La Bruja del Barrio

By Troy Atkinson

Fall 2016 Kaplan Award Winner

I am writing about the last time I spoke of it. At first I did not think of writing as a way of escaping the fact, belief, superstition, that every time I spelled out the story the fable mixed with more fact than before—each time it seemed to get more real.

Follow the Rio Grande as it carries the stories of families on either side. People once shared what is now known as a divide. A source of life is now a source of peril to the ones who can speak and make it so. But for creatures of the night the laws remain unchanged—the owl soars with its wings along the winds and waters of El Rio. It searches for prey one either side with its endless eyes devouring what little light exists, la LechusaLa Bruja. When the river water and winds reach the Golf of Mexico the beast of birds swoops left, landing for the night.

***

I can remember getting out of bed. It’s dark. Whatever I can see is blue from the moonlight coming through the window. I feel the cold empty silence as I walk towards the bedroom door. I am looking for something; I am missing something. I walk down the hallway, waiting for a sound, afraid to make one. I can see the front door; its two rectangular windowpanes are glowing from some light outside. The sound of my breathing stretches down the hollow hallway mixing with the long tick-tocks the clock is sending from the far end. I get to the front door. I open the door. Where is my ball? I remember that I lost my basketball. I hear it bouncing down the cold concrete driveway. Every bounce emits a sound that stretches an eternity, as if inflated to the point of bursting. I follow the dull echo and distinct ringing into the street. The sky is a dark shade of purple and the clouds are thin and grey. The moon is bright, the street, the sidewalk, the trees, and clouds are blue with its light.

“So it bounces across the street, right there, to the house in front, where the hoarder lady lives?” Smiley asks, motioning at the house with one hand. He flicks his lighter and holds a rolled stub to the flame. “No mames.”

Pronounced “Mah-mess,” it’s the Mexican equivalent of saying “get off it,” or “get out of here.” Except, maybe more like “GET the FUCK out of here,” because you wouldn’t say it to your mother. Regardless of who you say it to, it’s subject to inflection and context, here it was used in a manner of disbelief.

“It’s a recurring dream. I had the exact dream a few times since I was a kid.” I said. I watch my neighbor take a long drag from the joint pinched between his fingers. The space between the tips glows bright orange in the dark, like a magic trick. He holds his breath then holds his hand out in my direction.

Now my fingertips creates an orange light—magic. I take my drag.

I have not arrived at the scary part, and I can tell my audience is anxious for the story to take its ugly turn. I exhale.

As I get close to the ball, resting now against the curb, I can see that there is someone standing close to it. She is staring at the house across the street from mine. Her back is to me. She has frayed silver hair. She is wearing black. As I bend down to pick up the ball I hear rustling of trees. I look up and see her head turning all the way around. The inhuman movement above her shoulders is silent, only the tree limbs seem to crack as the leaves clatter in the wind. She screams, and with a mouth wide open, a long pointed tongue falls below her shoulder blades. I follow the tongue to her gaping mouth, up into the pair of deep dark endless pits where her eyes should be. I wake up—frozen.

“ No mames!” Serious this time, Smiley did not believe what he heard. He questioned whether he had told me his story before or not. “Dude, my grandma told me the other day, I pointed out the owl we saw the other night, the one that lives in the tree in hoarder lady’s yard. She told me about witches, and that one used to live there. Then she told me about how the witch died and the ritual that took place in that same house.”

When a bad witch dies, (and according to Smiley’s grandma the lady who used to live across the street was “ una Bruja-negra, una Bruja-mala,”) the coven has to prepare the body for the Satan to come and claim her soul.  When the witch’s hour was up, sometime before I was born, people were seen going about the house. Bringing things in and out, everyone wearing black from head to toe. Once the sun went down no persons left the dwelling.

I could not see the connection, but I could feel it. Two stories that had no bearing in reality now seemed as real as the ground we stood on. I felt the house across the street, bathed in a mysterious blue, watching us, grow closer.

Midnight is when Satan comes to claim the soul of his slaves, according to various grandmother’s in the hood. Around that time, before I was born, the power went out on the whole block. This was back in the day, so it happened often. But the whole neighborhood could hear loud noises—banging and bashing. In the house the coven held still, gripped by the power in their midst. Each cloven hooved step gave the command of a gavel on the wooden floor. His breath rustled their souls. A loud crash jolted the witches when the casket hit the ground, and the lights came on. When the witch’s family in faith found her facedown on the floor and turned her over, the mark of her deeds hung from her mouth. A tongue in a twisted shade of blackish purple with streaks of red hung across her cheek and rested on the floor.

I could not believe what I had just heard. The first time I had this nightmare I was no older than 7. The first time I spoke of my dream out loud, I had it again that same night—I was 10. I had not mentioned it again for 8 years, this time, and upon ending my tale I was met with testimony of a real witch, with details I never shared.

As my mind struggled to rationalize the new details to my horror there was a sound of wind overhead, branches and leaves twisting, and my eyes find la lechusa taking to its perch. The bird’s dark feathers glimmer lunar blue. At first it is not looking at us. Then with a silent sudden motion only above the neck— two infinitely black circles appear, and stand out, darker than the shadows and surrounding night.

***

On a walk far away from my childhood haunt I let my imagination lead me through a wood. Pondering the power of my pen I was unaware of the gust of wind moving through my office window, fouling my desk, leaving behind evidence of some strange state of presence. Staring straight through a clearing I felt a familiar feeling behind but I did not turn around. I know what it was and it will never go away.