The Seventh Witch by Shirley Damsgaard

marrying, but I do miss children,” she said almost to herself.
    Frowning, her rocking resumed at a quickened pace and her hook darted around the yarn.
    “Not that I didn’t have my chances at marrying, mind you,” she continued in a strong voice. “Joseph Carmicheal courted me something fierce. Could’ve had him if I’d wanted,” she finished with a sniff.
    Did I dare ask why she hadn’t wanted him? But before I could, she continued.
    “He got tired of waiting around for me to make up my mind. Got himself married to a gal over by Asheville, had a passel of kids, and went to an early grave, leaving his widow to fend for herself.” Her head wobbled from side to side as her hook flew faster. “And with all those children…just as well I didn’t marry him.”
    The way she sat, her spine straight and her mouth in a thin line, said she spoke the truth, but I sensed something deeper. A feeling of opportunities missed, of joy not experienced, lurked in the corner of her heart. A corner that she never revealed to anyone. I felt I should say something comforting to her, but she was such a hard woman that I didn’t think my sympathy would be appreciated. She wouldn’t want to know that I saw the chink in her armor.
    I said nothing and an uncomfortable silence lengthened.
    Great-Aunt Mary shifted in her seat, and as she did, I could feel her draw the shell back around her once again.
    “Humph,” she abruptly said, breaking the silence, “I heard you had words with Sharon Doran, not once but twice.”
    “Lydia told you?”
    Her eyes fastened on me. “I don’t need to rely on others.” She shifted her attention to the far mountain and her hook paused. “Restless spirits roam these hills.”
    I waited for her to explain.
    “That girl’s granny’s one of them,” she said, focusing on her crocheting again.
    All my good intentions about ignoring the Dorans wentout the window as my curiosity reared its little head. Okay, Jensen, here’s your chance—she was the one who mentioned them—ask a few questions.
    I sat forward. “Has the grandmother been gone long?” I asked, easing into the subject.
    “No,” she replied. “She recently crossed over. Or at least that’s what she should’ve done,” she finished cryptically.
    Mean old Granny Doran haunted the mountains, huh? Peachy. What was supposed to be a family reunion was turning into something entirely different. Now I could add a nasty ghost to my list of concerns. Just how many more Dorans did I have to worry about?
    “Are the Dorans a big family?”
    “Big enough,” she snorted. “They started with the three boys. Only one left is the eldest—Zachary—a more deceitful man than him never drew breath.” She gave her head a slight shake. “The middle one was killed in a bar fight down in Knoxville, and the youngest—Sharon’s daddy—was killed along with his wife, in a car accident. Drunk driving.”
    “That’s a lot of tragedy for one family.”
    Her eyes swung in my direction. “I’m not saying they deserved an early death, but all three of those boys were wild and wicked.”
    The image of Sharon staking a claim on Ethan sprung to mind. Were there other Doran women waiting to pounce on him? “What about their daughters? Are they wild and wicked, too?”
    “Sharon’s the only girl child in the family.” Great-Aunt Mary snickered. “She’s cut a wide swath through this valley, that’s for certain, and wicked?” She paused and her eyes narrowed. “Someday her deeds will come home to roost.”
    Might as well lay it out on table, I thought. “I know she’s a witch, Great-Aunt Mary. I saw how everyone acted at the cemetery. They all think she caused Oscar Nelson’s death.”
    “Ha, Oscar’s had a stomach ailment for years. He died of a hemorrhage and that’s the truth,” she huffed. “Her a witch?” Great-Aunt Mary’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Shethinks she understands magick, but she doesn’t. She uses it for her own selfish