Rachelle Erzay

i.
At night, the streets are filled with ghosts. They like to gossip; say the Devil walks the witching hour; say he rides on the slow wind of the inner suburbs; say he takes a maiden when no one’s watching. They don’t know that I ask him to walk me to my door. Let him kiss a cheek, breath burning a brand on my skin.

‘When can I see you again?’ he murmurs into the corner of my mouth. His voice rattles along the pavement with the Autumn leaves.

I smile, press a candy-coloured talon to his lips. Smear lambs’ blood on the doorframe of my body. Rub it in like tanning lotion.

‘Don’t you know that only keeps Him away?’ He purrs around my finger and gazes towards the starless sky. Goosebumps rise like an unholy army.

‘We don’t want to be disturbed, do we?’ I crack open the door and invite him inside. Pull down my underwear and show him my new tattoo.

ii.
When Lilith is born, the summer air bursts like an overripe peach, blistering sweet, drowning us in moisture.

My labouring screams echo through the night. Windowpanes gain spider web cracks, contractions tear through flesh, and fire spews from fanged lips.

Something primal has me crouching on all fours, snarling through another wave of searing pain. After one final push, she slides from me in a bright wave of blood and fluids, staining the cream shag with a pair of crimson wings. Glowing with sweat, I gather her tiny, scaled body, covered in white wax, and bundle her to my throbbing milk-laden breast.

She doesn’t cry. Instead, she takes her first breath with a calm that belongs to a still sea. Opens her split iris eyes and peers at me with the gaze of another. I stroke her cheek, velvet, under sharp talons, and slowly get up from the floor. Blood dribbles down my leg, and another contraction starts. I grit my teeth and wait for the placenta to pass.

Once she’s asleep, I reach for a cigarette and call on the wind for her dad to take it from here.

iii.
I wear Hag like a designer garment. Relish in the delicate, thin folds that drape my face, neck and hands. Countless seasons adorn my body in the way they’re meant to; loudly, plainly, for all to see and savour. The Devil winks at me as he makes his way across Liberty Avenue, and promises to swing by later. I feed my granddaughters candy apples and invite their friends to stay at my gingerbread house. Piece by piece, I tear off a part of my home for them to consume. Spin them tales from a lifelong past, in hopes they won’t make the same mistakes I once longed for. I trim my talons, rub lavender moisturiser into dry creases, clean my spectacles. Curse the local pastor for fun. Try the new Vibe Bunny that Joan recommended at book club. Whisper to the ghosts about a Crone that takes the Devil when no one’s watching.

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Rachelle Erzay lives, works and writes on Nyungar land. She completed a Creative Writing Honours degree at Curtin University in 2018 and has had her work published by the little journal, Night Parrot Press and others. Rachelle can normally be found drinking too much chai and spoiling her tuxedo cat, Melisandre.

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