The Cruel Coven

by Isla Jones

  Blake had no clue as to what she’d done to deserve the cold shoulder from her old friend, but she didn’t confront her. Tension between them seemed to brew from a simmer to a boil, which made History class rather awkward. It made Blake wish that the shutters were open—staring out at the carpark was a better option than acknowledging the troubled tension between herself and Bethany.

  Mr McAllister scraped a jagged piece of chalk against the board. As he began to drone in his monotonous voice, the students fell into a patient silence. That brand of calm only every occurred after double gym class on Wednesdays, when the pupils were exhausted and drowsy.

  “The Salem witch trials!” said Mr McAllister. “They are notorious throughout the country, but our own town of Belle-Vue experienced a similar event. Can anyone tell me why the Belle-Vue witch trials are not as known as those in Salem?”

  Bethany’s arm shot in the air. Blake flinched—Bethany rarely paid attention in class, never mind participate.

  “They’re not as known because Belle-Vue didn’t have witch trials,” said Bethany. “It was a slaughter.”

  Mr McAllister perched himself on the edge of his desk and gestured for her to elaborate.

  “The accused witches weren’t judged or given the chance to prove their innocence. They were dragged from their homes in the middle of the night and burned in the bayous. We can’t call that a witch trail.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” the teacher said. “But what can you tell me about the motive, Ms Prescott? Why were these people executed without trial?”

  Blake’s eyelids began to droop as exhaustion took hold of her. Bethany seemed to find a voice sometime during her change. Blake was grateful in that moment—it allowed her to shut her eyes and powernap.

  Bethany’s voice sliced through her drowsiness: “That’s the difference between the trials in Massachusetts and those in Belle-Vue. Our townsfolk targeted a group of people they thought to be a coven. They didn’t accuse every person in town for birthmarks, or for being a woman.”

  “Ms Harper.”

  Blake jerked in her chair, her heavy eyelids snapping open.

  Mr McAllister shot her a stern stare before he asked, “Care to wake up and tell us who the mob targeted?”

  Blake stifled a yawn and slumped in her chair. It took her a few seconds to digest the question. Rubbing her eyes, she said, “The townsfolk of the colony went after a group of odd friends. A seamstress, a midwife, and a prostitute. Then, there was also a butcher, a minister, and … an apothecary shop owner.” A smile tugged at her lips. She was proud of herself for pulling that information out her sleepy mind. “It was suspicious at the time that they would hang out with each other,” she added. “And it was even stranger that they met in the bayou woods at night.”

  “Precisely,” agreed Mr McAllister. “These six townspeople would meet in the swamps every week. A hunter noticed their odd behaviour, and tracked them into the wetland, driven by his suspicion.” Mr McAllister pushed himself from the desk and raised his finger in the air. “But, the hunter didn’t find them. In fact, he lost their trail not far into the swamps. They’d vanished. The townspeople grew even more suspicious after what happened next.”

  The teacher waved his hand toward Liam Cook at the front of the class. “The children from the town began to go missing,” said Liam. “First the poor ones from the streets and the brothel. Then, the minister’s own son. Some richer kids vanished after that. They were missing for months, until one day they just came back.” Liam shrugged. “Nobody knew where they’d gone or why.”

  “Ah!” Mr McAllister waggled his finger. “But they were different upon their return.”

  Bethany said, “It was believed that the children were under a spell and that it made them move differently. They were slower, dumber and quieter. The minister’s son, after he returned, killed a wealthy woman in the colony and stole all her jewels. The jewels were never found, even to this day. And the boy who did it—he never spoke a word under questioning. Not a word.”

  The teacher raked his gaze over the students. His eyes lingered over Clay—who snored loudly and slumped back in his chair—before he settled on Hunter. “Mr Jackson.”

  Hunter ran his olive-skinned fingers through his curly hair. There was no point. It fell back into its dishevelled state the moment he dropped his hand to his side. “After that, people talked,” he said with a shrug. Blake narrowed her eyes at him. He must’ve felt the heat from her glower, because he glanced over his shoulder and smirked at her. Holding Blake’s stare, he added, “And when people talk, bad things happen.”

  How much trouble will I get in, she wondered, if I shove a pencil up his nose?

  Mr McAllister asked, “Would you care to explain what these ‘bad things’ are?”

  Hunter tore his gaze from Blake’s narrowed eyes. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “When the accused witches were out in the bayous, the townsfolk searched their houses. All six of their houses. They found spell books inside the flat above the apothecary shop, and in the butcher’s meat locker were buckets of cow blood. There was a jewelled diadem in the midwife’s house too. To the lynch-happy townspeople, that was concrete evidence. It was all they needed to execute.”

  Mr McAllister clapped his hands together. “The townsfolk waited three nights. They plotted against the coven in secret. And when all six witches were asleep in their homes, the townsfolk attacked in six separate mobs. The accused were dragged deep into the bayou woodlands, where they were burned alive.” He paused, looking from student to student. Blake suspected he was hoping for a suspenseful effect, but the students were all too tired to care much about the story they knew by heart. “Then,” said Mr McAllister, “something inexplicable happened afterwards. Do you know what that is, Ms Prescott?”

  “The children,” said Bethany. “The ones who had gone missing. They all dropped dead at the exact moment the accused witches were killed.”

  Mr McAllister gave a wry smirk. “Yes,” he said, his smirk growing into a lopsided grin. “According to our very reliable historical records, written by credible puritans.” A ripple of derisive laughter ran over the students. “Now,” he said, “let’s get back to the diadem. It was found in the midwife’s home. I’m sure you’ve all viewed in Town Hall. We know it as ‘The Diadem of Deities’. Who can tell me what the puritans believed to be the purpose of the diadem?”

  Both Hunter and Bethany raised their hands in the air. Blake’s drowsy eyes moved between the freckled arm and the tanned one. She’d never seen such a thing before—Bethany and Hunter paying attention in class, answering the teacher’s questions. Was this a Snapchat moment, she wondered?

  Mr McAllister chose Hunter.

  “The townsfolk,” said Hunter, “thought the diadem was used in a ritual. With all those kids vanishing and dying, the whole town believed the diadem and the kids were linked to a sacrifice. A sacrifice meant to open the gates of hell and bring a dark entity into our world.”

  Mr McAllister pushed himself from the desk, grabbed the chalk, and approached the chalkboard. “Correct, Mr Jackson.” The broken chalk scratched against the surface. “Which brings us to your homework.”

  Groans erupted from the students.

  McAllister ignored their complaints. “I want essays on the supposed use of the diadem, including your own argument. Either support the ritual, or dismantle it. Two pages, five hundred words. And yes,” he said, “you will be expected to reference, no less than five sources.”

  Blake slumped over the desk and whacked her forehead against the hardwood. Referencing was the stuff of nightmares. It took longer to do than the assignment itself. And it meant researching and gathering the relevant texts from the town’s library. It wasn’t how she’d planned to spend her first weekend work-free in months.

  When the bell rang, Bethany and Blake parted ways without so much as a wave goodbye. Blake watched the redhead barge out of the classroom and disappear into the
corridors. Rolling her eyes, Blake melted into the mob of students and trekked to the stairway. The staircase was almost a stampede of eager students. Some of them traded finished essays by the lockers, as though trading drugs; others leaned over the banisters and shouted down at their friends; but Blake ducked and dodged down the flight of stairs, making her way to her locker on the ground floor.

  She unlocked her sticker-covered locker, then rammed textbooks into her already full bag. Before she could tackle the zip, a piece of paper drifted from the top of the door. Blake snatched it out of the air.

  It was a pamphlet for a keg party at the reservoir. Scribbled on the back was Rachel’s cursive handwriting, ‘We’re going. Non-negotiable. Wear jeans and a nice top.’

  Blake hummed and made to stuff the pamphlet into her satchel, until a rough voice interrupted.

  “Harper.”

  Blake slammed the locker door shut before her eyes darted to the intruder. Hunter reclined against the neighbouring locker, arms folded and ankles crossed.

  “Got a minute?” he asked.

  Blake’s jaw rolled as she zipped up her satchel and slung it over her shoulder. “I haven’t got anything to say to you,” she retorted. “You made yourself clear, and I haven’t told anyone. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done.”

  Hunter, unfazed, continued to look down at her with darkened eyes. “Smart,” he said. “No point getting yourself caught up in business that’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “So, we agree.” Flicking her hands at him, she added, “Bye, then. Shoo.”

  “There’s just one more thing,” he said, tilting closer to her. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you, Harper.”

  Blake snorted. “We had a deal,” she said, challenging his cold stare. “I said I wouldn’t snitch, and I didn’t. Don’t forget that I can tell the Sheriff what you did any time I want. But, unless I do that, stay the hell away from me.”

  He bowed his head, inching so close to her that she could smell burnt coffee beans on his breath. He lowered his voice into a deep whisper: “I’m not talking about what you saw.” He paused and raked his darkened eyes over her tense body. “I’m talking about that,” he spat. “That stench on you.”

  Her fingers curled, balling her hands into fists, as she fought the urge to smack him. The party flier crunched and crinkled in her hand as she hissed, “How dare you. If anyone stinks around here, it’s you—”

  “I can smell them on you,” he growled. “Your perfume doesn’t mask everything.”

  “Smell who, exactly?”

  “Them,” he repeated, and tore the flier from her hand. Smoothing it out, he scanned the pamphlet, then handed it back to her. Hunter dragged his tongue over his teeth before he flashed her a menacing grin. “See you around, Harper.”

  With that, he was shoving past her and into the crowd.

  Blake made an ick sound at the back of her throat and spun the dial on her locker. “Asshole.”

  As she rammed the flier into her satchel, she barged through the bustling students in the corridor. Her gaze fixed on crimson hair ahead, cropped to the nape of a freckled neck. Zeke. She hadn’t spoken to him since he’d come back to town.

  He stretched his body and ran his gaze over the students. His fingers twisted together before he checked his watch and left. Bethany was nowhere in sight, and Zeke looked in a hurry to leave.

  Blake broke out into a sprint and chased him to the carpark.

  “Hey!” Blake scrambled down the concrete stairs, waving her hands. “Hey, Zeke! Wait up!”

  Zeke faltered a few metres ahead and looked over his shoulder. The moment his gaze rested on her, he fiddled with his car keys. “Hey, Blake,” he said. “I was just leaving.”

  Blake ignored the sting of his dismissal. “How’ve you been?” she blurted out. “I haven’t had the chance to talk to you since you got back. I wanted you to know how sorry I am about … everything, Zeke. About your parents, and what you’ve had to go through.”

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at her. She assumed he was searching for Bethany.

  “So,” she pressed. “How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, you know,” he replied. Bowing his head, he gazed down at the keys in his writhing fingers. The football jersey he wore had smeared dirt coating the fabric. Blake still hadn’t gotten used to seeing him in sport gear. He suited lab coats and protective goggles, not jerseys.

  “I saw you and Bethany at the reservoir the other night. Looked like you were fighting.”

  His freckled face paled as his panicked blue eyes darted up to meet her stare. “You saw that?” He cleared his throat and said, “I mean, we fight sometimes. You know us.”

  “It looked like it was more than that,” she said. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” Taking a step toward him, she placed her hand on his trembling fingers. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but if you need someone to talk to, I’ll support you no matter what.”

  A motorcycle roared to life behind them. Blake and Zeke looked over at the bike—Hunter stared across the lot at them before he revved the engine and skidded out of the car park. Clay’s bike followed.

  Blake frowned at the ball of smoke they’d left in their wake before a thought struck her. “Is it them?” she asked in a hushed tone. “Zeke, did you get in trouble with the Wolves?”

  Zeke wrapped his fingers around his keys and shook his head. “I have to go.”

  And just like that, he turned and ran. Blake watched him race to his car. Bethany stood beside the sedan, arms crossed, and her thinned eyes piercing into Blake’s face.

  Blake was certain there was a warning in that stare.

  *

  Sprawled out on her armchair, Blake painted her fingernails blue and gorged herself on handfuls of banana chips. Rachel yakked over loudspeaker about the upcoming reservoir party.

  “—and Bethany said she might come!” squealed Rachel over the phone. “We’ll have the gang back together again.”

  “Uh huh,” mumbled Blake, through a mouthful of homemade banana chips. Her cheeks puffed out from the sheer amount stuffed into her mouth.

  “I know she’s different now, but I think she’s getting over it. What do you think?”

  Blake answered, with a mouthful of the honeyed treat, “I ‘ink she a b-ch.”

  “Oh, come on! You’re the one that kept telling me to give her a break. And I did. Give her time, you told me. Maybe you should take your own advice, B.”

  Blake gulped down the hefty amount of chips. She coughed a little before she shouted, “I have given her time, Rachel! I’ve tried talking with her, and she wants nothing to do with me. I’m not going to wipe her ass.” Blake added a curse word, one too cruel to say at full volume. “And,” she said, “Bethany doesn’t want to be my friend, but she wants to be yours? How is that fair? I haven’t done anything to deserve that, Rachel.”

  “Are you green?”

  “Shut up.”

  “You sound jealous.”

  “I am!” she admitted. “I was always closer with her. No offense, but I was. Now, it’s like we’re strangers. And you’re both hanging out without me, and it’s … annoying.”

  “Oh, Blakie Bear,” crooned Rachel. “Don’t you worry. Nobody can tear us two apart.”

  Blake rolled her eyes and blew air on her damp fingernails. “I talked to Zeke today.”

  “And?”

  “I caught up with him after school in the car park. He was acting really strange.”

  “That’s Zeke.”

  “Stranger than usual, I mean,” she said. “He was afraid.”

  Rachel’s laugh barked from the phone. “Of what? Homework?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Blake dryly. “Maybe the person who killed his parents? Sheriff Cotton isn’t doing anything about it, and the killer is still out there.”

  “In that case, I wouldn’t blame him for being scared.”

  Blake sighed. “It felt like more than tha
t. It was almost like he was afraid to talk to me.”

  Rachel didn’t answer. Blake could picture her shrugging in her opulent bedroom, dabbing lipstick onto her full lips, or grooming her weave.

  The phone beeped. Blake stretched out and snatched it from the dresser. Flora’s name popped up on the screen.

  Blake said, “Flora’s calling me.”

  “Don’t you dare put me on hold!”

  “I won’t,” promised Blake with a smirk. “I’m hanging up on you. Bye!”

  Whatever curse words Rachel shouted were cut off when Blake answered Flora’s call.

  “Hey, Flora,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, Blake! Glad I caught you. I need someone to cover my shift today. Joey’s sick, and I can’t get a sitter.”

  “Can’t anyone else do it?”

  “Kyle’s doing the night shift, and Jane has a shift at the drive-in.”

  Blake didn’t respond straight away. She shimmied on the window seat and looked outside. Abe’s car was parked in the driveway, but Jack was at the garage and he would be there all night. They would have a fit if they found out she’d taken a shift at the diner. But Flora had always helped her out whenever she needed it.

  Desperation wavered Flora’s voice: “It’s only until eight o’clock. Kyle will be in around then to cover you.”

  “All right,” she agreed. “Just don’t tell my dads. When does the shift start?”

  Flora was silent for few seconds. Blake closed her eyes and braced herself for the bad news.

  “In twenty minutes,” came Flora’s apologetic voice.

  Blake cursed and sprung off the window seat. “I need to get ready. Talk to you later, Flora.”

  Flora thanked her before the call ended. Blake was left with no time to shower. It would take her ten minutes to drive there, and she needed the spare minutes to find her uniform.

  Blake splashed cold water on her face before leaving the house with shabby nails and greasy hair. On her way out, she did the unthinkable—lied to Abe about where she was going.

  Maybe it was that Blake hadn’t worked in while, but the shift was almost over before she’d even finished half of her duties. Tables were slicked with spilled drinks, dishes were piled in the kitchen, and the coffee machine hadn’t been cleaned yet. No matter. She could always pass those chores onto Kyle when he arrived.