Familiar: A Werewolf by Night Story

A Witch or Something

"What are you – a witch or something?"

It was not an odd question to be heard on a late October day in Salem, Massachusetts. However, Sabina had heard this question about fifteen times that hour already. She didn't want to even think about how many times she had heard the same question during the past few seasons working as a costumed docent at the Salem Historic Village, a museum and chronic tourist attraction. Taking a deep breath, she repeated the same answer she had given fifteen times before: "While I may look like someone you think was a witch," she explained, holding out the sides of her full skirt and pointing to the stiff white coif atop her hair, "I am dressed like any woman would have been here in Salem during the witch trials –"

"But weren't they all witches here?" The question in this case was coming from a small triad of middle school boys standing expectantly in front of her. The one in front wore a baseball cap turned backwards, as if to be cool, while his friends stood a step behind him like henchmen. There was a glint in the backwards-cap boy's eye that told Sabina that this kid knew the answer to his question – he was just looking to get a rise out of her by being obnoxious as possible. He represented the sort of tourist she had come to appreciate the least while getting used to this job. Most tourists, if they asked offensive questions, just didn't know better. Then there the ones who did, and asked the question anyway to get a rise out of the docents.

But Sabina knew how to handle those guests. Presenting the boys with her best customer-service smile – one perhaps a bit too wide to be wholehearted – and told them matter-of-factly, "No. No one who was tried or executed was a witch. Historians have different theories about what caused the witch trials, but none of them involve blaming actual witchcraft."

The baseball-cap boy sneered. "But this is the Witch City. Where's your historic witch stuff?"

"This park was made to talk about history, not fiction." Sabina recited the line that had been drilled into herself and her fellow docents during training. If all else failed, and tourists became belligerent, as this boy was drawing close to being, docents could always fall back on their training. Or simply turn into an infomercial for the rest of the city, which was only too happy to capitalize upon the tragedy of the innocents executed as 'witches' in the 1600s. To the boys, Sabina suggested, "If you would like to take one of the entertainment tours around the city, please try one of our community partners."

Pouting, the two henchmen-boys turned and started to walk away. Their leader, however, had one more barb for Sabina. "But you said actual witchcraft," he said, imitating her heavy northern accent whilst repeating her words. "That means that there are actual witches here, too. Where are those?"

Something, something deep down inside Sabina, deeply wanted to hiss, "She's right here," and turn her hands to talons as she swiped them at the boy. That'd scare the twerp back into his manners.

But she couldn't do that. She walked too close a line to danger as it was. If anyone discovered that there was a witch – and not the pretty storybook kind – living and working in Salem, she'd be in deeper trouble than her sisterkind down in their graves. The daily jabs and false ideas of witchery she heard daily while living in this town hurt, but not as much as pitchforks and fire would.

So, instead of revealing herself and asking for a witchhunt, Sabina settled for telling the annoying boy, "You should really go check out the tours. You're guaranteed to see at least one witch per hour."

As the baseball-cap-wearing brat screwed up his face and prepared to sling another snotty question her way, one of his buddies tapped his shoulder. "Hey, c'mon. The monster hunters just got to town. If we run, we might be able to see them as they get out of their special carriage thingeys."