The Witching Owl

"Please, state your name."

"Mine or the one shoved onto me?"

Picture perfect families. Lies riddled in the wallpaper which rolled off of walls like skin from the body of a butchered deer being readied for storage in a hunter's freezer. Small towns with crosses littered among chapels on every street corner. Whether it is a picture-perfect dollhouse or your average Southern hick family of hunters, neither sit well with a kid who defies both belief and hetero norms. At least that is the analysis concluded by the weekly visit of Marion Glacier Orphanage's hired child psychiatrist. Ultimately, the Christian's belief of a Hellish underworld holds no place for Daymian Griffin.

"I heard her family abandoned her."

"I heard his father killed everyone except her- him."

"I heard the mobsters went to collect for her brother and killed everyone except her."

Words exchanged over counters, or through screen doors. From people who tried to ignore the shiny camera that sat atop the sturdy man's shoulder.

"Oh you know, 'round here there ain't no place for a kid like that. Freak of nature, an abomination against God himself. Transgender, no wonder the family took off without her. I would have too." Spat the wrinkled old women from her front porch.

"We are here, in Marion Glacier, investigating the occult murders and cereal killings by the young Daymian Griffin most commonly known as The Witching Owl. A teen who currently resides in Westbrook Mental Institution and Youth Home. At the age of 12 young Daymian was the last living member of the Griffin family who walked freely. Now, five years later, he along with his older brother sit, locked away. In their forms of punishment. Today, we will be venturing to the only known murder and ritual sites, as well as Westbrook Mental Institution and Youth Home. For an exclusive interview with Daymian himself." The vide cut, the cameramen high-fived. And Mathew heaved a heavy sigh.

"Yikes." Mathew breathed before climbing into the van. His hosting skills were rusty. However, that did not matter.

"Can't believe how close-minded folks around here are."

"'Course you wouldn't know Matt, you're from Cali, all kinds of diversity there. But 'round here, ain't no one like ya unless you wore a white robe." Scoffed a cameraman to Matt's left.

"You looked through his files, right? All of the connected killings?" Matt nodded his head, his hands shook terribly.

Daymian Griffin, transgender, witchcraft practicer, orphan, serial killer, clinically insane. He resides in the southern states of the U.S. Main victims: members of age-old white supremacist groups. A scary guy trapped in a small teen's body.

Among the sites of Daymian's rituals, most commonly the forest behind his childhood home. A set of eerie trees that lined the land. Despite the gruesome incidents that took place, the forest thrived with animals and greenery. You never would have guessed a single drop of blood had spilled across the green grass.

"And although it is locally known that these killings were used in rituals conducted by Daymian. This is not fact, it is known that Daymian is a practicing witch, however, it has not been proven that any of these gruesome killings were sacrificial rituals. But, truth is still open, as honesty seeps further in further with guilt." The blinking light went blank. The Cameramen rolled their shoulders, and the van loaded up once more. The next step of the investigation; Westbrook. The van ride was quiet. The silence seeping into the bones of all of the van's passengers. Mathew's fingers flexed and unflexed around his tie. Wearing the fabric to wrinkles.

Steel gates trapped Westbrook's patients. Mathew felt claustrophobic as soon as the van rolled through them. An aching feeling entered his chest, separate from heartbreak or homesickness. If he concentrated, Mathew nearly convinced himself that the pain was physical.