Somewhere My Love
by Stephen Mark Rainey
She lived in our town's one and only haunted house: a century-old, two-story
Victorian with a pepperbox turret, windows of leaded glass, a sagging roof with
missing shingles, and a wild array of blackened brick chimneys. The little paint
remaining on its aging wooden skin was no longer white but crusty gray, so the
structure lurked almost unseen behind a thick shield of cedar trees that ringed the
property. Rather than a neat, paved driveway like all the others in the community,
only a short, gravel apron, tucked up tight against the house, existed for the
owner's car. The man of the manor had died before I was born, so the woman had
lived alone in that place for over ten years.
At night, no light ever shone in any of the windows. But sometimes after dark, I
would hear her voice echoing out of that old house, singing songs that seemed to
Her name was Jeanne Weiler, and she was my music teacher when I was in
Of course, she was a witch.
Looking back now, I would have to say she was quite an attractive woman, though
at the time, she presented such an imposing figure that just being in the same room
with her intimidated me to the edge of fright. She stood nearly six feet (which,
when I measured barely four feet, seemed so very tall indeed); had long, wavy
black hair, which she often piled high atop her head, adding to her commanding
height; and possessed the most piercing green eyes I have ever seen even to this
day. She virtually always wore smart, tight-fitting black outfits that showed off a
figure my youthful eyes could not yet appreciate, but her clothes insinuated no
impropriety -- only dignity.
Despite my fear of Mrs. Weiler, I did adore her. In those pre-pubescent days, the
concept of sexual attraction was still a mystifying, nebulous thing, which only the
future would elucidate, but my typical physical response to her presence consisted
of stammering, chills, and uncontrollable trembling. Had she but asked it, I would
have fallen to my knees, kissed her feet, and been excited enough by the prospect
to wet my drawers.
All the more proof that she was a witch, at least to me, for I recognized this effect
as pure power -- miles and leagues beyond any held by my parents, or any other
teachers, or the minister at church, or any of my fellow fourth graders. She
terrified me because she could have made me do things. Anything.