Witch

This story is by Jessica Weber and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

“Witch”, they called her. She could hear it in their whispers when she walked past them in the overcrowded school corridors, and she could see it in their eyes whenever she came too close to them. She didn’t know when or how the mocking started. Was it because of her auburn hair, her love for black cats, or her interest in long-forgotten legends?

 

Every kid in Oakdale knew the stories about the witch hunts. Of innocent maidens burning at the stakes or being drowned in dark lakes. For most, the happenings from all those centuries ago were nothing but the result of mass hysteria ignited by fear of the unknown. With science and reason, humanity could eradicate most of the terrors that plagued the people back then; greenhouses gave fresh produce without any dependence on climate and weather; childbirths became a lot safer, the flu was curable, and sepsis preventable. There was no use in being scared of the dark anymore or blaming herbalists for dying livestock.

Fears nowadays were much more trivial: running late to a date, getting laid off, or losing one’s favorite scarf. She, the girl who could hear shadows whisper to her, who could see dark wisps flitting around her, wasn’t one to be feared. Not today. During the time of legends and witch tales, maybe. Today however, she was just another mocked teenager. Just another girl bullied because she didn’t fit the mold.

 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Startled by the low, husky voice to her right, she looked up from the white swirls in her coffee cup. The white porcelain felt lukewarm, held between both her hands. The sweet smell of milk and pumpkin spice was still hanging between her and… she turned her face, looking straight at Death. “Ah”, she thought. Death. Death was a fear that many shared, but nobody talked about death, nobody wanted death to be a part of their everyday lives. Yet he was the only real friend she had in this god-forsaken town.

 

The death that she knew was a handsome young man with slightly slanted eyes; he was tall with raven black hair and a fondness for long black coats. No scythe or dark hood. Death had many faces, he once told her. And Death was not a single entity. She wanted to ask him if Heaven and Hell were also just some myths, but she never found the guts for it. And honestly, there was no urgency. Because he also told her that in his book of souls to collect, she wasn’t due for harvest any time soon.

 

“I was just thinking…”, she began, absentmindedly playing with the spoon in her drink, “what a sight we are, a witch and death enjoying some mundane coffee in some equally mundane café while witching season is passing.”

He chuckled, snatching the untouched cookie that came with her coffee, “What do you want to do? Hex the marinara at your father’s pizza shop like you did as a child?” (It was a barely hidden secret that the ‘Wicked’ in Wicked Marinara, her father’s restaurant, wasn’t just some clever wordplay but held some truth to it.) Her green eyes came alight with mirth. “That was child’s play, didn’t you say there would be an uncanny influx of heart attacks tonight? Let me be the cause of it”, she said, the excitement palpable in her voice. Death looked at her contemplatively, then bit down on his cookie, shrugging his agreement.

 

Together, they left the coffee shop not long after and decided to use the nearby church’s garage as their vantage point. It was a prominent meeting spot for teenagers in town to smoke pot, ever since the only playground got closed for remodeling. On their way, they walked past a banner welcoming everyone to this year’s fall fair. It hung taut above the entrance. A group of teenagers was posing beneath it for a selfie.

 

For about an hour, they were waiting on the garage’s roof for the right moment, not sure yet when that would be. Her feet were dangling off the edge, her eyes fixed on the fairground not far from them. Death was right beside her. A silent, watchful companion.

It has been a surprisingly warm day for the end of October, with just a tinge of foreboding cool wind. Even now, the day’s last sun rays filtered in hues of dark orange and deep yellow through barren branches and colorful foliage that seemed to cling desperately to its trees, not yet ready to fall and be trampled. The small town was alive, enjoying the mild October air, which was pregnant with the smell of cotton candy and candied apples and the underlying sweet scent of decaying leaves. The wind carried over the sounds of children’s laughter mixed with the fair’s cheerful music.

 

Letting her eyes trail over colorful kites dotting the orange sky in the distance, she wished for a moment she could be a child and utterly carefree again. Years ago, everything seemed so simple; joy came to her easily, but now she was simply tired of all the disrespect. A gust of wind swept through the fairground, rustling skirts, sweeping red, brown, and yellow-green leaves over cobblestones, brushing loose strands of hair into faces and over reddened ears. One of the kites shook loose from its nylon cord and climbed up and up, finally being free.

“It’s time”, she decided, and stood from her spot on the garage’s roof. Time to show this town how legends and myths came to be. Time to show them what a witch can do. Time to finally be feared.

 

It began small and slow. Dark, translucent tendrils rose from between the cobblestones, like long, bony fingers. Reaching, searching for ankles and the occasional dog‘s unprotected paws. The attentive animals were the first creatures to react to the shift in atmosphere. Always sensitive to even the slightest changes. Whimpers and soft mewls now mixed in with the joyous laughter. Some owners pulled sternly on leashes, not understanding their pets’ sudden, uncharacteristic behavior. All the while, dark figures flitted around them, yet to be seen. 

 

On a sunny day, anything casts a shadow; therefore, she found an endless supply of energy during the sun’s slow descent behind old trees and small two-story houses. A constant murmur left her lips, a steady stream of words much older than the town itself. She had left the church’s vicinity and walked past the fair’s attendants. Death wasn’t with her anymore, but she could feel his gaze on her, following her unseen.

 

A child finally raised the first alarm: “Mommy! My shadow disappeared!”, the girl shrieked, high-pitched, maroon pigtails bobbing behind her as she yanked her head up. ”Don’t be silly”, the mother scolded lightly. Although her eyes widened slowly, fearfully when she saw her daughter’s shadow scampering away from them. And just like that, chaos erupted. Dogs slipped out of their collars, running away barking and whimpering, their owners drawn between following them and hurrying home. Warm mulled wine and sticks with cotton candy fell to the floor, forgotten. Stall owners grabbed what they could before abandoning their spots. Laughter turned into terrified shrieks and screams. Panic rose all around her, she could nearly taste it on her tongue. Thick and syrupy like molasses. She smiled wickedly, triumphantly.

 

Shadows came alive and rose up on legs, twos, and fours, becoming their own creatures entirely, freed from their casters. The trees’ shadows were especially grotesque, with gruesome grimaces and scattered leaves dying on their dark branches, reaching out like claws. The children’s shadows went to play tag with each other, not taking part in the dark shenanigans, leaving the kids unharmed.

Some older fair visitors weren’t fast enough to outrun their own shadows; ghostly fingers wrapped tight around their shoes and coat seams, sending them down to the ground. They landed harshly on their stomachs and backs, getting the breath knocked out of them. Instantly, their shadows came over them like cold, black blankets. “Why?” She could hear a man scream, voice wavering and full of terror, wondering how his own shadow could betray him so cruelly. Some hearts stopped beating out of sheer panic. Death found the bodies and took their souls, like plucking mushrooms from autumn soil. Going unseen by anyone but her.

 

The air was now filled with the sound of hundreds of running feet, sneakers, and heavy boots crunching on gravel. The resounding clang of a metal ring against a post became louder and more noticeable as the fairground emptied. It was caused by the loosened “Welcome to Oakdale’s Fall Fair 2023” banner, which was now listlessly swaying in the wind. Somewhere, a kite crashed to the ground.

 

She laughed, wild and free.

 

“Witch”, they called her, she could hear it in their screams and see it in their fearful eyes while running from the shadows that followed them home, and for once she answered them back: “Yes, I am.”