The Witch

Her own parents discovered her. She was covered in long gashes and bruises, and her neck; an unnatural contortion. My wife and I offered our unwelcomed condolences though returned home promptly.
‘A witch!’ her father declared.
Mr Moreau had a heavy hold on the small town. Now that it is his own daughter who is discovered dead, there needn’t be merit behind his accusations. They’d pulled a mere child, suffering from an affliction of the mind, from her home. Despite her condition, she had never shown any violence.
‘Burn her!’ demanded the town.
The Witch accused had no trial – her guilt was her sickness. The façade of a Witch, it was argued. They held the execution at dusk, on a pyre out the front of church. Her parents’ protests were lost beneath the voice of Father Armand and his congregation while he shouted selections from Leviticus and Exodus at the poor child.

Soon thereafter, there was another murder. Undoubtedly proving the innocence of the first girl. The next victim, whom my wife had come to know, had started spending some time with the traveller boy from the outskirts of town. My wife failed to warn her of the dangers of consorting with such folk. But her insinuations were to be ignored. The boy’s mother was taken and the pyre was once again ablaze with the town’s fervour.
The murders had ceased after the travelers execution and the town returned to normalcy. It was almost as it was when we first arrived. What had inspired us to stay in the first place.

Father Armand was found draped over the altar. His insides spread across the chancel as if ravaged by some wild beast. The next night, they’d found a headless Mr Moreau. His head ne’er found. The renewal of the murders gave rise to a new horror. At night, groups of brave men took to the streets. They pounded on windows and banged on doors. They came to our home at least once a night. Trudging about with dirty boots, opening cupboards, searching underneath bits and things, in and under our beds, and even checking for loose floorboards. Heaven knows what kind of evidence they were trying to find. Only the midnight tolls from the church would welcome a reprieve, summoning the men back to their homes.

I found my wife hunched over a bucket one morning. These sleepless nights were hard on us both.
‘My dear! Tell me not that the plague has finally found this town.’
‘I am fine, Husband’ she smiled. ‘Indeed it is good news. I am with child.’
Elated though fearful, we decided it was once again time to leave. We would head south where my wife’s cousin could house us until we could get back on our feet. We could try again.

The morning came and I stayed to pack while she went out to fetch some bread for the journey. I should have gone with her but she insisted she would be safe. The bakery was not far. We planned our rendezvous in the square before we would leave.

‘Witch!’
The square was filling with people. They had encircled the dead woman lying at the centre. My wife was restrained by several men as if they believed her to be some animal. I feared the worse; she would be blamed now for Mrs Moreau’s death. Then from the crowd, the barrage began:
‘She killed her!’
‘They were planning to leave this morning – that’s what the fight was about.’
‘This all started when she arrived in this town!’
‘She is an agent of the devil!’
‘She must be the Witch!’

I felt powerless. The crowd flooded in past me, carrying my wife away. They tied her to the middle of the pyre. The curate stood watch, Bible in his hand. I cried and screamed, pushed and pulled but I could not get to her.
‘Please,’ I cried, ‘She is with my child.’
But they had finally caught their Witch red-handed. A combination of her pregnancy and fear caused her to regorge, confirming their beliefs. I could do nothing. I was powerless to stop them. Powerless to save her.

It was late when I returned after burying my wife. I found our cart ransacked. Everything was gone: furniture, clothes, even the pony I’d bought was let loose. There was nothing left. I remained immune to the blessings of a peaceful night’s sleep which befell the town. Hindered by my tears, my pain, I was losing control of myself. I was losing myself. Inside their homes, a stillness, a silence. Most believed the threat was over, yet still a few of those brave men paraded the streets just to be sure. They paid no mind to the lowly widower with mud on his boots.

My search for solace took me to the church. That audacious pyre stood guard outside, ignorant of the embers fading at its roots. I walked towards Christ, ever-absent, hidden away in the sanctuary. How could He have allowed such atrocities? My knees bent at the altar. I began to pray for the strength I’d lost. I was interrupted when the church welcomed another. Since the death of Father Armand, the curate took the responsibility of tolling the midnight bells, thus calling the last remnants of the mob back to their homes. I don’t know if he either ignored me or just didn’t notice me. Either way, his duty took his focus. The light from his lantern wavered across the floor as he approached the tower. He then positioned it to see the dangling ropes. Dong. Then I noticed it. Dong. Even in the dimness, the familiarity of his new, ill-fitting shirt. Dong. Could this man of God have been amongst those who raided my cart? Dong. I approached the curate, hoping I was mistaken. Dong. I moved closer, each step drowned out by the bells. Dong. But each step brought me closer to the truth. Dong. I was so close I could smell traces of myself emanating from my old shirt. Dong. Each ring took from my fleeting sanity. Dong. Then, the thought crossed my mind before I let myself go. Dong. Will they ever find their Witch? Dong. Will they finally catch me? Dong…