The house on the lake was easily accessible by the driftwood planks fashioned into a bridge some decades ago. No one is sure who created the bridge. It certainly wasn't the house's owner as there are stories in the town records that depict members of the township accessing the tiny isle and the tinier house by boat or, in one desperate situation involving the illness of a child, by swimming in the chilly autumnal waters.
Torma guessed that it was members of the township who built the bridge, tired of hiring the one boat that would travel the lake at an exorbitant price from Mr. Waynesbry who lived next to the lake and was the closest town member to the witch. He was also the quietest.
She sat at the edge of the lake almost daily, watching the house from lunch until dinner, when she had to leave and go make something resembling a meal for herself and her younger brother. Today she returned after diner and when Tobias was out playing with the other neighborhood kids. She supposed she should keep a closer eye on him but the house kept calling to her, more so lately.
The moon was already rising despite the sun still being up and the sky still a pale denim blue. It reflected on the calm lake water like a ghost. Torma only glanced at it a moment, unwilling to remove her eyes from the house for more than a moment.
It was such a tiny house. She couldn't imagine it had more than one room. Perhaps there was a loft above, since the roof was so steep. A light shone golden from the window and flickered to show that it was from fire or candle light. No electricity reached the lake, even to Mr. Waynesbry who even had an outhouse. The house on the lake didn't have an outhouse, there was no room for such things.
Torma moved from her usual lakeside position among the dried fall leaves and the chilly shade of the rowan trees and went to the edge of the bridge. She had never so much as stepped on the first plank of the bridge. No one did unless they needed something desperately from the witch. She didn't need anything so badly, not really.
James MacCoy was the last person to visit the house. He had badly injured his leg during football practice season. It was his senior year and everyone knew he would be a shoe-in for a scholarship. He would have a chance to get out of this town, but it was all lost with his injury. He would never play again, the doctor said. He visited the house before the first game of the season. He played the next night, scored every touchdown and now had a full ride to State.
The first plank was rough and splintery under Torma's blue flats. It creaked a little as she put her weight on it. Looking up, realizing how long the bridge stretched from shore to tiny island, she pulled her sweater in close around her. It felt soft from years of wear and though the elbows were thinning, it was warm. She made another step.
Gale Hollingsworth came to the house on the isle six years before James, after she had her third miscarriage. Torma babysat for her triplets on occasion They were hellions with bright red hair like flames. Gale was brunette and Mr. Hollingsworth was tow-headed like the rest of his family. Torma thought their hair looked like fairy-lights as they ran through the back yard playing strange imaginary games that only they knew the rules to; don't step in a ring of mushrooms or be careful not to roll in the bed of clovers!
In the middle of the bridge, the creaking was louder and Torma was suddenly aware of just how old this bridge was. It could fall through, she thought. I could end up in the water. How cold would it be? I can't swim. Father was always a hopeless swimmer.
On Halloween, kids would crowd near the lake. If the owner of the house is a witch, surely she would come out on that sacred night and fly against the blood moon. They never saw her and spent hours trying to coax the bravest of them to run across the bridge and touch the old oak door. Torma was never very brave.
There were only three planks away from the island. Torma walked across these barely breathing. The wind was harsher on the island and it whipped her ash-blonde hair against her face and left her cheeks candy-apple red under her freckles.
The house rose up before her like the face of an elderly man. The golden window now looked like demon eyes, watching her. The door was a toothless mouth, open in a wide yawn and ready to swallow her up. The few birch trees on the island loomed around her and gave more shade than they should have been capable as their bare limbs stretched to scratch the sky.
Now that she reached the island, Torma wasn't sure why she was here. The house was only a few paces in front of her and was as foreboding as it was tempting.
The door knob and knocker were unnervingly shiny, the only thing bright and clean on the whole dirt-brown house. Age had no touched these gleaming bits of brass. Torma touched the glow of the knocker. It was icy under her fingertips and seemed to long for the warmth of her hand. She folded her fingers around it, the chill burning her skin.
She knocked once, twice, thrice.
A rustle within like dead leaves and logs crackling on the fire was heard through the door. Torma released the knocker and took a step back. Finally her brain seemed to scream at her with reason. What am I doing here? What am I doing? What? What?
She would have ran back down the bridge, just like the kids on Halloween, but her legs would not move. She could not blink or swallow though her eyes and throat were as dry as dust.
The door opened.
