The Weekly Tot

Scintilla Lucis

I was scared that evening, though, now, I don't know why. Why was I so terrified by something so simple? Maybe it was the fact that the cat meowed. Maybe that was it. That cat, with its fur like moonlight and sparkling cobalt eyes. It was a quiet cat, most of the time, but that day, it meowed. I had been home alone, for about an hour at that time, and with about an hour to go. Normally when it's just me and the cat, I turn on all of the lights and sit in my fluffy lavender chair, fingers flashing across the keyboard. The cat, as cats do, naps. Occasionally it will walk over to me and demand acknowledgement, as if to make sure I remember that I am not alone. That night, however, the cat was entirely preoccupied with the window in my room. It had climbed up on the windowsill to stare outside. Those night-sky blue eyes that sparkled with starlight were fixed on the dim glow of a solitary streetlight. I remembered those eyes specifically, because a minute later those blue irises were swallowed up by inky black pupils, and the cat mewed. I snapped upright immediately, as one might do when they hear their cat meow, especially when it's a cat that never does. The cat jumped off the windowsill and skidded across the plush carpet, darting under my bed. Its hackles were raised, tail puffed up, and eyes black as midnight despite how bright the house was. I rose, albeit reluctantly, and glanced at the window. It was my duty to check what might have spooked the demon under my bed. So as I should, I looked out of the window, and a chill went down my spine. Across from us, a man who was certainly not my neighbor was staring into their window. His back was to us, but I could see that he was tall, and he wore a long black coat that stretched down past his ankles and seemed to dangle just an inch above the sidewalk.

The lady in the house across from us was short and squat and rude to everyone. She would spit on the sidewalk right in front of you, and she had a horrible smile with sharp white teeth. That lady carried a lollipop in her pocket, and when she saw a small child walking by, she pulled it out and slurped it, the lollipop in her pocket, like it was the most delicious treat in the world. Her lips would make little smacking sounds as she puckered them to suck on the smooth, glacéed surface of the lollipop. Once, when I was younger, I had seen her strolling down the lane. I was dirty and beaten down, having gone home after an unsuccessful attempt at riding my bike. Those days, learning how to ride had seemed like the most important thing in the world, and I just couldn’t get it right. I had been the first child to pass by that day, and she pulled out a fresh, wrapped lollipop and smiled at me.

“Come here for a second, will you?” she beckoned, and I came towards her, eyes lingering hopefully on the vibrantly colored wrapper. At that moment, a million thoughts came into my mind. What flavor was the lollipop? Was it really okay to take candy from strangers? She was my neighbor. Would it be poisoned? I looked at the smiling lady and convinced myself that such a sweet-looking person couldn’t possibly be up to something nefarious. Could you blame me? Then she unwrapped it, and my smile faltered for a second. Did she think I couldn’t? She held out the wrapper for me.

“Miss?” I asked hesitantly.

“It’s pretty isn’t it?” she asked, holding up to the sun. Sunlight passed through the translucent wrapper, casting colorful shadows on the sidewalk. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Cerulean, amethyst, mint, and seafoam. Metallic gold and dark, deep crimson, they all shone and spun on the cracked white pavement. The lollipop, free of its bonds, was bright bubblegum pink. I caught a whiff of cinnamon and saltwater taffy, and I glanced back at the smiling woman. She was small and round and wore a flowing floral gown. She seemed like a warm, friendly person, a friend’s mother who’s kinder to you than their own child. To this day, I don’t know where she gets her lollipops, because I’ve never seen anything that looks quite like them. Like magic, like she was some sort of kind traveling spirit who dropped candy in the hands of passing children. I was right. She was a witch, the worst sort. The type who cackles and hands out poisoned apples. For what she did next, I never forgave her. She opened her mouth and revealed those sharp, too-white teeth and she crunched down on the lollipop. Shards of the bright pink confection fell from her mouth as she chewed. Then to my horror, she swallowed it whole, licking her lips, which seemed more like dead roses than cherries now. She pulled out the chewed-up stick, dropped it in the wrapper, and handed the parcel to me.

“What?” I asked. I could barely gasp. What had happened? Then she smiled her sickly sweet smile, and I felt her hot breath on my face as she leaned down. which smelled like a horrible mix of oranges and lemonade, like the air freshener you spray to cover up a bad smell.

“Throw that out for me, please,” she said, and she stood up and walked past me. I stood there, the crumpled wrapper still in my hand as she walked away. From that day onwards, the only thing I ever thought when I saw her was the desperate wish to snap her legs like I snapped that lollipop stick. I would look the other way when I saw the younger children throw rocks at her window, even if I was meant to be watching them. If the other neighbors asked me to sweep up the leaves from the street (I was the oldest child in the neighborhood, and such tasks were always assigned to me.), I would be sure to leave hers untouched. I was never malicious, and never did anything that could get me in trouble… but I certainly wouldn’t bother to help her. So when I saw a man, one who certainly didn’t live in her house, staring through her window, the first thing I did was draw the curtain.

I waited for a minute. Then five. Then I peeked through the curtains and saw that the man was still standing there, still staring through the window. Upstairs, the curtains were drawn, but I could see the silhouette of the lady sitting calmly in her creaky old rocking chair. She was blissfully unaware of the man standing, staring into her window like he could bore holes into it with his eyes. I couldn’t quite see what he looked like, so I leaned in closer. Suddenly, he turned around, and I flinched. They were a distinctively determined-looking person, with high cheekbones and a sharp, defined jawline. There was a fire in their eyes, one that told me that they would accomplish what they had set out to do, or die trying. They walked up to my window, and I froze. I heard the cat dart out of the room. That traitorous cat had left me all alone to deal with the man with fire in his eyes. Though I couldn’t blame them. If I had a chance, if I had a choice, I would run away right then and there. Yet something told me I didn’t. So I stayed. The man rapped on the window, and I heard a polite voice in an odd accent that I couldn’t quite place.

“Excuse me?” the voice said calmly.

“Yes…?” I asked, not quite sure how I was talking to someone through the window. It wasn’t soundproof, but it was certainly solid.

“Does the witch live in that house?” he asked, and I let out a small, almost inaudible gasp in surprise. How did they know that I called that lady a witch? I surely had never said those words aloud beyond a mutter. I might have thought that it was some sort of cruel prank orchestrated by the younger kids… but something about the man with fire in his eyes made me think that he was not there to play petty pranks. “Miss?” he asked again, and I snapped back to reality. Of course, the lady was a witch. She was cruel and petty, the type of everyday evil that you learn to get used to when you grow older. So I nodded, and they smiled. It was a wide, horrible smile with sharp white teeth that gleamed like ivory in the light.

“Wh-what are you going to do?” I stammered bravely. The man with fire in his eyes smiled even wider.

“Isn’t it obvious, miss? Witches must be burnt,” he replied. With that, he turned back towards the lady’s house and resumed staring into her window. I felt a strange, ominous feeling. I considered calling the police. It seemed like the appropriate thing to do when a strange man was staring into your oblivious neighbor’s window. Yet with this strange man, with this neighbor, it seemed entirely wrong to interfere. I felt oddly as if I was being nosy, meddling with something that was none of my concern. So I stayed silent, and I watched. The man with fire in his eyes pressed his forehead against the window and crouched down. In the reflection, I could see his eyebrows furrow, as if he was worried. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a watch as if to check the time. I did the same. It was just past midnight. It was no longer evening, but night. I wasn’t scared anymore either. I felt strangely satisfied. The man seemed happy with the time because he unfurrowed his brow. He stared hard inside, and then he blinked. I heard the lady upstairs scream, scream a long, terrible scream. I suppose she must have seen him. I wouldn’t know, because I closed the curtain. Some might tell me I should have watched, but I couldn’t. It would be wrong to snoop on the man with fire in his eyes. I could tell. By his demeanor, by the cat, by the silence of the night. By how he had spoken with his feet firmly planted on the ground, to me, upstairs behind my bedroom window. By that fire in his eyes.

The report went down as an accidental house fire the next afternoon. They couldn’t be quite sure, since everything within the house had been charred black. My horrified parents asked me over and over if I was alright. They bought clothes the color of burnt things and made plans to see our conveniently cremated neighbor off. Her will, unfortunately, had included a wish to be buried whole. The people in the houses next door whispered about it with a hint of relief in their voices. They genuinely believed that they might have died too, that it was a miracle the fire didn’t spread. I wasn’t in the least surprised that it stopped at the edge of the property. After all, it was set with a blink, in a minute, by a man with fire in his eyes. And if those flickering flames had told me anything, it was that nothing was normal about that night.