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Central Central National Bank Member FDIC. Goose Walwolves, Witches and Vampires. Written
by Joanne Christensen, published by Loane Bine Publishing, Mad Mollie. It was
April of eighteen thirty three, a fine spring day in Saint Louis. Down
at the river front. The burly men who sweated on the docks and the
paddle wheelers were celebrating the warm quality of the day the same way that they
celebrated all the events in their lives and marked the days that were not eventful
too. They had taken refuge in the dark taverns and were filling themselves with
drink on this particular day, and one of the louder, wilder places along
the docks, a stranger wandered in. She was an old woman, a
croon, wrapped in a ragged shawl, clutching a frayed carpet bag to her
side. Even in the dim light of the tavern, she was plainly ugly.
The hag's face was misshapen and scarred, and her gray hair hung in
filthy, matted clumps. Though it was clear that she was missing all but
a few rotting, crooked teeth. The woman attempted to win a few of
the patrons over with an intriguing smile. Oh please, gents, she simpered,
Won't you buy an old lady a drink? I've just come all the
way from New Orleans and I'd love a little bit of gin, I would
She'd moved from group to group, shuffling through the sawdust that covered the thick
plank floor. The men refused her outright or rudely turned their backs. Not
one was willing to spend his drinking money on the wretch old woman. Finally,
the boar tender grew tired of her begging and pulled a heavy wooden club
from behind the bar. Out he demanded, as he brandished the club into
the croon's ugly face. I'll not have my customers bothered by a foul smelling
old hack. The drinkers turned to watch the confrontation and were amused when the
old woman dropped the carpet bag and raised her arms in a dramatically threatening pose.
It's the devil's eye for you, she shrieked. A few men started
to laugh, but stopped when they saw the crone's body stiffen and to a
grotesque pose. The shawl slipped off one bony shoulder as she began to jerk
convusively. Get her out of here, someone yelled from the back of the
room, she's having a fit. There were murmurs of agreement, but no
one seemed eager to touch the spastic old woman or her filthy rags, so
they kept watching until her body became still and her bulging, bloodshot eyes focused
upon the weary bartender. Oh sir me allasma out as smooth Katasubah, she
began, and her voice was gutter and menacing. Melanie Lethough she continued to
chant, the rowdy crowd had become quiet and still as every one of the
patrons stared at the disturbing sight. Finally, the hag's incantation came to an
end. There was a moment of absolute silence, and then the old woman
formed her lined pucker lip into an o. She excelled a long, raspy
breath in the direction of the bartender. The man began to grow very red
in the face. Several of the gawky specters assumed that he was changing complexion
was due to the rage, and expected to hear him unleash his fury upon
the crone. But those who were standing closest to him, the patrons who
were leaning against the long scarred of bar, noticed that the poor tender was
trembling. Within seconds, the rudeness in his face and neck had progressed to
a shade that was nearly purple, and his eyes bulged from their sockets.
The wooden club slipped from his fingers and clattered dully on the floor. Her
lips parted once, and a wet, choking sound slipped past them. His
lips parted once, and a wet, choking sound slipped past them. Then
the bartender's eyes rolled back into his skull until only the whites of them could
be seen beneath the fluttering lids, and he crumpled to the floor. Several
of the patrons caught him by name. The man did not answer and did
not stir, so a number of fellows rushed behind the bar to his aid.
Immediately, they recognized that there was nothing that they could do. He's
dead, said one man, his voice fraught with shock and disbelief. A
few others tried in vain to find a pulse or bread, or a sign
of life, and were forced to agree with the original grim diagnosis. The
bartender was dead, a victim of the devil's eye. Everyone in the tavern
turned to look at the old woman. She stood calmly, once again gripping
her mountain case. She wore a small, satisfied smile upon her lips.
Tis a pity, she said, to no one in particular. I only
wanted a little sip of gin. One of the men standing behind the bar
turned to the row of bottles that lined a shelf on the mirrored wall.
There he grabbed several and thrust them toward the grinning groom. Take these,
he spat, and get out of here. We don't need more of your
trouble. Which the old woman opened her bag and stuffed in as many bottles
as would fit. The rest she tucked under her arm, and she turned
to leave. The hag slowly crossed the tavern, retracing the shuffling steps she
had taken earlier. OH murmur of voices took up behind her, which the
crowd began to chant accusingly, which the voices grew louder and bolder. The
gab of spittle landed on the dusty wood planks just behind the old crown's feet.
Devil's daughter, someone yelled, drawing the support of two dozen voices that
agreed. The den reached its peak when the old woman reached the door,
it came to an irupt halt. When she turned to face the room,
the hag had total silence and a completely attentive audience. It was her moment.
My name's Molly, she said, in her crackling old woman voice.
And what I know I learned from the most powerful voodoo queens of New Orleans.
I served the dark Master, but I'm willing to do business with any
of you for a price. She cast one final leering glance around the room,
then opened the door and disappeared into the blinding april sun. Within days,
the story of Molly's powerful evil eye had spread throughout Saint Louis, and
she began to profit handsomely from her notorious reputation. Business owners paid her for
the favor of not casting her malignant eye upon their shops. People of all
sorts began to seek her out to help them overcome their enemies. Lovers paid
small fortunes to gain the affections of those whom they desired, and paid even
more dearly to eliminate the romantic competition. Using her menacing eye, mysterious spells,
and juju dolls, she plied her trade in the darkest, most dangerous
corners of the frontier city. Molly spent a large portion of her earnings on
the gin that she loved so much, and so it was convenient for her
to hold court at the back table of her favorite shadow wear. Sometimes there
would be as many as three or four people nervously awaiting their turn as Molly
struck a bargain with whoever was sitting with her. Occasionally, snippets of her
advice could be overheard. Quickly, stories of her success spread inevitably. Molly's
reputation as a powerful witch grew. Take a lock of his hair and burn
it while you sprinkle this powder from above, she told one weeping woman weeks
later, the woman's neighbors were whispering, what a wonder it was that her
cruel husband had stopped using his fist on her. Bury this charm beneath your
front step with the piece of gold, she advised a eager young shopkeeper.
Within a month, his once floundering business appeared to be flourishing. Bring me
something that belongs to your wife's lover, she crooked to a humiliated husband.
I'll make a dog from it, very powerful. The man did as she
asked, and soon his rival was dead. Spells were cast and deals were
made, and the devil's business was conducted daily in that bar as Molly sat
hunched over the table with her gnarled hands wrapped around the tumbler of liquor.
Although all of her customers feared her, most felt they received fair value for
their investment, But every so often there would be someone who felt cheated.
One evening, a young man came into the bar seeking Molly the Witch.
He was directed to her table in the dark back corner. Molly jested her
to the chair opposite of her, and the man sat down to talk.
It wasn't long, however, before the discussion grew heated, Molly stood up
and tried to strike her threatening devil's eye pose, but the man pushed the
table roughly against her, knocking her down. I'll curse you and you'les,
so, she screeched, as he stormed out of the establishment. I promise
you'll suffer. It was never known whether Molly made good on her threat.
The next morning, the police discovered the old Hag's dead body and the filthy
alley behind the bar. Her school had been crushed with the blunt weapon,
and her tangled, matted hair was soaked with blood. The blow to Molly's
head had most certainly caused her death, but the murderer had apparently wanted to
be very sure, for there was also a stake pounded through her heart.
The final touch was a grudely fashioned wooden cross, which had been carefully placed
upon the corpse. It was never determined whether she had been killed by the
irritant client or someone else. Undoubtedly, the witch had as many enemies as
she did paying customers. Only one thing was certain. Nearly two years after
arriving in Saint Louis, Molly's profitable but twisted reign of dark power had come
to an end, there was those who rejoiced and those who wept, knowing
that they were once again required to find their own solution to life's difficult problems.
In his book Strange Women of the Occult Popular Library of nineteen sixty eight,
Warren Smith suggests that Molly may have been no more than a convincing con
woman who built a profitable reputation on a hapless bartender's timely heart attack. But
whether she was truly skilled which or a manipulative, confined trickster, matters little
in the end. Either way, she was a powerful character and a colorful
addition to the history of Saint Louis.