SUPERSTITION
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FOR MORE THAN two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has
gone wrong in town. If a damp spring arrived, if cows in the pasture gave milk that was runny with
blood, if a colt died of colic or a baby was born with a red birthmark stamped onto his cheek, everyone
believed that fate must have been twisted, at least a little, by those women over on Magnolia Street. It
didn't matter what the problem was—lightning, or locusts, or a death by drowning. It didn't matter if the
situation could be explained by logic, or science, or plain bad luck. As soon as there was a hint of
trouble or the slightest misfortune, people began pointing their fingers and placing blame. Before long
they'd convinced themselves that it wasn't safe to walk past the Owens house after dark, and only the
most foolish neighbors would dare to peer over the black wrought-iron fence that circled the yard like a
snake.
Inside the house there were no clocks and no mirrors and three locks on each and every door. Mice lived
under the floorboards and in the walls and often could be found in the dresser drawers, where they ate
the embroidered tablecloths, as well as the lacy edges of the linen placemats. Fifteen different sorts of
wood had been used for the window seats and the mantels, including golden oak, silver ash, and a
peculiarly fragrant cherrywood that gave off the scent of ripe fruit even in the dead of winter, when
every tree outside was nothing more than a leafless black stick. No matter how dusty the rest of the
house might be, none of the woodwork ever needed polishing. If you squinted, you could see your
reflection right there in the wainscoting in the dining room or the banister you held on to as you ran up
the stairs. It was dark in every room, even at noon, and cool all through the heat of July. Anyone who
dared to stand on the porch, where the ivy grew wild, could try for hours to look through the windows
and never see a thing. It was the same looking out; the green-tinted window glass was so old and so
thick that everything on the other side seemed like a dream, including the sky and the trees.
The little girls who lived up in the attic were sisters, only thirteen months apart in age. They were never
told to go to bed before midnight or reminded to brush their teeth. No one cared if their clothes were
wrinkled or if they spit on the street. All the while these little girls were growing up, they were allowed
to sleep with their shoes on and draw funny faces on their bedroom walls with black crayons. They
could drink cold Dr Peppers for breakfast, if that was what they craved, or eat marsh-mallow pies for
dinner. They could climb onto the roof and sit perched on the slate peak, leaning back as far as possible,
in order to spy the first star. There they would stay on windy March nights or humid August evenings,
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