Young Writers Society

To live in the forests of Virginia is a most interesting experience, and I would dare say it has been for a long time. We can hear tales and find relics of its past, whether they're already displayed locally or dug up from the soil. Much of that past was brutal and bittersweet, but now, in our patch of land in the decade of 1710, life has become more tranquil as a homestead in the deep woods should be.

That homestead marks neither poverty nor wealth. The weathered brickwork of the walls was no longer the most pleasing, its pale bricks long stained and chipped, but it was sturdy enough to keep us insulated in the cold winters. The floors, far from pristine wood, were notorious for their creaks and groans during the changing seasons. All of the furnishings were from the past century and long since worn. From outside, the dark tiles of the sloped roof contrasted sharply against the pale bricks, as well as the windows outlined with brassy metal. A bit away from the house, a large barn would contain Father's workspace. A few smaller ones, accompanied by a division of pastures, contained our livestock. I must admit that I feel proud of this property, just knowing it was my family that built it from the foundation, despite all the past challenges this land had produced.

The pace has changed since then, and I fear even my most stoic ancestors would struggle with this storm. However, more knowledge is required.

Our family was large, and how it compacted into this house would seem quite impressive. Under one roof, I --a young lady and second eldest among my siblings-- lived with eight others. My three sisters and I shared one crowded bedroom, while my two brothers took up a separate, smaller room. Mother and Father had their own room, and the baby stayed with them for now.

The problems began at the start of this harsh winter. While retrieving some stray sheep, my father, accompanied by the older of my brothers, had discovered a shrine within the woods. To this day, not one of us has been able to fathom its origins. By their account, the shrine was made from willow branches, supporting a pentacle adorned by wilted flowers and pine boughs. Circling it, below, was a mound of salt, a quartz stone, and a mere nub of a melted candle. A thin glass of dark oil was also present, with stains matching it spread across the willow branches.

Most frightening of all, under the shrine, was one of the lost lambs. The poor creature's throat had been slit, and its eyes removed.

My father and brother had returned with trepidation, and in an attempt to prove their story true, they asked for some other resident members to follow them. Despite being terrified by their description, my morbid curiosity won over my better judgment, and I found myself following. However, to the dismay of the men, the shrine had vanished. There was still a crimson spot in the dirt where the lamb once lay.

We believed them despite the shrine's absence, and the news had certainly unsettled us. Such a setup had to signify devil worship and the presence of a witch.

Not long after the shrine disappeared, my youngest sister, seven years old, had taken ill with a fever and shivers. We had found five large snakes scattered across the property, and though we thought one of them could be the culprit for the child's illness, we failed to find any bite marks. With the weather quickly growing colder, it also seemed odd that snakes would still be about --especially types such as these. Their midnight-black scales and sharp orange eyes did not match a species we had known or seen before. The way they watched us, day and night, was unnerving.

Another week passed, and the girl was even sicker than before. Worse yet, my five-year-old brother had also fallen severely ill. The same day, after heading out to work, Father found that the hearth in his barn had been tampered with. It had been blazing all night, and the poker had been taken. On the ground, a circle had been scorched into the wood, with the same dark oil and three odd objects from the shrine. At the center of the circle, there lay the eyeless head of a cow. The other parts of its body were nowhere to be found. Father was a saddler, and these creatures provided the leather he needed. It made him disgruntled to see their material wasted in a perverse ritual. Now, for the same reason leather was important, so were tools including knives. However, my father knew that the slightly rounded, black-handled blade protruding from the cow's head was not one of his.

Two sick children, and now two evil shrines. We knew who to blame for this. At the same time, some of our livestock began to die, usually one or two per night. The cause was always either a mysterious illness or a sharp wound to the head, and their bodies rotted abnormally fast. Even the dogs had been brutalized on one night.

We didn't make it through the first month of winter before tragedy struck, and the two children succumbed to their sickness. After growing progressively worse, their final day consisted of agony and hysteria. They were convulsing and mumbling unintelligible terms under their breaths. Whatever sickness had afflicted them, it darkened their veins so they looked black through their pale skin and skeletal frames. Their eyes became glazed, and they never responded to us. By morning, with blood trickling from their pale blue lips, they were still and quiet. It was such a horrid sight that my remaining brother had to perform the burial. Mother and Father were too horrified to lay their eyes upon the children again.

We knew a Witch was among us, but we didn't know where or how. Everyone was scared, and I remember we did a lot of praying.

Following the pattern of death, our livestock had been reduced to one horse, one cow, and three sheep. The dozens of other animals had been slain. Every time we went to clean up the carcasses, burn their unsalvagable remains in a fire pit, or even walk past the makeshift graves of the children, we saw more black snakes. They never approached us, or even hissed. They just watched and collected at these grim sites. Their amber eyes, like windows to the fires of Hell, were always fixed on one of us.

After the childrens' deaths, it got worse. Any meat we tried to keep would spoil almost instantly, and the milk --even when coming straight from the udder-- would be curdled and unpalatable. Even though our eggs usually kept well enough, they now only produced dark sludge and a bloody yolk. 

While relying on oats and cheap roots to survive, we soon met our limits when the water from the well turned black, thick, and foul-smelling. I remember when I investigated for myself. From the well's pail, I had reached into the viscous fluid, and managed to pull up a handful of long, thick black hairs. The clump began to twitch, and I threw it toward the ground out of shock. From that clump of sludge and saturated hair, a black snake slithered out. It stopped and stared at me until I finally retreated, and by glancing over my shoulder, I saw it slithering back down the well.

Our livelihood was gone, our provisions were dried up, and our water was now polluted. It wasn't long before we had to face the truth. The land was becoming unlivable. This curse of death and rot was trying to drive us out, and I'm ashamed to say it was working.

With no other choice, my family made plans to withdraw from the area. The night before we were meant to leave, I had been awake with a tormented consciousness and a pit in my stomach. In the cramped closet-like room, my bed was against the only window, which was sometimes convenient and sometimes exasperating.

While my sisters were already asleep, I watched the moon climb to its peak, the shadows of the trees dancing in the faint, silver starlight. The melody produced by the shrouded forest was pleasant and relaxing, from the chirp of the crickets to the whispering gales passing the leafless branches. That night, a flurry soon moved in, spreading its white powder across our property and the woods beyond. I knew this could be the last time I got to take in this sight, so I was trying to find some comfort in it.

However, before long, I noticed one shadow that didn't seem quite right.

From the woods, easily visible against the snow, I could see an emaciated figure. It was closest to a human, but something about it wasn't right. As it crawled across the ground with alarming speed and fluency, its bent limbs stuck out at an unnatural angle, and its hair trailed around it like a black paintbrush. I could not make out much else, but it was enough for me to know that this creature was not something from nature.

I immediately knew it had to be her. It had to be the Witch.

I watched, frozen in my bed, as she crept toward the horse barn. She left no tracks in the snow, making me wonder if I had gone mad. Halfway to her target, she suddenly stopped.

Slowly, she turned toward the house, until she faced toward me.

I broke into a cold sweat. It felt like an eternity that we were stuck in this stalemate. I could not tear my eyes from her hideous figure, while she only sat there, still as a statue.

Then, she started running.

The Witch broke into a full gallop as she came closer to the house.

Finally, I looked away. I silently slipped to the floor of my bedroom. On my knees, with hands clasped and eyes squeezed shut, I began to pray. I could hear my sisters stirring, but I cannot remember how they perceived me, nor what they said to me.

I thought everything would go away, yet as if to spite me, I heard loud scratching on the roof above us. Not the light rapping of a foraging bird or squirrel, but horrible, scrawling noises. A sound more reminiscent of someone gouging the tiles with a thick blade.

After that, I remember distinctly, my sisters joined me in prayer. In the very few tearful glimpses that we shared, I knew I was not mad. We stayed there for almost the whole night, even after the noises had stopped.

The next morning, after begging our father to look, he confirmed that the roof --the section right above our bedroom-- now had a pentacle and a melted candle at the center of it. While my sisters and I had been sitting in a circle of prayer, something else trapped us in a circle of devilish nature. Such blasphemy felt like a wicked taunt.

That, thankfully, was the day we were ready to leave. It was hard to see the state of our family as we prepared, though. My little sister had begun suffering from the same mysterious illness that took the children. Though not ill, the baby had been much fussier. My brother and older sister seemed miserable, and our poor Mother and Father, deciding to give the bulk of the scraps to us, had grown thin and pale. I need not mention the two sprites that were no longer with us, and the mark they had left on us.

Eager to leave this cursed land, I helped Father to load up our cart. We couldn't take much, since he would be doing the pulling. The remaining animals had been killed in the night, including the only horse. These deaths, as if to create a grand finale, had been the most grizzly. The snow in their pastures had been painted in blood, carpeted by their torn hides, and decorated in meters of entrails.

As I stood near the cart, with my brother and Father securing our very last preserves, I realized something unusual. In the high branches of the woods, I could see a figure much larger than a bird.

Again, I found myself in a visual stalemate with the evil entity.

However, she then turned and shot through the branches. I gasped and stepped away, but Father took notice.

"What doth thou see?" He interrogated.

I pointed to where the creature had been. "'Twere there, amid the trees. Methinks it 'twas the creature from last night."

He stared at me with a demanding look in his eyes. "Are thou talking about the Witch?"

I could only give a slight nod in response, then watch as the color --what little of it remained-- drained from his face. Nearby, my brother was examining the woods with an uneasy expression. The three of us remained still for a long while, until Father stormed away. He soon returned with an ax in hand.

"Say to thy Mother," he spoke gruffly, "Keep inside and lock the door."

Father handed off a large knife to my brother, before they both set off into the woods. I was going to relay the message, yet my worry and curiosity led me astray. I picked up a smaller hatchet lying in the back of the cart, before creeping into the woods after the men. I could follow their tracks in the snow.

Using that method, I walked for about ten minutes beyond the initial line of trees. I was so cold that my legs were growing numb, and my face felt as though it could crack like hardened clay. In my search, this was the point where the tracks changed.

The two sets of footprints suddenly became one, as if one person had simply vanished. The remaining prints became more drawn out, as if he had started running. I felt a chill creep down my spine, but not due to the frigid air. Vile and vivid images flooded my mind.

The weight of fear doubled when another clue appeared. The footprints became jumbled, and they were accompanied by a puddle of crimson. Heavy droplets and streaks continued to follow the trail, which veered awkwardly in one direction.

When I could finally pry my eyes from the ground in front of me, I found something shifting through the trees, ahead. I froze for a moment, then clutched the hatchet tighter and took very slow, cautious steps closer to the commotion.

I have no words to describe the horror to which my eyes had been exposed.

In a ring of slithering black snakes, the Witch was there, and she was a true monster. Against the white snow, her dirty skin stood out. Her only garb included tatters at the waist, and a necklace of bird skulls and their rotting wings. Her limbs, like withered branches, bent as if they had the ball joints of a doll. Her unnaturally long black locks, hanging over her face and shoulders like spilled ink, trailed in the snow. A circlet of thorny sprigs adorned her head, as if to mock the image of Christ. Yet in demonic fashion, horns sprouted from somewhere on her shrouded face, extending a bit before curving back sharply around her head. She was missing her fingertips, and in their place, the claws of a creature had been stitched on.

The woman-ish creature, a human figure so twisted that I could not consider her one of us, was preoccupied with another victim --or rather, two victims. Father was stuck on his front, with the stiffened poise of a corpse, while my brother remained equally motionless as the wretched beast tore into him. She was sliding her claws through layer upon layer of flesh, tearing them up and placing the filets into the snow around her.

I was as frozen as the icicles dangling above us. I could not fathom what was happening, nor could I predict which course of action I had to take. Emotions surely should have been evoked, yet they were corked somewhere too deep for me to reach.

Surely --I thought to myself-- this canst not be a mere human practicing with tonics and unholy chantries or prayers. This hath to be a monster sent by the wicked Beelzebub, himself. An ebon countess from a high wing of Hell!

Unable to hold my breath much longer, I exhaled sharply. The creature stopped, before she rigidly turned her head to me. I saw her horns originating from the two spots where her eyes should have been. The corners of her mouth had been cut back to her ears, which had been cut off like her nose. Her exposed teeth were severely decayed, and her blackened tongue was cut deep down the center.

The lack of eyes made me believe she was blind, so I tried to be silent and step back. I made sure my feet fit into my prior footprints, so the 'crunch' of the snow wouldn't alarm her.

However, then she extended her crooked arm. I realized that within the skin of her forearms, three eyes had slid open. All of them were bloodshot with orange irises, far from resembling a human. On the back of her hand, an even larger eye with a sigil for the pupil had opened. The pattern repeated on her other arm, as she angled it toward me.

All of her eyes, eight in total, landed directly on me. Finally breaking from my trance, I quickly raised the hatchet. I wanted to make it clear; if I was approached, I would attack.

The Witch crawled toward me, her limbs cracking with each movement. I no longer equated them to a doll's joints, but to broken bones. They made me inwardly grimace with each disgusting pop and creak. Neither her hands, feet, nor trailing hair disturbed the snow beneath her. She slowly crept closer, testing me like a predator. However, I refused to be prey.

In a split-second choice, I threw the hatchet at her.

I heard the Witch let out an inhuman, ghastly shriek. I didn't stay to look and ran as fast as my legs could carry me. Behind me, I could hear snapping branches and the distinct grinding of claws against bark. Watching the ground, I used the shadows to tell where I had to go. When she got too close, I veered sharply in one direction or another, trying to use the nature around me to block her.

Finally, I escaped the woods and found our property. I didn't stop to check behind me, this time; I pressed on until I reached the door, practically kicked it down to get inside, then slammed it tight behind me. Once the two locks were secure, and I blocked the way with a chair, I grabbed a wooden crucifix from the mantle of the fireplace and held it close.

I tried to call out, but I realized that the others were missing. Mother, the baby, and my two remaining sisters were all absent. Apart from my thunderous, strained breathing, the house was as eerily quiet as the woods had been.

Keeping the crucifix, I quickly searched the bottom floor before climbing to the second, looking closely. All the rooms were empty, but in the room I had shared with my sisters, I realized that the glass of the window was broken. Not quite shattered, but melted. I slowly approached and looked outside.

At the edge of the woods, I could see her. The Witch, scaling a tree right at the edge of the glade. However, she stopped halfway up. That was when I realized, from the faintest glimmer, that the should-be elbow joints of her arms held yet another set of eyes, and they must have seen me.

She dropped from the tree and broke into a run, and I panicked. I fled the room, and then rushed to my mother and father's room. I locked the door behind me, then climbed from the bed to the top of their wardrobe, allowing me to reach a faint square indentation in the roof. I struggled to reach out and pull it open, and in a feat of strength I don't think I could replicate, I gripped the edge of the opening and pulled myself in. Not long after I closed the hole, I heard the front door slam open, followed by the frenzied crashing of someone searching the house. 

I stayed there for a long while. My father and brother were, in the best of circumstances, unconscious in the woods. My mother and sisters, and baby brother, were missing entirely. I was stuck hiding in the small attic space. With one hand, I gripped the latch with white knuckles. With the other, I clutched the crucifix.

However, I knew it was not a good option to stay like this. I was urged to do something.

Once it was thoroughly quiet, I released the latch, then pulled open the hatch. I aimed for the bed as I dropped down, flinging myself against the soft furniture to dampen the noise. The entire room was wrecked; the bed was crooked, the nightstands and wardrobe were tipped, the modest decorations were shattered or torn, and the window was --like the first-- melted open.

Steeling my nerves, I crept out of the room. I checked around every corner, holding my breath until I knew the space ahead was clear. I managed to get down the stairs, where I found the kitchen and loft destroyed. The door had been forced open, and both locks were broken.

I was glad that I couldn't see the Witch, but there was no sign of my family either. For a moment, I thought about attempting a run to the village, but I knew the Witch would catch me first. After all, the woods seemed to be her domain.

As I picked up a poker to weaponize, dropping the crucifix, it clicked in my mind that there were some places I hadn't checked. The barns, for one, but also the basement. Perhaps the others were hiding down there, and if not, I may find a more suitable weapon in its storage.

After struggling to find a candle and striker, I took both the small light source and the poker to the entrance of the basement, tucked behind the stairs. I searched and listened for any concerning signs as I opened the slanted door. There was a faint commotion, but I refrained from calling out.

I kept the candle in front of me, and the poker poised to strike. I descended each stair with extreme caution, and continued to listen. As I drew closer, I heard dripping, scratching, and other abnormalities that put me on edge. Furthermore, I could see a faint illumination around the corner, revealing a portion of the stone walls at the bottom.

Only, the floor was covered entirely in a writhing layer of black snakes.

I was shaken by the sight, but recalling how these creatures normally behaved, I extended one foot. They recoiled and made a narrow opening for me to step. They weren't trying to attack me, but they watched every tiny movement that I made.

Treading slowly over the snakes, when I could finally see the room in full, my heart sank like a stone.

The light was coming from a burning shrine. From the support of willow branches, a pentacle was hanging down, with the fire below it. On either side of the shrine, five people were nailed by their wrists and feet to the wall. Both of my sisters, my brother, Father, and Mother.

I was petrified. All of their distinguishing features had been lost in a mask of gore, so much that I wondered how I could recognize them. Their ears and noses were hacked off, leaving only bleeding holes, and all that remained of their eyes was a trail of clustered nerves. The lower jaw and tongue, on each of their faces, had been ripped away. Within holes carved out of their chests, there were different grim 'offerings,' from a burning candle to a cluster of needly pine boughs.

Lastly, within the glow of the flames, I could see the unfortunately familiar outline of the Witch, all her eyes closed. Right as I turned the corner, she had placed a mixture of maggots, clover flowers, and tiny chunks of meat into a goblet filled with dark oil.

When I realized that goblet was the stripped and boiled skull of an infant, I felt an overwhelming sense of sickness.

While the Witch drank her tonic calmly, I gave into the horror and cried out in rage, disgust, and pure agony. I wanted to scream a slew of obscenities, for every last tragedy and moment of suffering my family had faced, but in my hysteria, only one word escaped my cracked lips.

"Why?" I cried.

The Witch cocked her head toward me, and for the first time, I heard her speak. Her tone was surprisingly mellifluous, for a creature so twisted.

She lifted her goblet and asked, "Doth thou wish to be beautiful like me?"