by J. D. Barker
“Please, don’t!” I heard her shout.
How could this be? How was I here?
“I have done nothing wrong!”
“Silence yourself before I do it for you!” a male voice shouted back—Tauber’s voice.
It was then that I saw him, standing just inside the cell. Another man I did not recognize guarded the door from the other side. Tauber held a large knife.
Neither man could see me; I was just a voyeur intruding upon this moment. If she could see me she gave me no sign. She remained in the corner, shivering with fear.
“Stand!” Tauber commanded.
A moment passed before she complied. I felt her fear as it mingled with my own, watching her stand, her arms wrapped around her chest in defense.
“Please, don’t,” she pleaded.
Tauber sneered back at her. “There are many tests to expose witchcraft. Unfortunately, the most effective can also be quite painful. I take no pleasure in what I am about to do, but I think you agree that it must be done—for your own safety as well as that of every person in this village. Sometimes we must all suffer for the greater good, don’t you agree?”
A tear streamed down her cheek. I wanted to go to her, stand between them, even disarm Tauber if I could, but I knew such action simply wasn’t possible. I was no more in their moment than they were in mine.
He stepped closer to her, candlelight glistening on the blade. “Turn around.”
She shook her head and backed further into the corner until she could go no more.
“Turn around!”
With a soft whimper, she did as she was told. Her eyes were lost to the shadows but I knew they were filled with tears, with fear. Surely as a witch she could harm him, make him stop, but she did no such thing.
“Now remove your garments,” Tauber breathed.
Behind him, the other man finally spoke. “Sir! Our instructions were clear. There is no need—”
“Our instructions were to find the mark. How do you suppose we do that while she is fully clothed?”
“But to force her to—”
“You may leave anytime you wish; I do not need your help here. Frankly, I should have known I could not depend on you.”
The other man fell silent and returned to the door. He knew better than to cross Tauber.
Tauber turned back to the girl and pressed the edge of the knife to the back of her neck. “I will not ask again.”
She flinched. “I won’t,” she finally murmured.
Tauber twisted his fingers into the cloth of her dress and pulled it apart, snapping the buttons and tearing the thin material. She tried to catch it as it fell, but Tauber slapped her hands away. “Don’t.”
It fell at her feet and she remained still.
Tauber ran the knife down her arm, the pressure just enough to leave a mark without drawing blood.
“Well, Tobias, do you see anything?” Tauber said, his voice low but unwavering.
“There is nothing to find,” she countered.
Tauber raised his hand and slapped the side of her head. “Not a word from you!”
“I asked you a question, Tobias! What do you see?” Tauber pushed.
Tobias took a step forward, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes combed over every inch of her; she shied away, looking to the floor. “There, on her leg,” he finally said, pointing at her right thigh. “There is some kind of mark.”
Tauber took a step back, eyed her cautiously, then knelt on the filthy ground. At first he didn’t see it in the dim light, then a thin smile crossed his lips. “My good Lord,” he breathed. “How is this even possible if you are not a witch?”
Her hands moved to cover it, but he was quick with the knife, leaving a one-inch cut in her palm. She cried out, then cradled her injured hand in her other. “It is nothing but a birthmark,” she told him in a thin voice.
“It is the mark of the devil himself.”
No more than two inches tall, he traced the mark with the tip of the knife. He had never seen such a thing. It was an upside-down cross, perfectly symmetrical with exquisite detail, as if drawn by the finest of artists.
Tobias had backed away; he now stood against the door, his face pale in the dim light.
“Perhaps we can exorcise the devil from this child simply by removing his mark,” Tauber said under his breath. Without hesitation, he plunged the knife deep into her thigh. She let out the most agonized of screams.
I pulled my hand away from her and found myself standing in the cabin. She had fallen to the floor at my side, her pale skin covered in perspiration.
“How did you...” My voice trailed off as I fought the urge to pass out. I felt drained of all energy, my legs weak. I couldn’t help but sit on the floor beside her.
She buried her head in my shoulder and began to cry. “I couldn’t bear to show you more, what they did to me…the other ways in which they hurt me. You have to help me. Nobody else will.”
I remained still, able to do nothing but hold her in my arms.
—Thad McAlister,
Rise of the Witch
DAY 3
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Day 3 – 03:10 a.m.
RACHAEL WOKE SUDDENLY TO the sound of thunder crashing outside her bedroom window; if there had been lightning, she hadn’t seen it. She had been dreaming but didn’t remember about what. Her mind was cluttered with cobwebs, muddled with thoughts of worry.
Beside her, Ashley slept, lost in a motionless slumber.
A sickly sweet scent drifted across the room, and she knew they weren’t alone; the old woman was close. Her warm, stagnant breath crept through the air, betraying her presence.
Rachael tried to sit up but found that she was unable to move, held still by unseen hands.
“I know you’re here,” she said, her voice far quieter than she would have wished.
From the corner of the room came the slight shuffle of feet on the wooden floor. Rachael heard the soft click of the old woman’s fingernails as she tried to hold them still but simply could not.
Rachael wanted to turn her head, but motion betrayed her; she remained still as the old woman’s breath grew warmer, nearer.
“You’re almost out of time, Raaachael,” she hissed, her voice like a serpent nearing its prey. The steady sound of those nails drifted closer, her feet shuffling across the floor.
Rachael closed her eyes and began to count, a feeble attempt at distraction.
“It’s mine!” the old woman shrilled.
Rachael opened her eyes to find the old woman bending over her, her decrepit mouth only inches from her own. As she spoke, hot saliva dropped from her jaw and landed on Rachael’s cheek, burning her.
The old woman grinned. Her rotten teeth were filled with gaping holes and filed to sharp points.
She reached down and pulled away the covers. Rachael wore only a thin nightgown and panties—she shivered against the cold night air. The old woman looked down upon her with a yellow, toothy smile. Her warm, rancid breath licked at her.
“Stop,” Rachael breathed.
The old woman reached for her, brushing her long, sharp fingernails across her swollen belly. “I will take the child if I have to cut the unborn vessel out of you, my sweet Rachael. It’s mine; the baby has always been mine. Why don’t you understand that?” Her sharp nails sliced the thin fabric of the nightgown with little effort, cutting from waist to neck—Rachael cringed as she passed over her breasts, the nails tearing at her skin. Her gown fell to the floor, lost from her field of vision. “This could so easily be your skin and muscle peeling away, layer by layer.” Her panties went next, gone with just two swift cuts. Rachael lay beneath her, trembling with cold, with fear, as the old woman pressed her nails into her. “I could kill it right now if I wanted to, you do know that, don’t you? You understand, my Raaachael?”
Rachael tried to nod, but could not. She couldn’t move at all. The old woman’s clothing was nothing but rags, and they brushed against her skin as
she leaned into her.
“One day, my sweet Rachael,” she hissed in a dark rasp. “If I can’t have this one, I will surely take the other,” she said, glancing at Ashley as she slept. “She is nearly as tender as the babe.”
Rachael felt the nails drive deep within her belly but couldn’t scream. She couldn’t make a sound at all; she was only able to stare in silence as the old woman raised a bloodied hand to her lips and licked the crimson liquid from her fingertips, a garbled laugh climbing in her throat.
When Rachael woke for the second time, the old woman was gone. Perhaps a dream, perhaps something else. She ran her hands over her belly only to discover she had not been harmed. She found no sign of the cuts, which had seemed so real only moments earlier. Turning to her side, she discovered Ashley was gone.
“Ashley!” she shouted, her voice much louder than she expected.
“What, Mommy?”
Her daughter was standing at the bathroom door, a glass of water in her tiny hands.
Relief washed over her and she reached out to her. “Come back to bed, sweetie.”
Ashley remained still, though, her face growing pale.
“What is it?”
“The sheets,” her little voice trembled. “They’re all bloody. Mommy, are you hurt?”
Rachael looked down at the sheets; her daughter was right. For the first time since waking, she also realized she was naked. Her clothing had been cut away. She had missed the tiny hand which reached out from under the bed and grabbed the remains of her nightgown from the tattered pile on the floor. Not Ashley, though—she dropped the glass of water and let out the loudest of screams.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Day 3 – 03:30 a.m.
“MOMMY! UNDER THE BED!” Ashley shrieked. “It’s under the bed!”
Buster saw too—he raced in from the hallway and slid across the floor, burying his nose under the bed frame.
“Buster, no!” Ashley chased after him. “It’s gonna bite you again!”
Rachael pulled her legs back up on the mattress and wrapped the bloody quilt around her. “Ms. Perez!” she shouted. “Ashley, get away from there!”
Ashley tugged on Buster’s collar, but he wouldn’t come out; he scampered deeper under the bed. “Buster, no! Out!”
His tail thumped against the hardwood floor and his torso twitched as a low growl rumbled from his throat, followed by an angry bark. He scurried deeper.
Rachael reached across the nightstand and turned on the lights. Beneath her, a scuffle ensued—the tiny patter of little feet followed by Buster squirming behind them, all heading toward the wall. Buster growled, then slammed into the bed frame. Rachael heard an ungodly squeal as the dog sunk his teeth into his prey.
Then silence.
A moment later, Buster began gagging and backed out from under the bed, a brown oily foam dripping from his mouth. He backed up so fast he ran into the dresser on the other side of the room. Ignoring the pain, he shook his head wildly, expelling the foam in all directions as he whimpered.
“Mommy, it hurt Buster!” Ashley cried.
Buster backed into the corner and spat the foam from his mouth. The brown liquid hit the floor and began to steam, dissolving into the air. He wiped at his snout with his paws, eyes pinched shut.
“Ms. Perez!” Rachael shouted again as she reached for her robe and rolled off the bed, avoiding the bloodstained sheets.
When Ms. Perez rushed through the door, Buster took one glance before darting out of the room and down the stairs, no doubt heading for his water dish.
“Oh my!” Ms. Perez exclaimed, noticing the bloody sheets. “The baby?” She went to Rachael and placed her hands on her belly. Rachael stroked her arm. “It’s not the baby, the baby is fine,” she reassured her, although not entirely sure herself. She wasn’t in pain, though, and after a quick examination the source of the blood eluded her. In Rachael’s dream, the old woman had pierced her belly with those knifelike nails, but she found no wounds.
Rachael told Perez what had happened.
A sour scent filled the room, and they both knew it came from whatever Buster had attacked under the bed.
They had to move it.
“Ashley, go downstairs and check on your dog. Make sure he has plenty of water,” Rachael told her.
“But I want to see,” her daughter pouted.
“Please, baby, I don’t want to argue right now,” she said. “Please go check on Buster.”
Ashley opened her mouth, ready to argue, then changed her mind. With an exasperated sigh, she went out the door after the dog.
Rachael reached for the corner of the bed, but Ms. Perez hesitated. “What if it is still alive?” she asked.
She was right; they didn’t know how badly Buster had hurt the creature. It might be cowering under the bed, injured and angry.
Rachael went to the closet and pulled a nine-iron from Thad’s golf bag and dropped it on the mattress. She then grabbed the corner of the bed frame. “Okay, pull on three, ready?”
Ms. Perez nodded and wrapped her fingers tightly around the nearest bedpost.
At three, both women pulled and the bed scraped across the floor, away from the wall. The stench grew stronger, coming from behind. Vomit crept up Rachael’s throat; she forced it back and reached for the golf club.
Circling the bed, the two woman peered into the shadows behind it. Both noticed the hole in the wall at the same time. “It’s like the others,” Rachael pointed out.
Ms. Perez crinkled her nose, pointing toward something on the floor.
At first Rachael thought it was a doll, maybe one of her daughter’s.
The dark, empty eyes staring back at her weren’t those of a doll, though. They were unlike anything she had ever come across.
Not a doll nor a rat.
Something else.
Both women knelt closer.
No more than a foot tall, with two legs, one remaining arm, and a small head, a creature stared back at them from behind dead eyes. Eyes that were large and out of proportion with its head. Its ears were pointy, much like those of a mouse. Its face didn’t resemble a rodent at all; the face looked human.
Tiny pointed teeth protruded from an oversize mouth. Its hairless chest, arm, and legs were made up of thick, well-defined muscles, its skin a glossy black. A tail appeared to be poking out from behind its back.
“What is it?” she gasped.
Ms. Perez must have felt a similar connection to the spiritual world, for she crossed herself before saying something in Spanish. It sounded like “El Diablo,” the Devil.
Small trails of smoke rose from the creature’s tiny form like thin little ribbons, a foul scent spreading through the air.
With the tip of the golf club, Rachael rolled the creature over, exposing its back. When she saw worms wiggling within a long gash, she couldn’t hold back the vomit any longer; she turned her head and coughed up at her side. Ms. Perez gasped as the worms tried to escape but were engulfed by the smoke rising from the creature as if attacked by the air itself. The smoke intensified, crackling and popping, sizzling before coming to an abrupt end. The creature was gone; only a small brown pile remained.
Nothing more than a pile of dirt.
Then something moved from within the hole in the wall, something with beady little eyes.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
1692 – The Journal of Clayton Stone
“SILENCE!” THE MAGISTRATE SLAMMED his gavel. “I will have quiet!”
The number of afflicted had grown overnight—so much so that not an empty seat was to be found; almost a dozen stood along the walls with even more outside. The complaints were abundant, everything from aches and pains to nightmares and specters visible throughout the night. George Jacobs Sr. was by far the most vocal; he was nearly removed when he began swinging his cane wildly toward the magistrate.
“She came to me last night with her book in hand and brought a pain upon me unlike any I have ever experienced. My legs b
uckled beneath me and I fell to the floor. I cried out for my wife, but not a sound escaped my throat. Then she came at me with her book, her bare feet inches above the floor, as if riding the air itself. I heard this strange clicking, much like she produced in court yesterday and her eyes...” he paused and shook his head. “Her eyes were red with blood. It streamed down her cheeks and dripped to the floor where the drops burned at the oak, filling the room with the scent of sulfur.”
I listened to this in silence.
How could it be true? I was with her last night, was I not?
But she had already proven she could be in more than one place at a time. Is it possible that she visited Jacobs while still in my presence? While still locked in her cell? Was this just a trick of sisters? Was she even capable of that which he accuses? It was difficult to believe she was, yet he went on with such conviction.
“I felt a needle prick my finger and my arm unwillingly reached out to her, to her book. It opened hungrily before me and she smiled before speaking in a tongue unknown to me, a witch’s tongue.” The old man paused for a moment.
Those present in the courtroom were silent; one’s heartbeat could nearly be heard.
“I tried to stop it, I truly did, but my hand reached for her book and I signed it; with the blood on my fingertip, I signed it. Then she was gone and all went black. My wife found me moments later and woke me from this unearthly slumber only to show me this...”
He raised his arm to the court and tore back his sleeve, revealing a fresh mark on his forearm. Although I was across the room, I could make it out. It was the same mark I had seen on Her, the mark of Satan himself—a reversed cross clear as day. The magistrate recognized it, too. Although he didn’t say as much, his glance at Tobias Longstrum told me so.
Jacobs fell back into his seat and began to weep, his head held in his large hands. Nobody attempted to comfort him; instead, those closest moved away in fear, knowing that such an admission could easily place him in a cell of his own.
—Thad McAlister,
