Desperately Seeking Witches

Young Michael wanted a story about witches, and a story about witches he shall get...even if its a little bit...um...spooky...

Desperately Seeking Witches

It seems bizarre to me that even with as much holiday spirit as I possess, Halloween is and was always one tradition that just never caught on in Richmond. Certainly, all the concepts appealed: I mean, I always adored getting into fancy dress, I certainly had no aversion to public performance, and if the end result of my troubles was some yummy chocolate treat, what was not to love? And yet every year, someone in my class would ask what I had done for Halloween, and I would shrug, having totally forgotten it was even on, and we’d move on to the next conversation, about boys, music, or why that little brat kid across the road had suddenly stopped pulling my hair and was now watching me intently as I walked – I mean, he used to shit me, but he’s getting quite grown up, and I think he might like me…you know, those kind of chats.

When I was 13, my parents began to travel away for the weekend, and I would understand more and more why they were going away. I would smile and nod as they went to a hotel. Still, I began to be given responsibility for the house more and more, and that was pleasing since I could brag about for a while, and not be pressured into hosting a party (yet). It was certainly an exciting time, especially when they left money for pizza and coke, and Megs B or Megs P could come around with a newly rented VHS tape and some gum. It was all good, clean, innocent fun, except for the time we put Jaffa’s in a catapult and fired them at some boys on bikes, and they couldn’t see where they were coming from. That was just…fun.

Lee Hunter and I were close friends in that wonderful pre sexual tension boy and girl way , and we planned a camping trip with some of our other friends, to coincide with another weekend away for my mum and dad. I was happily lying in the bath, trying to eat a pizza at the same time, when there was a fierce rap at the door. “FUCK OFF” I yelled, giggling. I was SO, like, outrageous! I settled back underneath the bubbles, when there was a second, more prolonged knock at the door. I screwed up my face, threw down the New Idea, and wrapped a towel around my soapy self, muttering as darkly as a 13 year old girl covered in soapy Mr Matey bubbles could get. “Lee, this isn’t funny!” I said, as I gripped our antique doorknob and twisted it to the left. Instead of Lee though, was a pair of slightly bemused, bewildered 7 year old girls, dressed as witches, thrusting Tupperware bowls at me. Their mum was visible in the car, reading a book in her turned on headlights. They smiled at me cheerfully, then thrust their bowls closer to me again.

“TRICK OR TREAT” they said together.

“Awww…cute!” I said, for I could never resist the charms of small children who had made an effort. I of course use the phrase made an effort lightly, since they had turned some black t-shirts inside out, but the hats were cute. They were still slightly unsettled my by partial junior nudity, so we stood in an awkward silence. I didn’t know what to do know, since I was unfamiliar with Halloween, and had nothing really prepared. For their part, their fun night out was being ruined by all this silence and standing around, so we took in our situation, before they went for it again.

“TRICK OR TREAT” said the witches, a little more impatiently.

At this point, I began to realise what true adult responsibility I had inherited. My parents would have calmly raided the biscuit tin, or maybe stolen some Maltesers from the charity fundraising tin, but I was panicked. I didn’t want to risk the vengeful wrath of two witch kids after all, so I rushed into the kitchen, threw aside the Samboys and the DMCs, and picked up something I thought they would like, wrapped it up in some kitchen roll, and went back to find one of the witches sitting on the doorstep saying something about “working hard for the candy”.

I thrust my treat into their hands, smiling and nodding. Luckily, there was no hilarity as my towel caught in the door or anything, and off they went, smiling, into the car. I got back in the bath, and curled back up in the bubbles, nervously. Certainly, I didn’t want the witches to come back, and complain about having been given a Weetbix cereal biscuit rather than a yummy piece of candy. I was fretting about it for most of the weekend, expecting the rules of Trick or Treat to wreak vengeance on the house while I was away surfing. I explained my problem to Lee, who was sympathetic.

“I think it’s just junior witches,” he said. “Besides, Weetbix is a treat!”.

I was re-assured by that, but I had a sneaking suspicion all weekend they would get me back. I even did a whole check of the house when Lee and I got back, but there was nothing there, no tricks, no taunting, no nothing – well, except one problem…the next time I had Weetbix, the milk was off, and I got a bit unwell…

Co-incidence? I’m never sure…maybe its best not to know…