Witch Eater

October 31st, 1857- Akers, Louisiana

Witch Eater

        Four droplets of wax settle into the splintered wood at my feet. Light floods through the termite infested cracks, golden streams piercing through the loft's gloom. But my candle isn't safe here. The flame shivers, choking on dusty air. Nothing is safe here.

        The loft is my-was my masters' least visited room. Witches, be they young or old, kind or wicked, always preferred the deep cool darkness of the underground to the uncertainty of the sky's winds above. But it was no wind that created the creature who swallowed them whole.

        It will return any second, the door will unlock, it's chains will drag, it's foul stench will follow. But for now I have my candle. I have my string, my stitches, my stuffing, my buttons. If it tears me apart I will sew myself back together. If it gobbles me up in a single bite, I will rip through its seams from the inside—

        I've run out of time. It's here, unlocking, dragging, smelling. I extinguish my candle, breath held as its soul wisps into the shadows.

        I watch through the holy floor as it blusters through the barn door. My hands ball into fists that flinch with every lamp, chair, table, the creature barrels through. Busted furniture and shattered lights cast nothing but a refracted moonlight glow over the beast as its body fades up the stairs.

        If I had a true heart it'd be seizing in panic, but instead, the yarn at my center tangles, its edges fraying the harder it beats and with every beat the creature plods closer. My feet scramble, pitching me into a corner of shade and splinters. I reel my legs in, deflating against the wall.

        The weight of the beast sends echoing creeks through the rotting wood steps but like the witches in its stomach, it doesn't dare grace the upmost landing with its presence. In one unsuccessful swoop it scans the loft for life. My only savior is the practiced knowledge that only from the view of the top step am I detectable, shrouded in the darkness of the furthest corner, untouched by the moonlit streaks exposing the dust and dirt billowing midair.

        The creature's chains slither down the staircase, dropping onto each step before slinking to the next as it slogs shackled ankles all the way to the underground level of the barn where it becomes nothing but a faint thudding to my ears. But in this silence, relief is not the name of the cold hands plucking apart my tangled threads.

        I pin every thought to the back of my mind in an attempt to deafen the repeating chords in my head. I've already heard my family slaughtered once. I don't need to relive every screeching note again. Yet, my stomach bunches each time I refuse to listen, to hear the last cries of my creators and because of that, I'm bound to suffer in the embroidered prison of my mind.

        I stay perfectly still all night, sleep lying beside me, an acquaintance I've never truly gotten to know. Witch dolls don't sleep, we tighten our stitches. But mine are already knotted so stiffly, fear and sorrow has tugged them well past the point of pain. I wait for the morning, staring through the cracked floor at the remnants of my coven's home.

        But my wait has been interrupted. A guttural yowl quakes through the floor, a cry that echoes back to the beast below.

        Bravery is not a rewarded quality among witches. To call an action brave is to discount the trust one holds in their coven, as nothing a witch does is alone or without faith. But donned with no hope and no coven it is all I have, to be brave in this moment.

        My burlap is pulled taught as I stand up. I tread with painstaking caution, crossing rugged floorboards whose creaks are drowned out by the sound of my heartstrings jumbling in my ears. My boning warps the further I venture from the safety of my corner but I focus on each step my feet make. I descend a first, then a second staircase, avoiding any pause between as to evade a glimpse of the demolished living hall. But in my haste I snag my toe on the last step. Beneath it lays cold hard earth, packed down by generations of pointed boots and sweeping cloak tails.

         With a yank and a step, I am in the basement, standing before a cauldron twice my height with a girth comparable to a redwood's trunk. The usual heat that emanates from the pot is now replaced with the cold stench of whatever unfinished potion sits at the bottom of its bowl.

        I jerk back as another wail is cranked out from behind the cauldron, a forlorn sob tugging at my judgment. With a peek around its curve, my brain frays, a single candle illuminating the truth. Slumped like a half empty sack of chicken feet is the beast. But it is not a beast at all.

        Beneath it lays the gooey remains of a shed skin, blood still slipping like tears from its sobbing body. A body that replicates my master, my creator, my coven's leader, in the utmost detail. Her black coily hair, sharp shoulders, and pointed yellow nails tremble in pain as her skull begins to split. Brown skin shrivels from it's body, oozing blood washing it away as another skin presents itself. This time lighter with glossy black locks and thick brows that lay heavy over her eyes. A stuttering scream presses them further together only to be ripped apart again as the coven's Scribe melts into our Healer, revealing red hair and boney elbows that knock against the cauldron as its skin sheds again.

        At the second dozenth drop of the candle's wax the creature finally stops molting. Scattered around it lay the slippery remains of what I now realize are the true bodies of my coven, eaten whole then digested in shreds now sliding from a fleshy red pile at my feet.

        But beneath the outer layer of the beast and the many layers it consumed, sits something no witch would ever fear.

        Its undefined hands are raised to its eyes as it whimpers, knees to its pilling chest. I've never seen a witch-doll as small as this one. It's howls continue to ring out as I edge closer, a plan weaving into my brain.

         "Do it." The slithering scraps of my coven seem to goad, their voices echoing off the chamber's spell stained walls. "Avenge us. Curse it with the only punishment fitting."

        I give a soft nod and shake off any lingering fear.

        My eyes boring into the tiny creature, I reach into my overall pocket. My hands don't shake as I glide out my shears. My stomach doesn't knot as the doll's button eyes finally find me.

        "Snip it open," my coven hisses, "swallow him whole."

        I brace for the sting then let the blades slice through the threads around my mouth. I cut both sides, expanding my mouth just enough for my lips to fit around the trembling witch-doll.

        I once witnessed an alligator swipe an owl out of the air. The owl had no time to screech, no room to fight, and no thought passed that moment. The alligator splashed back down into the water and within seconds, there was no trace of what he had just done, other than a single escaped feather, floating on the still swamp surface. In one swift moment the owl was alive then dead. In an even swifter one, I gulp down the rogue witch-doll leaving no thread left behind.

        I sway slightly on my feet, relief beginning to weave its way into my heart, untangling its knotted yarn. My eyes glide over the mess of tattered carcasses and once again I'm burdened with the weight of being alone. It lugs me to the ground, forcing my knees onto a clump of witch scalp.

        "Oh, sweet child, you got that all wrong."

        My throat tangles as it attempts to stop my heart from jumping out of my mouth. I shake my head, trying to find the voices source.

        "You ain't gon' find me out there, Darlin'." The voice jeers. "An' that ain't the weight a being lonely pullin' you down. It's the weight a your new master."

        My head feels like it's been unraveled as realization hits me far too late. I feel a jerk in my stomach, then another in my back. I've been mended enough times to know what it feels like to be sewn from the inside.

        I try to reach down my throat, to pull the tiny doll from my stomach but my stitches aren't my own anymore. My hands dangle, inanimate at my sides as the beast fits me as it's knew host.

        "Oh, no no no, sweet child. I'm no beast." Its voice ripples from inside me, along with a ferocious growl of hunger.

        And with its final words, it uses my voice.

        "I'm the Witch Eater."