By Meta Strauss
Pippie Meriwether was an odd
bird. At least that’s what the town’s
people said. The truth was she was different,
different from them. She couldn’t help that she inherited her
Great-grandmother’s frizzy pumpkin colored hair, her dad’s large brown eyes and
pointed nose and her mother’s miniature stature.
To make matters stranger, she
resided in a large dilapidated Victorian house on top of the highest hill in
town and had been brought up by reclusive parents.
Her dad’s formaldehyde-smelling taxidermy
shop was located in their home. When she
was a small child, customers would see Pippie’s tiny face peaking out from
behind the large stuffed Grisly Bear when they delivered dead animals and
picked up the completed trophies. Pippie
wasn’t impressed with the carcass of a deer or an elk but she was
enamored with the sight of a lifeless Eagle or other bird of prey. The way her dad would peal the feathers away,
store then in a wooden container and then replace them one by one on a bare
plaster image held her attention day after day.
She liked the way he would place their claws and beaks in fighting
positions.
Pippie’s mother provided the conversation
in her early life. She would sit across from the child in the dark, musty, book-lined
library and read out loud. Her choice of
stories didn’t include Goldie Locks and the Three Bears, but instead,
selections from the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft. By
age four, Pippie had the exceptional ability to memorize and recite verbatim anything
she heard.
Her father drove her down the hill around
the corner to school each day in his old black Packard. He insisted on parking
and walking her to the door. The little girl didn’t understand seeing a tall,
thin man wearing all black, including a fedora, holding the hand of a small,
quiet orange-headed girl wearing long dresses with lace collars would seem
unusual. But, as parents dropped their noisy jean-clad children off at the
curb, they warned them not to play with her.
Three weeks into first grade, Pippie picked up a dead
Raven from the playground, caressed it and packed it in her lunch box and then presented
it at show and tell a week later all stuffed and mounted. When she told about the bird, she recited:
”This ominous bird of yore,
This grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and
ominous bird of yore
Croaks, `Nevermore, Nevermore.'”
The teacher was so horrified, she asked
for the child to be removed from her class. From that time on Pippie’s records
were stamped “not normal.” She remained in special education classes with all
the other children who weren’t cookie-cutter copies of each other until one day
in high school she just stopped attending.
The authorities didn’t bother to check on her. They were glad not to have to take care of
another special child.
Years passed. Her dad’s taxidermy shop closed and there was
some talk about it for a while but soon another topic became more interesting
gossip. Since no one ever saw her mother,
her disappearance never even crossed their minds.
Pippie’s schedule was always the
same. Each Monday she walked down the hill and into town. Her pumpkin colored hair and distinctive drab
clothing could be seen as she walked around, if a person was observant. Most never noticed the tiny lady or her large
canvas bag. No one noticed the absence of stray cats in town.
On Wednesdays she went to the
library. The librarian remarked, “That
peculiar little carrot-haired woman always checks out six books, no more, no
less. Three are about travel, two are about anatomy and one is a popular
romance. Don’t you find that
strange? I do.”
Each Sunday at 9:00 AM Pippie would
attend mass at St. Mary’s Catholic Church. Father McNamara was the one individual
who noticed the tiny woman sitting in the back row of the balcony, spellbound
by the chants that echoed throughout the old building. He would wave as she exited the church’s side
door.
Every year on Halloween teenagers
dared each other to venture up the hill and knock on “the little witch’s” door. Sometimes they threw rotten eggs or fruit. This
year as the weather grew cooler and the trees turned red, orange and yellow
Pippie prepared for the costumed teenagers.
She would have a surprise for them this time.
A full moon cast deep shadows from
the rocks and trees leading up the winding gravel road. As Willie Cravens and two of his buddies neared
the house only one light shown in the downstairs window.
“You go first,” said Harry Green to
Willie.
“No, I’ll carry and throw the
tomatoes since I’m the best thrower.”
“Yeah! You’re so brave,” added Bubba Parker.
The trio tiptoed up the front walk
avoiding brambles and loose rocks.
“Boo!”
“Damn it Willie. You do that again and I’m out of here.”
“Shhhh! She’s gonna hear us.”
“Hey man. Look.
The front door is open.
“Now what’re we gonna do?”
“I say let’s go in.” Willie was getting braver and took the
lead. The other two boys followed him in
the squeaky front door.
“Oh my God.” Bubba tripped and fell down. “It’s a
bear. I thought it was real for a
minute, but it’s stuffed.”
“Geez. Look at this place.” Harry yelped.
“Yikes!” Bubba jumped as something slid against his
leg.
“It’s only a cat.” Willie set the bag of tomatoes on the floor.
“It’s only a gillion cats,” said
Harry surrounded by meowing creatures.
“Caw, Caw.”
“What is that?”
“Oh man. Look at this room. It’s filled with birds in cages and hanging
from the walls. This is freaky.”
“That’s not all. Look around.
This place is full of stuffed animals.
“Hey guys, Let’s get out of here
before the witch finds us. This is the creepiest place I’ve ever been.” The
boys ran down the hill like villagers fleeing from a volcano’s molten lava, yelling
all the way. They were so frightened
they confessed to their parents what happened. “I’m telling you mom, that place
is bizarre. There are live and dead
animals all over. I don’t ever want to
go there again.”
“That poor little woman. She never
bothers a soul. You boys will apologize and
do it right now,” said Willie’s mom.
The three boys followed Willie’s
parents up the moonlit hill. The
mansion’s yard was full of cats and birdcalls greeted them at the still-opened front
door. Mr. Cravens knocked and yelled. After a short wait he ushered his family through
the vaulted entry hall and into the creepy old house. There was no sign of Peppi Meriwether, but
there was plenty to see……………..
What
they found? Well, as you sit around your
caldron with fellow goblins on Halloween, you can speculate and share stories
about what you think happened to the little witch and at the house on the hill that
night.
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| Halloween at Reader's Books, Sonoma |
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