The screen door handle was a large empty thread spool, attached with a three-inch nail.

Tom had never seen a wooden screen door before, much less one with a spool handle. He was writing a description of it on a pocket note pad when he became conscious of a slender figure behind the partially open inner door. He looked up, startled, and peered through the patches sewn over the rips in the screen. The dark mesh barrier was so irregularly darned that he could barely see through it. The flaking grey paint on the narrow porch where he stood reflected the bright light of the noonday sun, making the interior of the small farmhouse look like a dark cave. Tom could make out only the silhouette of the person standing behind the open door.

"Oh, excuse me," he said to the silent figure. "I'm looking for Granny Blow."

"She's sleeping. What do you want?"

"Chief Bradby sent me. I’d like to interview her."

"She doesn’t give interviews." The voice was hostile.

"Why is that?"

"Because the last guy who came was a newspaper reporter. He wrote a stupid article that made fun of how poor we are and described Granny as an old witch, brewing up evil potions to do God-only-knows-what."

"Oh . . . well." Tom cleared his throat, uncertain how to handle this cold reception. The voice on the other side of the screen sounded like a girl’s. "My name is Tom Benedict. I'm taking an anthropology course at William and Mary."

No response.

"Chief Bradby said that Granny Blow knows Indian folklore. I need to talk to her."

"She's sleeping." The tone was curt. "She's not feeling well, and can't be disturbed."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." Tom stuck his pen and pad back into his shirt pocket. "Could I come back later?"

"No." She raised her voice. "We don’t need strangers coming here to satisfy their curiosity."

"Luney?" A querulous voice floated from beyond the dark room. "Luney? Who's there?"