Witch

by Patrick Logan

  “Yes you did, you fucking slut,” Jane raised the whip above her head, but hesitated before raining it down on her. “You fucking promised.”

  Anne heard the crack of the whip, but it moved so quickly that she didn’t see it.

  But she felt it. A searing pain erupted on her cheek, which was immediately followed by a spurt of blood that sprayed from her flayed face. The combination of the force of the blow and an instinctual reaction to nearly losing her eye sent Anne sprawling flat against the floor.

  She didn’t so much cry out as release a long, drawn-out whine.

  The pain was like nothing she had ever felt before. Spit and blood dripped from her face onto the floor, but Anne did nothing to stem the flow. Instead, she shut her eyes, listening to her own breathing and Jade’s huffing from cracking the whip with such ferocity. Eyes still closed, Anne screamed as loud and as long as she could. Then she sucked in another breath.

  “I didn’t promise anything!” she yelled hoarsely. “I didn’t fucking promise anything!”

  She opened her eyes and stared at the floor, which was so close that she couldn’t focus. Another sound made her wince, but when it wasn’t accompanied by searing pain, Anne realized that it wasn’t the whip.

  It was a door.

  No!

  Anne flipped onto her back and leveled her eyes at the room that she and her daughter shared. Terry’s round face, her blue eyes wet with tears, looked at her from between the two-inch-wide opening.

  “Ter—” she started, but blood filled her mouth and she had to spit before continuing. “Terry, close the door! No matter what, don’t come out of your room!”

  The girl hesitated, which was just enough time for Jane to notice her.

  “You have a daughter? What gives you the right to have a daughter? A piece of trash like you, from the swamp, of all places, while I, Jane Heath, can’t have one? Huh? What gives you the right?”

  Terry slammed the door closed.

  “Please,” Anne stammered.

  “Please what? I should take your daughter—I deserve a child more than you.”

  “No!”

  Jane snapped the whip again, and this time it shredded not only Anne’s cotton nightgown, but the skin on her back as well. Anne’s spine inverted from the shock, and her mouth opened wide in a croak.

  The pain was so intense that she thought she might pass out.

  “Roll over,” she heard someone hiss; someone far, far away. “Roll over or I’ll whip you again.”

  Anne, eyes turned backwards in their sockets, managed to somehow flip onto her back. Only her shoulder blades and tailbone made contact with the wood floor; the simple thought of placing any inch of her flayed skin against the wood was enough to bring on a fresh bout of nausea.

  Jane was suddenly on top of her, yanking her nightie down, tearing the expensive fabric like toilet paper. Anne’s pale breasts spilled out from the enlarged neck hole.

  She closed her eyes again, this time allowing the darkness to close in on her, and as she did, Anne heard a distinctive sound.

  A suckling noise.

  And then she passed out.

  Chapter 14

  The ground was wet and soft, coating Benjamin Heath up to the elbows in mud. When he had taken a horse and followed his wife earlier that day, he had envisioned this going a little differently. He definitely hadn’t thought that he would be half buried in mud with Jessie Radcliffe lying beside him, grumbling about how badly the swamp reeked. If Jane was having an affair, as he suspected she was, he half wanted it to be with one of the assholes in Charleston, one of the men that paraded around town like some sort of human peacock draped in silk and adorned with gems and jewels. It would be much more enjoyable inflicting pain on someone like that. But here? In the swamp? Shit, he expected that these inbred fuckers lived on pain.

  “Shut up,” Benjamin mumbled. “There’s something happening... I can see... I can—”

  The truth was, he couldn’t see much. He caught a glimpse of the top of his wife’s head, and that of another, dark-haired woman. The second woman had turned briefly to the window at one point, and for a second he thought that she had spotted him. When she turned her back to him a moment later, Benjamin realized that she hadn’t.

  But that face... it wasn’t one he recognized.

  What the hell is Jane doing here? And who the fuck is that?

  “What’s she doin’?” Jessie asked.

  “I said, shut up,” Benjamin hissed. Jessie might have been his best friend, his closest confidant, and his loyal accomplice, but the man’s constant chatter was infuriating.

  This was the third time that Benjamin had spotted his bitch wife leaving in the afternoon when she thought that he was having his afternoon nap.

  He wasn’t napping, of course. The mid-afternoon nap was just a ruse to give Jessie the opportunity to sneak the girls in through the back. Unlike that bitch Jane, he could do whatever he wanted to these girls and they never complained, never smart-mouthed him or stepped out of line. Sure, Jessie paid them off, but what did that matter? He never saw any money changing hands.

  Benjamin nearly chuckled at the thought of how much money Jessie probably had to pay for the last one.

  The image of their young bodies, their wet tongues making tracks all over his body as he lay splayed, blindfolded, his arms tied to the bedposts, made the front of his trousers suddenly feel a little too tight.

  If Jane wouldn’t give him a baby, wouldn’t give him a chance for the honored and revered and feared Heath name to live on, well then, he would plant one in one of these nubile beauties.

  Or they would die trying.

  Two months ago during one of his “naps,” he had overheard the sound of horse hoofs on the cobble walk out front of his palatial estate. Nobody left in the afternoon, not without his permission, and especially not with one of his horses. His initial demands to be untied had gone unheeded, probably because the girls had assumed it was all part of the game. A strong bite to one of the girls’ inner thighs, a bite so strong that it had left him with a mouthful of smooth skin and sinew, had let them know that he was serious.

  Benjamin had made it to the window just in time to see the carriage pulling onto the road. When it hadn’t returned until late that night, and he couldn’t find Jane anywhere in the estate, he’d known what was up. The bitch was cheating on him—that was the only thing that made sense.

  That night, he had beaten his wife harder than usual, before planting his seed inside her over and over again. Yet he’d never asked her where she had gone; he knew better. If he asked outright, even if he asked with his fists and feet, she would clam up and never tell him.

  Fucking stubborn bitch.

  If anything, he preferred it this way. If he caught her in the act with another man, then he would be justified in killing them both—in giving them both what they deserved.

  “Can’t see shit,” Benjamin mumbled. He pulled himself out of the mud to get a better look, which also served to alleviate the uncomfortable feeling in his balls from lying on his erection. “Stay here, Jessie.”

  Jessie hesitated in the prone position, his hands buried in the mud as he stopped mid-pushup. The man was tall and lanky with a narrow face to match and shaggy brown hair that covered his forehead. He looked like some sort of oversized swamp bug emerging from the mud. The man’s thin lips opened, but Benjamin pre-emptively stopped him before he spoke.

  “Shut the fuck up, Jessie.”

  The man’s mouth snapped shut. Friend or not, he knew better than to test Benjamin’s wrath. Nobody from Charleston was stupid enough to contradict Benjamin Heath.

  On his haunches now, Benjamin ambled closer to the window. From his new vantage point, he could make out more of his wife’s outline, but her back was to him. Peering through her arms and legs, he thought he saw the other woman lying on the floor in front of her.

  What the fuck is going on?

  Of all the scenarios that had run through Benjamin’
s head as he’d watched the carriage make its way out the gate, Jane visiting a woman, of all people, had not been one of them.

  What is she doing?

  He moved a little bit closer, and then his breath caught in his throat.

  Jane jumped on top of the woman, tearing at her blouse, revealing large, soft breasts with dark nipples.

  As he watched, Benjamin’s expression went from shock to confusion.

  But then the corners of his lips turned up.

  Oh, this is good. This is real good.

  PART III - Spilled Milk

  Chapter 15

  The people of the swamp never forget, the old crone’s voice echoed in Anne’s head.

  Her eyes snapped open, and she immediately wondered how long she had been out.

  It could have been minutes, but it could have also been hours. There was no way to know.

  Her back hurt, her face hurt, her arm hurt, and her breasts hurt. She tried to lift her face off the floor, but it didn’t budge. Fear coursed through her, as she thought that perhaps Jane was still here, that her palm was pushing her face against the floor.

  But when she tried to raise her head again, her heartrate slowed. Jane wasn’t holding her head to the floor; instead, her blood had started to congeal and it was causing her face to stick to the wood.

  With one hard yank, the skin on her cheek stretched but eventually broke free, ungluing itself from the floor.

  She was crying, she realized then, but it wasn’t from the pain—or, at least, it wasn’t all from the pain. Jane had gone from a potential friend, someone who could not only provide her with the means for her and Terry to leave to the swamp, to start a new life, but also offer prestige, to someone that wanted to kill her.

  Kill.

  Barely holding back a grunt of pain, she managed to force herself into a sitting position. Her eyes were wide, frantic, fearing that at any moment Jane would reveal herself and finish the job. After another uneventful minute, she realized that that wasn’t going to happen.

  The door had been left wide open, and Anne could see all the way to the packed dirt road.

  Jane and the horse and carriage had fled. And along with them any prospect of Anne and Teresa ever leaving the swamp.

  Only now did she dare inspect the damage that the crazed, desperate woman had inflicted on her.

  Her probing fingers revealed a deep gash that ran from just in front of her ear to the corner of her lip. The skin separated when she ran her fingers over it, sending a shudder up and down her spine. Blood still wept from the wound, and she knew that it was in her best interest to stem the bleeding and try to force the two sides together, otherwise it would scar. But she was only kidding herself. She had fixed up enough cuts on Wallace’s hands when he worked at the Mill to know that a cut this deep was going to scar no matter what she did about it.

  She turned her attention to her breasts next, wincing when she saw how red and sore her nipples were. She had passed out just as Jane had started suckling from them, but she knew that the woman had pulled on them hard—so hard that she felt as if she had been punched in the chest.

  And maybe she had.

  Anne closed her eyes and continued to weep, her thoughts turning to the day when she had hidden behind the Thomases’ house, building up the courage to steal some produce for her and Terry to eat—to survive. And then she was in her kitchen, angrily pouring breast milk in Veronica’s tea. Her next thought was of the first time that Jane had shown up to her door, her eye swollen, her posture stooped.

  What happened? How did it come to this?

  The sound of creaking wood drew Anne out of her own head. At first she thought that it was Terry coming out of her room again, and she whipped around, instructions to keep the door closed, to hide under her bed, on the tip of her tongue.

  But the bedroom door was still closed.

  As her head swiveled around slowly, her heart kicked into high gear.

  At some point during her struggle with Jane, the lamp closest to the door had gone out, leaving only the one at the far end of the room behind her to illuminate the interior of her small house. And with the figure in the doorway blocking any moonlight from entering, she could only make out their outline.

  “No,” Anne said, her vision still blurry from the tears that continued to fall. “I didn’t promise anything. I—”

  But a laugh cut her off.

  It wasn’t Jane—it was a man’s laugh, low and gruff.

  And mean.

  “Please,” Anne begged.

  Was it Ken Thomas? Had Veronica heard the commotion and sent him over to check on her?

  “Help me.”

  The man laughed again.

  And then he spoke, and Anne knew instantly that it wasn’t Ken Thomas. Even though she had never heard his voice before, she was fairly confident she knew it who it was.

  And this realization made her blood turn to ice in her veins.

  “I knew that bitch Jane was cheating on me. But with a woman?” Anne couldn’t tell if it was incredulity or sarcasm that crept into his voice. “A woman from the swamp? A fucking commoner?”

  He took a large step into the room, and then another. He had a huge gait, traversing all the way to the kitchen in just two strides.

  “Please,” Anne begged. “I didn’t promise anything. I’m sorry, I didn’t—we didn’t—”

  Benjamin Heath took another step forward, finally moving into the dim glow from the lantern.

  For the second time in only a minute, Anne’s felt unable to breathe.

  Benjamin Heath was tall and thin and nude. The man’s cock that hung between his legs was partially erect, and it swayed from side to side with every step. But despite this horrific sight, it was his hands that had the most profound effect on Anne. They were balled into knobby fists, the multitude of scars on his knuckles oddly clear in the poor lighting.

  Anne pictured Jane’s wounds, the broken nose, the black eyes, and she knew that unlike Wallace’s, Benjamin’s scars weren’t from any mill—they were from his wife’s face. And if he had done that to his own wife, there was no telling what he would do to her—in his words, a commoner from the swamp.

  Sensing danger, Anne’s reactive biological instincts took over, but it wasn’t in her to fight or flee. Anne’s programming was to freeze. It was as if she had been suddenly transported out of her body and was now hovering overhead as Benjamin finally strode over to her. One of his large hands extended with amazing speed, his open palm slapping her bloody cheek, reigniting the pain. Anne’s head flew backward and the base of her skull smacked against the hard floor.

  “Fucking peasant blood,” Benjamin muttered, wiping his hand on his thigh, leaving a red smear behind. “So Jane likes these breasts, doesn’t she? Well, let’s see what I can do about that.”

  The man lowered himself on top of her, and she felt his now rock-hard penis graze against the inside of her leg. He yanked her dress with such force that it tore away completely, leaving her naked and shivering on the floor. Then Benjamin lowered his head and she felt warmth and wetness on her breast again. Only this time, unlike Jane, it was gentle, his tongue lightly flicking her raw nipple.

  And then his teeth clamped down and he pulled.

  Anne screamed, and he entered her with a grunt.

  When it all ended, Benjamin let out a final, prolonged groan and then slid out of her. Sweat dripped profusely from his face and landed on her like rain.

  Anne’s eyes were open, or at least she thought they were. She couldn’t be sure, given that she was unable to focus on anything, could only make out amorphous shapes.

  “’Atta girl,” Benjamin said breathlessly. “Now I can see why Jane keeps coming back to you.”

  He chuckled and pulled himself to his feet, leaving Anne lying on her back. As he moved toward the door, Anne allowed herself the hope that this nightmare was finally over.

  Please be done, she thought as her body curled into a ball, her thumb making its way to he
r mouth.

  Benjamin continued to chuckle.

  “Ah, like a babe. The babe that Jane can never give me.”

  Somewhere in her subconscious, Anne realized that he continued to make his way to the open door.

  It is over.

  But when the man spoke again, she knew that she was mistaken.

  “Jessie, get your skinny ass out of the mud and come over here. It’s your turn.”

  Anne cringed, but lacked the faculties to do anything else.

  Passing in and out of consciousness, she barely acknowledged that someone else, someone even taller and thinner than Benjamin Heath, was on top of her.

  It lasted only minutes, and then that too was over.

  Anne couldn’t even manage to pull herself into the fetal position anymore. Her body was racked with pain, from her face to her breasts to between her legs.

  “What do we do now?” she heard a voice say. It was indistinct, coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

  She heard the sound of a match igniting, then caught a flash of light behind her closed lids.

  Anne opened her eyes.

  “Flip her over,” Benjamin instructed. He was applying the flame to something metal, but she couldn’t make out exactly what it was.

  A seal maybe? A piece of jewelry?

  Anne felt her body being turned. She didn’t resist.

  A moment later, footsteps approached.

  “You think—”

  “She’s my property now, Jessie. I will leave my mark to let everyone know how she cuckolded me.”

  “Are you—?”

  “Shut up, Jessie. Just shut the fuck up.”

  There was a pause, and then she felt a tingling sensation on her back, just above her left butt cheek. Under normal circumstances, she would have screamed, thrashed, called out. But this wasn’t normal; nothing about any of this, about feeding Veronica her breast milk or being raped by Benjamin and Jessie, was normal.

  Even when she smelled her own burning flesh, she failed to react.

  There was more laughter, and then the footsteps slowly faded away.