Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror

Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror by Joyce Carol Oates, Nancy Kilpatrick, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Storm Constantine, Molly Tanzer, Lois H. Gresh, Gemma Files, Karen Heuler Read Free Book Online Page A

Book: Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror by Joyce Carol Oates, Nancy Kilpatrick, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Storm Constantine, Molly Tanzer, Lois H. Gresh, Gemma Files, Karen Heuler Read Free Book Online
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates, Nancy Kilpatrick, Caitlin R. Kiernan, Storm Constantine, Molly Tanzer, Lois H. Gresh, Gemma Files, Karen Heuler
cheeks burned with shame of her breathy, thin, girl's voice; though she tried to sing with as much accuracy and strength as she could summon, hers was a wholly untrained voice, lacking pitch, solidity, beauty. Oh, most of all beauty! The young man winced as if he felt actual pain at the sound of her voice and abruptly broke off, pushing her hand from his. Bitterly he said, "You're not trying, Magdalena!" and Magdalena stammered, in childlike protest, "But—I am. I am." But the young man had turned away, sullenly, saying, "Go away and leave me, you mock me."
    So Magdalena was sent away, hurt and mortified.
    So Magdalena fled the little church, and the churchyard, and lower Edmundston, tears streaking her cheeks.
    Hearing, behind her, a pounding, reverberating silence like the waves of an invisible sea; a silence that beat against her eardrums like a great heartbeat, threatening to drown her. And beneath this silence the voice of the singer, not so strong as before, but as exquisite as ever. Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh. Shadows of the evening… And at the house on Charter Street, in the gathering dusk, she had to ring the bell (which was erratic, defective) for some minutes before grumbling Hannah came to unlock it, to let her, weeping, inside.
     
     
    5.
     
    "What—what is this thing! This encumbrance that is always with me!"
    Suddenly in the midst of Magdalena reading the Ninety-sixth Psalm to her, Aunt Erica began slapping and pushing at her limp left arm with the clawlike fingers of her right hand. A fury seemed to seize her, like a flame passing over her frail, doll-like body; she began to cry in high-pitched angry sobs. Helge who had been knitting close by threw down her needles and hurried to her, as Magdalena, sitting on a stool by her aunt's divan, stared at the stricken woman in astonishment. Helge said, chiding, "Now, Mrs. Kistenmacher! Now you know what that is," and Aunt Erica cried, "I don't! I don't know!" and Helge said, "Yes, you do, Mrs. Kistenmacher. Say it: 'my arm,'" and Aunt Erica shrieked, “No." Using the strength of her right arm and legs, the elderly woman was trying desperately to push herself up the back of the divan, like a wounded, blindly flailing creature; her eyes bulged in their sockets. Magdalena watched in horror. What could she do? How could she help? Helge had seized Aunt Erica's right hand to calm it, and her; she placed the hand firmly on the left hand which hung useless at the invalid's side, in a way that suggested she'd done in the past. She said, "You see? This is your hand, too, Mrs. Kistenmacher. This is your arm, too. It is all you," and Aunt Erica whispered, "No! It is not," though ceasing her futile struggle, and Helge said, "You mustn't turn against yourself, Mrs. Kistenmacher. Dr. Meinke has told you."
    For a moment it seemed that the elderly invalid had returned to her senses. She was panting, and staring at her left arm in its crocheted pink woolen sleeve; experimentally she released the left hand from her right hand, and leaned as far away on the divan as possible without losing her balance. Then her moist little rosebud mouth opened like a bird's beak and her good, right eye narrowed to a squint and as Magdalena and Helge looked on, helpless, she began to scream, and scream.
     
     
    6.
     
    Magdalena thought He has sent me away, I must never approach him again .
    Magdalena thought I failed him: he detests me.
    Magdalena thought, sifting her shiny black rosary beads through her fingers, God, give me strength not to approach him again. God, give me pride.
    And so for days Magdalena obsessively barricaded the windows of her room against the gusty sunshine and tumult of spring. She made certain that the windows were shut tight, and locked; and the blinds drawn flush to the sills. During the day she avoided windows elsewhere in the house whenever possible and didn't dare go outside, even to walk about the grounds. At night she slept poorly, pillows pressed

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