Short Winter of a Witch's Work

CW: lost loved ones, physical violence, religious themes.

Walking to the stables a wave of icy wind pierces my bones, shaking me. Today is much colder than it’s been. I pull my hands to my mouth to warm them, trudging through the silent pasture. Thoughts only being interrupted by the sound of crunching snow with every step. Without the summertime songbirds or the consistent beat of wildlife this land felt dead, without a hope of renewal.

We had finished building this homestead in 1746, about the time I was thirteen; I’m 18 now. After all that happened in Boston my father needed to move out here, but I wish I were still in the city. There, life could always be found, even when you didn’t want it. I’d much rather hear the woes of the downtrodden than the lifeless absence of–

The loud commotion of frightened horses pulls my mind back to the stables. Without hesitation my slow steps become a hurried run. Once inside, I am almost rundown by the workhorses rearing up.

“Whoah, easy boys!” I shout, trying to reassure them. I quickly scan the ground for signs of a snake or rat, but don’t find anything. “Easy, now, don’t hurt yourself.” Touching the horses' sides, they slowly lower their heads in quiet surrender. “That’s it, good,” I whisper, petting down their haunches. My hand recoils at the cold moisture soaking their coats. Without smelling it I knew that it was sweat, and too much of it. Even with the amount of insulation inside this small building it could never be so warm as to work up a sweat like this. Not in the dead of winter.

Quickly I finish my chores. Giving them each a gentle stroke on their manes, I hurry to the house as if the dead are chasing me. I burst in the door, the deathlike wind walking in quickly behind.

“Pa, come quick, I think– there may be something– wrong with the horses!” I say, no breath left in me.

“Son, calm down, steady your breath.” My father says, rising from his chair. Clenching a pipe in his teeth, he saunters over. He places a hand on my shoulder, looking down at me. Staring at me is the grizzliest looking man one would ever see, with crumbs throughout his mustache and reeking of smoke. Despite his homely appearance, his eyes were soft and caring. They were the eyes that had seen me through countless storms and comforted me when my mother had passed away. No panic stood a chance under the watchful eyes of father. I let my shoulders fall. “Now, son, you tell me what all this is about.” he asks.

“Pa, I was out at the stables and the horses– well, the horses were soaked down to the skin, and mighty startled.” I explain, “There was no snake or owl, or any critter I could see. It was very queer.”

“Is that so?” chuckling out a plume of smoke, “Well, that must mean we’ve got a witch near the property,” he laughs, the sound filling the small living space.

“A witch? Pa, what are you on about?” He’s already back to his chair, motioning for me to follow. While I sit on the cold hardwood, his eyes narrow on me. The smoke from his pipe acting like a screen for the flickering firelight of our hearth. From this angle it looks as if his face were ablaze. “How could you possibly know that?” I ask.

Purposely solemn he answers. “Many years ago, our ancestors came to this New World in search of a land away from The Church. Sailing over the Atlantic, and bringing to this land their own ideas of how one should pray and worship.” His gaze shifts from me to the fireplace. “They also brought with them perspectives of how the Devil manifested in this world– and witches were his loyal soldiers. Wicked folks who made a pact with Satan; they gave him their immortal souls. In return they were given unnatural powers to spread misfortune among God’s loyal.”

“I know what witches are Pa. How are the horses involved?”

“Patience boy.” he says, relighting his pipe. “Now, it was said that at midnight these witches would meet in secret, in dark secluded places for their unholy Sabbath. But how did they get to these meetings? The most powerful among them would ride on brooms or branches through the sky to remain undetected. But some were not so strong in the dark arts and would sneak onto unsuspecting farms and ride their horses through the night.”

“But thieving is a crime, and a sin.” 

“Right you are, but these aren’t decent folks like you or me. They’d take the horses, and ride to their master. They would always return the animals before the sun rose. Before young men like yourself got up to tend to them– late I might add,” he smirked. “Secrecy is their greatest advantage. The horses, being ridden so hard, couldn’t help but sweat. So it was believed that when a horse was sweating for no apparent reason, it meant a witch had taken them to Satan’s Mass.” Sweat begins to coat my palms. His eyes quickly dart back to mine as he softly whispers, “Then misfortune and damnation were soon to follow.”

Voice trembling, I ask, “Will damnation come here?”

“No son, I don’t think it will,” he sits back up, reclining his hands behind the back of his head. “We stopped believing in such things long ago. There hasn’t been a witch trial or hunt since the last century. The horses are, likely, sick. I’ll have the farrier give them a lookover when we get to town tomorrow. For now, back to your chores, you’re already behind as is.”

“Yes, sir.” I stand and leave the house, my hands still moist.

Lying in bed after the sun set and my supper had settled, sleep would not come. My hands grip the covers close to my chest instead of finding their resting place at my sides; I startle at the sound of a snapping stick outside. I was supposed to let go of these fancies, but I can’t help myself. The mind has a cruel and persistent way of exploring that which one fears most. Mine is playing the scene of our dear horses, unwillingly carrying the old crones as they cackle and swear. Whinnying and kicking, they approach the hellfire these unnatural beings danced around. My ears ring with the chanting of foreign words, harsh and melodic, until the weight of exhaustion finally forces me to sleep.

“Thomas.” a whisper stirs me. Blinking into the dim light I attempt to see where this may have come from. A lump forms in my throat as I am now painfully aware that I cannot move. I strain my arms and legs desperately trying to kick, but all of it for nothing. I lay here helplessly staring at the ceiling when something catches my attention. 

Something shuffling and clawing against the walls breaks the silence of night. The sound grows louder, thudding against the thicker wood of the ceiling. I strain my vision in the corner of my eyes to see it. The visage of a ghastly old woman, with hair like cobwebs and fingernails that belonged more to a beast than a person, crawled on the ceiling just outside of my focus. My hands start to shake, my body desperately begging for air; I notice I am not breathing. This demon crawls to the space just over my paralyzed body. Her head rotates around like that of an owl’s, staring at me with a crooked smile before suddenly bursting into a wreath of flames. My eyes burn at the flash of heat and light. Unable to look away, nor breathe, I fear that this may be the last sight I ever see. The Devil had sent this foul creature to consume me in fire and smoke. Reaching out for me, her smile leaves her face. I try to scream for my father. Then in an instant, like a flaming corpse, she falls onto me.

I violently sit up in my bed, my scream piercing my ears. Heart beating like the hooves of a wild stallion, I squint at the rays of early morning sunshine hitting my face. I scan the area noticing that nothing has been burnt. More importantly, she is nowhere to be seen. My father is sitting at the kitchen table in the other room.

“You must have had quite the night terror, son. You’ve been thrashing and muttering to yourself since the break of dawn,” he gestures to a plate of overcooked eggs and burnt toast. 

“It was nothing," I say, sitting down. “I’m just worried about the horses.”

“Well, good thing we’re making that trip into town today. I told you it’ll all be taken care of, there was no need to worry yourself.”

Taking a bite of toast, “You’re right, Pa.”

“Of course I am, now, eat– quickly. It's a few hours' ride to town and I want to get back home before sundown.”

“Yes, sir,” I yawn.

I’m reminded of home rolling into the town square. It doesn’t have the same boisterous energy that Boston did, but after weeks out in the wilderness, it’s nice to see other faces and hear other voices. Making our way to the farrier, I watch the movements of the everyday average townsfolk. Like the baker diligently working behind the glass of his shop and the elderly women making their way out of the cold into the church, most likely for a social meeting. I sigh a breath of relief at the sights. I jump from the wagon as we pull into the farrier’s.

“Now, boy, I need you to run and get us something for lunch on the way back,” my father instructed, handing me a small pouch of money. “I even put a little extra in there if you see something nice,” winking, “Think of it as an early Christmas present.” And with that, I made my way back to the town square.

After grabbing some bread, cheese, and potted meat for our ride back, I am left with just my little share of the money. Making my way to the general store, I keep thinking about what I could spend it on. Perhaps a new shirt, or a more suitable hat for the winter chores.

 A local constable interrupts my thoughts. “Did you hear Miss Harrison has claimed to have spotted a witch out near the woods?”

“Oh, is that so?” a significantly younger constable responds, laughing a bit. “Is she sure? Everyone knows her eyes have been going for some time now.”

The older one laughs, “Besides, isn’t she too old to believe in such nonsense anymore? Even if there were, there is no legal action to be taken, and she is aware of–.”

“Actually, sirs, I believe I have proof of witchcraft near my home in the country.” I timidly interject. They turn to look at me, clearly startled by the sudden voice.

“Is that so?” the younger one asks. “And what is this proof?”

“Yesterday morning my horses were soaked in sweat, and had only been resting in the stable. My Pa says that could mean a witch was riding them to their midnight Sabbath.”

“Son, can’t you see we are busy. Run along now.” He turns away, flailing his hand in a shooing motion.

“Please sirs, isn’t there anything you can do. I had a strong night terror last night, and I don’t want it to happen again. It was the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen, honest to God.” The older one mumbles something to the other, before leaning towards me.

“My mother, bless her soul, used to believe in the existence of witches. At the time everyone did. Now, there is nothing that we can do for you, but she used to say that there was a way you could stop them.”

With raised eyebrows, I ask, “How?”

“If you know what they look like, it was said that you can carve a little figure of them made from wax. Then you stab sewing pins into it, 7 total, one for every day it took our Lord to create the universe.” He returns to an upright position. “Now don’t tell anyone I said that. Please, back to your business now.”

“Thank you,” I say, slowly walking away. Now I know what these few coins will be.

Climbing up into the wagon, I hand my father the pack of food I had acquired. Without many words, we start back on the road again. I look into my satchel with determined eyes at the block of wax and pins.

“Pa, tonight I’d like to go out hunting,” I take a bite of lunch. “Alone, if that’s alright.”

“That is fine by me. Bring an extra blanket with you, it’s far colder than normal today.”

Arriving home, I get to quick work packing everything I will need for the journey ahead. Tent, bedroll, and so many furs and blankets. I will have a chance to carve the wax on my hike, so I keep it concealed. Pa does not need to know my intentions; I may be acting foolish like everyone says, I can’t rest until I try something, anything, to protect myself. Grabbing the family rifle off the mantle, I turn my back to my home and trek into the woods.

It’s just about dusk when I arrive at my campsite. It’s a small clearing surrounded by sparse trees and foliage with the flattest ground you could find in the wilderness. Pa and I have used this spot for years, I know the area inside and out. I’ll need to know my way back, in case anything happens.

“God, Father, hear my prayers. Protect over me as I do battle with the forces of your adversary. Amen.”

From deep in my gear, I pull it out. The ugliest figurine you’d have laid eyes on to perfectly match the hag that had visited my dreams. In my other hand, I take seven pins to complete the ritual. Holding them in my teeth, I begin by placing one in her back. A sharp pain radiates from the back of my neck, making me drop the figurine and smack myself. Here, in the dead of winter, I was holding the splattered remains of a horsefly. Shaking my head, I pick up the cursed doll and continue. The second one I placed in her stomach, and again I was bitten. This time by three flies. 

One by one, I continue pushing the pins in. With every blow I deal, more of these winged beasts appear. I am at the sixth now, a thick swarm enveloping me like a tornado. The buzzing is maddening but not nearly as much as their stinging bites. I feel every single one as they rush my eyes, nose and mouth. The pain is becoming much more than I can handle. Now onto the seventh, and for all this pain, I will shove it straight through her wretched heart. With shaking hands I position the pin to its final location. The wild cacophony of pain and droning escalate until I can no longer hear my own voice, nor see any starlight. Mustering all my will, I push the final pin. The world goes silent as every one of my tiny tormentors drops to the ground, dead.

With what little strength I still possess I crawl into my bed. With a deep sigh of relief I close my eyes to sleep. The desire to rest is stronger than the pain from hundreds of swelling wounds. Drifting away, I smile, because I know that I have won.

I open my eyes to the sound of singing robin, the early rays of the day soothing the now healing bites on my face. I pack up and make my way home. 

In about an hour I arrive at the edge of the forest, when I notice that the air here is surprisingly warm. I continue forward, quickening my pace, as a stone settles deep in my gut. Leaving the wooded edge I now know why it formed. A huge column of black smoke erupts from the blazing frame of my home. I throw everything down and run.

“Pa!” I scream looking around the property for him. “Pa! Where are you?!” Running around, calling out and hoping for any sign of him, the stone grows larger. “Please, answer me!” Dropping to my knees, I finally face the blackened house. There, in the window, I see him. I see the smoldering charcoal frame of my father. He had been resting in his chair, pipe still clenched in his teeth, blissfully unaware of the impending death around him. I will never get to see those kind eyes again. Without a sound I lower my head, and weep. 

“So, it didn’t work, did it?” a deep, older voice chuckles behind me. Before me stood the constable, the one who told me how to end her. Meeting his eyes I had never noticed how dark they were, like pools of ink. I’m shaking because he’s looking at me with a smile. Surrounded by the remains of my life, he is smiling.

“It was you.” I growl, “You were the witch this whole time, and– and you did this. You made me leave.” I begin shouting at him. “I could’ve done something if I were here.” 

His smile slowly fades as his younger partner steps into view.

“Sir, you are under arrest for suspicions of arson and the purposeful death of one Thomas Boyles Sr. Please come with us.”

I stood and slowly complied, making my way to their wagon. 

“You know, you can be hanged for this.” the witch says while binding my hands.

“It’s okay. At least– at least I’ll get to see Boston again.”