Turn the Page -Sequel to More Than a Feeling

Chapter 8

Ruthie's legs carried her in the witch's wake, down the sidewalk through town. No one seemed to notice anything strange, including Ruthie. She realized this woman was the witch they were hunting, but she felt no fear. She felt nothing at all.

The witch led her to the edge of town, to an old, square, wooden building. She held her hand out in front of the doorknob, muttered some words, then Ruthie heard a click. The witch opened the door and took Ruthie through a large room and up some stairs to another, even bigger door. She pulled a large iron key from her vest pocket and turned it in the lock. She pushed the door hard, and it slowly creaked open, revealing a corner room with one small window on each exterior wall. The windows were covered with bars. A low stone fireplace stood on the wall to their right. Beside it towered a bookshelf, crammed with old, faded volumes. In the center of the room were a small round table and two rough, wooden chairs. Old muskets and pistols hung on the walls, along with portraits of men in military uniforms.

"The fort is the nearest thing to a castle in town," the witch said. "I make do." She bustled over to the corner and picked up a sack. "Time to get into costume," she said.

Ruthie obeyed, stripping off her sweater and jeans. She pulled on the white blouse with short, puffy sleeves first, then the blue and white checked gingham jumper. Ankle-length blue socks came next. Finally, a pair of sparkly red shoes with bows on top.

"They fit," the witch observed with obvious delight. "I do have an eye for this." She motioned for Ruthie to sit in one of the chairs. "And now, the hair." The witch pulled out Ruthie's ponytail holder, then plucked a hair from her head. She set a small metal bowl on the table, sprinkled a powder into it, and muttered some strange words. She lowered the long, dark hair into the bowl, and reddish-brown sparks burst from it like fireworks. Twirling a finger in circles over the bowl, she carried it to Ruthie and poured its contents over her head.

Hot needles prickled over Ruthie's scalp. Her hair warmed her back and shoulders like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. She looked down, and watched as it lightened and curled, turning chestnut before her eyes.

The witch stood behind her and sectioned off the top half of her hair, from just above her ears, and brushed it up to the top of her head. Ruthie felt the familiar twist of a ponytail holder being secured. A vague curiosity stirred.

"That spell. Is that how you changed the other girls' hair, too?"

The witch's hands froze on Ruthie's head. Then, she came around to face her, with a gratified expression. "You've seen my work? Impressive, isn't it?"

Ruthie nodded.

The witch pulled out a blue ribbon. "My kind have been vilified for generations. But even worse: we've been mocked. In all the stories, we're foiled in the end. Beaten, killed, humiliated." She deftly tied the ribbon into the top of Ruthie's hair. "This project is my own little way of setting things straight. Telling our version for once. I like to think that my sisters will hear of my work here, and be encouraged. Inspired." She stepped around the chair and faced Ruthie again, looking her over with those flinty eyes. "Very good," she said.

Then she drew a small, brown pouch from her vest pocket and walked to the bookshelf. She scaled the shelves as though she weighed no more than a cat. The shelves didn't so much as creak. She tucked the pouch into the back corner of the uppermost shelf, then clambered down to the floor again. Next she retrieved her sack, and pulled out an ornate, carved wooden hourglass filled with red sand.

"I'm using the movie version this time," she explained. "It suits my purposes. Along with a few touches of my own. Leaving your victim imprisoned, but with full control of her faculties?" She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "No real witch would be so foolish." She held the hourglass out over the table, then flipped it and set it down. The red sand ran through the narrow center and spilled into the bottom. "You're beginning to die now," she told Ruthie with a smile. "When the sand is finished, so is your life. Afterwards, I'll come for the 'ruby slippers,' just as my fictional sister planned." She put a hand on her hip and gazed out the window. "No one will ever see them but you and me, but I'll know they were here. I'll know I took them from your body. And won't the dullards at the police station puzzle over them! Or rather, their absence." She turned back to Ruthie. "Of course, I could have skipped them altogether, to the same effect, but I like to take an active role in these pageants of mine. And besides, the symbolism was simply too delicious to pass up."

The witch rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling, and put a hand to her forehead. "Listen to me, giving my villain's monologue. If I'm not careful, the protagonist will arrive and stop me." Her gray eyes glinted and she gave a high-pitched cackle. She gathered Ruthie's clothes and phone and stuffed them in the sack, which she put back into the corner. "I'll fetch these when I return for the shoes." Then she went to the door, iron key in hand. She opened it, then faced Ruthie once more. "Can you feel it yet?" she asked, an eager light in her stony eyes.

Ruthie blinked slowly. Her body felt heavy, and yet as though it were emptying out somehow. As if the life was draining out of her—like sand through an hourglass. She gave a slow nod.

The witch smirked. "Goodbye, my pretty." The heavy door closed; the key scraped in the lock.

Ruthie was alone with the hourglass and its rapidly growing mound of fine red sand.