten. He left those old boxes alone. His sister had a habit of poking in them late at night.

“Well, what are you reading?” he inquired.

“‘Words, words, words,’” she replied.

Brandon sighed again, realizing that Agnes was probably quoting something, most likely Shakespeare. Another part of her oddness was how inexplicably old she seemed, like an antique porcelain doll, having the shape of a child but being something more ancient in truth. She took no interest in anything invented since the lightbulb and recoiled from any device with a screen. Books were her primary obsession, particularly ones about monsters. Frankenstein, Dracula, Cthulhu, Fairy Tales and Ghost Stories were her source of joy. However, it was Shakespeare, “The Bard,” who she admired above all others, her devotion so profound that she had memorized whole speeches from his plays. Usually, when she was being cryptic, Brandon just assumed it was more Shakespeare.

“What’s the book about?” he clarified.

“‘Something wicked,’” his sister replied.

“Right,” he said, turning his attention back to the TV, intending to ignore her oddness for another day or two.

“I’m a witch,” she declared.

“I can see that,” he said, not looking at her. “It’s a nice costume.”

“No,” she said. He could hear a smile in her voice. “It’s not just a costume. It’s who I am.”

“Sure,” he said, not wanting to antagonize her as he tried to watch his show.

“You don’t believe me?” she said, finding amusement in his disbelief.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“It’s true.”

“When did you figure that out? When you were reading your book?” he asked, hoping his voice did not betray any dismissiveness.

“Yes.”

“So,” he said, humoring her. “What kind of witch stuff can you do?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I could try something. How about I cast a spell on us?”

Brandon shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

She picked up her wand in one hand and began flipping through the pages of her book with the other, using a little finger to scan down the words until she found a suitable passage.

“That oughta be fun,” she said, grinning. “Ready?”

“Am I going to be turned into a frog or something?” he joked.

“Nope,” she said. “I just thought you might enjoy Halloween a bit more if you were a kid again. And, you know what, I might enjoy it more if I were a little more grown up. So, let’s swap some years, exchange our ages. Okay?”

He stared at her for several seconds, trying to figure out if she were joking or if she were just being somewhat odder than usual. “Sure,” he said, shrugging. Afterall, what harm was there in indulging her fantasy? It might even dissuade her from believing her Halloween costume represented her identity.

Agnes checked the words in her book, lifted her wand, shut her eyes for a moment, and then pointed the wand at him. The words that flowed from her mouth were wholly foreign to him, unlike any language he had even heard before. It amazed him that a 9-year-old could so fluently pronounce them all. He found it strangely mesmerizing and worrying. When she finished speaking, there was a moment of silence, a sudden chill in the air.

Then… nothing.