Grandpa and I were sitting at the local flea market, selling his woodwork just like any typical Saturday. It was springtime in the Appalachians, and like a bear from its den, the flea market had returned from its long sleep. Despite all the folksy nick-nacks for sale at the market, Grandpa usually does really well for himself. The tourists really seem to like the intricate bears and beavers and wolves he carves. He has walking sticks, a favorite amongst the hikers in the area, bowls, key holders, and other accent pieces that tourists and locals come back for year after year. Many of his carvings grace the homes of locals, and the crowd around his stall was never less than three or four.
Grandpa had just finished chatting with random customers when he suddenly told me that this reminded him of how he and his Grandmother used to go to the flea market.
“Oh? Did she sell magic potions?” I asked, laughing a little at the thought of these super religious stump thumpers picking up love potions or wart-b-gone.
“Sometimes. She also sold herbs, folk remedies, and policies to people who were in need of them. She never dabbled in things like dream catchers or love potions, things she considered hokey. She only dealt in what she knew, and what she knew came from the woods.”
His face clouded a little as he thought, and when next he spoke, it was with some discomfort.
“I almost died here when I was young, did you know that?”
My head snapped around so hard that I thought my neck might crack, “What?”
“I was old enough to know better than to have let it get that far, but that didn’t stop me from nearly getting taken in by it.”
“Taken in by what?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know, but needing to know, all the same.
“Soap Sally,” and when he said it, the name was almost a whisper.
It was as though he was afraid to say it too loudly, lest she be summoned by it.
“Who?” I half-laughed, thinking he was joking with me.
Grandpa looked shocked, “Didn’t your parents tell you about Soap Sally?”
I shook my head, “Not that I can ever remember.”
“I taught your mother better than that. Soap Sally is dangerous, especially to children.”
“Well, you can always tell me about her now.”
Grandpa nodded, grumbling in disbelief that I had never heard of her as he collected his thoughts.
“It all began with a candle.”
Grandma handed me a small burlap sack, one of Grandma’s little sigils attached to the top. The sigil was to prevent sickness, a simple collection of severe swoops, and I looked up at her questioningly. We had been at the stand all day, selling Grandma’s wares, and this wasn’t the first time she had sent me out to make a delivery.
“Take this to Sibil, would you dear? She over by the man selling corn on the far end of the market. Her husband is sick, and she’s hoping that this will take away the gloom hovering around him.”
“Sure,” I said, turning to go, but Grandma wasn’t quite done yet.
“It’s nearly sunset, so hurry back. I don’t want you getting lost in the end-of-day exodus.”
“I won’t,” I promised and left to find Mrs. Sibil. I knew who she was, of course. She came around sometimes to get policies and cures for various things. Though a devout baptist, Mrs. Sibil claimed that Doctor Jarred’s medicine just didn’t have the same kick that my Grandma’s backwoods medicine did.
I worked my way through the crowd, stepping quickly around men in boots and overalls as they hauled away everything from animal skins to blades for their harrows. The flea market was a great place to find anything, and I found myself looking at a few of the booths as I walked past. One of them had some beautiful wooden toys, another selling handmade yo-yos, and a third selling the last of their lead soldiers, lovingly painted to look like Civil War soldiers, for only a penny each. I had a few pennies jingling in my pocket, but as I stepped towards the booth, I knew that Grandma would be mad if I dallied.
I was sure that the booth would be open when Grandma gave me the promised twenty cents at the end of the day.
Maybe Mrs. Sibil would even give me a tip, I thought eagerly.
The market was busy, though, and by the time I reached Mrs. Sibil’s booth, she was preparing to leave.
She looked up, smiling as she recognized me and thanked me for coming all this way with her candle.
“My husband has been sick for days, and I know he’ll be happy to get back to the woods. Here’s a little something for your trouble, young man.” She said, handing me a few pennies.
Along with the pennies I had in my pocket that made ten whole cents!
In those days, that was practically a fortune.
As I made my way back, I took a turn towards the table with the lead soldiers. I wanted some new confederates for the little army I already had at home, and I didn’t figure Grandma would be too mad if I made a detour after her delivery was done. I had just gotten to the end of the row when I heard someone struggling with something. It sounded like a woman, and as I looked towards the outskirts of the west market, I could see an elderly woman struggling to push a wheeled cart towards the parking lot. I looked back the way I had come, wanting to get to the booth before it closed, but I was a good boy, and I had been raised to help people if they needed help.
I approached the old woman and asked if I could help her.
She turned to regard me, and I immediately wished I hadn’t asked. She was tall, and her width seemed to match her height. She was dressed in a thick coat, much too warm for the day, and a wide-brimmed hat covered her face in a perpetual shadow. Even so, her face was toadish, oddly long with skin that looked doughy. She looked like nothing so much as a candle that had grown soft on a warm day. When she smiled, I remember thinking that her teeth were made of sewing needles, but then realizing that they were just very thin and slightly pointed. Everything about her made me suddenly uncomfortable, and I wanted nothing so much as to run away.
But, again, I was a good boy, and good boys did not judge people by the way they looked.
“Well, aren’t you a helpful young man,” she said, her voice sweet but wrong somehow.
Her voice seemed unnatural, like a particularly well-done bit of ventriloquism, and it only added to her sense of not rightness.
“The wheel is just a little stuck in this rut,” she said, showing me the pothole that the delicate wheels of her cart had gotten stuck in, “Do you think you could help me push it? A strong young man like you could probably help me get it loose.”
I smiled and nodded, pushing one of the sides as the two of us strained against the bulky old cart. It was heavy, the inside rattling with whatever she was selling, and I could smell a flowery smell coming from the inside. I wondered if she were selling flowers or maybe soap, but as the cart suddenly lunged forward, I stumbled a little and smacked my head against the side. I saw stars for a moment and sat down on the red clay earth with a thump.
As she loomed up before me, I could see her doubling in my vision as she offered me a hand.
“Are you okay, young man?”
I reached out shakily for her hand, telling her I was okay before her fingers became iron, and she settled them around my wrist.
I was yanked up, my head spinning, as she began to push her cart again. She was dragging me behind her like a donkey lashed behind a wagon, and I was having trouble getting my thoughts together. My head hurt, my vision swam with tears and wobbles, and I tried feebly to free myself from that grip. I couldn’t understand what was happening. I couldn’t understand why no one was stopping this from happening. These were my friends and neighbors. They knew me! I looked back and saw the blurry masses as they left the market in a crowd, taking their purchases with them. In a way, I supposed that’s what this woman was doing.
She was taking something she wanted away with her, but I wondered if I was a nick-nack for her shelf or something tasty for her pantry?
I pulled against her as we neared the edge of the parking lot, afraid that she was going to try and get me into her vehicle. Stranger Danger wasn’t quite as prevalent as it is now, but everyone knew that you didn’t take rides from people you didn’t know, and you certainly didn’t let people take you anywhere you didn’t want to go. I pulled and yelled, telling her to let me go, but her fingers were like an iron band around my wrist.
She said nothing, but I could see where we were heading, and it made me realize that things were far worse than I had thought.
We weren’t going to a beat-up Ford or a sparkling Chrystler.
We were going towards the woods.
The woods were where the bad things could live, but the woods were also a place that I knew how to protect myself against.
She had my arm extended, pulling me along behind her and that squeaking cart, but my other hand was free to reach into my shirt and find the little sigil my Grandma had made me. It was similar to the one I had given to Mrs. Sibil with her candle, but the lines always seemed far angrier than any of the other sigils she made. The sigil always said to me, “stay away, I bite,” and it lived up to it. I didn’t know exactly what would happen, but I knew that it couldn’t be worse than what would happen to me if I did nothing.
When I pressed it against her hand, the leather thong it was on just barely reaching, she howled like an animal and snatched her hand away from mine.
I fell then, sprawling on my backside for the second time that day, as I held the sigil out towards her like a warning.
She looked down at the symbol, and I heard her hiss as she backed into her own cart.
“You!” she shouted, looking down at her burnt hand, “You….hurt me?”
She seemed surprised, like this had never happened to her before.
“Get away from me. Leave me alone.”
The two of us stood for a moment like a pair of gunslingers before the draw.
Then, silently, she slithered back into the woods, the canopy concealing her as she disappeared.
I sat there for a few more seconds, my necklace held out before me.
Then I stood up and walked towards the market, back peddling as I kept my eyes on the trees.
Grandma found me as I made my way back, and one look was enough to tell her that something had happened. I tried to explain it to her, to describe the lady, but she shushed me as people began to look down at us with concern. She had packed our things in the truck and had come looking for me when I still hadn’t shown up. Any idea of stopping at the stalls to look at toys had fled me. All I wanted was to leave, to go home, to be as far from this place as possible.
On the way home, Grandma told me about who, or what, I might have stumbled across.
“She’s called Soap Sally, and I haven’t seen her in decades. She comes looking for children, usually older children, and drags them to her den. There she kills them and makes soap from their bodies. She leaves the soap for their families, delighting in the idea that they might use it to wash their hands. She’s a hateful, spiteful old spirit, but unfortunately, she is quite powerful. I had hoped never to see her again in this region, but it appears that I may have to slap her nose again.
Grandma was gone for a few days after that, but when she returned, she told me that I wouldn’t have to worry about that one again. I never saw that old hag again, but sometimes when I smell floral soap or certain kinds of potpourri, I remember that day at the market and remember how weak and helpless I felt in the clutches of that one.
It’s not a memory I like to dwell on.
The two of us sat behind our table, the crowd bustling around us as we both shivered in unison.
“That sigil you were talking about,” I asked, “can you show me how to make one?”
Grandpa grinned, “I’ll make it your very next lesson, kid.”
I had learned a little something about Grandpa’s ways since his last story, but learning how to protect myself against the darker things in the forest sounded like something useful to know.