A Lock of Hair

By A Rose Pritchett

Boston, 1846. 18-year-old Mildred Parish, a barber's daughter, practices practical witchraft using locks of hair obtained from her father's customers. She's very selective about who knows her secret and the kinds of spells she casts. Only people she trusts can know and she must never cast a spell to harm another person.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: A. Rose Pritchett
• Release date: Sep 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578576008

A Rose Pritchett

Born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina, she moved to Savannah, Georgia shortly after graduating high school to be surrounded by her two main passions: art and history. As a disabled person, she strives to diversify the way disabilities are portrayed in stories. Her website is www.arosepritchett.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

When I was a child , I believed in the existence of unicorns. I believed in making friends with faeries and mermaids. I believed in magic.

I never stopped believing in magic.

My mother taught me how to use it. She claimed she was a descendant of John and Elizabeth Proctor, two of Salem’s suspects in their famed Witch Trials. One day, a young barber named Abner Parish came to her asking for an abundance spell, though he tells me he feels that wasn’t the only spell she cast for him. Ten months later, I was born on the twenty-ninth of November in 1828.

When I was twelve, my mother fell ill and died. My father neglected his barber shop. Bills piled on the table, month after month, as dust covered its surface. The city of Salem eventually took the business from him.

One day, I awoke to the sight of him with packed trunks and bags. Pack your things and get dressed, Mildred. We’re going to Boston.

For how long? My heart quickened at the thought of an adventure, but it quivered once I noticed the serious tone in his voice.

Until your mother’s ghost is gone. He dragged over an empty trunk. Hurry. There’s a carriage waiting.

My father’s response puzzled me then, because I never saw my mother’s ghost in our home. I eventually understood what he truly meant.

Hints of my mother’s ghost remained tucked in corners and crevices. So, we stayed in Boston. My father opened a new shop in the south of the city, making us a comfortable enough life there. Six years later, aged eighteen, I carried on her practice.

I wondered if we were ever going to return to Salem, or at least if I would. Since it was highly doubtful my father would want to go back, and I couldn’t leave him alone, I was going to remain in Boston for the foreseeable future. However, since it was a highly Catholic city, I had to be more secretive with my witchcraft. In Salem, witches were a novelty. People expected a few of us to be around, so we didn’t have to hide as much. I longed for the freedom, but Boston was my home for now.

A GROUP OF SAILORS came into my father’s shop for a shave before they went off to sea. I wasn’t asked to perform a protection spell on them, but I did it as a way to do good for them. As usual with his seafaring patrons, I acquired their hair left behind in the shop and put it in an abalone shell with an aquamarine stone. At the edge of the bay, away from most other people, I lowered the shell in the water, letting the waves carry away the men’s essences as I said an internal prayer. The aquamarine was supposed to make the ocean happy. Though witches traditionally gave it as an offering, the stone was too precious for a barber’s daughter to afford more than one, so the sea had to settle for the caress of it every time I casted this spell. So far, it has treated every single one of those sailors kindly.

Growing up, my mother taught me many spells using hair from my father’s customers. Once you obtain someone’s essence, whether it be their hair, blood, or fingernails, you have power over that person.

Once the ritual was over, I removed my shoes and stockings to let the cold water lap over my bare feet, holding my skirts up to keep their hems dry. The sea flowed between my toes and kissed my heels, baptizing me up to my ankles, letting the supposed sins of casting magic wash away.

Most witches were depicted as evil women, when in fact I always tried to be the opposite. Why, yes. I am a Christian witch. Naysay what you may, for it’s out of fear you condemn me, if you are a condemner. Most people are afraid of us doing harm to them—asking the devil for help, though I don’t think he would approve of healing or protecting others. Therefore, I ask God.

Boston was melancholy that day. It almost always was in early spring. A fine, gray mist covered my face, making my body feel cool inside with every inhale. I wondered if it reminded the Irish of home, and if that’s why they immigrated towards this city in droves.

People would probably start wondering why a young lady was standing by herself at the edge of the bay. In the water, I saw myself smirking in the wavy reflection. So, I gathered my shell and aquamarine, then put my stockings and shoes back on. In my situation, it’s important not to raise any suspicion. Fortunately, my features were ordinary, with light brown hair and plain brown eyes. I wouldn’t call myself conventionally pretty, either, since my face was long and it wasn’t very common girls with long faces were called pretty. It would be quite awkward if one of the men I was casting a spell on were to fall in love with me.

I made my way between the fishmongers and children playing in the streets, attracting no attention at all. It helps to dress simply, so that day, I was wearing a simple blue dress with a dark mantle over it, since there was still a slight winter’s chill in the air. My face was partially obscured by a bonnet, which was what all decent ladies wore. Yes, fellow citizens of Boston, I’m just a plain, decent woman walking down the street.

Finally, I reached my father’s barber shop. When I entered, several men cheerfully greeted me. My father paused Mr. McFadden’s shave and turned around, the client’s face still halfway covered with white foam, while I dodged the razor in his outstretched hand. Millie! Where’s the bread?

I flung my hand to my face. Oh, I completely forgot!

His thick eyebrows furrowed in mock anger behind his round glasses, the curled moustache above his lip twitching. You know what happens when you forget to buy bread, right?

Yes, I do. I lowered my head. The shop got quiet, anxious to see what silly song my father would make me sing this time. Every time I forgot to buy something, he made me sing a ridiculous song in public.

Sing Yankee Doodle! The razor gleamed as he swung it upwards through the air.

Placing my hands on my hips, I pretended to protest. But we’re in a crowded barber shop!

The customers urged me on. Come on, sing Yankee Doodle for us!

I sighed and threw up my arms in surrender. If I must.

"Yankee Doodle went to town, riding on a pony

Stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni

Yankee Doodle keep it up

Yankee Doodle Dandy

Mind the music and the step

And with the girls be handy."

As the men cheered, I curtsied. Now that’s done, how has the shop been going today?

He gestured to his still half-shaven client. Well, Mr. McFadden here was just telling me about how he’s having trouble finding work. My father nodded ever so slightly to the ground, where strands of Mr. McFadden’s hair lay. I returned the nod and we shared a subtle smile.

I am. There are so many immigrant people and so few jobs for all of us. My wife is considering applying to be a maid for one of the wealthy families.

Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll come across some good luck in the very near future. I let my purse slip out of my grasp and as I bent down to retrieve it, I discreetly picked up a lock of his hair and slipped it into my purse. Turning to my father, I said, Well, I’ll check on Nightshade and then I’ll go back out for bread.

He embraced me. I’ll come up in time for dinner. When he pulled away, I brushed a smear of shaving foam off my arm.

I exited the shop and went to our apartment above through the entrance in the back alley. As I opened the door, a black streak dashed out. Nightshade! My spaniel looked over her shoulder at me and continued her dash. A rustling in the trees indicated what prompted it: a squirrel, again.

I picked up my skirts and chased after her. Nightshade, get back here!

She paid no attention to me. I gave up all my attempts at going unnoticed since it was very hard to be decent when chasing your dog. People turned their heads to look at me, the madwoman running down the street shouting out the name of a poisonous herb. My bonnet slipped off my head and hung from the back of my neck by two ribbons, allowing my hair to dishevel itself from the knot at my nape and the loops around my ears.

Finally, she stopped outside the bakery, which was across the street from the school, and began to yip. Nightshade, what are you barking at? I asked between heavy breaths. When I regained myself and looked up, I saw who she was pawing at. Oh, Theodore. I didn’t think I’d be running into you here. I suddenly felt silly in the crazed state of appearance I was in.

He bent down to rub her back as her pink tongue licked his hand. We do see each other quite often here, several times a week. As he stood again, his large lips curved into a smirk, as did mine.

Right, sorry. I believe I left my brain behind when I was running.

I believe this is yours. His green eyes glanced downward at the ornery creature pawing his leg.

I picked up my dog. This is the fourth time she’s run away this month!

Theodore sorted through the loaves of bread outside the bakery. I’ll always be available to help if she runs away again.

It’s quite nice of her to stop here. My father sent me out to get bread.

My heart quickened as he brushed strands of his red hair from his face. I suspected that I would soon be seeing him at my father’s establishment, however, I thought his hair looked nice at this length, the way most handsome men wore it. He held up two loaves and nodded to Nightshade. Since your hands are rather too full to get your money, I’ll pay.

I shifted Nightshade to one side and held up my free hand. Oh, no. You don’t have to do that. I have enough money.

No, please, it’s fine. Theodore was one of the lucky Irishmen because his family had a substantial amount of wealth. They weren’t rich, but they were quite comfortable since they owned almost half of the residences on the street.

Oh, well, thank you, then.

He stepped forward, his eyes full of inquiry. Do you mind if I fix your bonnet? Or would that be a breach of etiquette for you?

I smiled slightly. That would be nice. As he put the bonnet back on my head and retied the ribbons underneath my chin, I hoped he would fumble so that his fingers would linger on my skin. Unfortunately, he was quick, though I still felt my face growing hot and my insides bubble.

When he stepped back, I tried to lengthen our encounter. How’s Roger? He was Theodore’s second-oldest brother. Their father rarely let him leave the house. Really, one of the few times anyone saw anything of him was when they took him to my father’s shop about once a month.

He’s doing fine. I’ll tell him you said hello. Theodore smiled. He was the only member of his family who seemed to care for his brother. In the Irish community, people whispered about how incompetent the midwife who delivered him was, allowing the faeries to replace the real infant with a changeling, simply because he appeared to be born with a deformity and it took him longer to learn to walk and talk. I may believe in a lot of things, but I don’t believe in changelings. And not once did I think Roger’s condition was a curse. The real curse was that society thought it was.

Nightshade wriggled in my grasp. I must go, before my dog runs off again.

It’s always a pleasure seeing you. He tipped his hat and grinned.

As I turned to leave, I thought about when his family arrived in Boston from Belfast. I was fourteen; he was sixteen. When I first met Theodore, he confused me. He walked into my father’s shop with his family one day, acting very shy, but friendly. My stomach twisted upon laying eyes on him, which was odd because I thought he was nice. At fourteen, I didn’t realize that was the first symptom of infatuation.

Our fathers shared an entrepreneurial spirit. Doyle O’Brian made other immigrants feel less alone in their new country by providing housing, owning half the residences on the street, and a small amount of assistance for a price. They weren’t rich, but they were quite comfortable. Theodore and his two older brothers didn’t have to worry about making a living, like other Irishmen.

It also meant that I couldn’t have Theodore O’Brian. He was going to inherit his father’s property eventually. I was merely his eccentric barber’s daughter. Besides, I wasn’t Irish. I could never relate to the problems of being an Irishman in America, whether he was wealthy or poor. At least, that’s what I told myself.

Even though I reminded myself of these facts, I meandered my way back home in a lovesick haze, narrowly dodging a woman tossing out a bucket of a substance I didn’t wish to know the contents of out a window.

Mildred! The voice came from Stella Sheehan, who was now walking briskly towards me with a handful of pamphlets.

Hello, Stella. I tried to be as pleasant as I could. There was no reason not to be nice to her. However, she was often together with Theodore and the sight of her evoked petty jealousy within me. Her parents were Irish and wealthy, so their families had a lot in common. The reason he tied my bonnet so quickly was probably because he got practice from tying hers.

She bent down eye-level with Nightshade and held out her hand for her to smell. What a precious little dog! Is this the famous Nightshade?

Yes, she is. You can pet her, if you like.

Stella gently rubbed my spaniel’s head. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re the barbershop dog who keeps on running through the streets! Nightshade licked her nose in response. I couldn’t help but laugh along with Stella. Then, she stood straight again and held out a pamphlet. Anyway, I’m handing these out. Several other women and I are trying to create an organization that helps sick women and their families.

I lifted my dog in one hand and my bread in the other. I wish I could take it, but my hands are full. Despite my envy, I admired her cause.

Oh, right, I see that! But we’re meeting at my house Thursday evening, at seven. You should try to come if you want to help. She had bright blue eyes and her face was framed by wisps of blond hair peeking out from her bonnet. Her external prettiness matched her kind spirit. I wished I could bring myself to like her.

I smiled. I’ll try to make it. Certainly, my parents and I would’ve benefitted from it if an organization like that existed when my mother was ill.

THE APARTMENT ABOVE my father’s shop was small and dark, but we tried to make it as warm and comfortable as we could. On the table was a lace tablecloth passed down from my mother. Needlepoint pillows I’d made rested on random chairs and sofas. Vases were scattered around the main living space, which I filled with wildflowers in the spring and summer. When the air was chilly, the fireplace was lit.

I set down my dog, letting her run free around the apartment. I put my purse and the bread Theodore paid for on the lace-covered table and hung my mantle on the coatrack attached to the wall. However, once my hands reached my bonnet, I hesitated, thinking of Theodore—he had to have learned how to tie it from Stella! At that thought, I tugged at the ribbons and threw the cap off.

My aquamarine and abalone shell were still in my purse, so I put those back in their rightful places on my table in the corner, which was dedicated to my spells. It was simple, with a candlestick, a selection of glittering crystals, a crucifix, and a small statue of Jesus and the Virgin Mary.

Underneath, where I kept candles and other spell supplies, I pulled out a large box. Inside were about thirty jars, each containing a lock of hair and a label with the name of the man it was once attached to. Mr. McFadden’s jar was empty, since I cast a recovery spell on him recently, so I retrieved his dark hair from my purse and stored it in there. I would cast an abundance spell the next day as a lesson for Mary, my new apprentice.

I took out Theodore’s jar and cupped it in my hands. Other women paid me to cast love spells for them, but I could never do one for myself. Something was preventing me from doing so. Perhaps it was because I’d be manipulating God’s divine plan, or just an odd sort of compassion for Theodore that would make me feel guilty if I made him fall in love with me. I still kept a lock of his hair, in case I felt he needed healing or protection, though I hoped that occasion would never come. Sighing, I put his jar back in its space and shut the box.

My next order of business was to prevent my dog from running away once again. Recalling a spell my mother said she used on her childhood cat, I obtained seven strands of Nightshade’s fur from a pillow. How is it possible for you to shed so much and still have plenty of fur? She cocked her head at me.

I used a strand of red thread from the sewing kit and tied it around the hairs seven times. When I finished the ritual, I turned to her and said, You know, it’s rare that I cast hair spells on females. If you would stop running away, I wouldn’t have to do this. You made me look like a madwoman! And you let Theodore see me. Nightshade sighed and lied down. You don’t care at all, do you? She rested her head between her paws.

A gust of wind rustled the branches of a tree against the side of the building, catching my attention. Perched on one of its highest limbs, a crow watched me through the window as I walked towards it. When I was close enough for my breath to fog the glass, it flew away, a shrinking black speck in the dawning twilight. My mother said crows often brought bad omens.