Bewitched

"One becomes a witch to have a life of one's own, not an existence doled out by others."

-Sylvia Warner, "Lolly Willowes"

***

Samantha knelt in the petunia bed with trowel in hand and consoled herself that there was only so much a witch could do.

What lay in front of her looked less like a pleasing suburban garden and more like an experiment in letting wildflowers fend for themselves in a slow-growing Darwinian conflict, with more than half dead or dying and the others seemingly shellshocked, their stems tilted at bizarre angles, as if assuming defensive postures.

No matter what she tried, it always turned out this way. In the spring it had been violas, and in the summer lilies, and they had all been no better. She just didn't have a green thumb, or, it seemed, any other green parts.

Of course, if she'd really wanted to, Samantha could whip these flowers into shape in no time. She could have prize-winning petunias or violas or anything else she wanted, and nobody would be the wiser how it happened. All it would mean was going back on a promise, and maybe one or two tiny little wedding vows...

It was a warm day, and she tied a kerchief around her head to keep the sun off while she scolded herself. Gardening wasn't really that hard: "The most satisfying of suburban activities is the one that brings fragrance and beauty to the home." That's what the women's magazines said.

But it wasn't just the gardening, although everyone did say gardening was important for being a homemaker, along with cooking, cleaning, mending, shopping, budgeting, laundry (and Darrin's dry cleaning, which was separate), daily errands, and... childrearing, of course, when the time came for that.

ALL of it was important for homemaking. Along with bedroom matters, of course, although those got less attention in the magazines than Samantha might have liked.

All of the parts were the important parts, it seemed. But also at the same time none of them were, because after all, Darrin had the really important job as the breadwinner. Baking any bread he won would be up to her, but evidently that was a technicality.

This was very different from the way Samantha had grown up. But she'd promised she wouldn't do things that way anymore, for Darrin's sake--both the sake of his happiness and the sake of his sanity.

The surviving petunias nodded in the breeze as she brushed the dirt off her hands, and she couldn't help but interpret it as a mocking agreement. "Nobody asked you anyway," she told them, brandishing her shears.

When she stood up, all of her neighbors' yards became visible again. Each and every one had beds of flowers in full bloom. Since every house looked identical, the gardens were the only way to tell most of them apart. Samantha's stood out for its paucity.

She told herself it wasn't fair. Most of the wives on this street had lived here for years, but she'd only just moved in, so naturally their yards all looked better than hers. That being the case, she thought for a moment that it might be a fair handicap to put some sort of hex on the late-season blooms. Not all of them. Just maybe the hydrangeas, which really seemed to be asking for it with their provoking little pink blossoms.

But no, that wouldn't be neighborly.

Something tickled Samantha's arm. A tiny green grass snake had emerged from one of the bushes, and, as she watched, it coiled around her wrist and slid all the way up to her shoulder. Putting its small emerald head next to Samantha's ear, the snake whispered: "There's an easier way to do this, you know."

Samantha sighed, but caught herself before doing it too loudly. "I know, Mother," she said. "But I promised no more witchcraft. Not after last time."

Snakes don't have a lot of vocal range, so the smugness she imagined she heard in her mother's voice might have just been in Samantha's head. "I know all about what What's-His-Name thinks about witchcraft," the snake said. "But just what kind of a witch are you going to be without it?"

"No kind, that's the point," Samantha said, putting all of her gardening supplies back in the basket. "And I told you not to call him that: He has a name."

"Dirwood."

"Darrin."

"To think that I raised you myself just so you could go letting some man--some Darrin-try to change you." Snakes also can't sigh, so the best Mother managed was a pointedly desultory hiss. "I'm a failure," she added.

"That's not true."

"Of course it's not, I've never failed at anything in my life. I raised you on the craft, taught you everything I know, and primed you to be the witch amongst witches, and what are you doing instead? Gardening."

Almost reflexively, Samantha brushed the snake off her shoulder. As it fell, it turned into a fat red spider, caught itself on a bit of web, then crawled right back up to her other shoulder. "I'm doing the best I can," Samantha said.

As soon as Darrin and Samantha moved in, Mother had taken to dropping by unannounced. Ordinarily that would be fine, but Samantha warned her that the neighbors couldn't be seeing her appearing and disappearing at all hours. Had she realized Mother's solution would be to show up in the form of whatever she felt was appropriately inconspicuous--a snake, a toad, a black cat--she might not have said anything. It was unsettling never being quite sure when she was around. Sometimes she appeared as nothing at all, just a voice and a vague sense of judgment.

The spider whispered, "I notice the flowers on THAT side of the house seem to be doing much better than the others."

It was true: There was one bed--the one that most directly faced the street--where the petunias were tall, fine, and vibrant. Samantha bit the tip of her finger. "Well... I might have buried a dead man's hand in that bed, under the quarter moon. Just to give it a little extra zip."

"I'm guessing Derrick--"

"Darrin."

"Doesn't know about that little trick?"

Samantha sighed. "I just didn't want to look like a failure the first time at bat. But that really was the last time. In this house we're doing everything else the natural way."

The spider vanished, and when nothing appeared in its place she thought maybe Mother had gone. But then the front door opened on its own, and she heard Mother's voice say, "Well, come in. The longer you're out there the more people are going to see you, just gardening."

Samantha dropped her apron in the laundry (oh, almost full again) and went to the kitchen, partly because she needed to get ready for the afternoon luncheon with the ladies down the way and partly to run some hot water over her sore fingers. All of this housework was hard on the hands. Sewing, kneading, digging: It all added up.

"You seem to have an awful lot of space here," Mother's voice said over the sound of the running water. She was referring to the kitchen, where only half of the cabinets were full. But it went for most of the rest of the house as well: It was a Model Home that Darrin had gotten a good deal on, and they'd moved in the things from his bachelor pad.

But Darrin said it wasn't right for a woman to keep her furniture from single life and that she deserved a whole new household set to go with their new home. Unfortunately, they couldn't quite afford the down payment on an entire set for another two months--or was it going to be the month after that?--so for now the living room and the dining room looked a little like a very tall man wearing a very short man's suit.

Samantha didn't feel like telling all that to her mother, so instead she said, "We're living light for a while. That's the big fad for young newlyweds these days: Life without attachments."

"According to whom?"

"McCall's, Good Housekeeping, and Ladies' Home Journal," Samantha said. She was busy trying to turn the culled petunias into a halfway respectable centerpiece for her luncheon, figuring maybe their deficiencies would be a little less glaring if she didn't expect them to do difficult things like stand up and continue living.

"I don't know who any of those people are, but I'll curse them to the Eighth Circle of Hell if they keep butting into your business," said Mother. "I don't abide by butting in."

"Of course not."

"But I was newlywed once too."

"Of course you were, but that was different: Daddy was an Archduke of Hell, and Darrin works in advertising. They're two different worlds. Mostly."

"The difference was your father would never have forced me to do all of this--THIS. When we walked to the altar together and swore until someone else's death do us part, he knew exactly what kind of witch he was marrying, and he never asked me to change."

"That's because he couldn't, you bound his tongue with a choking hex."

"That's a woman's prerogative. The point is, this man-creature can't expect to get his way about everything."

Closing one eye, Samantha appraised her centerpiece. It looked a little like a cross between a spring wreath and a particularly avant-garde salad. "Darrin doesn't expect his own way," she said. "We just mutually agree to do everything his way. I mean, not everything! Just this one thing. Just--"

"Your entire identity?"

"Being a witch is not my identity. Oh shoot, I didn't pick up any pineapple, how am I supposed to make eggnog pie now?"

She peered all the way to the back of the refrigerator (it needed cleaning): The leftover bundt cake would have to do. It was looking a little rough around the edges... but the ladies won't touch any sweets anyway. They just expected to be offered--there'd be talk around the neighborhood if they thought she didn't have anything.

Samantha laid out the finger sandwiches, the fruit spread, the lemonade, and the cake (such as it was). Everything had to look good, but of course if things looked TOO good then that would also cause a stir, as none of the ladies liked to think that someone else was putting on airs.

Neighborhood politics were the way that wives kept each other honest. That's what the experts said, anyway. The experts were all men, so Samantha had some follow-up questions about how they would know, but that was for another time. "How does it look?"

"I've seen cheerier meals at funerals."

"You love funerals."

"One must get culture wherever one can. Honestly, are you happy like this?"

"Absolutely," Samantha said, before Mother's voice was even finished asking the question. "Married life has its ups and downs, but that's all part of being young newlyweds in America. These are the little challenges that are going to bring us closer together and create inalienable bonds that will last the rest of our marriage.

"The important thing is that I love Darrin. If that means giving up a few weekend sabbats and spending a couple of nights darning instead, don't you believe that if I'm doing this that it must be worth it? For me at least?"

Here came a long quiet spell, and Samantha couldn't tell if Mother had gone or was just holding her breath. Finally her voice returned and said:

"All right. But the moment you change your mind--and you will--I want to be the first person you call. Not to say I told you so, because I never say I told you so. But just so I can get the peace of mind a mother craves above all else. And that's my very last word."

Before she could say more, the doorbell rang. Samantha smoothed her clothes. "Thank you. Now you've got to keep quiet and out of sight if you're going to hang around, I can't have you scaring the neighbors."

"I'll be quiet as a ghost."

"MUCH quieter than that."

There was a sound like wind in the eaves of an old house, suggesting that Mother had departed but had not gone very far. That was fine; Samantha knew her mother thought she couldn't take care of herself without witchcraft, but she would just see how wrong she was. Samantha had made a sacred promise to the man she loved, and she intended to keep it.

Of course, there HAD been a few slips here and there since the honeymoon-a few stray bits of witching that she'd indulged in almost reflexively, or when she was almost at her wit's end. But nobody can be expected to change all at once.

The last slip had admittedly been a pretty big one. So big that she was still cleaning up from it, with a boar's skull covered in candle wax concealed in the laundry room, and scorch marks on the basement floor that she worried might never come out.

Other kinds of cleanup had been necessary too: Darrin didn't remember what happened because she'd covered up those memories for him, the poor dear, but now he was having nightmares, which was only to be expected. There were some things that the mind of a junior advertising executive simply wasn't built for; things in the corners of the universe that, though routine for a born-and-bred witch, were not part of the on-the-job training at McMann & Tate.

And when you called those things up in your own home, with all of their eldritch terribleness... well, generally speaking you didn't do that, at least not in the company you wanted to see come out the other side of it with mind, body, and soul intact. If only Darrin hadn't come home early and caught her in the act.

But she was sworn off that business for good now. They were an ordinary family... an ordinary family with an invisible mother-in-law, and half the carcass of a ritually slaughtered ram buried in the new compost heap out back. Ordinariness is a sliding scale, Samantha reasoned.

Before it could ring again, she answered the doorbell and let the other ladies in.

***

Ladies lunch didn't go as planned.

First, Samantha committed the sin of forgetting to change out of her gardening outfit. She only had a bit of dirt on the knees and cuffs of her pants, but as soon as June Foster and Shirley Clyde arrived and cast their eyes downward she knew she'd made a mistake.

June and Shirley had lived on Morningstar Circle for 12 years, longer than any of the other neighborhood ladies, and had appointed themselves the welcome committee. There was, Samantha seemed to remember, a third woman who was supposed to be with them, her own next door neighbor on the left side, but June and Shirley said that she--what was her name again? Phyllis?--had come down with something unexpectedly, so it was just the three of them.

Both women came with children in tow, rambunctious sandy-headed things that interpreted the empty space in the house as an opportunity, and despite the perfunctory call of "No roughhousing!" they were off like shots as soon as the front door opened. Samantha supposed they couldn't do much harm. A third child from somewhere tagged along with them, but nobody was quite sure where he'd come from.

The ladies retired to the kitchen, where at least Samantha's spread seemed to satisfy them. And the initial conversation went well, as they wanted to settle a fine point about a coffee cake recipe: Samantha had never made a coffee cake in her life (although she certainly would now that she saw how high the stakes were for such things), but she had read about them in McCall's last week.

"The important thing is three teaspoons of vanilla," she was saying. "That goes in last."

"Three? That's not too much?" said June.

"Not at all," Samantha said, topping off her own lemonade. "The third teaspoon is what makes the whole cake. I swear by it."

Samantha had never sworn by anything except Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods With a Thousand Young, and then only when she had absolutely no other choice. But everyone seemed to accept this pronouncement, and they were even eating her fruit platter, which was a first. The way they'd avoided the fruit during every other luncheon, Samantha would have thought this entire neighborhood would be stricken with scurvy by now.

But just when it seemed like she was keeping up sufficiently that they might overlook the sin of her gardening stains, the conversation turned to the Reverend Billy Graham, a person Samantha had heard of once or twice on the evening news. She thought maybe he was some sort of late-night talk host like Steve Allen, based on images she'd seen of him onstage and addressing big crowds of smiling people.

But Shirley kept using the word "crusade," so maybe he was some sort of general? Samantha drank her lemonade so fast that the ice cubes nearly choked her.

"I've been saying for years that what this town really needs is a good revival," Shirley continued. "I remember the big tents they brought out when I was a girl. Nothing puts you on the straight and narrow faster."

"Amen to that," said June.

"You couldn't be more right," Samantha said. That was her go-to phrase whenever the conversation got away from her. Usually it worked, but in this case both ladies turned unusually self-satisfied looks her way and she sensed that she'd stumbled into a trap.

"It's interesting to hear you say that," June said. "We've noticed that you and your husband never seem to show up to church on Sunday."

A penny finally dropped. "Oh! Church, yes. Well we'd love to be there, of course, but actually I'm allergic."

Both other women blinked, almost in unison. Shirley recovered first: "Allergic... to the church?"

Samantha crammed an entire miniature sandwich into her mouth at once. "Yes. It's the strangest thing. Ever since I was a child, I couldn't bear the smell of..." What did they have in churches? She wracked her brain. Hosannas, was that a real thing?

"Benzoin?" Shirley ventured.

"Exactly! If I get even one whiff, I break out in hives." This was close to the truth: If Samantha came within 100 yards of a church something would certainly break, although she had a suspicion it wouldn't be her.

"I don't think I've ever heard of such a... specific allergy," June said. Her expression was enough to make Samantha wonder if she'd forgotten to sweeten the lemonade.

"It runs in the family."

It looked as if June were about to say something else when all of a sudden from upstairs there came a bang and a thump and a crashing noise, and then the telltale sound of pint-sized feet scrambling over each other. Oh thank Hell, Samantha thought.

"ROBERT!" shouted June.

"Darrin!" shouted Shirley.

"OLLY-OLLY-OXEN FREE!" shouted Samantha. She couldn't think of what else to say. All in a tumult, two boys tumbled down the stairs, landed in a heap, kicked and pulled at each other in a vain attempt to be the first one on his feet, and before either could even conceive of catching his breath they ran straight out the front door, leaving it open.

"Robert!" said June again, lurching to her feet in confused pursuit of her son.

"Darrin!" said Shirley, following just behind. She managed to pause at the door just long enough to hastily thank Samantha, and then just like that they were gone as well. The women, like their sons, neglected to close the door on their way out.

Samantha shut the door and locked it, only to suddenly be struck with a thought: Hadn't there been THREE boys earlier? Only two had left. Upstairs, she found a single child-sized shoe sitting on a step. Of the rest of the neighborhood urchin there was no sign. Samantha felt herself grow a little pallid. Mother had been upstairs when those boys came up...

He'll turn up sooner or later, she told herself. Most likely. In the meantime she stowed the stray shoe in the kitchen trash, making sure to stuff it all the way to the bottom. Darrin would never take out the trash and see it anyway of course, but better safe than sorry.

Cleaning up from lunch, she wondered if she should have saved any for Mother... but from the looks of things, she might have eaten already.

***

As the lunching ladies fled the Stephens' house, there was a flutter of movement next door as curtains fell back into place.

Gladys always kept the curtains drawn on this side of the house these days, opening them only to sneak a peek anytime there was racket next door. In her mind, if whatever was happening over there couldn't see into their house, then it couldn't get in either...

Now she held her breath, waiting and listening to see if there was anything more. When nothing happened she let out a sigh, but it was a wheezing sound without any relief to it. She hadn't felt relieved since that new couple moved in. The moment she'd set eyes on them, she knew something was wrong.

No, that wasn't true. The problem wasn't "them," it was just her: the wife, that blond. She was what was wrong in this neighborhood. Gladys couldn't put her finger on it, but she knew it was true. It was like having an itch you just couldn't scratch.

From the living room came a different sort of sigh, an exhausted, exasperated noise, and then the sound of a newspaper snapping into place, like a folding screen sealing Abner off from the world, knowing perfectly well what she was going to say and wanting to head it off. Rather than let it get to her, Gladys folded her arms, turned toward the living room, and said as firmly as she could:

"Abner... there's something strange going on in that house."

"There's something strange going on in THIS house, and I'm listening to it."

"But you're not listening to me!"

"If only that were true." Abner snapped another page of his newspaper. Gladys sat at the counter and fretted.

"That woman's up to something," she said.

"Gladys, she's a nice woman who minds her own business. You should try it sometime."

"What if she's got some, I don't know, strange disease-and we could catch it! You don't want to wake up with something strange?"

"I've been doing that for 30 years. Why stop now?"

Gladys chewed her thumbnail. That wasn't it, of course: That woman next door wasn't sick: She WAS the disease, and Gladys was going to figure out how to cure it.

"Gladys, help me with the crossword: What's a five-letter word for the ultimate happiness, peace, and tranquility?... oh right: death."

Even if Abner was no help.

***

Darrin was working through lunchtime. It was Friday, so it would have been easy to cut out early and join a couple of the other junior men down at the club.

But for some reason Darrin felt a certain anxiety when he thought about going to the club with the boys these days. It was the lighting down there. He'd developed a clinging fear of dark corners that he didn't quite understand. He kept the shades open all the way nowadays, and every light and lamp in his office on. Anything to keep a perimeter of shadows from forming...

Looking around, there was nothing visibly out of the ordinary in his office: same desk, same hatrack, same ink blotter, same chairs with the stuffing coming out of the bottom (he'd been promised newer ones somewhere down the line, probably when a man even more junior than he was came along to take this office and they shuffled him into a different one down the line). Same as it had ever been.

But what if there was something there that he couldn't see? Some kind of... of... he didn't even know the word for what it might be. But something? Something that could scuttle or slither or drag its way along...

He tugged on the cord of the blinds, making sure they were as fully open as possible. The fear had been with him for weeks, ever since that day he'd come home early and found Samantha down in the basement doing--but no, he couldn't think about that. Every time he thought he had the memory in his grasp it would disappear, like water in a sieve. And once it was gone, the fear went with it... until the next time.

In any case, he was working through lunch, taking the time to review the Barker account again. Barker took up twice as much time as any other client, but Tate wouldn't hear a word against him. Actually, since Tate had been deaf in one ear since the war, there were a lot of words he wouldn't hear.

Darrin was aware that his office door was open and that someone--a woman--was standing there, but he had assumed it was his secretary. Only when he finally looked up and did a double-take that nearly knocked him over did he see who it really was: a leggy, modish brunette, smiling at him like a cat who has a prize canary firmly secured in its mouth and is just waiting to swallow. Her name was in his mouth before he knew what hit him:

"Sheila!"

"Darling!" she said, bursting in with the force of a windstorm. "I just got back from Nassau yesterday. I left a message with your secretary, and when I didn't hear from you I decided to invade your office. Why didn't you call me?"

Without waiting for an answer she sat on the corner of his desk, crossed her legs, and leaned over to run her hands over his shoulders. Darrin pushed his chair back until it ran--SMACK--into the wall, very nearly bouncing his skull off the windowpane.

"Well, Sheila... uh... you see... I just got back from... actually I... well... say, that's some tan you've got." Ordinarily Sheila had the natural pallor of someone who spent all of her time beneath the shelter of stylish hats.

She preened for a second, then said, "Thank you, sweetheart. But why didn't you--?"

"I'm married!"

Darrin almost shouted the words, hoping they'd keep her at bay like a chair in the hands of a lion tamer. Then he waited for Sheila's precise eyebrows to narrow, for her face to grow stormy, and for her mouth to form into a thin line as she projected her rage.

Instead she just kept smiling. "I know, dearest," she said. "Congratulations."

Darrin felt like a drunk man trying to defuse a bomb. "You're not... that is, you don't care?"

"Of course I care," Sheila said, taking her long lace gloves off and flinging them over her shoulder. "After all, if I hadn't left for Nassau when I did it might have been me you called when the marriage bug suddenly bit. But no hard feelings, you old sneak, I couldn't be happier for you. I'm sure she's an angel."

"She's a witch." Darrin said it without meaning to, then actually shut his fingers in a desk drawer to keep from saying more.

"Trouble in paradise already? You're hardly the first. I'm sure you two just need some time to smooth things over. It must have all happened awfully fast?"

"I guess it did." Darrin had met Samantha only a few days after Sheila left. He had not known she was in Nassau, had actually not been told that she was leaving at all, despite the fact that they had been... well there was not a word for exactly what they'd been doing. (Not a polite word anyway...)

But in any case they had been doing it for a while, and although the M-word had never really come up with them, it would not have been out of hand if it had. Darrin had felt pretty sore that she left without even mentioning it to him, and then when Samantha came along that was the last he'd thought about Sheila or any other woman until this very moment. The last six months had been a whirlwind, and the wind that blew through everything was Sam, and hardly anything else could stand up to those gales.

Hazily, he realized that Sheila was still talking: "It must be a FASCINATING story: swinging bachelor one day and then family man before you know it. I'm dying to hear, which is why I came by to invite you--both of you--to a little gettogether at my place this weekend."

Pausing, Darrin probed for the trap. "That's very nice, but it might be too soon to spring a whole new set of people on her. "

"Too soon? Don't be silly, we're your friends. Unless YOU'D be uncomfortable?"

"No, no, no, not at all."

"Lovely then. I'll leave all the details with your girl. Are you planning on defenestrating yourself?"

Realizing he was still backed against the window, Darrin stood up and smoothed his tie. Sheila caught the end of it and tugged. She still had that smile, and he had trouble looking away from her big eyes. "Sheila?"

"Yes, darling?"

"You could have just called with the invitation. You didn't have to come all the way down here."

"But it's been so long, and I just wanted to see how the newlywed was getting on." Slowly, deliberately, her hand ran from his tie down the front of his dress shirt, glanced against his belt buckle, and then...

"Yulp."

"What was that?"

"I saaaaaid 'yep,' as in 'Yep, getting along fine, nothing we need here.'"

"If you're sure..."

"My door is open."

"We could close it."

He took her hand away. She pouted, but only for a moment. "You'll still come to my party?"

"I--"

"Wonderful! I can't wait to meet--what did you say her name was?"

"I didn't." Names have power. Samantha had told him that, but he didn't really remember why, or what it meant.

Rolling her eyes playfully, Sheila said, "Keep your secrets. But I'll know everything sooner or later: I've got the magic touch."

***

Samantha was dreaming, but she wasn't actually asleep. When a witch ge​​ts insomnia the dreams don't wait, and instead they crowd into her still-waking brain. A waking dream is never as good, but try telling them that.

In this one, Samantha was aware of a howling wind that blew in every direction at once, and she was right in the middle of it. But it didn't bother her. In fact, she barely felt it at all. In the dream, she was at peace in spite of it all.

But now instead of the wind she heard a voice, an awful, oily voice that she recognized immediately: Rex Barker! Barker was a client of Darrin's, the head muckety-muck of some company that made 25 percent of all of the something or other in the country or the world, she couldn't remember. She'd met him a week ago at an impromptu dinner party she'd ended up throwing for Barker and the Tates.

It's not that she'd minded having to entertain on short notice, but there was something about Barker himself that rubbed her the wrong way. Maybe it was the thin little mustache that made him look like that movie actor, Vincent Price, or maybe it was the smug way he thanked her for everything, as if he were letting her in on some kind of joke that she didn't understand the punchline to.

After dinner they all had drinks, and when she went to the kitchen to refresh Mrs. Tate's brandy, Barker had followed her. Darrin didn't seem to notice. And that's when Barker started with the lines: "Listen, don't you ever slow down? We haven't had a chance to talk."

"We've been talking all evening, Mr. Barker," Samantha said.

"Sure, but not just you and me. Why don't we take a little stroll and get to know each other?"

"Why don't I freshen your drink?"

"I don't drink anymore," Barker said, smiling. "I don't drink any less, but I don't drink any more. Do you see what I mean?" He leaned in too close.

"Mr. Barker, my husband is a very jealous man," Samantha said, trying to back away.

"Well I don't blame him..."

"If you don't get control of yourself... I'll have to do something drastic."

"Do you promise?" Barker said. The alcohol on his breath could have fueled a convoy.

Samantha had come VERY close to losing control at that moment. Before Darrin, any man that tried to pull that kind of funny business with her would have ended up blasted to Purgatory. She'd had the words to wipe him right off the face of the Earth on the tip of her tongue...

But she hadn't done it. A promise was a promise, after all. She had no idea how normal wives dealt with a problem like this. None of the magazines said anything about it. Other women DID have solutions for these sorts of problems, didn't they?

Mrs. Tate had saved her by calling after her brandy, giving Samantha the opportunity to slip back out of the kitchen. But next time she saw Barker (there would be a next time, she was sure) she might not be so lucky. And he might not be either.

"You can count on it," she said.

"What's that?" Darrin said, rolling over. Samantha bit her lip.

"What's what?" she said, rolling too, so that they met in the middle of the bed.

"Thought you said something," Darrin replied, stifling a yawn.

"You must have been dreaming."

"Life feels like a dream when I'm awake and with you."

"Careful, Mr. Stephens: What's a girl going to do when you keep saying things like that and she's already married you?"

"I can think of a thing or two, Mrs. Stephens," Darrin said, resting his hand on her thigh.

Smiling, Samantha slunk up on top of him and leaned in, kissing him so fiercely it drove him back against the pillows. He kissed her back and reached up to cup her face in his hands. She bit the tips of his fingers playfully, and he pretended to be hurt. Then she kissed them one by one and climbed up onto him more, pinioning his body between her thighs as she swiftly tugged his pajama top open and off. After the honeymoon Darrin had stopped bothering to ever button his pajamas; it was just a formula for losing them in the haste to get them undone again.

She let his hands wander from her lips down the slender lines of her neck and shoulders, easily overcoming the bare resistance offered by her nightgown. She'd told him when they first met that he didn't have the hands of an executive: His hands belonged to a sculptor who used them to shape the outlines of some masterpiece. She'd wanted to feel those hands the moment she laid eyes on them.

Now Darrin's hands traced her figure and she felt herself go weak in the knees before diving down onto him again with a series of harder and more intense kisses. Samantha wriggled out of her gown before Darrin's enthusiasm could damage it and shuddered from the cold air and the open window.

She ran her hands over his chest as she kissed him, tickling his tongue with the tip of hers. He tried to put his hands on her again but she slapped them down and told him to say please instead. When he tried again she squirmed so much she nearly rolled off the bed. He caught her and pulled her back as she shrieked and laughed and leaned over to kiss her hip and then her thigh and then the spot below her navel. The tip of his tongue was hot and a little bit rough.

"Now what were those things you said a girl should do in my position?" she murmured again.

"What position are we talking about again?"

"Whichever one comes to mind..." She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him down, dragging her other hand over his bare back. Darrin's kisses weren't like anyone else's she'd ever known, and she practically mewled as he pressed her down again. Then he buried his face into the side of her neck, kissing the spot where her neck and shoulder met, and when his teeth grazed her skin, little butterflies jumped up inside her stomach.

He cupped her breasts with both hands, rolling her erect nipples against his palms and squeezing, and she started to shake. "And you wonder why I tried to get away," she said.

"Ah ah," he said. "You made your vows and there's no backing out now."

"What was that vow again? To have and to... hold?"

She reached and grabbed him down there, and he sucked his breath in so sharply that Samantha imagined all the air going out of the room. Then she sat up on all fours, biting her lip as Darrin's hands were on her again, running along the orbit of her hips and exploring the inviting expanse of her behind

The bedsprings creaked and she felt him moving into position behind her. She gripped the headboard with both hands, unable to stop a small "Oh!" when Darrin's hardness pressed up against her. She counted silently to herself: One, two, three, four, and then...

"Ah!" She covered her mouth with both hands. Darrin squeezed her cheeks together as he eased inside of her, and she rolled her eyes in ecstasy. She heard Darrin grunt and felt him slide more in, the tip first, then the rest one inch at a time. Her muscles clenched, and then relaxed, clenched and then relaxed. She couldn't hold a second exclamation as he thrust in deeper.

Sex was different for a witch than for anyone else, in a way that Samantha couldn't turn off or ignore. She could promise Darrin she'd never do witchcraft again, and she could tell herself that she really meant it, but there were certain things about herself that were not a matter of doing but a matter of being, and this was one of them.

She had not explained this to him, of course. She couldn't explain it, really. But even if she'd tried, it wouldn't have done any good for him to know that for as much as he might enjoy sex with his wife and to know that she enjoyed it too, every time they were together there was something more going on that he'd never be a part of.

Darrin also had no idea that she had a lot more experience than she'd let on when they met. Samantha didn't need a magazine to tell her it was probably a bad idea to let your husband know you'd lost your virginity to the Marquis de Sade, and especially not to mention that it had happened nearly 150 years after he died.

Now, as Darrin gripped her shoulders and started rocking back and forth behind her in a short, easy motion and her breath caught as she felt him slide up fully inside of her at least, sending little vibrations up the base of her spine, she reached down deep inside and opened herself up to the strange and forbidden places a witch's spirit comingles with when this kind of passion stirs inside her.

He pulled on her hair and thrust up into her again, and Samantha moaned as the vibrations became waves that stimulated seemingly every part of her body. Before long he was grunting with exertion and she was slippery with sweat. Even with the window open the room quickly filled with the muggy scent of sex. He reached down and around her now to cup and fondle her breasts as they jiggled underneath her, and when he pinched her swollen nipples she shuddered through and through.

"Yes..." she said, reaching down between her legs, fingers rubbing herself furiously as Darrin nudged her closer and closer to the brink. As this went on she felt like she might collapse but instead she willed herself to remain where she was. Samantha's body was on fire from one end to the other, and when he rubbed her with two fingers all the harder she whispered, "Oh, oh, oh..." But of course, she could not say, "Oh god."

He was behind and inside her in a tight circulation motion, his hips bouncing off of her cheeks each time. "Oh Darrin," she said, gasping and barely able to speak, "I'm going to-I'm going to-!"

And then she did. She squeezed her eyes shut again and watched a cascade of fireworks behind her eyelids as her head went spinning. Darrin increased his pace a little to catch up with her, and she had come down off of her finish only to feel his a minute or two later, pumping a hot stream into her.

They fell over into bed again together, and she curled up next to him, nuzzling the underside of his chin. "Mmm," was all she could say.

"So much for a good night's sleep," Darrin said.

"Worth it?"

"And more."

Before long, Darrin was fast asleep again. Samantha spent a long time watching him. The room was pitch black, but she could still see. He'd been having bad dreams again lately, she knew. He'd been having them ever since the mishap in the basement. Their lovemaking had chased them away for now, but it wouldn't last forever, she knew.

As quietly as she could, she rose, put on a robe, and crept downstairs. Sex was different for a witch than for anyone else, and when it was powerful, like it was with Darrin, it allowed her to do things she might not have been able to otherwise. Tonight she'd need that kind of help.

Since Darrin had interrupted the ritual in the basement she hadn't been able to really finish it, and as a result a few stray odds and ends were still lying around under the house waiting to be taken care of. Including, unfortunately, something that Samantha had called up that night.

She'd MEANT to send it right back, of course. But an interruption was just about the worst thing that could happen during that kind of witchcraft. Well, not THE worst thing, THE worst thing involved having your skeleton and your epidermis suddenly switch places. But that had only ever happened to anyone once as far as she knew, and at least it had been over fast.

Anyway, she hadn't had time to properly send the damned Thing back to the realm it came from, so it was still down there, and sometimes during the day she could hear its monstrous breathing even though it tried to disguise itself as furnace sounds. This was her best opportunity to take care of it.

She sighed. When did life get so complicated? But then she reminded herself that actually life was very simple: She was an ordinary housewife, and they had an ordinary household on an ordinary street. And now she was about to ordinarily banish a sixth-dimensional intruder. Let's see the ladies at McCall's do THAT, she thought.

Seizing the basement door, she yanked it open. A long, slow, shuddering breath floated up from the black depths below, and with it the sound of something moving around on too many legs.

"Ready or not," Samantha told it, "here I come."

***

Everything would have been fine if it hadn't been for the dinner party. Or if not fine, at least nobody would have gotten hurt.

It had been a bad day already. Samantha hadn't been able to solve the Basement Problem, even after spending all night at it. The Thing down there was obstinate. She knew one thing that would get rid of it, of course... but no, it couldn't come to that.

Even after she gave up and tried to go back to bed she still didn't get any sleep because Mother insisted on coming to the window disguised as a whippoorwill and offering unsolicited advice about the basement, and it was nearly an hour before she could get free.

Then of course she'd overslept ("A wife should always be up before her husband so that the first thing she sees in the morning is her smiling face, a cup of coffee, and the morning paper"), and after Darrin had gone out one of those pushy salesmen rang the bell (she was sure he must have been waiting) and Samantha had come this close to hitting him with a strangler's hex. Only the knowledge that Mother might still be around and would no doubt feel smug if she saw it stopped her.

And then of course there was the neighbor woman. What was her name? Gilda, something like that? When Samantha left to run afternoon errands, she discovered whatever-her-name-was standing stark in the middle of the walkway, as if she'd frozen there on the way to the front door.

No, that wasn't it: The neighbor woman hadn't actually been facing the door. She'd been craning her head, as if she had come up the walk to get a better look at something. Was she looking at-the basement window?

When she noticed Samantha, she jumped out of her skin and made some harebrained excuse for why she'd come over. If she'd squirmed any harder she'd have fallen right out of her daycoat. The encounter troubled Samantha; she had the feeling that if she'd been less tired, or if there'd been less to worry about, she might have put her finger on something about it that was escaping her attention now.

But all of that she could have tolerated if not for the party. Samantha had a bad feeling as soon as they'd walked up to the house. Darrin had said this would be a relaxed potluck dinner-"Sitting on the floor, that kind of stuff"--but a butler in a full tuxedo answered their knock, and Samantha saw right away she was underdressed next to everyone else there.

Sheila kissed her on both cheeks and declared, "Darrin, is this your little bride? She's... sweet. Come in and meet everyone."

Before she could say anything in reply, Sheila grabbed Samantha's arm and pulled her away from Darrin with a degree of force usually reserved for hauling a drowning man to shore. They were soon enclosed by a perimeter of bodies and designer clothes.

"I told Darrin he couldn't get away with keeping you a secret much longer," Sheila was saying. "You've got to get to know absolutely everybody. For example, Evelyn here can introduce you to a good dressmaker... if you need one."

Samantha blinked. "I don't-"

"And Pierre does wonders with hard-to-manage hair. Don't you, Pierre?"

"I-"

"You're a friend of Sheila's?" one of the men said.

"Not exactly."

"Wonderful girl, isn't she?" the man said. "Nothing she can't do. You know she owns her own plane. Do you fly?"

"Yes.... I mean, no!"

"Oh Evan! If you don't stop him he'll be singing my praises ALL night."

"I'll stop him."

"Dr. Hafter here is a surgeon. He does beautiful nosework. Have you met already? Oh! But what a silly question. Anyway, you must tell me how you and Darrin met. He and I got acquainted in Paris during my school days. We met through our mutual friend, the contessa. You must know her. No? Well it's for the best, she's nothing but scandal now. But Gregor at least is still in good standing with everyone-you know Gregor? He's in town this week to show his new paintings. I used to pose in the nude for him, but you know how men are about that kind of thing. Or... do you?"

Samantha had a headache. Actually, a headache was to the feeling Samantha had as a nail file was to a chainsaw. Darrin was stranded on the opposite side of the room (which seemed bigger than their entire house and to hold more people than their entire neighborhood-so much for the casual potluck), caught in the paws of some old woman wearing so many pearls that there were probably none left in all of Tahiti.

Samantha wanted nothing more than to break away from this conversation and go to him, but Sheila was harder to shake than a noose. Every time Samantha looked up, she was being shoved toward some new face and Sheila was once again introducing her as "Darrin's little bride." Am I THAT diminutive, she wondered?

But dinner was the straw that broke the broomstick. Sheila tried to seat them at opposite ends of the table, although Darrin insisted on rearranging the seating to put them together. Despite this, Sheila seemed to have some sort of magnetic effect that drew Darrin's seat closer to hers whilst pushing Samantha's further away, the gap between their seats widening like the distance between a dock and a departing ship.

"Don't worry about Samantha, Darrin, we're all going to help her," Sheila was saying. Then, louder: "Everyone! I was just saying that since Samantha is a stranger here we're all going to help her feel at home. Now tell us ALL about yourself. What do you... do?"

Things that would turn your hair white, Samantha thought. But instead she said, "I'm a homemaker, of course."

"Oh? And... what's that when it's not at home?"

Samantha had to admit: She didn't get the joke. Evidently she was the only one, as the table erupted. Everyone laughed but Darrin, who glared at Sheila instead.

It was obvious everyone expected Samantha to take it in stride. And she would. There was no need to do anything unpleasant here in front of everyone.

There would be time for that later.

***

It was the Witching Hour.

Deep in sleep, Darrin didn't stir as Samantha got out of bed. She'd made sure he'd sleep the night through. Barefoot, she slipped down the hall and stood at the yawning basement door; the stairwell seemed to breathe, like an enormous gullet. The top step was quite warm when her toes touched it.

She couldn't see the Thing, but she felt its eyes on her from every shadow down there. It had grown acclimated to this place, and now the basement was taking on some of its nature, making it all the more dangerous to confront here.

But what choice did she have? Descending the rest of the way, Samantha slipped off her nightgown and stood naked in the underworld darkness. Then, holding her arms out, she beckoned for the Thing to come.

She'd tried her best to avoid this, but now that she gave herself up to it and felt the Thing's many limbs twine around her naked pink body she did not find its touch loathsome but instead discovered alien comfort in its embrace.

Lying down, she let it climb on top of her, its many wings beating at the shadows in excitement as she spread her legs. The monster's claws traced her vulnerable and sensitive curves, but it restrained itself from drawing blood, which was lucky. When creatures like this got a taste for witch's blood, they didn't always know when to stop.

A long, wet tongue licked the front of Samanth's body, from collarbone to hip, and gooseflesh broke out all over her.

Witches had been doing this kind of thing for centuries, of course. Mother had more underworld paramours than she had hairs on her head, or on any of her other parts she was fond of referencing.

For Samantha of course it was different, because Darrin was her husband and she'd made promises to him. But it was the only sure way to make a creature like this docile, and... besides, what Darrin didn't know wouldn't hurt him, surely? Maybe Samantha could just taper off from witchcraft a bit. It wasn't healthy to give things up all at once.

Eager to give encouragement, Samantha pushed herself up against the monster in the dark and moaned. Sometimes these things felt strange or even painful, but she was pleasantly surprised to find the touch of this Thing deeply stimulating. Its many legs held her tight to its scaly but smooth body, and when she reached down to find its member she was delighted to explore its dimensions.

Her muscles coiled and tensed underneath her smooth and soft flesh, and the Thing approached her like a treat that it meant to savor, one delectable bite at a time. She stretched out, feeling the cool floor against her hot skin. The monster's tongue tickled her neck, and she combed her fingers up and down the length of its spine, murmuring.

The creature's mouth moved down, and her body molded itself against the pressure of its hungry kisses. She guided it with her words: "There... there... yes, there..."

In one corner, the furnace roared to life and the grate seethed with orange flames, the basement responding to the Thing's feelings and the intensity of the moment. Animal sweat dappled Samantha's body and her hair grew damp. She felt the Thing bear down harder on top of her, and she parted her thighs even wider, signalling for it to commence.

A surprising sense of relief accompanied the creature's entry into her body, as if Samantha had been waiting for this somehow. And maybe she had been: Sex allowed a witch to do things she normally couldn't, or shouldn't, and this would give her a potency she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge had been lacking in her life. Twisting underneath the Thing, she turned her hips to expose the smooth curve of her behind, so that it was almost entering her sideways. A throbbing sensation stimulated everything below her waist She gripped its inhuman frame, holding on with a desperate longing.

"Do it," she whispered in the dark, over and over again: "Do it, do it, do it..." And as it thrust in and out she felt it draw tight like a spring and then release with the violent force of its exertion again and again and again. Samantha's eyes rolled and she writhed beneath it, letting herself go.

At first she took advantage of the darkness to imagine that the Thing was Darrin. But this couldn't last: It was too different, too strange. Next she imagined a carousel of men, different faces, different bodies, different experiences. But soon that too faded, and it was no longer necessary to imagine anything but instead just to feel the raw and immediate urgency of what was happening.

Her head swam and strange sights danced before her eyes. The Thing's ancient and unearthly shape did acts with her that went beyond the pale horizons of earthly imagination. And when it finished inside of her, the force of the moment would have broken an ordinary person. Only someone like Samantha, a witch since the day she was born, could come out the other side from such an experience not just intact but stronger for it.

In the aftermath, the Thing became, as she'd expected, compliant-almost tame. It curled at her feet like a loyal dog. "Now, are you going to be good?" she said.

It made a quizzical noise.

"Okay, not 'good' good, of course..."

It made a sound of assent. Smiling, Samantha stretched, not quite allowing herself to acknowledge how much good the experience had done her. There was nothing wrong with her sex life with Darrin-FAR from it-but what could she say? She'd always been a witch for all seasons.

"Now let's away," she said, touching the back of the Thing's neck (such as it was) and leading it up out of the basement and into the backyard, where the open sky shuddered against the beating of its wings. Still naked, Samantha climbed onto the Thing's back, and it bent ever so slightly to accommodate her.

She let the moment hang for a few seconds more and then finally said, "All right, Mother, I know you're there. You might as well come out."

The light of a half moon revealed a beautiful woman with fiery hair standing on the garden path, also naked, a characteristically knowing look on her face. "It's about time, dear" was all she said.

Mother climbed onto the Thing's back with her and held onto Samantha as it rose up into the air, all three of them flying against the tableau of a half-lighted night sky, the wind whipping Samantha and her mother's hair. Samantha watched Morningstar Circle drop away beneath them, until the porchlight of her own home-the home she'd worked so hard to make herself a homemaker for-was only the most distant speck on a dark horizon.

"And where are we going?" Mother said.

"Oh," said Samantha. "Just making some housecalls."

***

The ice settling in his glass woke Barker up. He'd fallen asleep in the study again, and this annoyed him, because it meant the ice had time to water down his scotch. Then again, that was an excuse to freshen it up.

His hands shook as he reached for the bottle. They'd been shaking a lot these days, ever since he met that woman, that blonde from the dinner party. What had her name been? She was married to that mousy little accounts man who worked for Tate, although god only knew how he'd managed that.

Barker hadn't been able to make anything happen that night, but he hadn't forgotten about her either. Jesus Christ, the things he'd do to that woman if she gave him even half a chance. That little fairy she'd married couldn't have shown her the things Barker knew how to do with a woman.

None of that explained the shaking, of course. Or the dreams he'd been having, although he only remembered those on the occasion he let himself sober up. He tried to raise the tumbler to his lips now, but he couldn't keep his hand still.

To hell with it, he forced himself to drink anyway. A man wasn't a man if he couldn't hold his liquor, just like if he couldn't hold onto a woman. Those were Barker's rules to live by, and hadn't they done well for him so far?

That was the problem with men today: They had no wars to teach them what was what, and their fathers obviously weren't up to it either. Just imagine what would happen to America when men like Barker were gone and those sorry sons of bitches inherited everything. A whole country of fairies!

At least that Tate's fellow probably wouldn't be giving his wife any kids he could ruin. Wouldn't be in him. Barker wouldn't mind the opportunity to slip one under the radar. Maybe the next time he saw her. What was her name again?

"Samantha."

Barker jumped. The voice came from behind him. He tried to turn, but suddenly there were two very long and perfect arms coming over the back of his chair, sliding down the front of his shirt until they touched his belt with long and well-manicured nails.

"That's my name. I'm hurt that you'd forget," the voice said, almost right in his ear. Barker felt himself relax and slip into the comfortable contours of the voice.

"I knew I'd be seeing you again," he said, or tried to say, since his lips and tongue felt thick and numb from too much drinking.

"But you haven't seen me yet," the woman said, and she put her hands over his eyes even as he pretended to swat at them. This made his drink spill, which annoyed him, but the woman took the tumbler and made a soothing noise.

"Poor Mr. Barker," she said. "Let me help you with that."

He still couldn't see her as she held the glass to his lips and allowed him to take several deep, grateful gulps of rich, smooth scotch. "Much better," the woman said.

"I can think of something even better than that," Barker said. He was trying to stand, but again, the woman wouldn't let him. She was surprisingly strong as she held him down in his chair, but he discovered he didn't mind.

"I'm sure you can think of a whole lot of things. Do you want to tell me about them?"

"More than just that."

"A man like you shouldn't be alone on a night like this."

"A man like me is always alone," he said. The words surprised him, but it was true: Being a real man meant you were alone, and you lived with it. Women, drinking, the club, these things made you forget it for a while, but it was the price you paid for holding up the sky.

The only time Barker hadn't been alone had been in the berth of a goddamn aircraft carrier parked in the middle of the goddamn Pacific. It was hell, but it was the only time and place any of them had been free of the bullshit. Nothing that had happened since those days was fit for a goddamn dog, but those days were never coming back.

He tried to tell the woman all of this, but it just came out a mess. She seemed to understand though. "I know something that will make it all better," she said.

"So do I." He loosened his belt.

"Then I guess you'd better turn around and look at me," the woman said. "Do you want to look at me?"

Barker lurched to his feet. He did want to look, of course. But more than that: He HAD to look. If his life had depended on not looking there still wouldn't have been a damn thing he could do about it.

The only light in the room came from the half moon outside the window. Given that, he should have had a hard time seeing anything, but the woman was perfectly visible-luminous-and naked as a jaybird here in his study. He should have been happy about that. He should also have had a hard-on that could knock over a city bus.

Instead he felt his bladder coming loose, along with the rising tide of a scream that he knew he'd never finish. Behind the woman (Samantha! That was her name, he suddenly remembered), crouched but still much, much taller than either she or Barker despite its stooped posture, was some-thing. A Thing with too many arms and legs, and great veiny wings, and jaws a foot wide as it breathed in and out.

It was a thing that was never meant to be seen outside the shadows, but Barker was seeing it now. And it seemed to be-getting bigger? And so was Samantha; she towered over him now. And so did his chair? Barker realized too late that everything else wasn't getting bigger but rather he was getting smaller. He was stooped over on all fours, and when he tried to finally let out that scream the sound that came instead was-a howl?

Samantha reached down and scratched the dog on the scruff of its neck. It was a lean beast, and surprisingly handsome given what it had looked like just a minute ago. Satisfied, she slipped a collar around its neck and handed the end of its lead to her mother.

"How delightful," Mother said. "It's been too long since I've had a new hellhound to train."

"Just promise you'll put him back where he belongs when you're done with him," Samantha said.

Mother chuckled. "Rest assured, I'll put him in his place."

That made Samantha brighten up. "Speaking of which," she said, "I don't think we want to keep our next appointment waiting."

***

Sheila was having that dream again where she was flying. Except she wasn't asleep, and rather than flying herself, she was being carried through the air by a set of nightmare claws that had grasped her body and plucked her, screaming, out of bed and into the sky.

How long they'd been going like this she couldn't say, but her voice had nearly given out, and she was fairly confident she'd fainted at least once. In spite of all of this she was still certain this wasn't a dream, as much as she wanted it to be.

Samantha leaned over the side of the Thing and shouted to be heard over the wind: "I'm sorry, Sheila, but there really wasn't room up here for three!"

"You don't have to act like you're not enjoying this," Mother said.

"But I don't have to enjoy it any more than necessary. This isn't about how I feel, it's about fixing a problem."

"At least you're going about it like a proper witch."

"I'm not a proper witch," Samantha said. "I made a promise to Darrin and I'm standing by it. This is just... a little tidying up. I can't be expected to give up cold turkey while there are still things to do. Once this is all said and done, I'm an ordinary housewife."

"Of course you are."

"Oh shut up, mother. We're almost there. Sheila, are you hanging in down there?"

"AHHHHHHHHHH!"

"Just a few more miles!" Samantha hoped she could make it. If Sheila died, the whole plan fell apart.

Finally, they touched down. The top of the hill was flat and grassy, shrouded in fog that lasted most hours of the day and most days of the year. It wasn't a hill that you found on any map, and nobody who tried to climb it would ever reach the top. It was a blasted place, a condemned place, but for Samantha it had always held a certain comfort. No one else was here now, which was just as well.

The Thing dropped Sheila on the grass a bit too carelessly, but Samantha patted its head as she dismounted. Sheila's nightgown was in tatters, and she'd lost her slippers somewhere over the Eastern Seaboard. Odds are she was about to faint, but that wouldn't do for Samantha, so she caught the other woman as she swooned and held her up, telling her to take deep breaths until the vertigo went away. "It happens to everyone the first time you fly," she said.

"It didn't happen to you," said Mother. Then Mother got busy building the fire, muttering all the while:

"Lucifer, master of all rebellious spirits, I pray you be favorable to me; Beelzebub, protect me in my endeavor; Astaroth, be propitious to me in the name of the pact I have delivered; Lucifuge, leave your home in whatever part of the world it may be and attend to me..."

Samantha had gotten Sheila back on her feet and was now picking leaves and other bits of detritus out of her hair. The Thing, attracted by the heat of Mother's fire, curled up next to it and started making a sound almost like a purr.

"There: You look good as new," Samantha said. "Except you won't be needing this," she added, plucking at the tattered remains of Sheila's nightgown. She stripped the other woman, even as Sheila, still dazed, tried to mumble an objection. Supporting her with one arm, Samantha led Sheila to the fire. "Let's get you warmed up," she said.

The chattering of Sheila's teeth punctuated her fitful attempts at prayer as she huddled by the flames, so bewildered that she didn't even notice the Thing napping nearby. "Hail Mary... full of... full of...?" she stammered.

"Stop. That," Mother said. Then, to Samantha: "It's ready. If you're sure this is a good idea?"

"I figured you'd approve," Samantha said. "Isn't this what you would do?"

"What I'd do is serve this girl her own heart. But it's not my nature to criticize."

Producing a tarnished silver bowl ("It belonged to Catherine Deshayes, you know." "Yes, mother, I know...") filled with black blood, Mother spat into it and then passed it to Samantha, who did the same. Then Samantha held it over her head and, muttering, "Zacare ca od zamran! Odo cicle qaa! Zorge! Zir noco! Hoath Satan Bvfd lonsh londoh babage," poured it into the fire.

Rather than extinguish, the flames leapt all the higher, and even Sheila murmured in delight to see how the fire twisted and cavorted as black blood steamed and sizzled on the heated stones. A dark wind from someplace not entirely this world accompanied a sound not unlike the opening of a door.

And then... they were not alone. The Black Man came, and Mother prostrated herself at his feet. Samantha did the same, albeit with a touch of reluctance. Sheila gasped but did not move, thinking perhaps that she wouldn't be seen if she didn't call any more attention to herself.

The Thing stirred at the arrival of its master, and the Black Man put his hand out in a way that was almost affectionate. The creature licked the hand and, with a whimpering sigh and a whiff of brimstone, returned to the realm from whence it came.

"Thank you, Master," Mother said. Samantha mouthed a "thank you" of her own. "And as a token of our appreciation," Mother continued, pushing Sheila forward, "look what we've brought you."

Bare feet sliding on the grass, Sheila stared at the Black Man, captivated. Her mouth was open, but the best she could say was, "I... I...," and that was all.

He touched her with the same affection that he had shown the creature, his strong hand cupping her chin and turning her face upward, so that she dared not look away. His eyes stared, unblinking, into hers, and she returned his looks with undisguised ardor.

Sheila allowed the Black Man to lay her nude body out on the grass. For the first time, she seemed unsure what to say. "I was... planning a little trip to the Riviera," she managed. "Do you think-?"

The Black Man thrust two fingers into her mouth, and she began sucking them lasciviously. Then, with almost no encouragement, she leaned over and opened her mouth to accept his erect prick. She stared up at him with adoring eyes as she wrapped her parted lips around his member, her tongue already dancing on the underside of it.

"She's certainly taking to it with a certain... gusto," Mother said.

"You're one to talk."

On her knees in worship, Sheila put her fingers at the base of the Black Man's cock and guided it further into her mouth. Perfectly obscene sucking noises filled the clearing. The half moon cast long shadows over the bent grass, and Sheila's naked body seemed to glow even as the Black Man remained a stark silhouette.

The Black Man's cock throbbed insatiably in Sheila's mouth as Samantha watched. She slid her parted lips along it from bottom to top, punctuating the motion with delighted cooing noises. When she reached the tip again she kissed it sensually, and the Black Man's fingers stroked her cheek with obvious affection.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, my. I... I had no idea..." And she swallowed it even deeper. Samantha felt her pulse racing and imagined it was in tune with the throb of the Black Man's member as he went deeper into Sheila's open mouth. She was shaking already, and the silver moonlight showed gooseflesh from the nape of her neck all the way to the small of her back. She went faster, her head bobbing up and down in an eager motion, pushing to keep up with the Black Man's increasingly insistent pressure as he ground his hips against her hungry mouth.

"'No idea' indeed," Mother said.

"Oh, let her have her fun," Samantha said, although privately she agreed.

The Black Man grabbed Sheila and bent her over. Her ass looked perfectly round and inviting as she arched it into the air, craning her head to try to look over her shoulder and grace him with that big-eyed look again. Then he drove himself into her narrow channel, and Samantha felt her heart pick up and her breathing rise to a low pant as electricity filled the air.

Mouth open with grunts and mewling noises, Sheila rocked back and forth as the Black Man's prick thrust deep inside her. Her small, round breasts bobbed with each motion, and her taut thighs, still tanned after weeks lounging on exclusive beaches, flexed pliantly.

The Black Man mounted her harder, his powerful body bearing down on her slender frame with ease. She gasped out a series of noises that were mostly only halfway to being real words: "Oh... nuh... gaw... yes!" Her body kept pace, but it was a lot to ask out of a normal woman; Samantha wouldn't have thought she had the strength to keep it up.

"Oh... oh...," Sheila said, gasping harder. When her eyes fluttered and landed on Samantha she called out, "My goodness... Sam... you HAVE to try this!"

"I have," said Samantha. And she felt the embers of desire stirring inside her... but she tamped them down again. One extramarital excursion was enough for tonight, and besides, she didn't have time. From the looks of things, the master was going to be at this for a while.

Watching from the sidelines still, Mother said, "Honestly, she doesn't deserve it."

"The point is, it'll keep her out of our hair for a while."

"A few weeks, by the look of it," Mother said. "And after that she'll be... different. Much less impressed by the likes of Derek."

"Darrin."

"And what about you, dear? I suppose you'll insist on returning back to that... home."

With a nod, Samantha said, "I can't be missing when Darrin wakes in the morning."

Sighing, Mother shook her head. "I suppose you can't. Honestly... if you're happy, then what else can I say?"

"Probably quite a lot. What about you?"

"I think I'll join in here, if it's all the same to you." Then Mother kissed Samantha on the cheek and said, "You are all the blessing I have ever needed. And whatever else I have, I grant to you and to your family."

Samantha blinked. Mother was still of the generation who believed a witch couldn't cry, so instead she threw her arms around her. After that, she turned to go.

"Pardon me for cutting in, Master," Mother's voice said below as Samantha rose into the air. "Sheila, don't be so demanding. It's unladylike..."

Flying on her own was exhausting after everything else she'd done this evening, but it gave Samantha time to think, and the cold night air felt good against her naked body. The lights of so many small, ordinary American towns twinkled below. Samantha thought about how many little lives there were for each of those lights, and all of them rounded with a sleep.

People like that would never know about the kind of things that went on on nights like this. Samantha would always know. She could put it behind her if she wanted, but it would always be a part of her.

She touched down in the backyard. The Thing had left sulfurous footprints on the grass, and Samantha took a second to tidy them up. It wouldn't do to have Darrin or anyone else asking questions about them.

At first, Samantha thought it was raining. Then she heard a voice:

"Holy Mother of God, Holy Virgin of virgins, pray for us! Saint Michael, Saint Gabriel, Saint Raphael, all holy angels and archangels, all holy orders of blessed spirits, pray for us! Saint John, Saint Joseph, all holy patriarchs and prophets, Saint Peter, Saint Paul, Saint Andrew, Saint James, Saint... um... is it Patrick who comes next?"

What in the world? The neighbor woman was standing in Samantha's yard, brandishing a Bible (which looked suspiciously like it might have been lifted from a motel room) in one hand and a salt shaker full of what she guessed was holy water in the other. As Samantha watched, she shook a few more drops of it in her face.

"Deliver us from the snares of the devil," the woman continued. "From anger, hatred, and all ill will, from all lewdness, from lightning and tempest, from the scourge of earthquakes, from plague, famine, and war, from everlasting death, by the mystery of your holy incarnation, by your coming, by your birth, by your baptism and-"

"Gladys," Samantha said. "Stop that."

In the dark, Samantha's eyes glowed like coals, and the salt shaker popped like a soap bubble and spilled its blessed contents on the ground. A sudden wind carried the Bible out of the neighbor woman's hand. Samantha looked down at it, amused.

Gawping, the older woman struggled to remember the next line of her prayer, but it didn't come. She backed away, shrinking against the hedge. "I..." she said.

"It's been a long night already," Samantha said, advancing. "I'd rather not make it any longer than it has to be."

Gladys gulped. Then she said, "What are you going to do to me?"

"Do to you? Why Gladys, you're not afraid of me, are you?"

Gladys nodded. Samantha laughed.

"Well," she said. "That's a good start."

***

Darrin arrived with a bang of the front door and a whistle on his lips. "Samantha?" he called out.

"In the nursery, darling!"

He whistled a different tune when he joined her. "This is looking real swell," he said. Samantha untied the kerchief from around her head and stepped down off the ladder a bit awkwardly, to make room for her prominently pregnant belly. Darrin rushed to help her.

"You need to start taking it easy, kiddo. 25 weeks is no joke."

"I know," Samantha said, leaning against him once she was on the floor. The smell of fresh paint was prominent in spite of the open windows, and several empty cans and discarded brushes settled by the door. "But I wanted to get those last spots up in the corners. It's not going to get any easier the longer we wait."

"I guess it's not," Darrin said, putting his hand on her belly and grinning, as he'd done most days for the last six months. They'd been good months: He hadn't slept this well in years, Tate was happy with him at work, and that oddball old couple next door were moving out, which seemed to make Samantha happy, although he had no idea why.

And of course, there had been the Big News. How could he not be happy? "I've been thinking about names," he said.

"Of course you have," Samantha said. "It's practically all you've talked about."

"And what do the ladies' magazines have to say about baby names?" He blinked. "Actually, I haven't seen you reading any of those lately?"

"I threw them out," Samantha said. And then, changing the subject, "I know you had your heart set on Darrin Jr, but... I think it's going to be a girl. Women's intuition."

Leading her to the living room and sitting her down on the couch, Darrin put Samantha's feet up for her and started massaging one of them. She cooed.

"A girl?" he said as he worked. "Darrin Jr is a pretty good name for a little girl."

Samantha swatted his arm.

"Women's intuition, huh?" he said, continuing. "That's fine. She'll be a spitfire, just like her mother."

"And her father," Samantha said. And then she touched her belly as well, remembering that night in the basement.

The Thing had quit the house after that, but of course, you can't call something like that up without it leaving something of itself behind. Samantha knew that better than anyone.

"A real hellraiser," she added.