As Halloween approaches, we reflect on the strange things that have happened in our lives. Sometimes these are real. At other times, they are just pranks or figments of our imagination.

But how do we know which is witch? You may soon find out in . . .

The Which Of Westwood

“The Story Unfolds”

     She came crashing through the front door, with the energy of a bull running through the streets of Spain. Swinging her arms, she hit me in the chest. I felt the pain run into my stomach. I screeched, “Slow down young lady. If you don’t kill me, you’re liable to kill yourself.”

     “Huh, what’re you talking about?” she queried, somewhat out of breath.

     “Didn’t you feel your arm slam into my body?”

     “No. But I’m in a hurry. I’ve got to go.”

     “You just came in. Where do you have to go?”

     “To Westwood.”

     “Why? That’s where you’ve been all day. It’s almost five. Dinner is at six.”

     “I’ve just got to go.”

     “That won’t do. You tell me now, or you’re not going.”

     “Later. I’ll tell you later,” she stammered,

     “What did I just say?”

     “I’ll be back by six.”

     She threw her backpack on the floor next to the china cabinet and left—slamming the front door in my face before I could utter another word. I stood there stone-faced, frozen in place.

     That was ten years ago. Melody was fourteen, in the ninth grade—a teenager with a mind of her own. She listened to little I had to say, but somehow received every message I sent.

     She never told me what happened that day and, for some reason unbeknownst to me, I didn’t ask. She graduated second in her class at Westwood High, which was an accomplishment cheered by friends and family alike, and was accepted at Bridgemont University, six hundred miles from home.

     During her time at college, we frequently talked on the phone. However, she made excuse after excuse to avoid coming home for a visit and never invited me to see her. This behavior left me wondering if I’d ever see her again. Four years after she left home, she earned a Bachelor’s Degree in English Literature and then entered the teaching credential program at the college.

     I thought about what she might do after she completed the program. Then one day in late April, the phone rang. I’ll never forget the date—April 23. When I answered it, I was somewhat surprised to hear Melody’s voice.

     “Hello, Mom.”

     “Melody, how are you? I haven’t heard from you in weeks. You didn’t return my calls.”

     “I’m so sorry, Mom, but I’ve been very busy.”

     “Busy? Doing what?”

     “Packing.”

     “Where are you going?” Oh, my God! The same question I asked ten years ago.

     “Not going. Coming.”

     “Coming?” I asked, somewhat afraid of the answer I might get.

     “To Westwood,” she said softly.

     “But why?” This was the same discussion we had when she was fourteen.

     “Because I have to.”

     Oh, my! This is going nowhere again. Another open door slammed in my face. Just as I began to feel totally frustrated and confused, words came pouring out of her mouth.

     “Mom, I’ve been offered a teaching position at Westwood High—a dream come true.”

     “That’s wonderful, darling. Tell me more.”

     “I’ll be teaching English. I start the fourth of August, with a two-week orientation. School begins on August 18.”

     “Which grade?” I inquired.

     “Ninth.”

     But that was when it happened, I thought—the answer I’d never received.

     “Well, that’s great, Melody. I’m so happy for you.”

     “Thank you. This is what I’ve always wanted—to teach young people to understand the importance of the English language.”

     “When will I see you?”

     “Soon. The term ends in two weeks and then I have a month internship at a high school near the college. I’ll let you know the exact date, when I find out a little bit more about my schedule.”

     “This is fantastic news. In my wildest dreams, I never believed you’d be coming back.”

     “But I am, Mom. I’m coming home.”

      The wait was killing me. Each day I’d stare at my phone, waiting for it to ring. And then one morning, as I made breakfast, the bell chimed. I reached for it on the counter, pressed, “YES,” and muttered, “Hello.”

     “Hi, Mom,” Melody said cheerfully. “Can you pick me up at the airport next Thursday? My flight arrives at two o’clock.”

     “Yes, certainly. Two o’clock. I’ll be there. What airline?”

     “Southwest, Flight 1236. I’m coming home.”

     Little did I know what the future held for me? In a follow-up email, I agreed to meet Melody outside the terminal housing Southwest. When I arrived, I saw her standing by the curb dressed in a white blouse and black slacks, with a Cheshire cat grin on her face.

     I pulled up to the curb. She opened the passenger side door, tossed her backpack into the back seat, and jumped into the front seat beside me. “Hi, Mom,” she squealed.

     “Hello, Melody. You look great, dear. But where’s the rest of your luggage. You are moving here. This isn’t just a visit?”

     “Oh, no. I’ve shipped the rest of my stuff. It’ll be here Monday. Couldn’t carry it all.”

     “So, tell me about your new job at Westwood High.”

     “Which job?”

     “You have more than one?” I asked in disbelief. “I thought you were going to teach English.”

     “Well, yes and no.”

     “Okay, which is it, yes or no.”

     “I can’t tell you now. When I have all the details ironed out, I’ll talk to you about them.”

     “Why are you being so evasive?”

     “I’m not. Just don’t have enough information to share now. So you’ll have to wait until I do.”

     “Okay, but it better be soon.” I put the car in “Drive” and headed toward the freeway. Twenty-six minutes later, we rolled up to the house. I grabbed Melody’s backpack from the backseat and we went in. A new episode in the life of Melody and Mona Majic had begun.

     Our new relationship seemed similar to the one we had in her teenage years, yet stranger. At times, when she came into the room, an eerie aura surrounded her. She seemed to have a dark side that I couldn’t quite pinpoint—one that emerged from time to time and then disappeared into the recesses of the daughter I wanted her to be. And those were the fun times.

     I decided not to pressure Melody about school and her teaching position. Yet I noticed changes in her. She died her hair jet-black. Not what you’d expect from a beautiful redhead. And her clothing became drab, at first, and then pitch-black—her skirt, blouse, and boots, all alike.

     This troubled me so much I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I sat by the front door on this blustery October day and waited for her to come home from school.

     Just as I was about to drift off into Neverland, she came crashing through the door. Swinging her arms, she hit me in the chest. I grimaced and shouted, “Slow down Ms. Teacher. If you don’t kill me, you’re liable to kill yourself.”

     “Huh, what’re you talking about?” she queried, somewhat out of breath.

     “Didn’t you feel your arm slam into my body?”

     “No. But I’m in a hurry. I’ve got to go.”

     “You just came in. Where do you have to go?

     “To Westwood.”

     “Why? That’s where you’ve been all day. It’s almost five. Dinner is at six.”      

     “I’ve just got to.”

     “That won’t do. You tell me now. You may be an adult, but you still live under my roof.”

     “Later. I’ll tell you later,” she stammered,

     “That’s what you always say, but you never do,” I lamented.

     “But I will. I promise.”

     “Which excuse will you use next time? The same one or will you be more creative?”

     “Witch . . . one . . . would . . . you . . . like . . . me . . . to . . . use? she asked, drawing her words out in such an eerie fashion, it made me shake. “I’ll . . . be . . . back . . . by . . . six.”

     She didn’t give me a chance to answer. She threw her backpack on the floor next to the china cabinet and left. History had repeated itself and I didn’t know why.

The Witch Of Westwood

“The Story Concludes”

     Melody was never an easy child to deal with. If you didn’t do it her way, she became disgruntled and would stare at you, making you feel quite uneasy. Now a teacher in her third month at Westwood High, she had a habit of avoiding answering any question I’d ask her about work. Although answering questions had always been a hurdle keeping us apart, I never got used to it. It still made me very uneasy and I didn’t think she could be comfortable with the situation either. Living together was at times nightmarish.

     I wanted to prove to her I was a caring parent and that I had an interest in what was happening at school. Yet I didn’t want to be too intrusive. However, I did want a response to my questions. She was an adult now and should understand that what she was doing was unacceptable. I wondered if she was doing this on the job, too, but knew if I asked, she wouldn’t answer.

     Halloween was three days away—a time for kids and others to select a costume fitting for the occasion. However, Melody already had started to dress the part over a month ago. I’d gotten used to her red hair dyed black and the black garments and boots she’d wear to campus everyday. That being said, this was something which I had trouble accepting.

     I had just gotten home from the store, when I heard a crash come from Melody’s room. I raced down the hall, grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it. It was locked. ”Melody!” I yelled. “Are you all right?” No response. “Melody, please answer me.”

     That was a foolish request. Why would she respond to me now? She never does. Assuming she was all right, I let go of the doorknob, turned, and began to walk away. And then, the door opened. I spun around and saw something I wished I hadn’t seen—Melody standing straight up like a statue in a ghoulish, mystery museum.

     “Helloooooooooo, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm . . .”

     I had no idea how to respond. Where was my daughter? Who was this monster?

     “Helloooooooooo, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm . . .”

     Totally spooked, but knowing I had to say something, I pulled myself together and muttered, “Hi, Melody.”

     “What . . . are . . . you . . . staring . . . at, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm?”

     My tongue was so twisted in my mouth, nothing came out.

     “Answer . . . me, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm.”

     The shoe was on the other foot. Only I wanted to answer, but couldn’t. I was breathing so hard I thought I’d have a heart attack. I couldn’t catch my breath.

     “If . . . you’re . . . not . . . going . . . to . . . speak . . . to . . . me, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm, . . . I’m . . . going . . . back . . . into . . . my . . . room.”

     Before I could say anything, she was gone. I heard the door lock. I couldn’t believe what had happened. Who was she? She wasn’t my daughter. At her worst, my daughter was still human. This thing wasn’t. What did this witch do with my daughter? I began to sob uncontrollably.

     The next thing I knew, my alarm clock startled me out of a sound sleep. How I’d gotten into bed was beyond me, but I was there. I hit the alarm “Off” button, rolled out of bed, washed up, dressed, and headed into the kitchen.

     There on the counter was a note. It read, “Dear Mom, I had a lot to do at school today, so I left early. See you about five. Love, Melody.” The note was so normal, I began to feel the experience I thought I’d had was only a terrible dream.

     Since I work from home as a medical transcriber, I have the freedom to do what I want when I want to. And today, I just wanted to unwind from the harrowing ordeal I’d experienced. So I did a little work and then puttered around the house doing some things I never seemed to have time to do. I carried my cell phone in my pocket so I wouldn’t miss a doctor’s call, if they had a question about something I’d transcribed. I kept it on vibrate.

     As I bent down to pick a piece of paper up off the living room carpet, my vibrating phone made me tingle all over. Not a bad feeling after what I’d been trough. I pressed the “YES” button, and . . .

     “Mommmmmmmmmm, . . . I . . . need . . . you.”  Silence. “Come . . . to . . . Westwood . . . nowwwwwwwwww.”

     Before I could say anything, the caller, who I assumed was Melody, hung up. I was trembling so hard, the phone dropped out of my hand onto the carpet. I looked at the time on my watch. It was almost five. That’s when Melody said she’d be home. But if that was her on the phone, she obviously wasn’t coming. And why in the world did she want me to come to Westwood?

     Maybe I should go there. Melody could be in trouble. She’s a new teacher. They don’t know all the rules of the game. I’m her mother. She’s my only child. I could help her.

     I put on my jacket and went to the door. It wouldn’t open. But why? I yelled. “Help me! My door is stuck.” Nobody answered.

     I heard people on the street. I screamed, “Please help me! I need to go to Westwood. My daughter needs me. Still, no response. My phone, resting on the carpet, began to vibrate. It jumped. As it did, I grabbed it and pressed, “YES,” but nothing happened—nobody spoke to me. “I’m here,” I chanted. And then what came out of the phone unnerved me.

     “Mommyyyyyyyyyy, . . . mommyyyyyyyyyy, . . . help . . . me.” Silence. 
“They’re . . . making . . . me . . . wear . . . this . . . terrible . . . black . . . costume.” Silence. 
“And . . . my . . . red . . . hair . . . is . . . missing.” Silence. “I’m . . . so . . . scared.” Silence. “Mommyyyyyyyyyy, . . . pleasssssssssse . . . help . . . me.”

     I was rattled beyond belief. I shook so hard I fell over onto the couch. I dropped the phone back on the carpet. It was still on. Out of its speaker came . . . “Mommyyyyyyyyyy.” Silence. “Why . . . don’t . . . you . . . love . . . me . . . anymorrrrrrrrrre?”

     “But I do love you,” I responded emphatically. “I really do.” And then everything went black.

     The next thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing a man and a woman, dressed in long white coats.

     “My daughter, Melody, is in trouble. She needs my help. Help me,” I pleaded.

     “Calm down,” Mona. “What would you like me to do?” the gentleman in the white coat asked.

     “My phone, my phone. Get my phone. I need to talk to Melody.”

     “Mom, it’s me, Melody. Let me help you sit up.”

     “Oh, Melody, what a nice Halloween costume you have on. It’s much more appropriate than the black one. White suits you better, dear. And your hair is red again. You look so good.”

     “Thank you, Mom.”

     “Are we home or are we at Westwood?”

     “Westwood is your home, Mom.”

     “No, it isn’t. It’s the school where you teach.”

     “No, it’s the care home where I work as a physician assistant (PA).”

     “I don’t understand.”

     “When I was fourteen, Dad left us, Mom. You couldn’t handle it and slipped into your own world. It wasn’t real, but it was yours. Grandma and grandpa found you a good place to live, here, where you could be helped. They took care of me. I graduated high school and then went to college to become certified as a physician assistant.”

     “You’re a doctor?”

     “Not exactly. But I do a lot of the things they do, under a doctor’s supervision.”

     “Why here?”

     “Westwood Sanitarium had an opening for a PA. I applied and they offered me the job.”

     “Why here?”

     “Because you were here . . .”

     “Because I was here?”

     “Yes.”

     “I love you, Melody.”

     “I love you, too, Mom.”

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.