The Witch

She is about nine. She is wearing a witch hat with a $3.99 sticker still on the brim, and a trick-or-treater's cape that is mostly safety pins, and she is holding a pillowcase.

I'm not really a witch, she says. It's just where they put me.

The ghosts don't move unless you do. She says it like a rule of grammar.

She holds the pillowcase open so you can see into it. There is nothing in it. I only walk through, she says.

Behind her, the three ghosts hover, white as a bed. They stopped when you stopped. You decide not to ask them anything.