The Ghost of Selene



  Simon trotted the city outskirts in complete darkness, soaked with rainwater. He slipped from shadow to shadow, avoiding lanterns and areas of strong moonlight. Nobody could see him visiting Drolta.

  Her house leaned atop a dirt hill like a swollen on a pug nose. Her fence was about to fall over, with cow skulls, dog skulls, rodent skulls and unrecognizable skulls adorning fence-posts. The gate hung ajar beckoning him in.

  Before taking his first step on her accursed property, he reached up and held the gilded cross at his throat for a moment. Each time he touched it, he felt a direct connection to his dead wife Selene. Sometimes the cross tingled, as if she were trying to say something to him. Other times the cross burned hot with her rage. Standing in front of Drolta’s house, he expected a reaction from Selene, but apparently she had nothing to say just yet.

  Simon said the prayer his mother had taught him: “The light of god surrounds me. The light of god enfolds me. The light of god protects me.”

  Across the yard from Simon, Drolta's front door creaked open, allowing dull orange light to spill out over an impossibly tall woman standing in the door frame covered in a thick fur robe. Her face was gaunt; skin stretched so tightly over cheekbones it looked ready to tear. Malnourished sticks protruded from her sleeves, with just enough flesh clinging to them to be called human.

  “Stalking in the night are we?” came the woman's voice. “It's not kind to snoop.”

  Simon squinted at the woman, making a visor with his hand. “Are you Drolta?”

  The woman took a few steps out from her house and stumbled. When her hand went out to catch the railing, her fur robe came apart, flashing a dehydrated breast. The horrible specimen pointed straight down, with a wide black nipple that looked as if it might drip poison when milked. She quickly recovered from her mishap though and pulled the fur back over her skin.

  “Of course I am Drolta,” she said in an aggravated hurry, “and you are Simon, so now we are acquainted.”

  “How do you know my name? We've never met!”

  Despite his effort, apprehension had cut through in his voice. He noticed other symptoms in Drolta's presence as well such as: fingers turning into icicles, sweat prickling at his hairline, his cross necklace tingling, his legs growing restless. Simon chewed the insides of his cheeks, to keep himself from crying out.

  “How do I know you? Drolta knows every gods-be-damned thing there is to know. She don't have to explain it, but if she tried, you wouldn't understand. So let it be known...that I...know? Yes. That sounds right.”

  “Are you truly a witch then?”

  Drolta's head cocked in reaction, as if invisible hands had grabbed her by the chin and twisted. She slowly repositioned her head, smiled and said, “My, false news travels quickly doesn't it? Hmph. Drolta has been called worse things. She is only a woman; blood and bone, just like your wife used to be.”

  Simon felt a shock run through him. “What?”

  Drolta grabbed a thick handful of silver hair and ruffled it over her shoulders. The strands fell, as limp as silk, reflecting the moonlight as if they were made of mercury. “That's the truth isn't it? Selene is dead as a doornail. Dead as a stump. Dead as a...”

  “Stop that!” Simon yelled. He fingered his cross, squeezing until he the ornate designs pressed their molds into his skin. “You're a dirty fucking witch! You've got no right to talk about Selene like that!”

  “Oh Drolta don't need to talk about Selene, Simon. Drolta can talk to Selene. That is why the spirits dragged you here. You came because you could do no other thing, is that right?

  Simon furrowed, loathe to let her back into civilized conversation with him.

  “Oh come now, words are transient, Drolta didn't mean to offend. Did you something compel you to come here?”

  “Well, I wanted to talk to Selene. I thought you might be able to help me. But if you're going to speak ill of her, we'd better part.”

  “Selene is with us right now Simon. You are interested in my talents but speaking to spirits is a costly endeavor. You need to have the coin in hand first.”

  “I have a little coin, just what I brought with me. Name your price.” Simon felt the cross at his neck tingle.

  “Empty your purse. You're the only tailor in Venslund; with money to spare if I'm not mistaken.”

  “My wife is here with us right now then? Selene, right?”

  “Selene's spirit is here.”

  Reluctantly, Simon reached toward his groin and sorted the three pouches he'd brought: one of many coins, one of few coins, one made of flesh to confuse a thief. He grabbed the lighter pouch and untied the leather lace.

  “Here is what I can pay,” Simon said. By now he was standing five feet from the witch Drolta. During conversation he'd been inching forward at an almost unnoticeable pace. She had the right of it, something drew him in, probably a spell woven by her very fingers.

  “Speaking to spirits costs much. Can you pay more?”

  Simon made a confused face, one he'd used many times when making a sale. “That's...all I have I couldn't spare another cent.”

  Drolta stared without emotion. “You're lying. You have a coin purse hanging beside your scrotum. Give it to me.”