The Witch of War Creek

by L. A. Detwiler

  She would not be the martyr for him any longer.

  Chapter Five

  Present

  She sat at the kitchen table, listening to the clock tick by the minutes. She exhaled loudly, hating what feelings surged on Halloween night. Even after all these years, he still had that control over her. Rage bubbled in her. She washed it down with a sip of her second cup of tea.

  She had wanted to forget about that night but couldn’t bring herself to. In the first few years after the event took place, perhaps it was a sense of celebration. Halloween night was the night of her freedom, the night she took control of what was hers. For the first ten years after the event, a single black rose always showed up on her doorstep on Halloween night. She knew who it was from. But when he died, the roses stopped. The memories of the gloriously wicked night, however, did not.

  The guilt tried to rise up despite her best efforts. Still, she always shoved it down with images of him, alone in their house after the servants had gone to bed. It had gotten so much worse after her mother died. She shuddered even now to consider it.

  Halloween night was the night she changed it all—for herself, for the town. For the first years, they were happy about that. After time passed, though, and the excitement surrounding what she did faded, people got on with their lives. So did she. She was grateful, of course, for the bargain she’d struck, for the peace she could finally experience. But as the years went on alone, new fears started to creep in.

  She eyed the jar on the fireplace with a wary gaze. She’d read some books from the library about hauntings. She was not superstitious, and unlike the townspeople, she did not believe in the supernatural. Nonetheless, she could never shake the feeling that when she least expected it, something bad would happen on Halloween. Perhaps it would be him, perhaps not. Maybe it would simply be the universe exacting retribution for what she did. Her stomach churned at the thought. She took another sip of her tea.

  The moments ticked by. She’d heard talk in town of a Halloween party in the town square after Trick or Treat. She imagined there would be liquor and all sorts of recreation going on. The town was a monotonous, hardworking community who prided themselves on toil. However, when the occasion arose, they seemed to be willing to relax. Not that she’d ever engaged in any of their activities or celebrations.

  It was ten o’clock when she decided things would be okay. Nothing disastrous had happened. Another Halloween would pass without any great event or notable situation. There hadn’t even been the typical curious child wandering onto her property yet. Perhaps this would be the dullest of all the Halloweens.

  As she was preparing to head to her bedroom and unlock the door, safety settling into the atmosphere, there was a noise outside the cabin. A snapping twig, a scuffling of feet.

  She shook her head and ignored her wildly beating heart. There they were. The Halloween pranksters out to gawk at the supposed witch in town. She exhaled, frustrated she would have to partake in the game. Better to scare them off quickly, though, so she could be done with it and back to bed.

  She always dressed for the occasion on Halloween in case the need should arise to frighten rebellious children. Her long, flowing dress with the billowy sleeves helped her look the part, along with her graying raven hair. She once considered grabbing a pointy hat from the local store that stocked costumes, but decided it would be too much. Better to keep it simple, believable. The cabin, after all, created the perfect eerie ambiance to sell her story.

  The footsteps were on her front porch now. She peered out her window. A group of three boys who looked to be older, perhaps in their late teens. No doubt they were here on a dare, possibly emboldened by some liquid courage. She rolled her eyes, her bones tired and her heart not in it. Still, better to get rid of them quickly. She weightlessly crossed to the back of the house and opened the back door. She’d oiled it last week so the signature creak was almost imperceptible. She snuck out into the darkness, as had become her routine. A quick creeping to the front of the porch, a jumping out in front of the house with some German phrases chanted with authority—she’d had a German tutor once—and they would be gone. They would run screaming like the frightened children they were behind the masks of courage.

  They would go back to town and tell elaborate tales of the close call with the witch. They would, of course, be the heroes of their story, as men always are, she thought. That was fine with her. She never wanted to be a savior, anyway. She always just wanted to be left alone.

  She tiptoed around the side of the house, thinking about how she just wanted to climb under the soft sheets and call it a night. She was considering what phrases she would chant this time, which ones would creep them out the most, when suddenly, there was a mind-numbing pain in her head as if her brain had exploded. The last thing she remembered was crumpling to the ground as shouts and hoots from behind her collided with her pounding head.

  Chapter Six

  Then

  Patience truly was a virtue. Her mother and her tutor had been right. Being virtuous was overrated, however. She wanted to be on with it, the item she’d procured seeming to beam from the corner of her room. She’d tucked it meticulously in a white lace handkerchief and buried it in her chest of clothes. Without the servants, there was little fear of anyone detecting it. Father was way too occupied with finalizing the business agreements or whatever it was he had to do in order to destroy the town and get his precious oil.

  She almost couldn’t believe how easy it had been. When the bells had announced her arrival at the store, the clerk had whirled around from the counter and smiled, recognition on his face even though they’d never met. It was as if he’d been waiting for her. Maybe he had. Maybe there was dark magic at play there, as some of the whispers of the townspeople suggested.

  With his white, puffy eyebrows pointing every which way and his dark, sulky voice, he had given her the directions she needed. He had trusted in her for some reason. Maybe because he knew he had no choice. She got what she needed. And then, she just had to wait.

  It had taken two weeks for the right moment to arise, but it had finally come on Halloween night, of all nights. She reminded herself to stay stoic and nonchalant lest her father suspect something. The beautiful thing about narcissists, though, is they rarely notice the vibrations of anyone but themselves. He could not sense a meteor about to collide into him let alone the subtle shift in the daughter he kept hostage in his life. It had been arranged. She had been good at observing all along. She knew exactly where the item would have the most guaranteed impact.

  They were heading to the town hall that night, where the townspeople would be discussing the acquisition he was about to make. Pressured by time running out, they’d planned it for Halloween night, perhaps to the dismay of the children of town. While Trick-or-Treaters roamed about, the men and some of the women would gather to discuss a course of action. There would be angry yelling and tirades. She did not understand why any sane person would want to go. She wouldn’t be surprised if the townsfolk did the job for her with pitchforks and flames they felt he deserved. But her father was a proud man. He did not back down from a fight, instead usurping the power and turning it on his enemies. Tonight was perhaps more of the same.

  They would go to the townhall, he demanded, and she must accompany him. He wanted them to see them as a united front and understand the power their family legacy would carry. He wanted them to know who he was and what he would do. He wanted his face and his words etched in their miserable minds, he said, when they lost it all.

  Anger had surged in him when they had all simultaneously declined the purchase agreement. Her father, of course, had offered them way less than was appropriate. He had claimed it was the fair, right thing to do. He sang his own praises and claimed it showed he was a good man. She knew it was just part of the game.

  So now, he said he was forced to turn to uglier means. She did not know what he had up his sleeve, but you didn’t become the rich, powerful man he did
without getting your hands dirty. When he saw something he wanted, he would grab it with both hands and bite off the fingers of anyone else trying to snatch it. The town of War Creek was about to feel his wrath.

  He was getting cocky, though, and arrogance led to mistakes.

  Yes, she had seen the crafty, protective nature of the town. She knew they would stand as a united front. Her father was only one man. Did he really think he could win the fight? She probably wouldn’t have to do a thing. Still, she could not take any chances. And she could not let the townsfolk take away the only thing she knew would free her soul from the torturous chains he had placed her in. She had to do this. She knew it from the first time when he’d pulled her into the embrace that lasted too long. She knew it every time he came into her room at night to check on her and lingered to her dismay.

  She knew it when the trips to the forest for survival lessons became something else entirely.

  She put on her finest dress and examined her long, raven-black hair in the looking glass. She walked out of the mansion, glancing back at it one more time. She did not know what would happen to her after it was all done. She did not much care. If she was lucky, she would flee to the forest, she thought, and live a life on her own. Her scarlet letter would be an ‘M’ for murder, but that was fine with her. She’d learned long ago you couldn’t trust anyone to look out for your best interests. You had to do it yourself.

  Perhaps that was another thing she’d learned from him. Maybe they weren’t completely different after all, she realized with a shudder as she pranced after her father down to the meeting spot.

  The girl with raven-black hair did not look back.

  Chapter Seven

  Now

  When she came to, her pounding, aching brain created a warped vision of the scene before her. Slowly, she blinked open her eyes and glanced around. Terror seized her chest as she realized she could not move. Her arms were restrained around the chair, and rope suffocated her. She wiggled and scrambled to try to escape, but it was no use.

  “Dude, she’s awake,” one of the boys said. The others were scattered about the living room. One was eyeing the mason jar, taking photos on his phone. The four teens lined up in front of her. She scowled at them but said nothing.

  “Fuck, yes. Let’s go! We caught the witch.” A blond one, the tallest of the group, staggered about. He’d clearly had too much to drink. She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

  She realized there were four of them. Although her head was still foggy from whatever they’d done to her, she remembered seeing three on the front porch. The bastards were clearly smarter than they appeared. They must have sent one around back to catch her. She scolded herself for letting her guard down. She’d gotten too comfortable out here after all these years. She needed to be more careful.

  “All right, let’s go. What should we do first?” A bossy one stepped forward, clearly asserting himself as leader.

  “We could drag her down to the river and do the whole Salem Witch Trial shit of sinking and floating. You know, pitch the chair in. See if she can save herself,” the blond shouted, giggling after every couple of words and clearly proud of himself.

  These boys were clearly different. She shuddered a bit at the idea, but her panic quickly settled once the leader shook his head.

  “That’s ridiculous, Zane. That’s such a far fucking walk. Use your head.”

  She eyed them, realizing perhaps the terror should return. These boys weren’t here for harmless pranks, and with the four of them, who knew what they would do. She calmed the sick feeling rising in her gut. She had to stay calm. She had been through worse.

  “Well, whatever we’re doing, let’s fucking do it. My phone doesn’t have that much charge left, and we need to get the video for online or what was the point of it all? Let’s start filming.”

  He turned on the phone as the leader nodded his head, moving to go behind her. He started talking to the camera about how they were ghosthunters and how they had done something crazy—they’d caught the witch of town. And now, they would be proving it.

  She exhaled but stayed silent, serious. Stupid kids. She had heard the townsfolk complaining about the new generation’s addiction to technology and social media. She had no clue how any of it worked. However, she should’ve realized that the legend, the respect she’d once had in town would wane. As time passed, so did the strength of her story, of the agreement with the town. The new generation was power hungry and fame hungry. Of course they’d come looking for her.

  “Isn’t there some legend that if you cut a witch she bleeds black?” a quiet kid with glasses murmured.

  “I don’t know. But we could try it. Toss me your knife,” the kid behind her shouted.

  The scrawny kid pulled the blade from his pocket. It was impressive in size. Panic seized her, but she told herself not to let it show. Not to beg. She would figure a way out of this. She knew he was probably already back there waiting for his chance. Waiting to set it right. She had to be smart about it all. She shouldn’t have shut that door. What was she thinking?

  The boy reached down, smiling at the camera. “You going to stop me, witchy? Cast a spell or something?” he taunted her. His face was close to hers. She could smell the alcohol. She said nothing.

  “What, cat got your tongue? Where’s the black cat around here, anyway?” the blond mocked jumping closer to her and posing for the camera with his tongue near her face. She shook her head.

  “You moron, not every witch uses a cat as their familiar,” the nerdy kid argued.

  “Don’t call me a moron,” the blond bellowed, cornering the nerdy kid as the leader shouted for them to stop fighting. A minor scuffled ensued.

  “Guys, let’s go. We need to get this video done. Do you want to get more followers or not?” the camera man shouted. The two bickering and flailing in the corner momentarily stopped.

  “I’m just saying if you knew anything about witches, you’d know that.”

  “Well, then what’s your familiar?” the blond asked, approaching her as the leader posed with the knife near her cheek.

  She did not speak. She choked down the whimper rising in her throat.

  “Answer me, bitch,” the kid screamed, rage bubbling in his volatile veins. He slapped her cheek, the hard crack making her head hurt again. She might just be in trouble after all. She squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe it was retribution for what she’d done finally catching up to her. She opened her eyes and caught sight of the mason jar on the fireplace. The blond followed her gaze.

  “You sicko. Look at those. Do you think they’re real?” he asked, abandoning his questions as he leaped over her and dashed to the mason jars. He shook the jar closest to him, the one that was full.

  “Sick,” he murmured, holding it up for the camera. “Look at all this shit in here. There’s fucking fingernails. And holy fuck, is that someone’s eye? Shit. It’s probably for one of her spells or some shit.”

  “Dude, that’s crazy,” the camera man shouted, getting it all on video.

  “Guys, you’re losing focus. Get back over here. Let’s see what her blood looks like.” The leader refocused them on the task at hand.

  The blade was now poised above her arm. She closed her eyes and awaited the stinging burn of the blade biting her skin.

  “We’ll get there, weirdo. Let’s look around first, see if there’s anything else crazy.” The blond was clearly fighting for power in the group dynamic. She was glad.

  She looked at the boys, now high with the prospect of a treasure hunt. They abandoned the mason jar and thankfully did not grab the second one. She shuddered. It hadn’t been turned around for decades. Maybe she was slightly superstitious, after all. They bounced around the house, the leader trying to get them organized, the nerdy kid standing with his hands in his pockets shouting witch history. The other two raced about, touching her things. It made her angry. Still, she kept her face calm as she spoke up.

  “Don’t go in the bedroom,�
� she barked, her voice ragged and really adding to the effect. All four boys froze, staring at her.

  The blond raised an eyebrow. “Bitch, we do what we want.”

  “I’m telling you, don’t,” she said, staring straight ahead. She fought the grin spreading on her face.

  She did not know much of the world. She did not know advanced math or how to run a cell phone or anything about the world, really.

  But she did know this—if you wanted someone to do something, tell them not to. It was human nature that people, especially men, like to push the envelope.

  Chapter Eight

  Then

  She sat in the front row, where he had pulled out a chair. They were fashionably late, as always. Her father liked to make an entrance. He had pulled a chair from another row and plopped it up in the front for her. The man speaking to the assembled had been on a tirade a moment ago. He froze angrily now at the sight of her father, who clearly was the target of his rant. Murmurs and whispers spread like wildfire. Her father grinned at her.

  “Watch how it’s done,” he whispered. He reached into his pocket, as he always did at public events. He always said liquid courage made a man look more believable. It was his trademark move to unnerve people, perhaps inherited from his grandfather.

  “Daddy, I don’t think you should drink here,” she said. She had been counting on just that.

  “Poppet, don’t you worry about it. Let your Daddy handle this,” he said, winking. She nodded her head, trying to master the demure look she’d practiced in the mirror. As the crowd silenced, he walked up front to the lectern placed in the center of the room.

  The crowd stared at him. She could feel the heat of their anger rippling through the room. She felt some of the men tense and wondered if they were armed. She wouldn’t be surprised if they shot him before he got a word out. Apparently, though, curiosity got the better of them. They all sat silent as he peered out into the crowd.