The Witch House of Persimmon Point

by Suzanne Palmieri

  Matthew: “I don’t know. And I don’t care anymore. The truth is, I’d like to burn down the entire world. Shit, I’d set fire to you if I had a lighter. Got a lighter?”

  [Uneasy laughter.]

  Johnny: “Not on me, no! Anyhow, I’d like your full account of that day. It will help me decide if I want to go see for myself.”

  Matthew: “Don’t go, man.”

  Johnny: “Convince me not to. Tell me why you went, and what you saw.”

  Mathew: “It was up for sale, see? And it was unlike anything I’d ever seen. I’d grown up in Haven Port, and the Witch House was kind of an obsession for all of us neighborhood kids. We rode our bikes past it all the time, daring each other to go inside.

  “But none of us, not one, ever went in. But when I got older, it seemed damned stupid to believe something I did as a kid. It was just a house. And I wanted to see it because of my work. See, that house, it has an entirely original blueprint. It’s a type of architecture nobody could place. Not Victorian, yet Victorian … not mid-century, not a cape or colonial. And there was a rumor of an art deco pool, like Gatsby, no joke. And you can’t see the back part of the estate from the street. It goes all the way out to the end of the point. I’m telling you, it was something else. The Technicolor lushness of the gardens was over the top … heady. And when I first stepped onto the porch, everything seemed shrouded in mist, and it felt … it felt … luxurious.

  “When I went inside, I was stunned. I thought maybe the Realtor had been there, but I knew the guy was out of New York and hadn’t been around at all. At least, that’s what my guys were telling me. But I could smell cooking, and hear music. Lights were on. You know when someone has just left a room and you can tell they were just there? A hint of a smell. It was like that. Makes me go nuts just thinking about it.”

  Johnny: “What was it like inside?”

  Matthew: “The interior was like this glorious open maze and around every corner there was something beautiful or odd to see. Like … all perfect and well preserved, a museum of sorts. Maybe it was just the craftsman in me, I kept touching the molding and plaster walls. I felt home. Like I never wanted to leave. It was a paradise. It was lived in. Like I was the ghost, you know? Hell … I don’t know. And it felt right. Nothing has ever felt so right. I remember thinking, ‘I’ll just buy it.’ And that was before I went out back to see the part of the grounds hidden by the house.

  “It didn’t disappoint, Johnny, it was like a secret. Like the land knew it was a beautiful secret and dressed up for me. And that pool? Better than anything Gatsby would have had, and running. It was running. Crystal clear and well-kept. Who the hell maintains that place, right? You see anyone? I sure as hell don’t. Not ever. And beyond that, the land stretches out to this pine grove, and you can hear the waves at the end of the point and beyond. And between, there is a meadow. It was like all my boyhood dreams had come true. I decided I’d run to the beach, through the pines, to see if there were really wild ponies living there. Some said there was another herd of Chincoteague ponies on the beaches of Persimmon Point. But no one had ever seen them. Well, by sea, but only by sea. I ran, happy. I swear I’ve never been so happy. That’s when I found the ruins.”

  Johnny: “Ruins of what?”

  Matthew: “The original house. Half of me thought that was all made up, too. But damn, I felt like an archeologist. I looked around for a while, picking up odds and ends of glass and such. Looking at the masonwork of the original foundation. Hell, I even started taking measurements. I was a kid in a candy store, but then I tripped. Goddamn, I was embarrassed going down, so embarrassed. Felt like a million people were watching and laughing, even though no one was there.

  “I must have hit my head on a piece of old foundation and blacked out. When I came to, the light hadn’t changed. It must have been all of five minutes. Five minutes? How could that be? It was impossible, Johnny, totally impossible.”

  Johnny: “Why?”

  Matthew: “Because I lived a hundred years in those five minutes; it was like the house and the property and every shadow of a memory of a thought came screaming at me. I woke up knowing things no one should ever know.”

  Johnny: “What things?”

  Matthew: “Fuck you, man. Don’t make me say it. Evil things.”

  Johnny: [Muffled] “This is family rated, watch the language. [Clear] Thank you, Mr. Makepeace, for an interesting interview. I’m even more curious to go, now. And I think our listeners will be, too.”

  Matthew: “Don’t go there. Trust me. Don’t go. Don’t go!”

  [Sound recording clicks off.]

  “Interesting stuff, right, ghost hunters? So, the story ends like this: Mr. Makepeace went inside a happy guy. Happy with his new wife. Happy with his life. But when he came out … well, he went down to the local bar, Witches Brew, and almost killed a man who asked about a quote for a new roof. Then, he went home and beat up that pretty new wife of his. She left him, of course … and then he started to set his fires.

  “The question remains, why do some people go inside that house or explore its acreage and come out just fine? Could it be that when Mr. Makepeace hit his head on the grounds, whatever evil lives there seeped right in?”

  Johnny clicked off the recording and sat back in the plastic chair, pleased with himself. If it weren’t so early, he’d have a drink to celebrate his imminent rise to prime time.

  His daydream of watching that well-coiffed hack, Brad, suffer as Johnny took over his spot as anchor was disturbed by a knock on the door. He cracked it open and saw a woman, a teenager, a red-headed little girl—and one old German shepherd—all giving him the stink eye.

  “Mr. Colder? We have a proposition for you.”

  Eleanor told Johnny about the gatehouse while Byrd and Maj sat on two orange pleather chairs. Smiling in a way that made his skin crawl.

  “No way,” he said. “So what if you found some old torture chamber in the gatehouse. You’re telling me I can’t explore the foundation of Haven House, which is why I’m going. And that I can’t even go inside the Witch House itself? There is no way I’d agree to that. It’s comical, really.”

  “You know what, Byrd?” said Eleanor, while Johnny laughed off their deal.

  “What, Elly?”

  “Nothing is more truly terrifying than a person who builds a plastic world around themselves and pretends not to be disgusting. You can always smell it underneath.”

  “You sure can.” Byrd sniffed the air. “It smells of cheap sweat and toe rot.”

  “It smells of stale processed foods and fake gold chain necklaces,” Eleanor continued.

  “It smells really not good, Mama,” Maj added, waving the air in front of her face.

  “No, it sure doesn’t, baby.” Eleanor looked straight into Johnny’s eyes. “Listen to me, you poor excuse for a human being. Here’s what will happen, Johnny. I thought you would see reason. But I’m afraid you have forced the issue. If you don’t agree, two things will happen.

  “We’ll call the police right now, and local news will break your story before you can. One of our crazy relatives burnt down a whole asylum in order to make a point—don’t test us.

  “We will curse you. And our curses, we just found out, run as deep and true and terrible as our protection spells.

  “So, Mr. Colder, what do you say now?”

  1:00 P.M.

  When the crew got to work, Byrd and Maj and Eleanor sat on the Witch House front porch watching the progress while sketching out a new garden with colored pencils on thick sheets of paper.

  The show was going really well.

  “I can’t believe it’s live,” said Byrd, delighted, before getting back down to business. “But anyway, once these fools are gone, I think we should plant okra.”

  “Ewwww…” said Maj.

  “Plant it with the marigolds near the tomatoes. You got a light green pencil over there?” asked Eleanor.

  Just as Maj handed her a pencil, a man’s high
-pitched scream broke through their peaceful bubble.

  All three of the Persimmon Point Amore witches looked up in unison. Each smiled. And Maj said, “They found the bones. I just hope they don’t kill all the geraniums.”

  “If they do, sweetheart, we’ll plant more.”

  4:00 P.M.

  Johnny Colder stood in front of a camera crew, with the Witch House behind him, under the poplar canopy as he closed his show. Maj thought it all looked very dramatic with the police cars and sirens and lights gathered around the gatehouse.

  “It’s been a day full of action and adventure here at the Witch House of Persimmon Point. And now, it’s time to leave with the sunset. One final note about this family of women. It seems to me that everyone lives with a glimmer of redemptive light. When that goes out … well, they’re dead already. Rabies of the soul, they call it,” he finished, before glaring at the three very amused witches sitting on the porch waving good-bye.

  Epilogue

  On the Night of the Biggest Doom

  Byrd Whalen

  MONDAY, JULY 14, 2025

  It’s funny, the things that people are afraid of. Like shadows and deep, dark corners of houses, or places. Pieces of wood and glass, patches of earth. It’s my opinion that we make up impossible things to be scared of, because the real scary stuff is far more probable, and if we focused on that, we’d all be as crazy as great-grandmother Crazy Anne. Or batshit, as Elly’s portion of our clan likes to call themselves.

  That doesn’t mean there’s no danger in a house. Certainly this house was dangerous, and the gatehouse downright evil.

  I’m convinced a house is like its own world, complete with its own peculiar rules and atmosphere. And if that’s even just sort of true, it stands to reason that this house does, in fact, keep people and spirits hostage.

  One of my favorite words these days is retrospect. It means “a survey of past events,” but it doesn’t really say if you have to take those events into account or not. It only implies it.

  I swear, sometimes I think that everything I believe in is implied. Not solid at all. Hazy like the mist that falls over our land and at the mercy of the waves and the wind and the phases of the moon. Even the sounds of hooves on the sand.

  Which explains my ongoing trust issues, I suppose.

  But think about it. Do we live our lives in pursuit of where we will end up? What the tarmac will look like when we land?

  If you die in an accident, was that your fate? And if that’s the case, why does anyone do anything? Here’s why (and don’t you worry, my grandstanding is almost over):

  Life is about each moment. A sum total of the impact you had on others. A collection of beauty. A retrospective. It is not changed or affected by the circumstances at the end. God, if only we all knew this epic truth. Each day, each breath inside a day, is a new moment to build love.

  Just like Elly and Anthony rebuilt their love. Though it took many years and a whole heck of a lot of unnecessary moving backward to go forward. Some people just got to make things complicated.

  Oh, hell, here they come. The dress is on. Let the doom begin.

  * * *

  Byrd closed the journal just as Maj burst through the door.

  “Are you ready? Jack looks so handsome! Everyone, absolutely everyone is here! Even Opal, can you stand it? Time to tie the knot!” Maj squealed.

  “Damn, was I that high-pitched as a teenager? Nah. I just had personality,” said Byrd.

  “Stop being grumbly, it’s going to be FINE. Now come on!”

  “I’ll be down when I’m good and ready. Go have a drink or something, your eagerness to see the death of my whole independent, goddammed spirit is about to make me throw up, I SWEAR.”

  “You know you can’t wait. Come on, Delores!”

  The old dog got up and ran to Maj with agility impossible for her age.

  Maj laughed and ran off. Byrd reopened the journal for one final thought.

  * * *

  I love being around people who find my offensiveness amusing. Sometimes, anyway.

  But, see, before I begin this whole new kind of life, I’d like to do a rewrite on all the others who tried this very same thing and failed. Because if I don’t, I’m never going to believe I can make a go of this.

  Like maybe …

  Nan walked down the aisle and married Giancarlo, who wasn’t horrible at all, but handsome and caring, and somehow they fell in love.

  Or even …

  Lucy and Vito grew old together and had two more children, daughters, who loved them and respected them. And the family grew and grew and this house was filled with light and laughter and love, with every door painted raspberry.

  Or …

  Anne became a mystic in New York and wrote novels and raised her daughter Opal into adulthood. Friends with Dorothy Parker, she was.

  Wouldn’t that be lovely?

  But best of all …

  Stella never died. She was by my side in the night garden under the moon while I vowed to love and trust Jack, who vowed to love and trust me right back.

  And so it goes.

  But I guess we shouldn’t really worry about a past we can’t change.

  JAYSUS. This whole thing’s just got me thinking too much.

  To hell with it.

  It’s like me and Elly always say, the thing we figured out at the end of that long, wild weekend of searching.

  There’s evil and there’s good. There’s love and there’s hate. There’re things you can’t change and things you can and things you shouldn’t mess with at all.

  But at the end of the day, we die young, or grow old. Don’t have no real choice in the matter.…

  So, leave your worries with your shoes and make a run for the ocean.

  Acknowledgments

  This book was the hardest and easiest book to write. Easy because the base of the story was written years ago. Written on my body and in my heart. Trapped words like tape across my mouth and seeping up like internal tattoos on my skin.

  Hard because I had to take all that crazy and rewrite it … reform it … translate it into a novel.

  A mighty chore. And a lonesome one. Usually, I have a list of people to thank at the beginning of these acknowledgments. That list is missing here, because I chose to keep this book close. Even when I wanted to share it, I felt the damn thing tugging on me, whispering … not yet. Not yet.

  That being said, I could not have written it without the unyielding and ever-present voice of Glitter (the glitter editor of all the things), AKA Vicki Lame at St. Martin’s Press. You kept me sane this year. Sort of.

  To Gina Miel Heron, my book-touring soul sister. You, my love, made this happen.

  To my brave and brilliant agent, Anne Bohner, at Pen and Ink Literary. Your continued, consistent support for my crazy stories is admirable!

  To my husband and three daughters: Billy, this year taught me to hold on to what I have. I’m holding on so tight to you, babe. Rosy, you flew the coop! Fly high. Tess and Gracie, DO NOT FLY TOO HIGH … YET. Mommy loves you.

  To my mother, Terry, and my godfather, Robert. I never figured us for the Waltons, but here we are. Oy.

  To my mother-in-law Margaret Palmieri, you keep trying to get me to drink that good wine. And I love you … but I’ll stick to my Lambrusco. In a mason jar. On ice.

  Thanks to my Cooper clan down South and to the Palmieris both here and in St. Louis. (Kisses!)

  But most of all, thank YOU, dear reader. Thank you very, very much.

  Also by Suzanne Palmieri

  The Witch of Little Italy

  The Witch of Belladonna Bay

  The Witch of Bourbon Street

  I’ll Be Seeing You (coauthored as Suzanne Hayes)

  Empire Girls (coauthored as Suzanne Hayes)

  Praise for The Witch of Bourbon Street

  “Part ghost story, part mystery, Palmieri’s latest is a tale about the power of love, forgiveness, and family legacies that is both haunting and u
plifting.… Each scene is drenched in atmospheric details, making the eccentric chaos of Bourbon Street and the damp mysteries of the bayou as alive as any of the cleverly named supporting cast. The use of multiple voices, including historical documents, will immerse readers in the world of the story and the eerie legacy of one remarkable and powerful family.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “[Palmieri’s] strength lies in the fullness of her vision, immersing readers in the heat and noise of southern Louisiana. Fans of Paula Brackston and M. J. Rose will enjoy this story of redemption, self-preservation, and the power of shared history.”

  —Booklist

  “Suzanne Palmieri is quickly becoming a standout star of magical fiction. The Witch of Bourbon Street may just be her best yet. Haunting and beautiful, you’ll find yourself captivated by the exquisite setting, and the Sorrows themselves. A must-read.”

  —Sarah Addison Allen, New York Times bestselling author of First Frost, Lost Lake, and Garden Spells

  “Few writers can create the richly atmospheric worlds of Suzanne Palmieri’s fiction or bring to life such compelling characters. Caught in the ghostly half-life between their own bad choices and their tragic history, the Sorrows inhabit a mystical, mysterious world where time is distorted and redemption becomes imperative. A family saga that will linger with readers like the lost souls of the bayou. Palmieri’s best so far.”

  —Brunonia Barry, New York Times bestselling author of The Lace Reader and The Map of True Places

  Praise for The Witch of Belladonna Bay

  “About the lies we tell, the love we struggle for, and the way we find our way back to our rightful place in the world, Palmieri’s book is a stunner.”

  —Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of Pictures of You and Is This Tomorrow