The Witch of Little Italy Read Online Free PDF

I’m glad you’re home.”
    Come home  … she heard again. Was it Mimi’s voice all along? How? And then there was the sound of a wailing child. Eleanor put her hand to her mouth to make sure it wasn’t her own weeping ripping free again. It wasn’t.
    “Who’s that, Mimi?”
    “Who’s what?”
    “Is there a little child living here? I just heard someone crying.”
    A shadow flickered across Mimi’s eyes. “I didn’t hear anything. Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t want to sleep with me?”
    “No, I’m fine. But that was definitely a crying child. Maybe outside?”
    “Maybe it’s a ghost?” offered Mimi, unaffected by the idea.
    “Is the building haunted, Mimi?”
    “Isn’t every building haunted?” asked Mimi, playfully. “Well, goodnight, Babygirl. I’m glad you are here. If that crying keeps you up, you come and get me, okay? Promise?”
    “Yes. I promise.”
    The door closed. And Eleanor was alone.
    She picked up the e. e. cummings paperback off the dressing table and made her way around the room. Atop the trunk at the end of the bed there was a radio combination record player. Eleanor lifted the blue plastic lid, pushed the on switch, and prayed. The turntable began to spin. She lifted the arm and placed the needle to the black vinyl. This was the last record my mother listened to in her bedroom.
    Connie Francis’ “Where the Boys Are” came singing out.…

    Where the boys are, someone waits for me …

    Eleanor smiled. It was so … sixteen of her! She sat on the end of the bed and let the book of poetry open to a natural place. A clue to her mother’s favorite page.

    Anyone lived in a pretty how town
    (with up so floating many bells down)
    Up, so floating. That summed up Eleanor’s mood. Something that spanned comfort and terror. But things that terrified most people didn’t scare Eleanor Amore. It was a quirk of sorts, her absolute affection for all things Gothic and dreadful. When she was younger and she’d ask Carmen about monsters in closets or ghosts under the bed, Carmen would roll her eyes and send out smoke rings shooing her away with an If-only-life-could-be-that-interesting look. But Carmen didn’t understand. Eleanor wasn’t afraid of the common childhood threat. She was delighted.
    Her paintings reflected her need for dark themes. Her figures rarely had eyes, only reflections of what Eleanor supposed were their secrets. If there was a vase of roses she’d find the one that was wilted, and examine, with her brush, the potential of decay.
    “Morose, doom-prophet, depressed, troubled.” These were all words used to describe her and her artwork.
    “And we can’t forget pathetic,” she reminded herself aloud. That was Cooper’s favorite insult. “Eleanor, you’re absolutely pathetic,” he’d say after he hit her. And worse, after they’d have sex.
    Cooper. She didn’t even want to think about him in this place, in her newfound sanctuary, her sacred space … she didn’t want to channel his energy. But it was too late. Even just the thought of him barged over her, unwanted and present all the time.
    She couldn’t block out the memories just like she couldn’t protect her body from his fists.
    She took off her clothes, all except her hat, and looked at her naked body in the armoire mirrors. She examined her bruises. Some old and yellow, fading. Some newer, red and angry. It bothered her that she knew the lifespan of bruising.
    The first few months with Cooper weren’t so bad. She wasn’t in love, but he was beautiful to look at—and popular. And for a brief moment Eleanor felt like a participant in her life instead of an observer. Carmen paid attention. Her relationship with a rich, good-looking boy inspired Carmen to call Eleanor on a weekly basis to “check in.” Other girls at Yale swooned over her. Wanting to know her secret. How the strange girl with the freaky green hat had won the most desirable freshman boy at Yale. If only she’d known the