The Witch's Wrath: Supernatural Suspense Thriller with Ghosts (Jigsaw of Souls Series Book 2)

by Ian Fortey

  The Witch’s Wrath

  Jigsaw of Souls Series Book 2

  Written by Ian Fortey

  Edited by David Longhorn and Anne Lao

  Copyright © 2021 by ScareStreet.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  See you in the shadows,

  Ian Fortey

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

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  Prologue

  “Please, I don’t want to die.”

  “Hush now.”

  “Please. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  “This is the only way, for thou art a witch!”

  Thunder boomed, and the crowd let out a scream. Maggie Huxley’s bonds were tightened by Pastor Bell, and the townspeople began to pile wood at her feet. The woman affixed to the dark tree struggled against the ropes holding her in place.

  “A curse on you. A curse on all of you!” Maggie cried. The townspeople gasped and stopped what they were doing. The crowd hushed down to watch what would happen next. A spotlight fixed on Pastor Bell. He turned to face the audience.

  “A curse. A curse on the good people of Burnham. From this non-witch. But if truly she be a good woman, then wherefore does this curse come from, eh?” he asked with a wry smile. The lights went up again to encompass the whole stage.

  The pyre around Maggie Huxley’s feet was built, and a torch was brought to Pastor Bell. He stood before the woman as she struggled and writhed, anger in her eyes.

  “Maggie Huxley, under the eyes of the law, I call you witch! You are the bride of Satan, and you have committed the heinous act of murder against your husband, Morris Huxley. What say you?”

  “Fools! If you kill me now, I will become even more powerful than you can imagine,” she hissed.

  “In the name of our Lord, I condemn thee to death,” Pastor Bell said. He lowered the torch as thunder crashed again. The audience screamed. A flash of lightning preceded a moment of total darkness. People gasped and shouted and called out in the dark.

  “Good people, be calm,” Pastor Bell called into the dark. “Be calm for—”

  The lights came back up. Maggie Huxley raised her arms, free from her bonds as crackling sound effects and a smoke machine implied the conflagration set to destroy her.

  “No, people of Burnham. Be ye not calm, for Maggie Huxley has seen you all!” The woman pointed her finger out at the audience, giving the evil eye to everyone in the crowd.

  “I know your faces and know your names. Maggie Huxley will return, and it will be your doom. This, I swear!” She cackled a terrible laugh and rose into the air while stagehands at the side of the stage pulled wires. Maggie rose quickly and swooped across.

  The audience cheered and laughed. Maggie flew first left and then right. One more swoop to the left, and she vanished from sight, her cackles fading into the darkness with her.

  Pastor Bell addressed the crowd again. At the back of the auditorium, Abigail Salter sat with Charlotte, Sandra, and Mary-Ann.

  “Obscene,” Abigail said.

  “It’s the same every year, Abby,” Charlotte said. Abigail’s expression soured.

  “No, they make it slightly worse every year. ‘If you kill me now, I will become even more powerful?’”

  “That doesn’t sound like her,” Mary-Ann agreed.

  “When did she say that? Defending herself against that oaf, Morris? Or running for her life from the mob? You know, at least Salem has the guts to admit their ancestors persecuted innocent women. Burnham wallows in lies and cruelty.”

  “These things take time, Abby. We’re working on it. Most people in town know better,” Sandra said.

  “But they still love those tourist dollars, don’t they?” Abigail countered.

  “Don’t you make a lot of money off of tourists?” Charlotte asked. Abigail glared at her, and she lowered her eyes.

  “I will gladly fleece the rubbernecking stray mongrels and the obstinate local population of every red cent if it means helping our cause, sister.”

  “Yes, I know,” Charlotte said, feeling chastised.

  The audience began to applaud, and the performers returned to the stage. Pastor Bell, Maggie and Morris Huxley, and the rest of the townsfolk from Burnham’s storied history all took their bow as the audience rose from their seats.

  The Burnham Historical Society, which liberally and voraciously ignored history in favor of sensationalism, had put on the stage play. Abigail watched every single year to see what new indignities the town would heap on itself.

  Salem was infamous for its witch trials. Later came the understanding that all of those women had been the victims of terrible abuse and murder. Burnham had no such moment of awakening. Sometime in the 1970s, the town council concluded that Burnham could earn tourist dollars by embracing the pseudohistory of evil witches and witch trials. Since then, the town had wallowed in the falsehoods of several hundred years of lies and exaggeration.

  Most famous among the victims of Burnham was Maggie Huxley. She had been a kind woman, a good wife. But her husband was a drunk and a bully, and the town was ruled by the iron fist of ignorance and intolerance. When Maggie Huxley killed her husband in self-defense, she knew she had sealed her fate.

  Rumors of her being a witch had already been circulating, perpetuated by her husband in his childish anger. Pastor Bell, a prejudiced and cruel man himself, latched onto them. And when Morris was found dead, the town came together in their misplaced hatred of Maggie. Only a witch would have killed a man like Morris, after all. In truth, everyone knew Morris was a drunk and a lout, but they didn’t care, not when they could blame Maggie to sate their bloodlust.

  Abigail always found the end of these plays distasteful. They ended with Bell burning Maggie on the Black Tree like the other witches of old Burnham, and her evil spirit fleeing to the ether. Unlike Salem, where witches were hanged, Burnham chose a truly grisly method of punishment in most cases. It did not happen that way for Maggie, though. She was chased from the town, but she was not killed. At least, not by the people of Burnham.

  Maggie had run to the nearby woods and fled to a cave to find refuge. But the cave was dark and full of dangers, and Maggie was not a woman who was skilled in navigating such places. In the darkness, she didn’t even see the drop in the cave floor. She fell and broke her neck instantly. No one ever found her body. Not until Selena Elliot.

  Selena had been the High Priestess of their coven. The strongest among t
hem. A powerful witch. A better friend. She was wise and fierce, loyal and strong. She was Abigail’s mentor and sister.

  Months ago, Selena had left Burnham on a mission to right the wrongs of the past. She would not tell her sisters exactly what she was doing. But they all felt it when she died, in a place far away.

  When the other sisters of the coven sanctified Abigail as their new priestess, she had gone to Widow’s Cave—the cave where Maggie Huxley had died so long ago, and where her body still remained, deep in the dark. She had called out to Maggie Huxley, and the spirit had answered her. Abigail knew all of Maggie’s secrets now, just as Maggie knew her own. They had formed a bond. A partnership. One that would allow Abigail to take Selena’s place as High Priestess, and Maggie to enact her revenge on those who had wronged her.

  The crowd began to filter out of the theater. Abigail led her sisters out to the streets of Burnham. Charlotte, Sandra, and Mary-Ann had chosen Abigail to lead them after Selena’s death. They knew her strength and could see it was growing. They did not know Maggie was responsible for promoting Abigail’s newfound power. And they did not need to know.

  Abigail led them across Main Street to a storefront under a black and green sign. The Black Tree Bakery was one of the “Places to See” in Burnham, according to the town’s tourism board. The oldest bakery in the town with delicious cakes, pies, pastries, and more. The town called them “magical” because everything in Burnham had to play off of witchcraft. It was how the town made money.

  That everything Abigail sold was, in fact, magical was not known to the town council, the tourists, or the locals. They did not need to know. Maggie and Abigail had agreed that the sisters did not need to know, either. Not yet, anyway.

  The fact was, Sandra was too young and too weak. Her mind played at fanciful games. She wanted witchcraft to be like a movie, full of sisterhood and worshipping trees and the moon. She could cast an incantation or two, but she was not mature enough to handle the responsibility of true power.

  Charlotte was more practical. Older than Sandra and more powerful, she was a pragmatist and level-headed. Too level-headed. She was a woman who could wield primal magic but still struggled over things like car repairs or mending old jeans. She could not see the forest for the trees, and that was forever her weakness. She was a woman with a Ferrari who insisted on driving the speed limit.

  Mary-Ann was a balance between the two. If any of the coven had a hope of ascending to the level of Abigail, it was Mary-Ann. She had strength, but not nearly at the level of Abigail’s. Charlotte’s power was greater, in fact. But Mary-Ann had more potential.

  For all of their failings, Abigail still loved them all. She herself was not perfect, she knew that. She knew what they must think of her when her anger flashed and she became petulant. She did not like losing control of her temper and was quick to apologize and swallow her pride when she gained a cooler head. But it was the in-between times that were the problem. When her rage governed her actions. She was a bad friend in those times. A bad sister. That the other women tolerated and understood her failings was exemplary of the love they had for one another.

  For that reason, Abigail was protective of her sisters. The way Burnham treated the very idea of witches had her constantly feeling defensive as a result. These silly people who would sell baubles as ‘authentic’ witch trinkets from the time of Maggie Huxley, and give guided tours to the woods, to Maggie’s old house, to the Black Tree where she was to have been burned, and more.

  The town’s entire identity was wrapped up in it. They thrived on the lies. They lined their pockets with money from the deceived.

  Abigail’s bakery had been a perfect business to exploit the exploiters, as well as the foolish revelers. The tourists were not innocent. They wanted the thrill of the lie. They wanted to see evil witches burning at the stake. So every cupcake and cookie, every bite of huckleberry pie was laced with sacred words and waved with primal incantations. The Withering Incantation and the Spell of Transference hung heavy over the kitchen when Abigail worked late at night.

  When Louis Murphy, Burnham’s fat, obnoxious mayor, ate his morning chocolate raspberry muffin, each bite sent the faintest thread of Abigail and Maggie’s magic down into his guts. The tiny bursts of power with slough away at his life force. Just the tiniest bit of life pulled away from his insides and sent to Abigail.

  Every mortal being who tasted her food would shed little flakes of life energy that wound its way back to Abigail. When dozens of people per day enjoyed a cake or a scone, the effects built up. And during tourist season, when they came in droves to buy cupcakes by the dozen, and luxurious Dutch chocolate cakes, or decadent fudge brownies, every morsel pulled the essence of life from them and transferred it to Abigail in the form of basic, primal energy. Her power grew and grew.

  The people barely noticed. The more someone ate, the more they might feel tired at the end of the day. A little more rundown than usual. Their back would be sore. Their arms would get wobbly. Nothing that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix. Just a sign of a hard day’s work is what most of them would think.

  That their lives grew shorter was a thing none of them knew or suspected. And why would they? Abigail stole from the end of things. Was Mayor Murphy destined to die on a Thursday? Now it was a Wednesday. Soon it would be a Tuesday. And if his gluttony forced him onward, it would be Monday, then Sunday. It would go from July to June to May. But he would never know the difference. No one would.

  Abigail needed the power. It was the only way she could prepare for what was coming.

  When Selena had been in charge, the long-term goals of the coven were for balance and justice. Justice for Maggie and all the women like her. The town needed to make amends for what it had done.

  Selena had found an ally. That was what she had said, anyway. A powerful ally. One who could provide them with what was needed to set things right and to make Burnham see the error of its ways. To turn a corner and never again let ignorance and hate guide its hand against the innocent.

  The thought was lovely. And it died. It died when Selena’s life was snuff out in a random field, with knife wounds all over her body. Whoever could kill Selena Elliot was powerful and dangerous. Abigail would not allow the man to harm her sisters.

  His name was Vincent Donnelly. This she had seen. With Maggie’s help, and with the power of the Goddess, Abigail had used her sight to see across thousands of miles. When the coven felt Selena’s power rise again from the dead, they had thought she found a way to return from beyond the Veil. But the truth was something darker.

  The man who killed her had taken her power somehow. This Vincent Donnelly. The smell of Selena was all over him, an accusing finger pointing at her killer. And he was heading their way. Perhaps to finish whatever he had started. If he had betrayed Selena, he would certainly kill them.

  Abigail wondered if it was her increased power that drew him. With Maggie’s help, she was so much stronger now. Maybe Vincent Donnelly could sense it. Maybe he wanted it for himself. But unlike Selena, Abigail would be ready for him.

  Somehow, Donnelly had tricked Selena. He had gotten the drop on her. Gotten her to let her guard down. But Abigail and the others knew he was coming. From across the country he was coming, and that gave them time to prepare.

  Vincent Donnelly would regret coming to Burnham. Not for long, of course. Just until they killed him.

  Chapter 1

  “Oh won’t you please take me ho-ome, yeah, yeah!”

  “He never stops,” Fix said.

  “Take me down to the paradise city where the grass is green and the girls are pretty!”

  “Has he even slept yet?”

  “I don’t know,” Vincent said. Dezzy was air drumming on the ceiling of the old muscle car Vincent had found after waking in the field. He turned his head to look at the man.

  “Don’t know what, man?” he asked.

  Vincent shook his head and turned the volume
down on the radio.

  “Nothing. Can you check the map for me and see where the heck we are? I think we’re in Massachusetts but I honestly don’t even know.”

  “We are. Passed a sign a ways back, man. We should stop for lunch.”

  Vincent looked at his watch. Lunch sounded good. The last time they ate was at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Dezzy opted for a stone-cold pizza sub and Pringles with a Pepsi. Vincent had a stale muffin and coffee.

  “We should hit up a real restaurant this time,” Vincent suggested. Dezzy nodded, bringing his air drumming to a crescendo.

  “Totally. I could kill a hamburger right now, man. Like, not literally. But I’d enjoy one. Or a meatball sub.”

  “I figured,” Vincent said, smiling. Dezzy was making up for several years of not eating. He had died back in 1987 after a Guns N’ Roses show. He’d spent several decades in the afterlife fixated on the idea of the meatball sub he was never able to eat before he died in a car wreck.

  Vincent was surprised how easily he had grown to enjoy Dezzy’s company. He had only known the man for a short time. He met him in the town of Alder Falls when the random jumble of voices and memories in Vincent’s mind convinced him he needed to be in that town.

  The true nature of the compulsion to go to Alder Falls was darker than Vincent could have ever imagined. A man named Bogdan Dalca, a man who Vincent first encountered as a corpse, had somehow transferred his spirit into Vincent’s body. His memories began to bubble to the surface in Vincent’s own mind.

  Dalca was a necromancer, a man with the power of Death. He had come to Alder Falls because of a powerful Font of energy that lay beneath the town. He cursed the place and brought the dead back to life, forcing the townspeople to live in fear or die and become his reanimated slaves.

  “You ever have a Philly cheesesteak, man? I could go for one of those, too,” Dezzy said.