The Haunting Cypress:

The bell rings shrilly and loudly through the halls of Idyllwild High signaling our release from this teenage-rage-fueled asylum. I weave my way around idiots shoving each other into lockers and just barely dodge the hooting-and-hollering football players pummeling through the halls. I open my locker, and a pile of muck covered leaves spills out of my locker and onto my boots. Roars of laughter echo all around me and a squirrely, high-pitched voice cuts through the noise from right behind me.

“Just trying to give you a piece of home, swamp rat.”

Pure hatred consumes me. I grab her annoyingly high ponytail and throw her into the lockers with my other forearm pinning her chest. I put my face so close to hers that I can see the clumps of her mascara in her lashes and say, “You better watch yourself, Libby, because I swear to god, I WILL curse you.” I throw her back into the rushing crowd and she stumbles into a group of rowdy boys who let her fall, and laugh as they walk by.

“Jesus Christ it was just a joke, you psycho!” She starts walking away and says to someone, anyone, that will listen to her, “Oh my god did you see that, oh my god she said she would curse me, hahaha as if.”

I start pulling the rest of the muck out of my locker but give up pretty quickly. All my shit is ruined now anyways.

I hear, “Kaia, my office,” and I look up to see Principal Herd glaring at me. I narrow my eyes and glare back in reproach, silently warning her to not start this shit again today.

“Now.”

I slam my locker as hard as I can and follow Principal Herd, in her too tight pencil skirt and unflattering blouse, into the false safety that is a high-school principal’s office. I plop into the seat in front of her desk with my arms crossed and put on a face that blends indifference with rage. Principal Herd’s smile is fake, and her voice is frustrated, with just the right amount of sweetness.

“Kaia, we are having this discussion for the third time this month. If this”, she sighs, “aggression does not stop, I will have no choice but to reconsider you as a student in this institution.”

“Well, Janet,” she rolls her eyes at me, “if people would stop fucking with me, or if you would actually do your job, I wouldn’t have to stand up for myself. And it’s not an institution, it’s a fucking public school for the offspring of all the inbreds in this town.”

“Language! And I told you to only refer to me as Principal Herd. We are not friends, Kaia.” she warns and spats my name. “I am doing my best here, but you make it very difficult for me to “do my job”,” she uses air-quotes. “I know you’re not from here and I know things at home are not easy, but – ”.

I cut her off, “You don’t know anything about me. You have no idea what I have been through, and you don’t care about my life except to protect your pathetic position as Principal Herd in a lowly public high school,” I mock her and stand abruptly – my seat thuds onto the disgusting carpet, startling Principal Herd. “This entire town is a waste of human existence, and you will all get what’s coming to you.” I storm out the office as she calls my name, louder, and louder, and I pick up the pace until I can no longer hear her.

I’m walking so fast that I can’t even register the jabs and hollers thrown at me. My head is swimming with memories, and rage, and fear, and I don’t slow down until I reach the entrance of the swamp. I suppose I should say my entrance into the swamp – the route I mapped out to reach The Haunting Cypress. The resting place of the swamp witch. Goosebumps raise on the back of my neck, and I know it’s here. The lone, white owl that guards the swamp watches me as I linger. I meet its all-knowing gaze and we study each for several moments before it takes off into the depths of the cypress trees.

Suddenly, I’m excited to get home, and specifically, back to my research. I know better than to bring that to school with me – it would just add fuel to the torment if I was spotted with it. Even worse, someone may destroy it. I mean hell, clearly, it’s not even safe in my locker. It could have become a sopping mess of muck along with my chemistry textbook and my copy of Catcher in the Rye. Both of which I will have to bring into class a ruined mess. I sigh – that’ll be great for the “swamp rat” look everyone has cultivated for me. If tonight goes as planned, I won’t have to worry about that ever again. I give the entrance one more glance over my shoulder, marking the memory of it, and with purposeful stride, I walk the remainder of the two miles home. And before you even ask, no, I don’t dare take the bus.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I ready myself for the stares as I step into the unlabeled, and most likely illegally situated, trailer park. As the only dark-skinned, young woman in this entire town, I get a lot of curious glances. This place is occupied by creepy white men with long, wizard-like beards and bald heads, families with too many kids and not enough money, and junkies with missing teeth and clothes that hang over their skeletal frames. They never say anything, but their stares are judgmental and unwelcoming. I know I don’t help my own cause – I dress in jeans that barely fit my waist even with a belt pulled to the last notch, a graphic Metallica t-shirt that can be pegged as “satanic”, and my father’s oversized, multipocketed army green jacket. I look dirt poor and grossly unwashed…like the slimy swamp rat everyone says I am. I’ve been turned away from work because of it too – that and because of my father’s reputation as a worthless drunkard. Pop lost his job, then we lost the house, and we had to move to this cesspool because it was better than living on the streets or in the middle of the swamp. Though, the later doesn’t sound half-bad to me. He hasn’t been able to keep a job for longer than a month, so it falls to my barely-minimum-wage and unreliable salary with odd jobs to put something into our stomachs and keep the lights on.

I slam the trailer door shut and call out, “Pop, I’m home”. He grunts in reply as I pass him in the closet-sized sitting room in his recliner drinking whiskey. The TV is playing some nauseating day-time soap opera, but his eyes are barely open. He’s been hitting the liquor earlier and earlier the past few weeks.

“I have homework, so I’ll be in my room, alright?”

No reply.

“You hungry? I can make something for dinner first?”

“....Pop?”

He’s either ignoring me or has dozed off into his drunken stupor yet again. I can’t even bring myself to look at him. It’s been about 9 months since my mother passed away in a car accident – my dad was driving and blames himself. At first, I blamed him too, but we later found out the other driver was under-the-influence. You’d think that would turn my dad off the booze but no – he “knows better than to go out like this”. So now he doesn’t leave at all. Some days I’m so angry at him I don’t even come home – I sit in the woods until dark and when I get back, he's already asleep with empty six-packs beside him or bottle of liquor fallen out of his hands. He’s stuck inside this deep pit of grief that sucks him down further and further with each drink, and no one can save…not me, not himself. I try making sure that he eats and showers, but I can’t manage a sad, drunken man. I know grief hits people differently, because hey! I’m grieving too asshole! And at some point, you gotta man up and take care of your kid, man. I’ve managed alright this far, but I’m getting worried – it’s only a matter of time before child services shows up, or before he drinks himself to death. I’m freshly 16 and there’s no way I can support both of us. Nor can he, or I for that matter, hold out for two more years.

In a feeble attempt to save money, I turn out all the lights in the place, except the TV until Pop falls asleep, and plug in my shoplifted fairy lights. It gives the place a warm, soft glow, and if I close my eyes, I can hear Mama humming in the kitchen, smell Pop’s bacon and egg breakfast, and feel them pull me in close before running to the bus. The memory quickly turns sour as I hear Pop swear something incomprehensible at the TV and I am forced back to my shitty reality. I shut the curtains to my room with a violent swish – it’s the closest I can get to slamming my door like a normal teenager.

Tonight, it all changes – the absolute disaster that is my life will be avenged. I sit down at my desk ignoring the pages of pointless word problems, the now unreadable Catcher in the Rye chapters in my locker, the history paper rubric stuffed into my backpack. It’s all worthless, pointless, and a waste of my time. Instead, I focus my attention on the research in front of me, and the rapidly setting sun streaming bright yellow lines across the pages. Stories and articles of the Swamp Witch are strewn across my desk in a mildly organized fashion with my notebook atop the mess. After careful review of hundreds of articles, I’ve cross checked each to conclude the most consistent information on her origin and how to summon her. I skim over the pages accounting the haunted or cursed cypress tree on which to carve my name and share my blood, and of different variations of her form. She has been reported as anything from a beautiful seductress to a wicked old witch. My family is of the Seminole tribe, and as children we are told the haunting story of the Stikini – Seminole witches that transform into flesh-eating owls on the full moon. I’ve always regarded it as just a poorly written, scary story to warn children from traveling alone at night, especially into the swamp. But then I stumbled upon various police reports, newspaper articles, and social media “sightings” of an evil owl. People have accused it of anything from being their disgruntled ex-wife to the thing that killed their dog. One person even reported an attack, when he was, allegedly, fishing in the swamp. It’s more likely that he was actually illegally gator hunting. It drew my attention because there’s no reference to the Seminole lore – just tweaked-out white people scared of an owl. I almost didn’t believe it, despite the hundreds of reports over the last half a century, until I saw it for myself. The very owl I’ve seen nearly every day at the swamp entrance. I’ve done my fair share of exploring the swamp and spending time with its inhabitants – you don’t earn the nickname swamp rat for nothing – and no swamp and no owl has felt as ominous and powerful as this one. I feel it drawing me into the swamp, closer and closer.

With my mind full of folklore, striving to discern fact from fiction, I pack my coat with a 4-inch dagger that used to belong to my grandfather. I took it off my dad one of those early nights I was afraid he’d hurt himself…or me. The hilt is a beautifully carved alligator, with the blade ending in its tail. The mouth perfectly holds the blade with precariously carved, pointed teeth. I fold a map into my breast pocket for good measure, though I’m sure I won’t need it, along with a pack of matches. With nothing to do until the sun goes down, I plug my headphones into my dad’s old Walkman and listen to tape after tape of raging metal music loud enough to blast my ear drums until it gets late enough that I can slip into the night unseen.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The night is clear, and the moon shines a crescent-shaped shadow across the trees. It’s bright enough to see in front of me, yet dark enough that I can still make out the constellations. Orion stands proudly, sword in hand, guarding the heavens as Auriga, The Chariot, passes through. What a useless thing to know. Where is the Northern Star? That would actually help me because I’m having more trouble than I anticipated navigating in the dark. I silently curse myself for not practicing the path inside in the dark. To be honest, I was too afraid until this point. It doesn’t matter, though because I won’t turn back now. For the first time, I take in my surroundings – the path is damp with fallen cypress leaves, and their bruising knees obscure my sense of direction. The canopy above me is so dense that I fear I won’t find a way out of here. Claustrophobia sets in, and the impending tsunami of panic floods all my senses. I kneel to the ground and breathe – in, hold, out – again and again until my vision clears. Among the mess of swollen trunks and knees, I distinguish a distant shape. A pair of glowing eyes behind a sturdy shape stare in my direction. As I move forward, I notice an army of those bright-orange eyes staring me down, glistening in the white moonlight. Some of them stay still while others disappear into the depths of the bleak, still water. The resident alligators curiously stare me down, and although I know they mean no harm, my instincts urge me to run.

I pick up the pace and comb through the dense brush. Palm fronds slice through my skin, Spanish moss tangles in my hair, and spider webs wrap around my face. I finally trip and hit the ground with full force, thanks to an untied shoelace. I’m far enough from the water that the curious gators are far behind me, yet the ominous cypresses still haunt me, towering all around me. A set of rogue clouds covers the moon, and my only light source is now gone. I turn back and I see a single pair of eyes stalking me behind a trunk. These eyes, however, are not orange, and they stand too tall for a gator. I freeze as I lock onto the glistening pair in the distance, sweat drips down my brow and into my eyes, as I quickly wipe it off with the back of my hand. The eyes are no longer there. Dead silence and pitch-black darkness surround me. My exhaustive panting is the only thing that fills the heavy, musty air.

The clouds part and moonlight streams through the branches. The swaying Spanish moss parts just enough for me to see it – The Haunting Cypress. It stands alone in the middle of the swamp at an impressive and intimidating size. Fear keeps me at a low crouch as I make my way to the muck’s edge – the water doesn’t seem too deep, but gators don’t need much to stay hidden. I take a deep breath and pray that I won’t become gator bait. I slowly wade over to base of the tree, keeping my eyes peeled for flashes of orange, and the other set of eyes following. My feet slosh to a rhythm as my head swings back and forth scanning the water, when suddenly, my foot trips over something and a startled yelp escapes me. I catch myself on a patch of cypress knees that are sure to leave bruises. I pick my way across them as fast as possible without slipping into the swamp and finally land on the base roots of the tree.

The tree is covered in carvings – crude images, couples’ initials in hearts, and names. Perhaps they were once like me, desperately calling forth the swamp witch. I dig my carving knife from my pocket and quickly, and roughly, carve my name – K A I A. I then slice a gash into my palm, wincing as it cuts my skin and blood rushes to the surface. I let it pool, admiring its shine in the moonlight, before dripping it over my name until it is covered completely, and streaming down the bark. Time stretches out before me in the eerie silence – seconds or minutes pass by, I can’t tell, and nothing happens. Feelings of foolishness and embarrassment for believing this fairytale flood over me. Dread for the miserable hike back out of the swamp and back into my shithole of a life grips me so ferociously, I think I’d rather stay here and die. I almost start to cry when I hear something – an almost imperceivable shift in the ground cover – and a thick fog rises from beneath the Haunting Cypress. My blood turns to ice, my knees frozen to the ground, and I slowly turn my head over my shoulder to see a barefoot, muck covered, humanoid foot balancing on a cypress knee right next to me. My eyes go wide, and fear grips my entire body as I force myself to look up – an ethereal woman in a tattered, mud-green dress with wild, long, and tangled strands of darkly colored hair stares admiringly at the cypress. I blink and she vanishes, only to reappear just inches in front of my face. Startled, I gasp and stumble backwards onto the crooked knees and murky water. Her face is paler than the moon and nearly translucent – she smiles wickedly with rotting teeth and bright, ice blue-gray eyes. She is enchanting, mystifying, and absolutely terrifying.

She hisses to me in a scratchy, throaty voice, that sounds like it hasn’t spoken in years, “Kaia, why do you summon us?”

My heart clenches tightly in my chest, and I’m about to ask who is “us?” until I see them – multiple pairs of glowing-orange eyes emerge from the murky water and surround the tree…surround the witch…and me.

I am frozen in disbelief as I suddenly realize that I didn’t expect this to actually work. Yet, here I am, face to face with what exactly what I wanted, and it’s everything I envisioned it to be. Every terrible moment of my life suddenly plays back in my mind’s eye – every nasty comment, horrible prank, and whisper behind my back, Mom’s death, Dad’s failure, and my obsession to end my own suffering. I meet the witch’s gaze, and she nods in understanding, as if my memories just played on a projector screen for us only.

My voice is a whisper, as I can barely contain my rage, and my fear, when I say to her, “I curse everyone in this town who has ever wished me, my family, or my tribe ill-will. They must pay. May they all burn in hell.”

“And we shall dance with the devil,” she replies and then laughs a story-book witch’s cackle as she dances across the cypress knees. “Oh, dear Kaia, you will make a delightful and vengeful witch.”

Before I can fully fear her words, she’s rushing at me, no, into me. My body is instantly chilled in a frozen embrace and I can’t breathe. My vision is blurred, and I can feel her gray eyes mixing with my brown to form a depthless swirl. I feel my bones becoming brittle, my hair drying and shortening, my nails elongating. I try to scream but her cackling laughter takes over my voice, and we merge into a howling screech. I catch sight of myself in the water’s reflection and watch as I become the identity everyone has thrust unto me – a swamp witch out for revenge. My teeth are rotting and changing color before my eyes, which only makes me smiler wider and wider until I look like a sinister nightmare.

She says from within my head, “Kaia, you are now the swamp witch governing these trees, these animals, and all who enter this territory. It’s your turn to protect and avenge our land. Do your worst.”

And her spirit leaves me to my own devices. No guidance, no counsel, no rules. The gators surrounding me rise out of the water to greet their new master. I remove my boots – I don’t need them any longer – and step onto the back of the nearest one to guide me out of here, towards my revenge.