Witchgate

revised

Witchgate

A Haunted Place?

     My name is Susan Elizabeth Pattishall. I am a witch. I was born a witch. The fact is obvious to me because the ancestral home in Martel, France, of the Rivoires (the Apollos Rivoires, as in later changed to Apollos Revere, father of statesman Paul Revere), was wiped out of existence by an Airbus base.  The ancestral home's information, when I tried to find it on the Internet, belonged to an antique bookstore of the black arts, which vanished into a strange and complex electronic application in the world of computing. It disappeared. It not only cartographically disappeared; it electronically disappeared, as if into some new and forbidden Java territory for which I needed a password. Granted, my kin was a lady who married a Rivoire, becoming Paul Revere's grandmother, and she was British. So am I, a whole quarter. The other way, well, that was even more notorious, so read on. (Well, it was just obvious because I saw the thing happen and could not find anything more.)

     I started this journal one Sunday morning when, oh well, I realized I was finally a little past my prime. I am not saying I thought I was finally fogy or anything like that. I have been covering my gray for years now and I am a fun girl. I am a modern and svelte type. I have a slender body, black-brown wavy hair, and auburn eyes. In my younger years, I was a little daring perhaps, but being helpful was such a thing with me. I finally over did it. I missed the boat. Well, I couldn't help it if I didn't have the kind of money that would have helped me meet other kids like myself, could I? All I wanted all my life was to have enough money to go to the same places as people I thought were more like me could go, where I would be appreciated and make the kind of friends who would stick by me.

     When it dawned on me what kind of world I was living in that was assailing my eager and earnest journalistic talent, well let me tell you. I was totally appalled. Why should prosperous bankers or rich and politically famous people (Did I say anyone would have to be rich or famous?) have such, as some people would put it, a 'thorn in their sides', over little ol' me?

     This story actually begins some years ago; however, the other day while I was waiting for the bus, I was thinking about how I've never been in so much trouble in my life (not legal trouble, thank the good Lord) since moving back home. It was the fact 'the waiting game' was so awful to me. I'd been waiting for responses to my job applications, waiting for literary agents, and waiting for publishers. At one point, I even thought my money worries were over. However, the more I dissected the problem, the more I found suspicious.

     I admired Rick Saunders from a distance at the café and I was interested in what I saw. I thought this was good and I was happy, although I did not know Rick was engaged to someone. I was shy and I did not attempt to know him, but I was glad because Rick was an American man.

     I had not dated an American man in over ten years. I thought I was a good-looking woman. I was smart and well on my way to becoming an enviable brand of sophisticated many career women only dream about. I was also available to consider my options. The trouble was I had looks, talent, and health, but no money. Therefore, Rick could only be my daydream. I thought about him for diversion and he was my ally, although he did not know me. At least he was in my daydream. My reasoning was a nice girl needed a handsome ally in the rat race of job-hunters and prospecting employers who make up her brief associations.

     Then, the terrorist events began. In Malaysia, a Muslim terrorist group seized an American hostage. This was a new order of things to me, because the Muslims in this case were Filipinos. On a map of the world, stepping stone islands connect the Philippines and Malaysia. In other words, the distance from the Philippines to Malaysia is like a ride across a strait. Besides taking the poor hostage into the jungles near Mindanao, the rebels executed a number of villagers.

     Rick worked in the most expensive shopping complex in town. Situated in the train station, where the going and coming of throngs of people afforded businesses the kind of business that made the Washington, DC business owners rich, the restaurant-café did a more than thriving business. Although I thought it was odd that a Mexican restaurant-café hired only Indonesian employees, I knew that was who needed the work. There really did not seem to be Mexican, Chicano, or people of Spanish descent working there, or, if there were, only a few. If that was beside the point, I anyway loved to visit the Mexican restaurant-café to relax among the Indonesian employees--and to see Rick.

     I needed a job myself. The other side of my life was not rosy. My unemployment was making me fall behind in paying my bills. Because of my mounting credit card debt, I had to live with my mentally-ill mother in an utterly devastating situation. My mother demanded money I simply did not have. Older now than I ever expected, she was too senile to help her daughter, though she was financially secure. She stuck to minding her own business, except when she wanted attention about the endless stream of trivia that seemed to gush from her now that she was in her later years. It did not interest me to the point that it was intolerable. Therefore, I really was depressed about my unsuccessful search for a job. I could not move out without a job. I was tired of fruitless interviews and receiving rejection letters in the mail.

     One day I poured myself a glass of wine, and another and another, and let the cool waters wash over me. I knew only too well using my scrying power to see was a little unsettling to others sometimes. The next day, I remembered all about needing to make a deposit to my checking account. I better get to the bank, I thought, or the bank will be sending me an overdraft notice in a matter of three days. That was that. I got dressed. I berated myself, not sure if I felt well enough to go. I hated the way I felt and made a solemn promise to myself not to drink again soon. A few people in my family had been alcoholics, but everyone had mellowed out very well I reminded myself. I was proud I was not as interested in drinking as they had been. Nevertheless, I was still in danger of temptation with the holiday season coming up. Then I remembered my strange dream of the night before.

     In my dream, I was also looking for a job. I came upon a dilapidated rustic house with a sagging front porch and an entirely wallpapered bedroom. The wallpaper was a printed red design on a white background. The design could have been a colonial scene, perhaps of the countryside and a horse-drawn carriage. Then again, it could have been floral-patterned. I could not remember now. I am not a wallpaper type. I consider myself more modern-artsy, yet I remembered feeling at home in the dream. In the dream, I wondered if the house was haunted. I felt myself eerily walking on air and fell abruptly back to earth. Then I awoke. I didn't know just how ''haunted' it really was, but it was 'haunting'. In a few days, the 'haunted' scenario began to arouse my suspicion with an illustrious appeal. I will never be sure this 'scenery' in my present time is quite the truth. Therefore, it is true as hell the story you are about to read is true and is sometimes fictionalized; i.e. any likeness to the characters in the case of the bombing of the destroyer, the USS Cole, is a coincidence. However, it is a very, very haunting missive. Anyway, with a considerable hangover, I was hurrying to get to the bank.

     Now through my own stern mood swung Oliver's tail. Oliver is a young cat I adopted when he was a kitten. His tail is usually erect, except at the tip where it droops from side to side to match the direction of his characteristic on-going search for mischief. The tip of his silver-gray and black striped tail is all black for the last quarter of it, giving it paintbrush effect. Oliver's enviable markings for an American domesticated housecat just fascinate me. He has the look of a miniature tiger, albeit the silver-gray tones. White fur outlines his bright green eyes and he has all the tabby features of his breed. On his superb head is the accentuating 'eyeliner' on each side. His chin is all white with a black necklace in the middle of a white throat that begins the black stripes down his silver-gray forelegs. Oliver's nose, ears, and eyes are tinged in golden fur. Witches do not always own a stereotype black cat. He arrived in a litter someone gave away one day when I was reading Dracula. I noticed his beautiful features right away and selected him as my pick of the litter. This adorable kitten slept in a compartment of the hutch on my desk until he was full-grown, and was asleep on a chair when I left the house.

     The bank was in East Square, where Rick worked not far away. I decided to drink a relief soda at the café. When I left, I noticed the newspapers were still reporting on the Muslim rebels and the American hostage was alive and well. 

© S Pattishall

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Chapter Two