An old lady sits on top of the hill just above our Old Creek Mill cabin each afternoon. No one talks to her, and she doesn't talk to anyone either. She just sits there, watches us, not really saying a word. Some people say she's a witch or something that goes around and plays with voodoo. Other people say she's a widowed woman and that her husband was an Army veteran and was killed in the war. Other people, they shrug and say that she's a doctor who had lost her mind.
She climbs up the hill at around three in the afternoon, where she sits under a large oak tree on top of the hill and waits until it gets dark. Then, she would go down the hill and disappear under the cover of the thick trees that line across the creepy, dark forest. Kids call the forest the Demon's Woodland – and they feared it. Also one reason why they don't dare to check on the creepy woman.
I guess no one would really know, since no one ventured far enough to ask her and she doesn't even start a conversation with us. Her house is probably under the cover of the thick forest that indented the Gunnysack Lake, which is a small tributary lake that flows towards Big Lake. No one really knows how she feeds herself.
She earns a few bucks from the flowers she sells to the florist in the village. But the florist doesn't know anything about her either. She just says a few words of greeting, then bunks the baskets of beautiful flowers on the florist's table then takes the money and leaves.
I guess we all just lived on assumptions about her.
I moved in the place several months ago, during April, when my Mom walked out on my Dad and me, and then my Dad died in New York. I lived with my Uncle Bob, who looks after Northern Washington and Mount Baker National Park, just a few yards north of Demon's Woodland. I have met a few kids my age, most of them were going to the same school I go to – Old Creek High. A lot of these kids make up stories about the woman on top of the hill. For a small town, well, you always know about the gossip mill.
Melissa Blake, the Latina Old Creek High's head cheerleader, snorts across the table during lunch. I sit on the corner, just behind her back, enjoying my salami sandwich my uncle had made me. I heard her chortle loud enough, and her laughter was followed by her other cheerleader mates.
"I saw her in the cover of the shadows a few weeks ago, during the full moon. She's walking on Duvet street," Melissa Blake said in a creepy voice. "I swear I could hear her mumble something in another language...totally freaky."
"Hey, new girl..." someone from Melissa's table calls me. I turned around to see who's calling me. Ah, Judy Barnes, a blonde, blue-eyed girl that sits next to Melissa.
I cowered next to them. "Y-yes?"
Melissa eyes me sharply. "You're the new girl that lives near Demon's Woodland with Ranger Bob?" she curiously asks me.
I stammered. "Y-yeah...we...I just moved a few months ago."
Judy turns to me. "Heard the rumors well enough?" she sees me nod and she clicks her tongue. "Stay away from Old Moon-face Woman."
"Who?" I ask, although definitely I knew what she meant.
"You know who you need to stay away from," Melissa said harshly at me as the bell rung. They all scrammed up to get up and go to their classes. I was left to sit on the messy table. Seconds later, I also went to my own class – thinking about Old Moon-face Woman.
Classes went on, and rumors about the Old Moon-face Woman still milled around the school. Sometimes, the cheerleaders would share about the weird things the old lady has been doing. Old Woman this, Old Woman that – in fact, it was endless.
One time, Rudy Barnes, Judy's younger brother said that Old Moon-face Woman was on his balcony, reaching out to him, coaxing him to jump and go with her into Demon Woodland. Everyone seemed to believe him, because Rudy was a popular guy and popular guys are always listened to.
Parties are held, and I go to them, though I usually turn in earlier than anyone. Rumors mill around whenever a group of kids come around. At around the first week of October, one farmer turned up dead just south of Demon's Woodland. Although the doctor said it was an acute coronary attack that killed him while he was out in the pasture, the rumors that Old Moon-face Woman had killed him using spells and voodoo heightened to its prime.
Small town gossip goes around faster than a fire devours a dry wheat field.
I asked my uncle about the old woman that night and he just shrugged. It's something that's so unusual about Uncle Bob, because he knows so much about anything – except Old Moon-face Woman.
"I dun' know, Carly. Ne'er stops to chat or talk to anyone. Been here for four years already, but known nuthin' 'bout her, kid. Ask anyone 'bout her, not one soul'd know," Uncle Bob shrugged across the table as he devours his organic food and kale juice.
"D'ya think she killed the old guy 'cross town, Uncle?" I asked.
"Nah, kin't do such thing, kid," Uncle Bob smiled sadly. "Man died 'cause he did. Not some kin' of voodoo lounging around. Who'd put such ghoulish thoughts in ya' mind, huh?"
I shrugged. I think he knew the answer. He did. "Dun' lit them kids and them talkin' get to you kid."
That night, I looked out to Demon's Woodland and didn't see anything unnatural such as weird bonfires. I didn't hear anything abnormal like chanting or something. The leaves and the branches rattled across my window pane and I saw a light flicker from a distance – then it went off.
Old Moon-face Woman seemed to be sleeping tight in her bed already.
It wasn't until All Soul's Day that I actually had a chance to experience anything regarding Old Moon-face Woman. All day, it had been an overcast sky. Uncle Bob was busy rattling the window panes and the shutters in case a storm comes along because it looked like one was coming our way. He knocked into my door at around four in the afternoon and told me to walk the dog and get him to poop. I conceded heartily, since I'd love to take a walk, too.
"Dun' ya' try and lose that dog, ya' kid, or ya'll break y'er dear uncle's fragile heart. Be careful out tha'. Wolves are a'lurkin' 'round," he said as I unlatched the gate that wound up around the cabin. I just smiled at him in return.
Golden, Uncle Bob's dog was a grand old Alaskan elkhound with silvery-white hair. He's a good-shaped dog, too. We were a couple of yards away from cabin my Uncle and I shared and some yards from the first screen of trees that mark the entrance into Demon's Woodland.
Just thinking about the stories that lurk underneath the shadows of those trees made my stomach turn into knots and I kinda felt dizzy so I looked down. I saw my left shoe with its lace untied. Clutching at Golden's leash one last time and telling him to sit down, I let go of the leash and bent down to tie my shoe back.
And then Golden started barking and running at the same time. The leash went away from my hand's reach and all I see was this furry being, barking and running into the depths of Demon's Woodland. Without second thoughts, I ran after Golden.
"Golden!" I yelled across the trees. "Golden, come here boy!"
No one answered. Not even Golden's whimpers. I kept on walking. That, until I slipped on a tree root and I lost my balance and fell onto the ground and started rolling, and landed into a pit below, my left foot held by two other roots. I think I broke my left wrist.
I heard a howl that's definitely not Golden's.
I started to get scared. Wolves are no stranger to this woodlands. And Demon's Woodland or not, I am going to be a wolf pack's snack if I don't get out of here. "Help!" I started to yell. "Help! Uncle Bob! Help, somebody...help me!"
It was getting dark. Uncle Bob would've been worried sick by now. Still, I had to get out of these roots. The howls were becoming nearer and nearer. I whimpered. How many sixteen-year old kids have been devoured by wolves?
Until a shadow blocked my own view. Dear God, I just died. I thought. Or so I thought. I felt my left leg spring lose from the roots and I looked up to see who saved me.
Old Moon-face Woman. She's looking down on me. Her eyes were the darkest shades of brown and they looked like pieces of black pearls that line at Tiffany's in New York. Her face isn't that old. There are not much wrinkles in her face, but her eyes...there's a sadness lurking in them. There's something so sad about her that it radiates and all I can hear is my own screaming. I screamed because I was so scared and confused why she isn't taking my heart and guts out to offer to the Devil.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she croaked. "You're having wounds up on your arms. And your wrist is broken."
I screamed. "No...no, don't touch me!" I imagined all the nasty scenes in my mind, just like those in the Wrong Turn movies, where I'll get shot in the eyes and my blood is drained and stuff like that.
"You've been watching to many horror movies..." she mumbled and looked at me. "Come on, I'll help you. My name is Santana, by the way," she said, but she did not smile.
"Sa-" I tried to process it. "Yo-you're name...is Santana?" it came out as a squeak.
"Yeah," Santana said. "My house is up there, so can you walk or have you broken a leg, too?" she asked and she tried to help me walking by slinging my right arm on her shoulders. I am limping – must be a dislocated ankle.
"You might be having a dislocated ankle," she noted. "You must have had a pretty bad fall, huh?" she asked.
"Yeah," I answered, feeling rather – terrified.
"So, what brought you here in the woods? No one comes here," she asked, her face grave and serious. If there's one person who doesn't know how to smile – well, first prize goes to this Santana.
"My Uncle's dog...he ran into this way," I answered. "I chased after him."
"And you slipped and you fell?" she asked again, her gaze was stone-cold.
"Yeah."
"Bummer," she countered. After that, she didn't speak anymore. She just led me into the house that she had.
It was a cabin. A bungalow-type of cabin that had a deep, elevated porch. Several dreamcatchers hung around the windows and the entryways. The furniture was all wood, and so was the floor. There was a small wooden couch on the far end of the L-shaped porch. There were a lot of birds that were probably stuffed and preserved and a lot of skeletons hanging around. But the blinds were pulled down.
She flicked the light on and lit up the fireplace. Silently, I sat on another wooden couch, much bigger than the one outside when she rummaged through the kitchen for her first aid kit. I looked around the room and saw a small stairway that led to a loft just above half of the place. I could see that the loft's roof was glass.
She eyed me and just shook her head, silently. Then she put down a few first aid increments. A brown bandage roll, several securing pins, a bottle of sodium iodine solution, a blue bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a roll of gauze cloth. She stood up to retrieve a pickle-jar of cotton balls sitting on the top cupboard of her kitchen.
Cautiously, I watched her from my stance. She stood up again and walked to the back of her kitchen, and I took my time to look around me. On the far side of the room, just behind the staircase was a desk. One could see that it was made out of teak wood. A teak wood straight-back chair was sitting behind it. On its far side, shelves and shelves of books were lined up. Most of them were too plaid and too brown for my liking.
She came back, bringing a basin of clear water and a clean wiping towel slung on her arm. She put it down on the low coffee table sitting next to me and started to roll up my torn sleeves and she washed my wounds and scratches – without a word.
While she was doing this, I chanced to look up at the small part of the house where a couple of pictures hung. There was one photograph, laden with a golden-brown frame with copper bands on the side was a picture of fifteen people, all lined up in three rows, smiling at the camera.
Five men stood on the topmost and first row, from the left side, one was wearing a dark-blue suit, his hair curly and his face a lot more mature than the others, next to him was an unfazed-looking Asian boy wearing a black tie underneath his blue suit. The other one, was wearing a red-and-blue checkered polo shirt, his bushy blonde hair hanging lose and his lips were overly large, but he was smiling at the camera with a doofus look on his face. The guy next to him looked like a giant compared to anyone. He wore a green hoodie, loosely opened and underneath his hoodie was a gray shirt that says: PROPERTY OF McKINLEY HIGH. He was sporting a lopsided smile. Next to him was a mohawked man who was lazily looking at the camera. The last on the row was a shiny, polished man wearing a tight-fitting red-and-white shirt and a red bow-tie.
On the second row, there were four girls and a lanky, shiny boy. From the left, one girl was a pudgy Black, standing next other was a blonde girl with pink wisps on the ends of her hair, wearing a yellow sundress topped with a see-through white blazer. The shiny cream-colored guy stood next to them. The two other girls, who were smiling at the camera next to the shiny boy was intimately close to each other. One was blonde and one was raven-haired. They were holding each other close and they were wearing cheerleader's uniforms marked with big, bold WMHS letters in striking red, with white outlines.
On the third row, from my left, all I see was a short ginger woman standing beside a paraplegic in wheelchairs and glasses. Next to him was a wide-smiling, beaky-nosed girl wearing her bangs across her eyes. She's probably the shortest of them, but she exudes this energy and happiness that's probably reaching her other companions next to the photograph. She was wearing argyles and to honestly say, I'd say she knocked the argyle look. Next to her was an Asian girl wearing a pink dress.
There's something about them.
I didn't realize that I was looking at the photograph, until Santana hit a sore spot in the cuts that made me whimper.
"Sorry," she apologized.
"It's fine," I said as she continued to wash my wound, but I could tell she's becoming a lot more careful than earlier. I roamed my eyes on her face, and then it hit me.
She's the raven-haired cheerleader in the picture.
I looked and saw the other pictures – there were just four of them, including the one I just saw. One was a photograph of three. It was a lot older compared to every photograph on the wall. In it was Santana and what seemed to be her family. A family of Hispanics.
The other photograph was the another picture of the blonde cheerleader and her, although in the photograph, they were not wearing any cheer uniforms, but she was wearing a black handkerchief on her head to tie up her raven-colored hair, and the blonde was wearing a green blouse. The blonde had her hair tied up into a bun, and they seemed to look so happy. The digital calendar behind their back told me that the year was 2012.
That year was just eleven years ago.
The other photograph was a picture of Santana and another blonde wearing a white apron under her red-clothed torso, with a tight short-sleeved red blouse, lined up with white buttons. A nameplate stood gloriously on her left side – Dani. Santana wore the same outfit, although she had the sleeveless one and she wore a nameplate, too. Her name was there.
In all those photographs that I saw, Santana seemed a lot younger, and I finally realized how beautiful she would have looked when she was smiling. Suddenly, there was an ache in my chest when I realized that ever since she had talked to me, she never smiled.
I realized that Santana was not an old woman after all. She was just a lonely, silent soul. Hungry for love and affection and understanding. And people around Old Creek Mills misconceived it.
"Hold out your broken wrist so I can put a splint on it," she said and I followed her.
"Who were those in the pictures?" I suddenly found myself asking and I can't help but to mentally slap myself because that must have sounded so rude.
"None that you knew, kid," she just replied. She had quickly fixed my arm and my leg and I am fine as new again in less than thirty minutes after she set me up. She stood up and washed the bloody cloth on the basin.
"Thank you," I stood up as I realized it was my cue to leave. "Thanks a lot, Santana."
She didn't answer. Instead, she just stood there, looking at me. I kinda felt that she didn't want people to know about our encounter. I feel a little awkward and queasy, but then again, I gathered my confidence and spoke to her. "I should be going now. I still have to look for Golden. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."
She just stayed silent.
So I left her house that night. I left her house and she didn't even draw up one single blind to see if I was making the right way. I found my way home and I saw that Golden was waiting for me at the edge of the forest.
Uncle Bob wasn't there when I reached the house. He was in the Hayworth's hardware store, or as what his note on the fridge told me and that he's gonna be home by six-thirty in the evening.
When we sat to dinner that night, the rain was battering against the thick glass, I quickly told him my story, that was minus the trip that I made into Santana's house. Because for now, the knowledge I have about Santana felt like it was supposed to be my secret – my very own secret.