My Seemingly Normal Wife

    Dr. Bernard Goldsmith, renowned Zoologist of England, had always known that his wife was a little...well...odd. Her wild flowing black hair was nothing but attractive to him, but the thing that made him worry was her increasing peculiarity as their married life progressed.

    Bernard had met Madeline when she had managed to knock over a display of cantaloupes at the local grocery market. He had stooped to help her and his kind hazel eyes had met her alert brown ones, and he later asked if she would have brunch with him, insisting that they eat at least one of the cantaloupes that she made fall to the ground. She laughed and agreed. They went on and dated for another year, and in due course, were married.

    But as of late, her oddity had began to swell out of control. They had just bought a new home in Kent, England and strange things were happening.

    "Darling?" called Bernard, searching high and low for his wife. "Where are you?" The house they had bought was massive, and quite unnecessary for two people, and it was getting difficult to locate each other. Bernard heard a small pop, and (ignoring the sound) called for his wife again. To his shock, she answered from right behind him, where he had been mere seconds before.

    "I'm here, silly," Madeline said, laughing airily, brushing off her husband's calls.

    Bernard felt absurd at once. "Oh, right. The mail's here. I don't understand why the mailman doesn't just put your mail in particular through the mail slot...it's only mine that gets through there. Yours are just left at the doorstep or rather on the windowsill and in the kitchen sink."

    "Yes, mail people are a bit nutty, don't you think?" she chortled, plucking her mail from his fingers. She flipped through the envelopes; one from her mother (pink, with the name A. Figg scrawled in the upper corner), an invitation for Sunday dinner in Devon, and a mail-order catalogue. "Well, nothing too interesting."

    "What's that pink one you've got, Mads?" Bernard asked, peering over her shoulder at her envelope.

    “From my mother. Who knows what the old witch wants, she’s been pestering us to visit her and her Kneazl--er, her cats,” Madeline stated, catching herself.

    “Oh, don’t call your mother a witch,” laughed Bernard, adjusting the wire-rimmed glasses resting on his nose. “She’s a nice woman, and she probably doesn’t get many house calls in Surrey.”

    “You’re right, she’s not a complete witch,” said Madeline, speaking the truth. “Well, we’re still on for tonight, right Bernie? Dinner at The Garden?”

    “Of course, dear,” Bernard answered, kissing his wife on her forehead. “Speaking of which, we should probably get some of the housework done before we leave. I’ll just go and finish the dishes--”

    “No need!” Madeline said suddenly, blocking the swinging door to the kitchen. “I’ve done everything in the kitchen. You can just finish painting the basement room, and then we’ll head out.”

    “Alright,” said Bernard, his suspicion aroused. Unbeknownst to Bernard, the dishes in the kitchen were washing themselves.

     Bernard tromped down the basement stairs into the unfinished room. He poked his head around the corner and noticed that the storage room door was ajar and was letting in a draft. He stepped over the painting materials and various cardboard boxes and was about to shut the door to the storage room when he noticed something glinting in the dark. He squinted and adjusted his glasses, then proceeded to turn on the light.

    There, sitting on an old cabinet, was a cage in which a large screech brown owl was perched. Bernard was surprised, if not taken aback, by this rare specimen that was residing in his own basement. The owl glared at him, blinking his great yellow eyes and hooting. Bernard edged around the boxes and neared the cage, watching the bird with utmost caution.

    The owl screeched loudly. Bernard, caught off guard, stumbled backwards and tripped over a box labeled “Mads”, scattering its contents. A ton of books fell out of the box, along with a box of quills and a silver object that began rolling away. Bernard grabbed the silver ball before it rolled too far and stared at it. It seemed to him that he was staring at a small replica of the universe. Amazed, Bernard stared at the orb for a little longer. He put it down and stared next at the books with strange titles now sprawled all over the floor.

    “A History of Magic,” he murmured, reading the titles out loud, “‘Warwick Norman’s Easy Feasts (Only requirements are wands and an appetite!). Burned at the Stake: The Story of Williamson Smythe. Broomstick Press Presents ‘Dangerous’ Dai Llewellyn: Master Broomrider of Our Time. Wandering with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart. Witch Weekly Magazine...what is all of this?” He was becoming more and more puzzled by the moment. The owl, the universe in a glass ball, the strange books, were not giving him any clear idea as to the abnormality that was going on.

    As he tried to gather up the books and put them back in the box, a picture fell out of the pages of a book. It showed a younger version of himself, his arm around Madeline...it had to have been at least two years ago that it was taken, but it was not the picture that shocked him the most...it was the fact that it was moving. He, his picture self, was grinning and waving up at him.

    “MADELINE!” Bernard yelled in shock. “Madeline!” He sped out of the storage room, up the stairs and found his wife sitting at the dining room table, looking as if she had not a care in the world.

    “Hmm?” she asked, glancing up at him, a knowing look in her eye.

    “What--what is this?” he spluttered, showing her the picture.

    “It’s a picture, Bernie,” she said, stating the obvious. “A photograph. Taken to remember an event, preserve a memory or--”

    “I know that, Madeline,” he said, thrusting the picture towards her. “But why is it moving?”

    Madeline’s eyes widened a bit. “You went into the storage room?” she asked, peering up into her husband’s bespectacled face.

    “Yes,” he answered, beginning to think that maybe there was a reasonable explanation for all of this mayhem he had just experienced. “There was an screech owl in there! An owl! And books--strange, funny books, about wands and werewolves and broomsticks and Gilderoy Lockhart!”

    “Yes, he’s quite handsome, isn’t he?” she said dreamily.

    “Madeline! Why are all of those down there? What were those stars doing in that glass ball? And broomsticks?” he gasped. He clutched the table and sat down across from her.

    “Come now, Bernard, you’re a smart man,” Madeline said. “Put the pieces together. Broomsticks. Orbs. Witch Weekly Magazine.”

    “You are not--you can’t be! You’re a witch?” he asked, a look of disbelief passing over his face.

    “Yes,” she answered in a calm tone, as though they were talking about a new recipe for flan.

    He clutched the table, then ran a nervous hand through his hair.

    “You don’t seem too upset about this, Bernard,” Madeline observed. “You went mad when that woman stole your briefcase on the Underground, thinking it was hers.”

    “Well,” he breathed, “I suppose I’m not that upset. It could be useful, being a witch and all. Will our children be witches?”

    “Most likely. And wizards too,” she answered.

    “So,” started Dr. Bernard Goldsmith, renowned Zoologist, much calmer now that the truth was out, “do you know any werewolves that I could talk to? Or even this Lockhart character? Are they real?”

    “They’re all real. Werewolves, maybe you can talk to, Lockhart is indisposed at the moment. And it’s time for dinner at The Garden. We’ll discuss this later, shall we?” she asked him politely, her brown eyes smiling at him.

    Bernard stared at his wife with a new respect. “Of course. Dinner it is, then.”