The neighborhood teens called her a witch. There was no account of her being seen during the day and never a light burning in her decaying mansion. Their parents warned them to leave the reclusive widow alone, but they wouldn’t listen. Every evening for months, they waited for her to come out of her dark house and work in the garden. By amber lantern and on hands and knees, she weeded, dug, and planted in the cold soil. The teens would creep close to her vine covered iron fence then shine bright flashlights on her face.
“No light! S’il vous plait.” Her plea in a shaky French accent was always ignored. “My eyes,” she screeched.
They cackled and gave her their nightly shrill taunts. “Witch, witch, witch.”
She ducked her head into the crook of her elbow, the dark bell sleeve covering her eyes, until they left.
Among her moonflowers and night blooming cereus, Veuve Hébert found her most toxic white blossoms. The angel’s trumpets and oleander will make a poisonous solution to serve her vengeance. Wearing her darkest sunglasses, she will look beyond their painful flashlights and spray revenge into their eyes.
Tomorrow evening, Veuve Hébert will be waiting.