Dolores Proctor...hadn't Alan just heard Prunella's mother mention a long-dead
relative by that name? Surely this girl couldn't be who she claimed to be.
Yet he had a distinct feeling that something was different about her--something
that set her apart from every other girl he had met. It couldn't be love...he
didn't believe in love at first sight.
As Alan mused, the girl who had introduced herself as Dolores "Dolly" Proctor wandered over to a nearby window, where she stood and gazed in wonder at the surrounding neighborhood. After a few seconds she turned and asked Alan, "What place is this?"
"It's Elwood City," replied Alan without moving from his location in front of the charred locket.
"In which colony?" asked "Dolly".
Although annoyed by the girl's insistence on pretending that she was from the past, Alan decided to play along, supposing he might be part of some silly charade. "Uh, they're not colonies anymore," he answered. "The United States became independent from Great Britain in..."
Suddenly Prunella rushed up the stairway into the attic, clutching a large fire extinguisher. Hurrying toward where Alan was standing, she stopped when she noticed that the locket was no longer in flames, and that no fire was to be seen anywhere. "Oh, it's out," she said with relief.
Dolly, upon seeing that another girl had entered the room, smiled and curtsied again. "Hello."
Prunella whirled and screeched in terror when she saw the strange, oddly-dressed girl who had somehow appeared in the attic. Her panic caused her to squeeze the trigger of the extinguisher, shooting a chemical burst directly at Dolly's face. In an instant both girls were screaming with fright, and Dolly was covered from head to skirt in flame retardant.
"Stop!" ordered Alan, putting his hand over Prunella's until she released the trigger. But then Prunella saw something that scared her even more...a hysterical-looking rat girl whose face, hair, and dress were completely white...
"A ghost!" shrieked Prunella, and once again impulsively fired the extinguisher, coating Dolly with another layer of sodium bicarbonate.
Alan quickly ripped the extinguisher from Prunella's hands. "Are you crazy?" he bellowed. "Come on, let's get her in the shower!"
As Dolly whimpered and dolefully examined her chemical-soaked dress, Alan and Prunella grabbed her arms and started to lead her down the attic stairway and into the bathroom. Prunella immediately turned the shower water on to full blast, and pushed Dolly into the tub so that the water could rinse the sticky, mildly corrosive substance from her skin and clothing. She then took a bath sponge and began to scrub Dolly's face. "Alan, who is this girl?" she asked. "Where did she come from?"
"She claims to be a relative of yours," Alan replied.
While Prunella was trying to loosen the string that would allow her to remove Dolly's bonnet, her mother suddenly appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. "What's going on?" the woman asked.
"Uh, hi, Mrs. Prufrock," said Alan anxiously. "Would you mind staying out of the attic long enough for me to come up with a convincing alibi?"
His words had the opposite effect, unfortunately. Mrs. Prufrock hurried up the stairway toward the attic, and moments later, as Prunella was unbuttoning Dolly's waterlogged dress, she and Alan heard an anguished scream.
Prunella pointed out the obvious. "We are in big trouble."
"Don't worry," said Alan, who was helping her to pull off Dolly's chemical-stained dress. "I'll give her a complicated scientific explanation she won't understand."
Alan and Prunella stood breathlessly as angry footsteps sounded from the stairway. Dolly, clad only in a pink petticoat, stockings, and brown cowhide shoes, tried to scrape the clinging flame retardant from her hands. Her dress lay at her feet, shower water pouring over it.
Mrs. Prufrock stood in the doorway again, her face livid. "What happened?" she roared, holding up the two segments of the ruined locket.
Then she saw Dolly's face...and dropped the locket pieces in shock.
"My apologies, ma'am," Dolly said to her. "'Twas my fault the locket was damaged. I shall gladly go about the village doing chores until I have recompensed thee its full value."
Her mouth gaping open, her face pale, Mrs. Prufrock slowly stepped out of the bathroom, turned, and leaned against the wall. "It's impossible," she mumbled to herself. "It's impossible..."
----
"I think every high school student should be required to read 'The Crucible'," Mr. Winslow told Mr. and Mrs. Read as they sat in the living room of the Read home. "Arthur Miller may have written it about McCarthyism, but it's also important to remember the Salem witch trials, so that nothing like that ever happens again."
"You think it will?" asked Mrs. Read. "I mean, nobody believes in witches anymore, right?"
"Wrong," replied Winslow. "Why, just the other day, I..."
Then a musical ring tone was heard...it was the Dies Irae.
"That must be for me," said Winslow, reaching for the cell phone attached to his belt. "Hello? Oh, Mrs. Prufrock. Have you had time to..."
Winslow stopped talking, and his eyes started to grow wider and wider.
"I'll be there right away," he said in a slow, hushed voice. Closing up his phone and rising to his size-14 feet, he announced, "I need to attend to some urgent business. Thanks for letting me visit you and your wife, Dave."
The Reads also stood up. "I'm sorry you have to leave so soon," said Mr. Read. "You haven't met my son Arthur yet."
"I'll come back tomorrow," said Winslow, who was making a hasty break for the front door. "I was planning on going home tonight, but my plans have changed."
He was through the door and heading down the sidewalk before the Reads had a chance to shake hands with him.
Mr. Read sighed happily. "Witch Boy Winslow. What a guy."
"What kind of demented person uses the Dies Irae for a ring tone?" Mrs. Read wondered aloud.
----
The girl who called herself Dolly Proctor, wearing one of Prunella's dresses that was several sizes too large for her, sat on the couch in the Prufrock home, staring at the "box with moving pictures" known to modern people as the television. Next to her sat Prunella and her 16-year-old sister Rubella, who were enjoying the latest reality program.
"I never dreamed it possible," mused Dolly, whose hair was still speckled with streaks of flame retardant. "A device that carries music and theatre from a faraway location to one's home."
"I guess you didn't have TV in your century," said Rubella. "It wasn't invented until, like, 1900, I think."
"Why are all the plays so short?" asked Dolly. "I attended a Shakespeare play and it lasted for hours. And why do the actors drink from bottles all the time?"
"Those are called commercials," Rubella informed her.
Dolly gestured toward the TV screen. "What is this play called?"
"Mr. Face," Rubella answered. "This girl has to choose from, like, twenty guys, but the guys aren't allowed to talk, so she doesn't know anything about their personalities."
"In my century, a woman would never have so much power over her life," said Dolly. "This century is so much more advanced."
"Can't...look...away...from...screen," mumbled the bleary-eyed Prunella.
The doorbell rang, and Mrs. Prufrock put her kitchen implements aside to answer it. Mr. Winslow once again towered over her. "Come in," she invited him.
Winslow wasted no time. In a second he was standing next to the TV, thoughtfully scrutinizing Dolly's facial features. The girl, intrigued by the attention of a tall stranger, jumped to her feet and curtsied.
"Incredible," he muttered.
TBC
As Alan mused, the girl who had introduced herself as Dolores "Dolly" Proctor wandered over to a nearby window, where she stood and gazed in wonder at the surrounding neighborhood. After a few seconds she turned and asked Alan, "What place is this?"
"It's Elwood City," replied Alan without moving from his location in front of the charred locket.
"In which colony?" asked "Dolly".
Although annoyed by the girl's insistence on pretending that she was from the past, Alan decided to play along, supposing he might be part of some silly charade. "Uh, they're not colonies anymore," he answered. "The United States became independent from Great Britain in..."
Suddenly Prunella rushed up the stairway into the attic, clutching a large fire extinguisher. Hurrying toward where Alan was standing, she stopped when she noticed that the locket was no longer in flames, and that no fire was to be seen anywhere. "Oh, it's out," she said with relief.
Dolly, upon seeing that another girl had entered the room, smiled and curtsied again. "Hello."
Prunella whirled and screeched in terror when she saw the strange, oddly-dressed girl who had somehow appeared in the attic. Her panic caused her to squeeze the trigger of the extinguisher, shooting a chemical burst directly at Dolly's face. In an instant both girls were screaming with fright, and Dolly was covered from head to skirt in flame retardant.
"Stop!" ordered Alan, putting his hand over Prunella's until she released the trigger. But then Prunella saw something that scared her even more...a hysterical-looking rat girl whose face, hair, and dress were completely white...
"A ghost!" shrieked Prunella, and once again impulsively fired the extinguisher, coating Dolly with another layer of sodium bicarbonate.
Alan quickly ripped the extinguisher from Prunella's hands. "Are you crazy?" he bellowed. "Come on, let's get her in the shower!"
As Dolly whimpered and dolefully examined her chemical-soaked dress, Alan and Prunella grabbed her arms and started to lead her down the attic stairway and into the bathroom. Prunella immediately turned the shower water on to full blast, and pushed Dolly into the tub so that the water could rinse the sticky, mildly corrosive substance from her skin and clothing. She then took a bath sponge and began to scrub Dolly's face. "Alan, who is this girl?" she asked. "Where did she come from?"
"She claims to be a relative of yours," Alan replied.
While Prunella was trying to loosen the string that would allow her to remove Dolly's bonnet, her mother suddenly appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. "What's going on?" the woman asked.
"Uh, hi, Mrs. Prufrock," said Alan anxiously. "Would you mind staying out of the attic long enough for me to come up with a convincing alibi?"
His words had the opposite effect, unfortunately. Mrs. Prufrock hurried up the stairway toward the attic, and moments later, as Prunella was unbuttoning Dolly's waterlogged dress, she and Alan heard an anguished scream.
Prunella pointed out the obvious. "We are in big trouble."
"Don't worry," said Alan, who was helping her to pull off Dolly's chemical-stained dress. "I'll give her a complicated scientific explanation she won't understand."
Alan and Prunella stood breathlessly as angry footsteps sounded from the stairway. Dolly, clad only in a pink petticoat, stockings, and brown cowhide shoes, tried to scrape the clinging flame retardant from her hands. Her dress lay at her feet, shower water pouring over it.
Mrs. Prufrock stood in the doorway again, her face livid. "What happened?" she roared, holding up the two segments of the ruined locket.
Then she saw Dolly's face...and dropped the locket pieces in shock.
"My apologies, ma'am," Dolly said to her. "'Twas my fault the locket was damaged. I shall gladly go about the village doing chores until I have recompensed thee its full value."
Her mouth gaping open, her face pale, Mrs. Prufrock slowly stepped out of the bathroom, turned, and leaned against the wall. "It's impossible," she mumbled to herself. "It's impossible..."
----
"I think every high school student should be required to read 'The Crucible'," Mr. Winslow told Mr. and Mrs. Read as they sat in the living room of the Read home. "Arthur Miller may have written it about McCarthyism, but it's also important to remember the Salem witch trials, so that nothing like that ever happens again."
"You think it will?" asked Mrs. Read. "I mean, nobody believes in witches anymore, right?"
"Wrong," replied Winslow. "Why, just the other day, I..."
Then a musical ring tone was heard...it was the Dies Irae.
"That must be for me," said Winslow, reaching for the cell phone attached to his belt. "Hello? Oh, Mrs. Prufrock. Have you had time to..."
Winslow stopped talking, and his eyes started to grow wider and wider.
"I'll be there right away," he said in a slow, hushed voice. Closing up his phone and rising to his size-14 feet, he announced, "I need to attend to some urgent business. Thanks for letting me visit you and your wife, Dave."
The Reads also stood up. "I'm sorry you have to leave so soon," said Mr. Read. "You haven't met my son Arthur yet."
"I'll come back tomorrow," said Winslow, who was making a hasty break for the front door. "I was planning on going home tonight, but my plans have changed."
He was through the door and heading down the sidewalk before the Reads had a chance to shake hands with him.
Mr. Read sighed happily. "Witch Boy Winslow. What a guy."
"What kind of demented person uses the Dies Irae for a ring tone?" Mrs. Read wondered aloud.
----
The girl who called herself Dolly Proctor, wearing one of Prunella's dresses that was several sizes too large for her, sat on the couch in the Prufrock home, staring at the "box with moving pictures" known to modern people as the television. Next to her sat Prunella and her 16-year-old sister Rubella, who were enjoying the latest reality program.
"I never dreamed it possible," mused Dolly, whose hair was still speckled with streaks of flame retardant. "A device that carries music and theatre from a faraway location to one's home."
"I guess you didn't have TV in your century," said Rubella. "It wasn't invented until, like, 1900, I think."
"Why are all the plays so short?" asked Dolly. "I attended a Shakespeare play and it lasted for hours. And why do the actors drink from bottles all the time?"
"Those are called commercials," Rubella informed her.
Dolly gestured toward the TV screen. "What is this play called?"
"Mr. Face," Rubella answered. "This girl has to choose from, like, twenty guys, but the guys aren't allowed to talk, so she doesn't know anything about their personalities."
"In my century, a woman would never have so much power over her life," said Dolly. "This century is so much more advanced."
"Can't...look...away...from...screen," mumbled the bleary-eyed Prunella.
The doorbell rang, and Mrs. Prufrock put her kitchen implements aside to answer it. Mr. Winslow once again towered over her. "Come in," she invited him.
Winslow wasted no time. In a second he was standing next to the TV, thoughtfully scrutinizing Dolly's facial features. The girl, intrigued by the attention of a tall stranger, jumped to her feet and curtsied.
"Incredible," he muttered.
TBC
