The Sleepwalkers by J. Gabriel Gates Page B

fearsome scowl melts away and is replaced by a look of childish disappointment. She scratches her head with the knife-blade, almost as if confused, then sniffs and covers her breasts with her arms. Her shoulders hunch over and she seems to collapse in on herself.
    “I was hoping you’d know, Billy,” she mumbles. “I was really hoping.” “I’m sorry,” says Caleb, not knowing what else to say.
    The witch looks at the boys and tries a smile. It seems she’s putting up a mighty fight to hold back tears. She looks down at her mud-stained bare feet.
    “You boys want a Coke?” she asks. The question might be directed to her toes, but Caleb answers:
    “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
    “Ahright,” she says. “There’s a hose over there. You boys put out the fire and come in when you’re done. Don’t step in the circle. And don’t forget to wash yourselves up out here—you know the water don’t work inside.”
    Caleb had no idea the water didn’t work inside, but he obeys just the same, walking around to the side of the trailer with Bean in tow, turning on the water, and dragging the dirty green hose across the field of stars. On the way back to the fire, they pass the witch. She’s walking to the trailer, taking small steps, her arms full with her hunting knife, cowbell, and the book, on the spine of which Caleb reads the words: Holy Bible . As she passes them, the witch gives a little nod and wistfully mumbles:
    “Little Billy.”
    Bean only speaks once during their chore: as the fire gives up the ghost, he looks at Caleb, snorts, and says, “Dude, you owe me big-time.”

    As they mount the steps to the trailer, Bean pauses behind Caleb.
    “You hear that?”
    “No, what?”
    Bean frowns. “Nothing, I guess. Sounded like a crackly whisper or something. I thought it was coming from under the steps. Never mind, I’m just cracking up. Let’s get this over with.”
    The screen door moans as Caleb pulls it wide and sticks his head inside the trailer. A wave of nausea twists his gut instantly; the place stinks so bad he turns his head away.
    “Billy? Billy, come in,” the woman says. Her tone is pleasant, matronly.
    Caleb takes a deep breath and steps into the trailer. The reeking, stagnant air is so pungent he can almost taste it. Flies are everywhere, zipping into his ears and bouncing off his arms, tangling themselves in his hair. What must be the remains of fifty TV dinners lie stacked, one upon the other, on a flimsy-looking dining table. The carpet crunches with crumbs, and its stickiness tugs at the soles of his shoes with every step.
    He hears Bean exhale sharply behind him. Caleb figures his friend’s reaction is probably to the filth of the place, but there is plenty else to be shocked about. Both guys are forced to duck, because what must be thousands of Native American dream catchers hang by little threads from the ceiling. Some are wound together with dusty old cobwebs. A stack of yellowing newspapers as high as Bean is tall sits in one corner, behind a plastic-covered recliner. Caleb presses deeper into the living room. In front of a worn, brown couch, on a badly scratched coffee table, sit a Ouija board, what must be six or seven decks of tarot cards, a book entitled Hearing Ghosts: A Guide to Communicating with the Spirit World by someone named Chuck Macomb, and several old bottles of whiskey, most of them long since cashed.
    “Seriously,” whispers Bean, “if we don’t get out of here, I’m going to puke.”
    They hear the familiar slam of a fridge door, and the witch appears from a doorway veiled by strings of clicking beads. She has a can of Coke in each hand.
    “Here, here, take them. Sit down. Let’s talk about my Annie,” she says, settling into the recliner and gesturing to the couch.
    Despite its dark color and the dim light (the only illumination is provided by a lamp made in the shape of a horse head in the far end of the room), they can clearly see that the couch is badly