Bliss, West Virginia
"TELL US ABOUT Matilda Teasdale again, Pappy," urged
sixteen-year-old Jeb Pass. He blew blond bangs from brown
eyes, then glanced at his gangly dark-haired buddy, Marsh,
who was seated next to him on a fallen tree limb, staring
across the dying campfire at Jeb's grandpa. Pappy tugged
his beard and petted his gray mutt, Hammerhead; the dog
was curled up, his tail twitching in tandem with a red
bandana around his neck, as if he were chasing rabbits in
his dreams.
"Seems to me," Pappy mused, "by now you ought to know all
the stories about Matilda by heart. You boys were born and
bred in Bliss, and with Jeb being a history buff and all,
too."
"C'mon, Pappy," Jeb insisted. "Was she really a witch?"
"Or just some weird lady from England?" Marsh squinted.
"I bet she was a witch," said Jeb. "I even bet they tried
to burn her at the stake, the way everybody said. That's
why she came toAmerica in the first place. Huh, Pappy?"
Pappy considered, surveying the star-studded night sky. "I
reckon no one really knows, seeing as Matilda came to
Bliss in the 1700s. She'd brought enough money to the one-
block mining town to build the house overlooking the
spring. People claimed she'd come with only a Native
American guide to help carry two worn leather trunks. It
was said he was a Cherokee medicine man who'd offered
Matilda safe passage across the mountains in exchange for
her secret blends of curative teas. Some said she wasn't a
witch at all, but that she came to Bliss because her teas
could only reach full potency when blended with the
world's finest water." Pappy smiled. "And that means from
Spice Spring."
"But how'd she hear about the spring if she was living in
England?" Marsh asked.
Pappy shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, kid."
Suddenly shuddering, Jeb stared across the spring,
settling his gaze where the surface glimmered under
moonlight. When his eyes found the opposite shore, they
floated up the stone steps carved into the mountainside
and stopped at the top of the hill, on the old Victorian
house that local kids had nicknamed Teasdale's Terror.
The women who lived there now each went by the last name
of Anderson, not Teasdale, but they were related to
Matilda. Anderson was a name that one of the women — no
one really knew which one — had gotten by marriage. How
summer visitors managed to stay in the huge house, now a
bed-and-breakfast, Jeb would never know. The place looked
about as homey as Dracula's castle. He wondered if
Michelle McNulty had really bought magical teas there last
summer, the way she'd claimed. Every year, Michelle came
from Charleston with her family and rented a cabin on the
water, but this year she seemed…well, grown up.
It wasn't just that she'd gotten a job waitressing at
Jack's on Bliss Run Road, then had started moonlighting by
helping to construct booths for the upcoming Harvest
Festival, taking place at the end of the week. There were
other changes, like how she'd filled out under her T-
shirts more than most soon-to-be high-school freshmen.
When she fixed Jeb a pie or soda, he could see her breasts
sway under cotton and even make out her nipples pointing
out, thanks to the air-conditioning Jack blasted in the
diner.
This summer, Michelle had quit holding Jeb's gaze, as if
she'd realized her looks were affecting him and couldn't
handle it. Not that Jeb could offer any advice, but he did
have fantasies of sitting beside her in the Bliss theater,
the only place in town showing first-run movies.
Afterward, he figured he might cup her knee with his hand,
then run it ever so slowly upward on her thigh….
"Ah," murmured Pappy, following Jeb's gaze, "The Teasdale
Terror House."
"Now, are those witches really related to Matilda?" asked
Marsh, speaking of the Andersons — the great-grandmother
and two generations of daughters. A fourth Anderson, Ariel
Anderson, had flown the coup years ago. "Maybe they really
did kill their husbands," he added darkly. "That's what
some people say."
"I don't think they're witches," Pappy chided. "When you
see them in town, you know as well as I do that they're
always polite."
"A cover," assured Jeb.
Pappy chuckled. "They do dress weird."
"All in black," added Marsh. "Like someone died."
"Their husbands." Jeb nodded with assurance. "The oldest
one's got to be a hundred years old. They say she still
moves like lightning, and uses a broomstick, instead of a
cane. None of them ever go to the movies or take
vacations."
Marsh looked vindicated. "And they sell those teas." Pappy
smiled. "The ladies do own a tearoom, boys."
"They don't have friends," Marsh continued. "And no one
will go up there in the winter," added Jeb, although he'd
done so on a dare once. It had been a snowy night, and
when he'd reached the wraparound porch and prepared to
ring the doorbell, the wind had picked up, howling in his
ears, and he'd wrenched around, staring toward the woods
where Marsh and their buddies had sworn they'd wait. He'd
seen only evergreens, which he'd figured sheltered
everything from ghosts to bobcats.
Just as he'd been about to press the doorbell, Jeb had
heard a branch break. Wolves in the woods, he'd thought,
then leaves had rustled, and Jeb had realized, someone —
or something — was pushing aside the underbrush, moving
toward him, steadily.
That's when Sam Anderson — Sam was short for Samantha —
had swung open the heavy front door so swiftly that it had
snapped backward on its groaning hinges; the heavy brass
demon-head knocker clanked and wind ruffled a white apron
Sam had worn over a long black dress. She was Granny
Anderson's daughter and Ariel's mother. "What are you
doing out there, Jeb Pass? Why, you'd better come in. It's
colder than a witch's —" Chuckling, she'd cut off her
speech and scrutinized him through devilish eyes.
Spinning around, he'd run all the way down witches
mountain, sure that whatever he'd heard chasing him was
huge and hairy, with claws that could shred him to pieces.
Of course, that had been years ago. Way back in seventh
grade.
"In the winter, all they do is read books from the
library," Marsh was saying.
"Giblets is the only one they ever talk to. Miss Gibbet,"
Jeb corrected. Elsinore Gibbet, the librarian, was well
past sixty and as scrawny as a chicken, with extra skin
under her chin and a chirpy voice that had inspired local
kids to call her Chicken Giblets. Jeb continued, "At the
library, she showed me a history book that says weird
stuff's always gone on in Bliss, Pappy. Starting in the
1700s —"
"After Matilda came to town," Marsh put in.
"They say there started to be periods of time when…"
"Something goes…well, buggy," Pappy suggested. Jeb
nodded. "And because of it, Miss Gibbet said people used
to come from all over the place, just to swim in Spice
Spring."
"From as far away as China," continued Marsh.
"Especially during summers like this one," Pappy
added. "When the water's been chilled by a series of cold
snaps, then the weather heats up again. And during such a
summer, when the sun, moon and stars align just right,
they say a dip in Spice Spring can change your life.
Especially your love life."
Jeb thought of Michelle and felt his cheeks warm. Pappy
went on. "At the end of the summer, folks used to come
here from bigger towns to bottle the water. And of course,
they'd head up the hill, to the Andersons', for medicinal
teas."
Jeb thought of the mysterious book of tea recipes said to
have been handed down by Matilda. According to rumor, the
book had a cloth cover and pages so yellow and brittle
that it had to be kept in a safe in the witches' root
cellar.
As every kid in Bliss knew, the Anderson women had taken
to hiding from the public and wearing black. Except for
the youngest one, Ariel. When she'd kissed the witch house
and tearoom goodbye and roared out of Bliss on her Harley
Davidson motorcycle eleven years ago, she'd been wearing
red fishnets, a tight leather miniskirt and a top that had
looked more like fancy underwear. Jeb had only been five
years old, but it was the sort of moment no one ever
forgot.
Later, he'd heard all the hot gossip about the sexy things
she'd done with Studs Underwood, years before he'd gotten
elected sheriff. Even now, Jeb's face colored, since some
of the local guys could get pretty descriptive when it
came to tales of Ariel.
"When the moon's just right and the stars align," Marsh
began again. "And they make teas with water from Spice
Spring…is that when you get cured from whatever's
bothering you?"
"Not so much illnesses," said Pappy. "But matters of the
heart. You know, sadness. Loneliness. That sort of thing.
At least, that's what I always heard. And of course, those
women make love potions." Pappy raised a bony finger. "But
don't you start getting ideas about stealing that book of
theirs. Attempts have never been successful."
"I'd hate to get the widows mad," admitted Marsh.
"I remember," Pappy continued, "just a couple years back,
the sheriff got called up to the tearoom. Somebody had
taken a hatchet to the root-cellar door, tied a rope
around the safe and tried to drag it up the steps."
"Guess they couldn't get it open," Marsh offered.
"I heard about that," said Jeb. "It took three men to haul
it back downstairs." He followed his grandfather's gaze
over the water. The source of the spring was deeper than
Jeb and his buddies could dive, although they'd spent
summers trying. Once, Jeb had gotten close enough to feel
the heat bubbling from beneath; it was as if a hole had
opened onto the earth's fiery core.
The spring's source was directly under the mountain on
which Terror House was perched. It was as if the spring
itself had given rise to the steep, conical, lushly
vegetated hill, as well as the house that sat on top, like
a dark cherry. It was weird, Jeb thought, how the spring,
rather than coal, had become the town's black gold. That,
and the visitors summering there.
"At least the Core Coal Company didn't wind up strip-
mining here," Jeb said.
Pappy nodded his agreement. "If they'd done that, you
wouldn't see a spot of green left in these hills."
Jeb had been studying that piece of town lore, so he knew
that, in the late seventies, when the economy had been at
its worst, the Lyons family had begun to buy land,
promising to develop the area as a summer resort. Later,
everyone had found that the consortium they'd belonged to
was actually planning to strip-mine, which would have left
the hills barren. Without vegetation to filter rainwater,
the crystal spring would have been destroyed.
Jeb sighed. None of that had happened, thankfully. Eli
Saltwell, now a crotchety old recluse pushing ninety, had
uncovered the plot and told everybody in town. So, Bliss
had become a summer resort, but one run by locals, not the
consortium. It didn't have the promised fancy hotels, but
then, most people felt that was just as well, since out-of-
towners came anyway.
In another week, after the Harvest Festival, the summer
visitors would be gone, though. Michelle would be gone.
Jeb's heart squeezed in a way that was both unwelcome and
unfamiliar. He'd give anything to kiss her once. Maybe
even slip his hand under her shirt and cup a breast. His
throat tightened as he imagined her sweet pink lips
parting, asking for more….
Pappy's voice drew him from the reverie, and before Jeb
could concentrate on the words, he was conscious once more
of the thick, dark blanket of air around him, and of the
red-yellow glow of logs crackling on the fire, not to
mention the pup tent and his unrolled sleeping bag. He
heard the hoot of an owl, the whine of crickets, and then
stared up at the impossibly yellow globe of a full moon
hanging in the sky, bisected by the turret.