"The Good Mother"
by Laramie Carlsen


"This," Roger Collins said, extending his hand grandly as his son gawked from the doorway to the study, "is your new mother."

"My ... my what?" David said. His eyes were huge and round, like marbles. He seemed very small at that moment.

Roger sighed in exasperation. "Your MOTHER," he said, and prodded the boy gently. David refused to budge. "Go on, David," Roger growled under his breath, and gave his son a solid shove. David stumbled forward a few steps, then gawked at the creature before him.

She sat on the sofa, one arm flung nonchallantly over the back. He dropped his eyes to the floor, but they were drawn to one green shoe that was tapping against the hardwood floor. They traced the gentle curve of one pale ankle, then travelled up further along her alabaster thigh, which vanished under the hem of a lime green miniskirt.

She was smiling sedately. "Hello, David," she purred, then rose to her feet. "Your father has told me so much about you." Her voice was heavy with sweetness, almost cloyingly saccharine in its intensity. She reached one long, long, long pale arm out and caught his hand between her fingers. It was cold - icy cold, he realized - and the fingernails were long and sharp. As he pulled his hand back, eliciting a scowl from Roger, who's face was nearly a thundercloud by now, David stared at it in wonderment. There were five long scratches up and down, running parallel with his arm.

"Cassandra dear," Roger said, "perhaps it would be better if -"

Cassandra nodded her head; a sheaf of black hair fell across one eye, and she pushed it back with a sigh of irritation. "Yes," Cassandra said, "I think you're right." She smile brightly. "But we'll have all the time in the world to get aquainted, won't we David?"

He continued to stare.

"And we're going to be very good friends, aren't we." It was not a question. David felt a chill suddenly. Though there was a smile ringing her lips, her eyes were hard and blue, like flecks of ice. He nodded slowly, then turned back to his father.

"She's very nice," he said. "When is she leaving?"

"David!" Roger exploded, but Cassandra, who had moved with quick dexterity from her place near the sofa to her husband's side by the doorway, quickly placed both hands on his shoulders and rubbed slowly and seductively.

"Don't worry, darling," Cassandra purred in his ear. "David will come around." One eye fell on her new step-son, who's face fell into the trapped expression of a hunted fox, and winked maliciously. "I'm sure of it."

Not a day later David came to accept the fact that his stepmother was a witch. And not the kind of witch that Aunt Elizabeth and Mrs. Johnson had been talking about earlier in the afternoon either. It wasn't hard for David to picture the new Mrs. Collins, resplendent in a shiny black web of a dress replete with a pointy black hat, astride a broomstick and cackling wildly in the moonlight. He wondered, as he sulked in his room, if she boiled new-born babies for their fat. He'd heard somewhere that witches did that.

It had begun when he'd begun his little game earlier in the afternoon, not an hour after meeting Cassandra (I'll never think of her as "mother", he'd thought darkly, and thought it now; no one can ever be my mother again), when, as Spaceman Spiff, he had followed a intergallactic space cruiser out of drawing room, into the foyer, past the grimacing, gloomy face of the portrait of Cousin Barnabas (an ancestor, everyone assured him time and time again, but he had his doubts) and down through the servants' quarters, then out the back way and around the house, until he stopped dead in his tracks just short of running into the gazebo. He crouched behind a poplar tree, gasping a little, his illusion shattered. This, he realized, was much more fascinating than any make-believe game. He listened closely and tried to quiet his heavy breathing.

There were two people inside the gazebo; he could hear their voices, dim at first but gradually growing stronger as the pair, a man and a woman, walked out into the early May sunshine. "I'm just an ordinary young woman," Cassandra Collins said, and turned around to face the man who, David now realized, was Carolyn's lawyer friend, Tony Peterson. He'd been coming around Collinwood a lot lately, especially in the past two months. No one told him anything, of course, but he'd inferred that he was keeping something special for Miss Hoffman - Dr. Hoffman, he ammended. She's really a doctor. "How could I force you to do anything you don't want to do?" Cassandra continued. David could see both Cassandra and Tony very clearly, and if either of them turned just a few more degrees to the left, they could probably see him. But they didn't. "Look into my eyes ... as deeply as you can." And Mr. Peterson was doing it! David strained forward, trying desperately to listen, but all he could hear was something about a "dream curse", whatever that meant, and that Dr. Hoffman was interfering somehow. Now he was piqued. What kind of a woman puts curses on people? David wondered then, but his mind instantly answered that question. A witch, his mind whispered, that's who.

A moment later David gasped aloud, then clapped two hands over his mouth to quiet the sound. But it was such a surprising sight that his eyes were very nearly bulging out of his head.

Even as he watched, Cassandra had reached forward, grasped the back of Mr. Peterson's head, whispered, "Don't you know what's happening? You're falling in love ... with me." And then - horrors! - she'd kissed him! On the lips! To David, a Collins through and through, it was scandalous, pure and and simple. What would Miss Winters thinks? What would Aunt Elizabeth
think? And, more importantly, what would his father think?

He decided then to find out.

And that decision was the reason that he was now in this mess, and was more aware than ever that his step-mother was a full-fledged witch, a witch who placed curses and took away little boys' ability to communicate, and not just verbally either.

"You don't really love my father," he'd said, choosing each word carefully as he'd stood before her in the Drawing Room.

"Of course I do!" Cassandra gasped, but David could see how her eyes squinted, suspicious, like a hungry cat. They were gleaming dangerously.

"I'm going to tell my father that I saw you kissing Mr. Peterson!" David blurted, then took a step back as Cassandra stepped between him and the doors, and shut them tightly and quickly. They closed with such finality that it made David shudder.

"No you're not, David," she hissed sibilantly.

"Of course I will!" he retorted, drawing back into a corner, but now he wasn't so sure.

"How can you do that," Cassandra said, smiling in a most unpleasant manner, "if you can't speak?"

And that was all it took to cast the spell. In a matter of milli-seconds he had been robbed of his voice. And while a concerned Cassandra looked on, David had tried desperately to write down what had happened so that his father would know - his father must know! But his hand was beset by a fearful tremor, and he was forced to drop the pencil to the floor as his hand shook and jittered.

He sat now in his room, seated on his bed, pouting with his arms crossed over his chest. Boy oh boy, he thought desolately, no one's ever gonna believe me about this.

But fortunately, someone did.

Roger watched with wide and horrified eyes from the safety of his bedroom closet as his wife stood near her dresser. She was utterly beautiful in the ray of moonlight that struck her as it entered through the half-open window in her long, black velvet robe that trailed several inches behind her. But it wasn't her beauty nor her etherealness that wrenched a gasp from her husband.

It was the doll that she held in her hand. "Spirits that watch from the pits of hell," she'd intoned solemnly while stroking the doll's forehead in a clockwise motion, "hear my call. Carry it on the voice of the wind -" And instantly Roger could hear the shriek of the wind outside his window. It had intensified as soon as she'd spoken. " - carry it to the stinking, charred place where you spend a hated eternity. Hear my call and grant me the power I seek." Her eyes, shimmering and luminescent, rose to skyward and sparkled with malice. "Grant me the power to torment the woman who's image I have captured with this figure. Grant me the power to stroke her subconscious, to tweak her will. Grant me the power to intensify the dream curse I have already set in motion." Her brow furrowed with hate. "She thinks she is so strong. She thinks she can resist my power. She must be proven wrong." She raised her arms to the heavens; outside, lightning flashed. Roger caught a whiff of sulphur and grimaced - or was that ... brimstone? "Send her the dream threefold! Transform her nights into an endless tunnel of terror! Send her visions that will turn her hair white!"
Cassandra's voice rose into a chilling glissade, and it was that witch's cackle that convinced Roger exactly what she was as it sent chills down his back and rose great patches of gooseflesh on his arms. "Do my bidding! The dream curse will not be stopped! She must be made to realize that - and she will suffer if she continues to obstruct my will!" Lightning crashed again, and Roger promptly fainted.

"Do you believe in witchcraft?" a weary Roger asked two hours later. Professor Stokes was studying the large purple bump on Roger's forehead and trying to pretend that he wasn't. Roger glowered. "Professor -"

"Oh!" Stokes exclaimed. "So sorry. You were saying?"

"How can one tell if one is in the presence of a witch?"

"Are you in the prescence of a witch?" Stokes asked, cutting to the chase.

"I'm being hypothetical," Roger said.

"Oh," Stokes replied, but he raised one skeptical eyebrow. "If you insist."

Roger, who was staring at his hands as he twiddled his thumbs, said, "Just assuming that one married a witch ... is that grounds for a divorce?"

"You couldn't very well tell that to the judge," Stokes said. "He'd laugh you out of court."

Roger looked him in the eye. "Would you?"

"No," Stokes said placidly. "No, I would not."

"That's what I thought," Roger said, and nodded. "As it now stands, I have a distinct suspicion that my wife is a witch."

Stokes raised his eyebrow a notch higher. "Cassandra?" he exclaimed. "A witch? Good heavens, you can't be serious!"

Roger's face fell. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that," he said sadly, then rose to his feet. "Good evening, Profes -"

Stokes waved his hands impatiently. "Sit down, Mr. Collins," he said. "I didn't say I didn't believe you. I'm curious, that's all." He stroked his chin. "So you married a witch, did you. And why do you think she's a witch?"

"She's cursed Julia Hoffman," Roger sighed, covering his eyes with on trembling hand. "I'm not sure how. She was about to poke a doll with a pin when I -" He took a healthy slug of whisky, then coughed.

Stokes, who was again examining the bump on Roger's forehead, said, "I hope she wasn't aware that you were watching."

"No," Roger said. "No, she was quite unaware."

"Good," Stokes said. "You could be in serious danger if she suspected you were on to her."

"Danger?" Roger exclaimed, alarmed. "What kind of danger?"

"Julia Hoffman came to me the other day with her suspicions that there was a witch in the vicinity. Dr. Hoffman believes that she is the victim of a curse - a dream curse, as you yourself have said. I suspected that the new Mrs. Collins might not be all she seemed, but had no proof, so I said nothing. But you have seen her in the very act of -"

"Yes, yes," Roger said, looking not a little ill.

"She must be dealt with," Stokes said finally.

"But I want to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Cassandra is a witch," Roger said, his lower lip trembling. "I would feel terrible if I sent her to an exorcist or whatever and it turned out she merely had a mental defect. Insanity is curable. Something like this ..." He shuddered.

"There are many ways," Stokes said, "but one of the tried and true methods might be a little difficult to carry out. In fact, you might just have her committed after all. But first," he said, chuckling, "make sure that all her hair pins have been removed."

"This is no time to joke, Professor," Roger said sternly, but he was unable to submerge the eagerness that was plain on his face. "Now tell me - what should I do?"

"Good evening, darling," Cassandra said as Roger stepped into the study and closed the doors behind him, locking them. She raised one eyebrow, but remained silent, curled in the corner of the sofa like a cat. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Has David recovered yet?" he asked icily.

"Why, no," Cassandra exclaimed. "I feel so horrible. What on earth could cause something like that?"

"That, madam," Roger said stiffly, "is exactly what I'm about to find out." He tossed a tiny book at her. She caught it, then dropped it with a small scream as the silver gilt letters on the cover lept out at her. When she looked up again, trembling with a combination of fear and rage, he was holding a gun. "I'd suggest you pick it up, madam. You'll want to turn to page thirty-seven, I believe. I've book marked it for you."

Trembling, her eyes slitted, Cassandra reached out and gingerly picked the book up from the floor, wincing as she held it. Tiny tendrils of smoke rose from its charred pages, black where her fingers had originally touched it. She bowed her head. "I - I can't," she said miserably.

"You will," Roger cried, his voice cracking like a whip, "or God help me I'll send you back to hell right now!"

Cassandra hissed at him, her teeth sharp and bared. "You know!" she cried.

"Of course I know!" he retorted in disgust. "You may be a witch, and a crafty one, but you're not very particular about where you perform whatever hellish acts you witches do."

"You spied on me!" she shrieked. She made to rise from the couch, but he held up a flashing silver object, and she fell backwards, moaning weakly.

"I had hoped this would prove effective," Roger said, lowering the cross. "Professor Stokes said it might. He said I might use it to banish you."

Cassandra laughed, the grating of glass upon glass. "Professor Stokes," she spat, "is a fool."

"And so are you for coming here," Roger said, "to do whatever evil business you have in mind. But I'm going to put a stop to it right now."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes," he said. "Now read."

"Heaven in art who father our," Cassandra began, her face a twitching mass
of hate. "Name thy be hallowed."

Roger felt a surge of triumph. Stokes had been right! "A witch," the Professor had explained in the dry tones he usually reserved for classroom lectures, "is by nature afraid of symbols of goodness - a cross for example. She would be quite unable to recite something as simple as the Lord's Prayer. It is said that, at the Black Mass, members of a witches' coven have recited it backwards so many times that they have forgotten the other way. If your wife is unable to perform, so to speak, then you will have caught her. I will let you decide what to do further, but I warn you that a moment's hesitation may mean the end of you."

He stepped forward, raising the cross high, and felt another stab of joy as his wife's face contorted with a dreadful mixture of terror and hellish rage. "Back to hell with you, my dear," he cried crazily and thrust the cross forward. "Back to where you belong!"

Cassandra raised her hands to the ceiling and cried out, "Let there be darkness!" Every light in the room was instantly extinguished, and Roger felt something huge and formless buffet past him, enveloping him in its icy wake. He shuddered, his hands numbed to the bone; so numb were they that he was unable to feel the cross or the gun as they fell to the floor, thumping harmlessly against the carpet. He cried out miserably.

Cassandra tittered. "My poor foolish Roger," she spat somewhere in the black. She was very near, he realized, but he was utterly frozen, unable to move. "The spell I wove around you wasn't strong enough the first go around." She sighed. "Ah, well. I will be more careful this time." He felt one icy cold finger stroke his cheek. "When you awaken you will like me more, I promise."

He closed his eyes and waited with a beating heart.

Roger watched as Barnabas stepped out the door, his brow furrowed and his cane clenched tightly in his hand. It was more than a week later, and spring had definitly gained a foothold in this corner of Maine. There hadn't been a storm in a week; the sun was shining, birds were chirping with a cheerfulness that could grow to be quite annoying, and the flowers were blooming all over the great estate. Why, only a day ago he and Cassandra had taken a walk on the beach, strolling together hand and hand.

"What a strange man," Cassandra commented. She was beautiful even in the gaudy silk gown dotted here and there with purple butterflies that had arrived for her from Paris a few days before. "Have you known him long?"

"Barnabas has lived at Collinwood for about half a year," Roger remarked absently. "I don't understand his attitude towards you, my dear. He's usually so cordial, so gentlemanly!"

"I can't get over the feeling that he knows more about this ... this Adam than he's willing to admit," Cassandra said.

"I'm in complete agreement with you, my dear," Roger said. "The simple way he was able to make him release David this afternoon was quite unnerving."

"How is David doing?" Cassandra asked, a small, secret smile playing on her lips. It brought back to mind something .... a flash of lightning, the stench of sulphur ....but he shook his head and dismissed it. She was concerned, that's all. David hadn't taken to her immediately, but he had come around. Roger himself had witnessed the joy that had suffused his son's face when Cassandra hd presented him with the pocket knife earlier that morning. They were well on the road to becoming friends, he was certain of it.

"He's recovered," Roger said. "Julia examined his ankle. It was bruised, not really sprained. He'll be up and running around by tomorrow, probably."

She stepped into his arms and layed her dark head against his chest. "I worry about him so," she said, her eyes on his, wide and hypnotic. "Who knows what kind of trouble he could get into on the estate?"

Roger chuckled. "You musn't worry about him, my dear," he said, patting her hand reassuringly. "He's had the run of it for eleven years. If there's something here that could hurt him, we'd have known about it long ago."

"I hope so," Cassandra said. "Nevertheless, I worry."

"I know you do, darling." He pressed his lips to hers, startled momentarily by the . . . malice on her face, the awful hate of the witch ....

... momentary chill he'd felt during the kiss. But it was nothing. He was sure of it. He smiled, and touched her nose. "You're a very good mother," he said tenderly.

She smiled sunnily. "I'm beginning to think so," she said.


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