The Swamp Witch

By Thom Schilling

Gray and windy, the last ghosts of winter spit sleet from the mid-March sky. Bored senseless, my best friend Paul and I spent the last hour depositing quarters in an industrial-sized dryer in the only laundromat in town. If you wore heavy leather gloves and braced yourself against the barrel, you could spin like the clothes until you were completely dizzy or until you lost your grip and tumbled helplessly inside. It was a cheap form of entertainment and danger did not even cross the thresholds of our brainless sixteen-year-old minds. 

As if pulled by a magnet, I found myself walking the block from the laundry to the nursing home. To this day I still don’t know how or why, but I just walked in the front door of the nursing home and straight to a room on the second floor. Mrs. May was in the bed next to the window. 

I had never seen the frailty of life illustrated so well. The terror of my young dreams – the Swamp Witch – was lying there in bed. Her eyes were closed as she rested quietly in spite of the noises coming from the machines between the bed and the wall. As I stood next to her, she looked up at me, forced a faint smile to her face, and winked. 

Returning the smile I whispered, “How are you feeling?”

Mrs. May could not find the strength to speak, so she nodded ever so slightly. I looked into her eyes and felt a closeness I had never experienced. I knew what she wanted to say. 

In my most soothing voice, I choked-out the words, “That’s okay. I understand. Don’t fret mother. I understand.” Mrs. May was not my mother. “Mother” was a sign of respect. 

She closed her eyes and breathed loudly. After a few moments, she gathered all the strength her frail little body could garner and lifted her knobby index finger. She held it in the air for a moment and then beckoned me. I leaned over until my ear was within inches of her mouth. In a dry raspy voice, she whispered, “A cigar sure would taste good right now.”

She was no winner in the battle for life and death, but as if to defy death she did not beg for her life, or her soul, or for relief from the ever-present pain. She wanted a cigar. It was as if she was thumbing-up her nose at death and celebrating her survival. 

I smiled, put her hand in mine, and gently squeezed it as she slipped back into the pain-free sanctuary of sleep. 

Twenty minutes later I returned to her room with a cigar. Still sleeping, I heard her rhythmic breaths between the beeps. I gently placed it in her hand, looked at her for a few seconds and left. Tears flowed from my eyes as I walked away from the nursing home. To this day, I’m not sure if they were tears of happiness or sadness. 

***

Ten years earlier, the hot and boring summer of 1958 marked my first real adventure. Too big to play in a sandbox and too young to play Little League Baseball, I was at the age when imagination ran wild and reality nudged my daily routine. My main source of entertainment came from my best friend and next-door neighbor, Paul. We spent countless hours at each other’s house, but on this steamy August day, Paul was in the mood for adventure. “Do you wanna go to old-lady May’s swamp and hunt for tadpoles?”

“I’m not sure mom will let me go.” I knew her answer would be a flat, “No!

Paul tilted his head. “Don’t be a baby. She won’t say no if you don’t ask.”

“I could get in trouble.”

“Come on. We’ll be gone an hour tops, that’s all. She won’t even have time to miss you.”

“I suppose so, but I have to be back by 3:00.” My father would call home about that time every day, and my mother would send me to the store to buy groceries for supper. “Where’s old-lady May’s swamp?”

“It’s only a few blocks from here,” taunted Paul. “We can be there in a few minutes.”

I didn’t ask about the swamp or about old-lady May. Everyone knew about her. She was the Swamp Witch; the woman from nightmares, and the scourge of every boy in town. Folklore told of curses and spells she cast on unwary trespassers. Young boys who cursed and swore at her would be struck silent for weeks. Lads who made faces would have their features locked in distorted expressions. Those who showed the least respect were doomed with insanity or cursed with poison ivy on the most unspeakable parts of their bodies.

“Are you sure we’ll be back by 3:00?”

Paul’s tone was too casual. “Yeah, sure.”

That was all the encouragement I needed. We immediately set out on my first quest off the block. As we walked towards the swamp I asked, “Paul, do you believe what they say about old-lady May?”

“Sure do! I saw her once. Old and wrinkled, a hooked nose with a wart on its tip, bent at the waist, and painfully ugly. She almost caught me the last time my brother and I went to the swamp.”

“What do you think she would have done if she caught you?”   

“I don’t aim to find out. As soon as she saw me, she started after me yelling and shaking her cane. You know that cane can turn into a snake. I heard that it slithered into a boy’s room in the middle of the night. It bit him and he went into a coma.”

This was one of those times when I didn’t know if I should believe him. I scoffed, “No, that can’t happen. It was probably just some other snake.”

In a frenzied voice, Paul said, “It really happened! I heard the boy had a snakebite on his arm and they found a cane in his room. I know it was old-lady May’s cane!”

 “No, if that happened the police would have taken her to jail.”

He stood firm. “Well, they didn’t.”

“What happened to the boy?”

Paul looked straight into my eyes. “He died.”

I challenged, “He died from old-lady May’s cane?”

Paul could not hold back his smile. “No silly. He was hit by a car a few weeks later.” 

Even though he was my best friend, I never knew when Paul was telling the truth. One of the things I liked most – and hated most – about him was his ability to make you believe anything, anything at all. Like an adventure movie or great book, he was a storyteller of the highest order. Paul could whisk you away from life and escort you down that path located somewhere between fact and fantasy.

***

After a while, we meandered to May’s Swamp. At the edge of town, our expedition transformed from neat rows of clapboard houses across a wide street, to an acre overgrown with weeds, moss, and trees drooping from the weight of the summer humidity. Here, reality ended and time stood still for over forty years. 

“Paul, I don’t see a swamp. These are just woods.”

“No, it’s a swamp. You can’t see it from the street.” He pointed to the big cypress tree in the middle of the block. “There should be a path over there.” 

Walking to the tree, we snaked our way down a narrow path until we arrived at a small algae-covered pond. Paul dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled the last few yards to the edge of the water. I followed.

The swamp flourished in wildlife: small mammals, snakes, turtles, frogs, and tadpoles called it home. However, within seconds the insects devoured us. After crawling a few feet our heads were covered in spider webs, mosquitoes left large welts on our arms and legs, and gnats hovered near our faces. Occasionally, they flew up our noses, making our eyes water.

After a few agonizing seconds, Paul whispered, “She’s here.”

As I crawled next to him to get a better look, I whispered, “Where?”

He pointed to the house. “On the porch, sitting in her chair.”

I was shocked to see how close she was. The pond was a mere twenty feet across and she sat only a few feet further. 

Wiry, not frail, she was a slight woman who looked a hundred years old. A nest of snow-white hair sat atop her pointed weatherworn face. Her eyes were haunting, deep-set and pale gray – almost white. She had a large bent nose bridging her thin wrinkled lips. Gums absent of teeth clung to an unlit, half-smoked cigar. She wore a stained and dirty pink dress dotted with tiny flowers. Cut just below the knees and two sizes too big, the dress made her emaciated arms and legs look like bones wrapped in wrinkled parchment. As she rocked back and forth in her old rocker, her white socks seemed to flash each time her black slippers lifted her feet off the porch.  

Peeking between the blades of grass, I hugged the ground as we watched her for several minutes. She would rock back and forth, stop, lean forward on her old wooden cane, listen, sniff, and then lean back and start rocking again. She repeated this routine several times. 

Afraid to even breathe, I mustered a faint whisper. “Do you think she can smell us?”

Paul whispered back, “I don’t think so, but she knows something is wrong. Stay real still. We don’t want her to see us.”

I lay there watching until the unimaginable happened. I sneezed.

“Who’s there?” crackled a shrill high-pitched voice.

Paul turned to face me and put his index finger over my lips. I didn’t need the hint. I was petrified. 

“I know somebody is there! Come out before I use my cane on you.” I have since learned she meant to rap us with her cane, but at that age I expected her to turn us into snakes or tadpoles. At the very least, she would use her cane to cast a spell on us.

The witch screeched, “I see you! Come over here before I get mad.”

We were motionless until she jumped out of her chair and started to swing her cane high over her head. Blood-curdling banshee-like screams filled the swamp, and inaudible curses flowed from the witch as soon as Paul shot to his feet and ran. 

Frozen to the ground, I could not move. 

Seeming quite pleased with herself, she laughed when she scared my best friend. Overflowing with fear, I could only watch her gleefully sing and dance on her porch.. 

After a few moments she went into her house. With the witch out of sight, I was freed from my paralysis and started to scoot backward. I had moved only inches when I felt a blunt object poke the middle of my back. As I looked over my shoulder, I saw Mrs. May looking down at me. Without thinking, I bolted up and ran. Not looking ahead, I focused on the witch and ran straight into the mire. By the time I stopped, I was knee-deep in black, smelly, pond muck.

“Don’t move boy,” she sneered.

Sinking fast, I turned my body but only my waist moved. 

Mrs. May inched her way to the edge of the black water and held out her cane. She mumbled some words but the only thing I heard was, “Take it boy.” 

I climbed the cane as she held fast. Once free from the sewage-smelling muck, she led me to her house. As I walked two paces behind her, through sundry weeds, I realized this frightful woman had saved my life. Maybe she was a good witch or maybe she wasn’t even a witch at all.

 Once we arrived at her front porch, she pointed to the step. “Sit here, boy.” She went into the house and dutifully I followed her directions. Although only a few minutes passed, it seemed like she was in the house for hours. From my seat atop the porch, I observed the house. Once a cute white-frame bungalow, it now sat gray and unpainted. Clumps of green moss hung from the roof. The wrap around porch had a dirty white refrigerator near the side door, and heaps of old newspapers and boxes stacked to the ceiling. The gutters, full of leaves, had turned brown and rusted over the years. Finally, my eyes focused on the window and I tried to look inside, but it was frightfully dark. The only things I could see were the shades and sheer curtains – both yellowed from age. I heard the Swamp Witch walking toward the door and dropped to my place on the step.

Mrs. May walked outside with a pink apron in one hand and a glass of lemonade in the other. She handed me the lemonade. “Boy, you’ll get skinned alive if you go home looking and smelling like that. Wrap this apron around you and give me your pants. I can get them cleaned in a few minutes.”

I did as told, and she took my pants, socks, and sneakers in the house. By the time I finished my drink she magically reappeared at my side with clean, odor-free clothes. As I dressed, she sat down, lit the cigar, and began to rock in her creaking chair. 

I thanked her for saving me and helping me get clean. As I walked away, she cackled, “Hurry son. You need to be home by 3:00.”

A chill shot up and down my spine. How did she know I had to be home by three? 

I ran all the way home and arrived at exactly three o’clock. Nobody other than Mrs. May and myself knew what happened that afternoon. Even my best friend was too embarrassed and afraid to ask what happened after he ran away.

Over the next several years, I often saw Mrs. May in my dad’s tavern. Whenever I asked dad about her, all he said was, “She’s a nice but misunderstood old widow lady.” He always treated her with respect, and she always cackled at his jokes. At ninety plus years of age, she would sit on a barstool – before it was permissible for women to sit at the bar, puff a cigar, and chug a pint or two of draft beer. She could pound them down with the best of ‘em.

***

To the best of my knowledge, nobody other than my dad and I ever visited Mrs. May as she lay suffering in the nursing home. Three days after giving her the cigar, she died. Two days later, in similar fashion, only dad and I were at her funeral. Yes, Mr. Smally, the Funeral Director and his assistant Stan were there, but they were paid to be there – it was their job.

“Get a good grip on the handles,” said Mr. Smally. “There are only four of us to do the job of six,” 

“Okay Jim, I can do it.” Even at sixteen, I had been a pallbearer more than thirteen times. James Smally had the only funeral home in our town and he allowed me to call him Jim after my fifth funeral. I had become numb to death. I never cried openly after my second funeral. It is a callous approach to death, but by this time I had experienced the deaths of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and close friends. Death had not been a stranger in my life, and like the other funerals I wore my unemotional and stoic game-face.  

“Alright boys, lift,” said Smally. 

Jim and Stan were positioned near the front corners of the casket; dad and I were at the rear. In spite of Mrs. May’s ninety-one pound frame, the casket was heavy and I thought my hands would slip off the handles. They never did, but as we inched to the grave I felt tears welling-up in the corners of my eyes. The cold wind whipped the freezing drizzle into our faces. It felt like icy needles assaulting my cheeks, but the rain hid the fact tears were streaming. To die alone, to be buried alone, to have no one mourn; it all bothered me. I felt less manly for crying, but I could not contain my sorrow.

Dad said a few words at the gravesite but it wasn’t much. I think he was as choked-up as I was and the freezing pellets of rain made his eyes look red, too.

In the car, after the funeral, there were many questions I wanted to ask my dad, but neither of us could look the other in the eyes. Over the years, I had seen him cry and he had seen me cry, but we never cried at the same time. After today, for the rest of time, we never cried, together. 

When we returned home, I went to my bedroom to get out of my cold wet suit and found an unlit cigar stub resting atop Mrs. May’s cane in the corner of my room. Neither my dad, nor anyone else claimed to have placed the cane and cigar in my room. Even if they had, they would not have known about the cigar at the nursing home. 

At this stage of my life, I find it preferable to believe the Swamp Witch performed one more bit of magic. She taught a starry-eyed boy that mysteries of youth are not always as frightening as they seem. She taught me that the callous indifference of adolescence could be tempered by emotion. And she taught me the unyielding truths of manhood could be softened by the memories of a place and time gone by.

Now she is gone, but certainly not forgotten.

Thom Schilling is a graduate of Hanover College and a Neurodivergent, Competitive Writer who enjoys writing stories about the unusual, the edgy, and all things weird.