Miss Grace’s house was full of dust so heavy Heather could hardly breathe. It was a home that smelled its age, like cedar and soil, and banisters polished down to the grain. White lace ghosts covered lamps but even still, the dust could enter your skin.

But Heather liked the home. It was the only one she’d known beyond her own. Photos stacked against each other on the coffee table, a husband and daughter lost to a car crash decades before.

Once a town beauty, now they called her a witch. And Miss Grace, unable to move as she had once, spun beautiful tales of the past.

No one and nothing had ever claimed Heather, left on a doorstep, like these visits of tea and cake. They read fortunes and luck in the leaves.

But this time was different. Miss Grace, tired and worn, had told her to meet other people. Get out of that house because this isn't enough. And Heather clung tighter to her own skin. She would not.

Her fear dropped a seed in her stomach.

After three nights, Heather had sprouted roots. Delicate at first, they splintered the floorboards and dove into the earth below. Miss Grace was the first to see, smiling at the green lines. You made something here, she sang out.

Soon, the whole town knew.

Doctors came out of curiosity and declared they found a new species of fungus. They gave her scarlet potions to put her back in balance. Grandmas pinched her nose and swung barnyard cats over the roof. Chemists recited formulas until their throats went dry.

However, if the roots made any sort of retreat, no one could tell. They had dug deep beyond sight, and it was up to God, so help us.

Try walking, they fussed, for your health. By then, however, Heather had a blanket and cocoa brought by Miss Grace. The spongy linoleum settled with her.

No, thank you.

What if the city recommissioned the home where Heather had been a visitor for the past twenty years?

Her roots thickened.

In old man Gerald's childhood, he saw someone grow a lovely dandelion on the crown of his head only for his school teacher to chop it off every Monday. After a year, it wilted away. The priest warned of dark arts, pulling out a book of spells from his robe but unable to locate the right page under the pen-drawn crosses. You’ll lose all you have, he warned, marching out.

Still, Heather held her cup to her lips before taking another sip of tea.

No, thank you.

The next day they returned in greater numbers. Bodies filled her home, and still more arrived. They took over her garden, peeking through the windows and smashing her petunias. Heather sighed at the mess. But she greeted them, whispering each of their names. The roots now fully covered her toes and were emerging from her heels.

While the town began taking bets, her roots curled.

On the first day, they quipped over whether Heather’s toenails were covered with algae, or if they had disappeared entirely. On the second, they split, one side arguing that she could photosynthesize and the other that she could no longer eat vegetables. On the third, they began to war. And by the tenth, bruised and bloodied, they asked if she’d done it to herself or to them.

Heather plucked a dandelion from her ankle and gave it to old man Gerald.

No, thank you.

A veterinarian from the clinic on Main Street commented on how she had grown a pale green complexion but was unsure if her illness or their treatment was the cause. But he was alone. The rest saw in her great health. Practically glowing. And such a lovely spring.

So novelty wore away into forgetfulness. The visitors stopped.

With the others all gone, only Miss Grace still came by to water her legs. Together they nestled, making new pasts as they listened to LPs from a record player lost in the algae wager.

But Miss Grace murmured spells into the night. Lonely is hungry, she’d warn. Then closed Heather’s eyes so she’d sleep. She coughed as she left.

This was fine, too.

And time dripped by.

Until, just a head sitting atop a thick tangle of vines, she no longer spoke.

The summer pressed on. That year, the moisture grew heavy enough to crush bones. And Miss Grace couldn’t visit. Her heart gave out, all alone.

Sarah Smith is a half-Korean writer born and raised in Michigan before moving to Seoul, South Korea, over a decade ago. She teaches secondary English and Psychology and is also the resident stage manager of the Seoul Shakespeare Company. She spends school holidays traveling as she explores local historical memory and folklore. After returning to writing following a long hiatus, she focuses on dislocation and blending the mythic with the ordinary. She is currently completing her master's degree in Literary and Cultural Studies.