Witch Water

He heard a slight scuff, then saw that the trunk was up. A stooped, stout-bellied man placed a suitcase inside, then thunked the lid closed and walked back.

The man was Mr. Baxter.

He reentered the hotel through a back door. Did the Cadillac belong to Baxter? And was he going on a vacation of his own? Why park the Caddy way out there? Fanshawe wondered.

He walked around front, then paused to stand a moment, taking closer notice of the old inn’s architectural style, which he guessed would be called some manner of “Georgian,” for England’s King George. The imposing cross-gable made the basic structure seem even more classically timeworn; it gave the sprawling mansion the form of an uncapitalized “t.” The building’s roof segments were steeped at uncommonly high angles. Fanshawe thought himself a modernist when it came to architecture, yet, since he’d come here, he’d grown more and more fond of all this historical archaicism. This used to be a family house, a patriarch’s, he reminded himself; hadn’t Baxter referred to Wraxall as an upstanding resident? Talk about going downhill fast.

He mused over what life must have been like so many years ago. Cutting your own woodslats, digging your own wells, chopping wood every day of your life… Evidently, Jacob Wraxall had been the equivalent of a wealthy country squire; hence, it had been his personal taste behind the mansion’s layout. But…an occultist? Someone who believed he was a warlock? If he believed that, then surely he believed in the Devil. Fanshawe wondered what went on behind these baronial walls when the rest of the town slept unaware.

A large double glass door had been installed, but the rest of the building’s front face couldn’t have appeared more authentic. A pillared portico surrounded the entire house, while narrow lancet windows marked the second story; of the third, Fanshawe noted small circular windows marking the hallway, and wide bow-windows set into the faces of the extending cross-gables. The gable he peered at now would offer a “peeper” a bull’s eye view of the Travelodge and some of the Back Street upper windows. Thank God I didn’t get THAT room…

A stunning, multi-colored dusk bloomed behind him when went back inside. The inn stood cozily quiet, save only for the methodic ticking of an ancient grandfather clock. He sighed happily; the lengthy walk had helped him unwind just as he’d hoped. Now, a meal might be in order. He walked down the silent hall, stopped for a moment, then went on. He knew he’d been about to re-enter the display cove containing the bizarre looking-glass, but…

Why do that? Why remind myself? The idea made about as much sense as an alcoholic looking at ad signs pasted in the window of a liquor store.

But I’m NOT an alcoholic, he asserted. Across from the cove, the sign reminded him: SQUIRE’S PUB; then a quick peek inside showed him that the bar was empty save for—

Abbie…

And there she was.

Fanshawe felt a butterfly in his stomach.

“Hi, Stew!”

He looked to the bar to be confronted by a smile that hit his eyes like a strong, white light. God, she’s beautiful… He tried to seem casual as he approached the modest bar but instead felt hopelessly nervous. “Hi, Abbie. I meant to come in for a drink earlier but the place was packed.”

She was putting up glasses in an overhead rack. “Oh, I know, and that was some crew. The New England Phenomenology Society have their annual conference here every year.”

Fanshawe winced. “The Phenoma—what Society?”

“Phenomenology,” Abbie chuckled.

“What is that?”

“They explained it to me a dozen times but I still don’t know. Some kind of philosophy. They’re mostly professors from Ivy League colleges.”

Fanshawe nodded. “Now that you mention it, they did look like a bunch of professors—”

She made an expression of incredulity. “Yeah, but they drink like a bunch of students. If we had a chandelier in here, those guys would be swinging from it—party animals, I’ll tell ya. I’m not complaining—they tip great—but it’s not easy getting hit on by a couple dozen sixty- year-old eggheads.”

Fanshawe tried to think of something clever to say but stalled when Abbie placed another glass in the overhead rack. Her posture when she’d reached up accentuated her figure and thrust her breasts.

He cringed and pried his gaze away.

“So what did you do today?” she asked.

He pulled up a stool. “Checked out the shops on Main and Back Street, looked around, then went for a long walk.”

She grinned. “Witches Hill?”

“You got it. I couldn’t resist the signs. It was Mrs. Anstruther who recommended the trails.”

“Oh, now there’s a character—” Abbie leaned over and whispered, “Every now and then she comes in here and gets crocked, drinks Boiler Makers, and she’s in her late- eighties! You wouldn’t believe the stories she has.”

“Somehow…I think I would. She practically dared me to go into the wax museum, as if it’d be too much for me.”

“It’s plenty realistic, that’s for sure.” Now she was restocking the reach-in coolers. “The torture chamber can be a little over the top—definitely not for kids. Some of the sets gave me nightmares when I first saw them.”

Fanshawe diddled with a bar napkin. It was difficult diverting himself from her presence. “But you guys really do pump up the witch-motif, huh?”

She paused, a bottle in hand. The label read: WITCH’S MOON LAGER. “Well, sure, we exaggerate it all, for the sake of the tourists.”

“It’s good business. Market-identification.”

“My father thinks it’s silly. Silly drivel, he calls it—”

“But he owns the place, doesn’t he?”

“Yep. My grandfather bought the inn in the fifties, and when he died, my father inherited it. We’ve been running it ever since.”

“But if he thinks the witch theme is silly, why does he push it?”

She splayed her hands. “Because he knows it can make a buck, but he still thinks it’s—and I quote—silly drivel.”

Fanshawe asked automatically, “You don’t?”

Now her pause lengthened. “In a way. But it’s also history, and that’s interesting. These things really happened back then, when our culture was in its infancy.”

What is it about her? Fanshawe was hectored by the thought. He struggled for more to talk about. She turned her back to him for a moment, to arrange strainers and jiggers, then was agitating something in a shaker. Her reflection stood beside herself, while Fanshawe’s eyes had no choice but to fall on her back and buttocks, on the figure beneath the simple blouse and jeans: a figure of perfect curves. His eyes adjusted, to glimpse her face in the reflection as she looked down at the counter. For an indivisible instant, her own eyes flicked up and caught his in the mirror—

He gulped.

She turned. A sound—clink!—and then a shot glass was set before him.

Abbie was grinning. “On the house.”

“Thanks…” Fanshawe squinted. Some dark scarlet liquid filled the glass.

“It’s our drink special,” Abbie announced. “Could you ever guess?” and then she pointed to the specials board which read: TRY OUR WITCH-BLOOD SHOOTER!

Fanshawe chuckled. “I barely drink at all these days but with a name like that how can I resist?” He raised the glass, peered more closely at it, then looked back to Abbie. “Wow, this really does look like blood…”

Abbie laughed and tossed her hair. “It’s just cherry brandy mixed with a little espresso and chocolate syrup.”