She stared at the face in the mirror. Skin pale as a witch, dark hair framing her face and brightening it, dark eyes that smoldered and brewed the potions that would bewitch a man if he came too close. She thought she looked ghostly, frightening. As a little girl, her mother had teased her, called her Hecate--Queen of the Witches. She loved the summer because her skin would burn bright red and then fade to a pleasant brown. In the winter, she rubbed snow on her cheeks to make them rosy and wiped her runny nose more than she had to, just to keep it pink.

Her home was a small New England town, where witches had once been feared, then hanged or crushed with stones. A small museum dedicated to that paranoid time stood across from the public library. It was an ancient house, populated by spiders and their webs, mice and their homes, and a bent over woman with silvery flowing hair and tree roots for hands. The school children always went to the museum for a lesson. When they entered, the decrepit curator eyed them all with a glassy gaze. Her roaming head paused as she stared at the young girl, tallest of the bunch, with white skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. The gnarled finger she pressed to that girl's head was suprisingly soft. But the touch was hot and hard. This one's marked she said with a wizened whisper. Her eyes suddenly flashed with hate and fear. Why she asked herself as she backed away from the woman, into the cherry-paneled wall. Her best friend--Lisa--clasped her hand with sympathy and did not let go until they left the darkness of the musuem for the crisp fall sunlight of the world outside.

The playground with its wooden houses and tire swings welcomed the children that would play with it. Their laughter swelled and graced the streets of that small New England town with goodness. The boys explored their brown castles decorated with orange-red curtains while the girls set their tree-stump tea tables with maple-leaf saucers and acorn cups. Their kettles were whistling when a loud snap broke their laughter. A boy with blond hair was falling from the highest window of the castle he had claimed. His screaming stopped when he did, in mid-air, five feet from the ground. He stayed there, suspended, as if time had stopped for him. The teachers stared and the students whispered. Children's short fingers began to point at the little girl whose hands where splayed out in front of her, locked elbows keeping them at arms length. She blinked and lowered her hands slowly. As she did so, the boy was layed gently onto the ground like a loving parent was putting him to bed. Her knees shook and her head shouted with an unholy pain. She heard them in her head before she heard them through her ears. Did you see? How did she do it? I'll bet she made him fall just so she could catch him. She is a witch. You are a witch said Lisa. As she turned to run home, the students found their voices and shouted after her. Lisa wiped her hand on her corduroy skirt with disgust. I touched a witch.

I am a witch, a witch I am sang the girl in her mind as she stood beside her mother's dressing table. She sang to the other, staring out of the speckled antique mirror, who was alone in a backwards world. I was right about you, Hecate...Queen of the Witches, her mother said as she smartly powdered her nose in a slip and stockings. You will have to go away. Her socialites were more important. Be polite to the man downstairs. He's your only hope. So she descended, stiff in her black dress. Black because the little girl she had been was dead. Good evening, Jean. She could hear him even though she had not entered the small drawing room in which all of the lesser guests were received. As she opened the doors, she felt better. There was a young man before her in a crisp suit with thinning brown hair and a sage smile. He held out a hand to her and she walked to him. He clasped her hands in his and looked her straight in the eye. Will you come with me, beautiful one? I will teach you that you have been given a gift and that you do not need to be afraid of yourself. Not a word had been spoken between them, but she understood. She left her mother's house that night, never to go back.

She turned her gaze away from the mirror and fingered the edges of her dressing table, looking up when the door opened. He smiled as he saw her and wrapped his warm arms around her thin shoulders, making her feel loved. He smelled like burning leaves and grease and after-shave. Love you he said. Love you back she said, watching her own smile distort in the curved red lenses of his glasses. He sat beside her and gazed at the two of them reflected in the mirror. I love to look at us together. It was her turn to smile and wrap her arms around him. He saw her brooding face and asked a question. Why so sad? Sad memories was her reply. Don't remember he said. Just be here and know that you are perfect to me, my darling.

*End.*

Disclaimer: All characters, settings, storylines that are not the product of my own imagination are the property of 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics. I write these stories and run this site to satisfy my obsession and to provide a little pleasure for others. I make no money from this site in any way.

Author's Note: The quotations in this story are from the book of Solomon. At least God doesn't sue.