Reading with Rasta: Izzy Hoffman is Not a Witch
Izzy Hoffman is Not a Witch by Alyssa Alessi prologue.
Every morning I wake from the same dream. Honestly, it’s more like a nightmare. I walk up to a ridiculously large brass-framed mirror, its dirty gold trim holding golden vines wrapped around its curves. Faces belonging to chubby baby angels are carved in its crevices. I’m hesitant to look at first, but then I jump in front of it like I know what’s coming and want to get it over with. I do know what’s coming. My reflection is the same every time. A woman with long straggly black hair and a gaunt face stares back at me. She has no eyes, yet she looks straight into my soul. Her head moves from side to side. My chest aches with each crook of her neck. She wants to pull me in, I know she does. Her bony fingers scratch at the sides of the glass. I open my mouth to scream, but the shriek comes from her unhinged jaw instead of mine. I always wake in a puddle of sweat, then get up to brush my teeth. This has been on repeat for five years, until today. Today is my twelfth birthday and as a gift, this woman smiled and punched through the glass.
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Chapter 1
As the glass shatters, my eyes pop open. My bedroom door swings forward so hard it bounces off the door stop. “Happy birthday to ya! Happy birthday to ya!” The birthday parade around my room is in full effect. I smile, because even though I’m too old for this, my parents look hilarious.
“Thanks guys,” I giggle while I sit up to hug my mom. “You’re looking a little sweaty honey; do you want me to open up a window in here?” My dad kisses my cheek, his coarse beard stubble scratching my skin. He opens a window to let the cool October breeze rush in. I’m not sweating because I’m hot, I’m sweating because Bony Witch broke through the glass and changed the dream that has been the same for as long as I can remember. I will never admit to my parents that I’m still having these dreams, or the fact I named her. I used to cry out at night, but checking
the closets and turning on lights became useless. “Izzy? Are you ok?” mom asks. A navy-blue wizard hat stands tall on her head, and a black boa drapes snake
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like around her neck. Her outfit says silly, but her face says I’m worried about my strange child. I hate when my mom looks at me like that. Her left eyebrow all raised and her big brown eyes burning holes in my skin. It’s like she has some sort of mom superpower that detects when I’m even just a little uncomfortable.
“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. “Maybe… I’m getting a little old for the birthday parade, you know?” I search their faces for any hint of them not believing me.
My parents exchange a look. I feel bad once I say it out loud, but it was that or bring up my dream.
“Pfft, you are never too old for a birthday parade, but we can tone it down a bit next year if you’d like,” my mom compromises.
“Speak for yourself Loretta! I’m still wearing my cloak next year!” dad jokes, while swinging the cape in front of his face like a vampire would. He opens his mouth wide every time he laughs, showing off his perfect bright teeth against his smooth dark skin.
“I’m not too old for the pancakes, though,” I laugh giving them a sly smirk.
“Mm Hmm…” my mom smiles and gets up from my bed, tossing all the fluffy blankets behind her. Dad looks out the window at the growing crowd and says, “Alright birthday girl, we have a shop to open so let’s get them pancakes before it gets too late,” in a tone too serious for his outfit.
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To my dad it’s just a shop, but to my mom and I, it’s home. My dad always teases “you girls should just set up sleeping bags down there and I’ll see you in the morning!” Dark Alley Books has been our family bookshop for generations. From the outside, it’s a large brick building with glass windows showcasing jack-o-lanterns and string lights year-round. Like most buildings on our side street, it holds a shop on the bottom level and a home on the second. Next to our olive-green door there is a plaque that reads “J YOUNG 1641”. J Young is my ancestor from my mom’s side. All I know is he built this building, and for almost four hundred years, my family has sold books out of it. We don’t just sell books anymore, we also sell t-shirts that say “Witch City” with a silhouette of a witch flying on a broom across the chest. Mugs, hats, socks, and other boring things that have nothing to do with books also sit on our shelves. It isn’t just Dark Alley Books that sells these. The corner store, literally named The Cornah Store, sells the same crap. The hardware store, the pharmacy—everywhere you turn you’ll see the witch logo. We sell things for the tourists. Every October our little town of Marblehead (aka nowhere even remotely cool, New England) gets flooded with tourists.
Since today is October first, there will be a line down the block for every store on our downtown street. It’s like this is the only area tourists bother to check out. Do they not know about the arcade on the other side of town? Or the view from the cliff at Dead Horse Beach? They don’t care,
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they just want souvenirs with a picture of a witch on it, to show everyone they came here. To show they visited the famous “witch city.” The town that celebrates Halloween like no other.
My predictions were correct. I step onto the cobblestone and immediately a woman in an elaborate witch costume yells “Hey kid! You open?”
“No.” I scoff with zero enthusiasm.
My parents love the customers because “They are what’s keeping us alive Izzy! Without them we’d just have a family library!” And? I’d be good with that. The corner in the back could be for just me. The nook in the back of the shop is my sanctuary, and I don’t like when customers touch my stuff. There is a table set up with dozens of bowls filled with all different types of crystals. Each one is unique, varying in color, size, and texture. And they are supposed to have healing powers. We sell books on crystals, so I know that Rose Quarts is for love, Tourmaline is for protection, and Amethyst for healing… supposedly. I don’t believe any of it, but I still love touching them all. I feel like when everyone else comes in and touches them, it ruins how they feel for me. It’s stupid, but they are mine.
I’m thinking about my crystals and watching my reflection in the windows as I walk by each store. I love watching my waist-length hair blow behind me as I walk and catching when my lip gloss shines in the sun against my mocha complexion. There is something about storefront window
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reflections that make you look way cooler than you do in real life. I can hear my mom’s voice in my head, “You’re daydreaming again Izzy…” and smash! I collide with a man and fall to the ground. I hit my head so hard on the brick that I must be asleep because Bony Witch is all I see. She paces back and forth in the mirror. The concerned look on her face sending a hint of fear to my gut. She is biting her claw-like nails and grabbing her own face. Suddenly she stops. She catches me watching her and dashes full speed towards the mirror.
I wake up on the ground to an elderly woman with her hand out to help me up.
“Sweetie, are you hurt? That man just knocked you down and kept going! People these days, rude as ever, I tell you!” “Yeah, thanks” I say a bit confused. My head is killing me, and the slight dizziness is throwing me off. I see the man who I collided with and feel a chill crawl from my fingertips up my arms. He is tall and thin, with his calf-length black leather coat blowing behind him as he tries to flee the scene. The old lady is still going on about how back in her day gentlemen did the right thing, but I’m focused on catching up with that guy. I’m not sure what I’m going to say when I do but I want to get a better look at least.
“I know, right? So rude! Thanks again!” I yell to the lady as I start to run. He turns the corner on Derby St. but by the time I get there the street is completely crowded, and he’s gone. I lost him.
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Chapter 2
The bell above the door rings as I step into “Witches Brew”, my best friend’s coffee shop. The place is packed, and I hear “double espresso mocha! Iced vanilla chai! Small black Americano!” Orders are being yelled out to all the nameless customers. Usually you hear, “Joe, Carmella!” and other actual names because Nat’s mom knows all her regulars’ names.
“Izzy!” Nat swings her arms around me as if she hasn’t seen me in weeks. “Happy birthday bestie! Omg those boots are so hot!” she says, giving my birthday outfit the influencer approval.
Nat is seriously the best. Her smile makes everyone smile, and she always has tons of energy. She says she drinks decaf lattes but I’m not sure. She’s a lot shorter than I am, even though her bouncy curls give her at least an extra three inches. Her eyes are a light amber color, and really pop against her brown freckled skin. She’s probably the most gorgeous girl in our grade, but more importantly, she’s the most fun.
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“Come to the back, I have a surprise for you!” She drags me by the arm to our favorite booth, furthest from the register but still a seat at the window.
“I hope it’s a new sweater because you stretched the heck out of this one,” I complain while holding up the arm that she practically ripped off in excitement. We plop down in the eggplant-purple cushions across from one another as she waves her hand at me to say open it already! I slowly unwrap the glittery paper to find a beautifully bold crystal necklace. It looks like five of my black crystals all pushed together to make one. A perfect black prism held by a delicate piece of silver and a thick black string.
“Nat! You totally get me. Thanks, this is gorgeous!” I mean it, it’s the perfect gift. It is so long that I don’t need to unclasp it to put it on. I flip my hair out from under it and give Nat my best smile. “How do I look?”
She whips out her phone and yells, “like this post will get a million likes!” She snaps a selfie of us and says she’s going to post a birthday shout out to me online. “It’s black obsidian, by the way. I got it from a witch. She said it will help protect you from negative energy.”
“A witch? You mean the creepy lady from the tarot shop?” “Yes, and Miss Clara knows what she’s talking about. She said she thinks you’re a witch too, you know.” I laugh so hard that I spit my water out on the table. “I like crystals so I’m a witch? You have a black cat, does that make you a witch too? Don’t believe anything anyone says
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this month. People just want to put on a good show for the tourists.”
Nat laughs and says, “Uh yeah, have you seen our sandwich specials? My mom changed our avocado toast to monster mash!” We both shake our heads at the desperate attempt to please these Halloween-obsessed visitors.
Nat and I gather our things to take the walk down to the beach like we’ve planned for days. The beach is our escape from the madness. As we pass the witch statue in town square, people are gathering to take pictures with it. The witch is a fictional witch from a TV show from the nineties. A bronze, teenaged witch with a bookbag and a black cat is the attraction of town square. I bet they don’t even read the plaque. If they did, they would learn that this was the site where women were hung for witchcraft. In their defense, the plaque is very small. I don’t think people want to remember such sad things. It’s much easier to focus on the fun of the statue and how good your Halloween costume looks while you are posing next to her. You know, ignore the bad stuff but hashtag Witch City.
“Ew, old people selfies,” Nat whispers.
I don’t laugh, because I’m thinking about the morbid fact that they are standing where someone died. When we get to the cliff overlooking the beach, it’s even more beautiful than it was two weeks ago. Things change so fast this time of year. It’s like the sun knows it has to shine brighter to keep us warm or something. The light
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sparkles off the near-freezing ocean as the waves crash against the rocky gray sand. Hundreds of little boats sit docked because their owners are stuck at work. The maple trees that line the cliff are already a flaming red. Nat takes a sip of her latte and has that look on her face.
“What?” I ask suspiciously.
“Oh, come on, let me take a picture of you! I won’t post it. It will just be for us. Your all-black aesthetic against these red trees is so vogue.”
I do want to show off the new platform Doc Martens that my parents gave me this morning.
“Ok, whatever. But promise, no posting.”
Nat is so obsessed with taking pictures. I like taking pictures too, but they never look good enough to post in my opinion.
“Pinky promise,” she agrees.
I clasp my hands together and lift my left leg to make sure my boots are in the photo. “So hot!” Nat yells out. We sit under a tree with our backs resting against a craggy oak. Nat’s face goes blank.
“Hey, what’s up? Not enough likes on your last post?” I ask, teasing just a bit. She holds her phone up to show me the picture. A shadow hovers over me in a nearby willow tree and I know right away it is Bony Witch. I feel a chill run down my spine and the sour taste of vomit in the back of my throat. Never in my life has a shadow appeared in one of my photos. I scan the trees and nearby benches, but
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not a soul in sight. No boys from school, hiding childishly behind a bush laughing and pointing. No weird lights making shadows, it’s her.
“This looks like a ghost! And it looks totally real Izzy. I’m not messing with you, I swear.”
I stare at the monster from my dreams. “She’s coming for me.” The words come out so soft that Nat asks me to repeat. “She’s coming for me!” I scream. My voice cracks in frustration.
“Who?” Nat’s normally perky face is pale with worry. She seems scared, not watching a scary movie scared, but scared like you turned the movie off and now you have to walk to the bathroom by yourself scared. Imagine if she saw this woman as often as I did.
“Never mind. I need to get to the shop,” I say beginning to stomp away. I avoided bringing her up this morning and I’d like to avoid it again.
“Izzy, stop! What is this, you’re creeping me out. You can talk to me. Besties for life, remember?” Her hand on my arm and the look in her eyes tell me she is sincere.
I deep sigh because she’s right. “Remember the dreams I had as a kid? The lady in the mirror?” I keep my eyes closed while talking, to hide the embarrassment.
“When we like eight years old? Yeah, I guess.” I’m already regretting telling her, but I’ve already started. “I never stopped dreaming about her. And last night she broke through the glass. I feel weird, like really
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weird. I bumped into this guy earlier and she flashed in my head again. I tried to follow him, but lost him on Derby, and now this. I don’t know what to do.”
Nat is looking at me like she probably wouldn’t believe me if it weren’t for the picture she just took. “You know what? Miss Clara is such a fraud. She said this necklace would protect you. She lied! There wouldn’t be some shadow hag bothering you if this was real,” she says shaking her head slowly.
Why the heck would Miss Clara think I need protection? Maybe she isn’t as full of crap as I thought. Note to self: visit Miss Clara.