The Witches of La Befana(cont.) Mal'occhio, the Evil Eye

            Dejected, she returned home. As she walked towards the doorway of her apartment, the wind blew a strong, lengthy gust and clouds darkened the sun. A shiver ran up her spine. The change in direction probably save her life.

            Walking across the park and past the oak trees, she headed towards Sister Basil’s to see how she was doing. Inside the brightly lit dwelling of the ailing nun of the Order of La Befana, the young witch went to her bedroom. On the wall above the headboard was a huge tree limb from an old oak; there were no indicators that it was fastened in any manner to the wall.

            Ceci didn’t know what she would say to the older woman but her inner compass told her she needed to be here. Ever since the incident with the squirrel, she began paying closer attention to her intuition. Sitting on a padded footstool, she grabbed Sister Basil’s hand and held it. She found the touch of the old woman’s skin reassuring, calming. Maybe, she thought, her fears were ill-founded.

            Without warning, the nun awoke, her eyes wide with horror as she looked at Ceci.

            “Mal’occhio,” she spoke, but the word was unfamiliar to Ceci. Again, she repeated the strange word, “mal’occhio,” and fell back into unconsciousness.

            All her fears returned with a force magnified in intensity. Her nerves were firing on all pistons. She stood up and went to the doorway. A voice inside her told her to turn. When she did, there was Sister Basil, or what looked like her, for the holy woman still lay in bed. Ceci froze, her eyes fixed on the apparition.

            It was smiling, wryly. In her head, the young witch heard the elder speak quite clearly and with a slight chuckle, “The girls don’t like competition,” she heard the voice say, “you’re going to have to fight to prove your mettle.” And then it was gone.

            Trembling, she nearly ran back to her apartment, scanning the buildings surrounding the park. Several women were standing in doorways or in front of open windows. She did not stop to stare but she was acutely aware of a certain color identifying each one: red, black, brown, grey, yellow.

            The wind caught her feet and almost blew her back to her doorway. She slammed the door behind her, threw her back against it and slid to the ground, her knees bent. With her eyes closed she found relief in the silence; it was almost too silent.

            She opened her eyes and there was her ex-husband, Franklin, standing at end of the hallway leading to the kitchen.

            “What are you doing here?” She asked, confused and still shaking. Seeing him brought her back to her senses. Her nerves calmed, hardened, then became steel.

            “Honestly, Calliope, I don’t know,” the tall, handsome man said, seemingly confused.

Then his expression changed, his eyebrows furrowed and he gazed at her with malice in his eyes. “You’re mine,” he said and began walking towards her, “you’ve been sleeping around, haven’t you?”
            Shocked, Ceci said, “Franklin, it’s been five years. You don’t own me.” Afraid to face the women in the park and penned in by the advancing ex-husband, she tried to slip past him but he caught her by the arm and slapped her across the face. She swore to herself that she would not let this happen to her again. She could feel the sting on her face and the slight taste of blood in her mouth as she raised her eyes to face her attacker. The pent-up air suppressed in her lungs came rushing out of her mouth as a loud sigh, bringing along with it, a surge of power, infusing her arms with superhuman strength. Both her hands slammed his chest and she pushed her attacker off his feet. He faltered as his body tried to compensate for the unexpected retaliation, and fell with a mighty thud onto his ass.
            He sat there, momentarily stunned by this unexpected reaction from his prey. He was aghast and looked at both of his empty hands, as if asking them how this could have happened to him. Then he slowly raised his eyes. Each incremental movement of his head upwards, told her he was working himself into the rage he once used as an excuse to beat her like a dog, years ago.

            But that was then, this was now; she was a new woman, a woman of strength and new found power. She didn't need that power now, however, she had a gun. 

           She looked at him and realized she only had a split second to react, but that was all she needed. Cat-like, she dashed down the hallway and disappeared in the bedroom. In the darkness she found her 12 gauge semi-automatic shotgun and felt  the clip to ensure it was fully loaded. Then she emerged from the darkness to confront her assailant, a slight smile moved across her lips.

            He stared at her in horror. “I don’t know how I got here, honest! I didn’t mean to hit you,” he pleaded, “please, you’ve got to believe me.”

            Recalling her gun safety training at Lucky Lou’s Shooting Range, she braced the weapon against her right shoulder. She didn’t need to aim; he was close. He stepped towards her and she pulled the trigger with steely resolve. He changed direction in mid-stride.  Miraculously, the man remained on his feet. Adrenalin rushed through her body once more and she squeezed the lever again and again. She pumped a fourth round into her ex-husband that propelled his body through the door, tearing it to shreds, and into the street where he fell flat on his back, his legs twitching.

            She stepped through the splinters of the entrance and stood over the body. It was then she felt the eyes of the coven upon her. They were all watching, she thought, and looked around the park. Returning the gaze of each pair of eyes watching her, she counted them: eleven. With one bullet remaining in the gun’s chamber, she rested the end of the cold metal barrel against the bleeding carcass on the ground but did not avert her gaze from the other witches as she pulled the trigger a final time.