Witch Island

by David Bernstein

  The witch ran after them, but did not attack.

  They came to a locked, prison-like, barred door, one of many, the witch knew. She waited behind them as they fumbled with their keys. Strict security protocols had been put into effect. The witch knew it would be time consuming to try to leave through the various hallways, not to mention that she might even be killed, especially if the police were called in. If her bones were destroyed back at the island, and she was weak, her spirit would not survive. She would die.

  The lock mechanism clicked loudly as the door was unlocked, the sound echoing down the hall. The orderly yanked the door open.

  The witch couldn’t believe neither man had turned around, as if they sensed her there and were too frightened to look.

  Both men ran through the doorway. The trailing orderly went to close the door, but yanked his hand back and screamed when he saw Gwen. He shoved his counterpart out of the way, knocking him to the floor.

  The witch sank her claws into the downed man’s back, curled her fingers around his spine and heaved him off the ground and over her head. He cried out. Blood spurted from where her digits punctured his flesh, trailing down her arms.

  Large, tall, mesh-covered windows were on the right, the glass filthy. Dank sunlight shone through.

  The witch ran at one of the covered windows, slamming the man into it. The metal dented inward, but held. Over and over, she smashed the man into the grating, his cries fading as his face became a bloody, pulpous mess. Pieces of his flesh clung to the mesh, like slivers of cheese on a grater.

  With a final heave and throw, the witch putting all she had behind it, the mesh gave completely. She heard the man’s neck snap. The thick plate glass cracked, but did not shatter. She picked up the sack of dead flesh, and threw him at the glass. The window shattered. Glass exploded outward, the man’s body going with it, tumbling two stories down before crumbling on the cobblestone walkway.

  The witch hopped onto the windowsill. The jagged pieces of glass that were still stuck in the frame sliced through her slippers and into her feet. Looking out, she saw patients, orderlies and nurses running for help, the normally serene setting in chaos.

  She leaped down, landing hard. Her power was the only thing keeping Gwen’s legs from crumbling under the impact.

  She tore across the lawn, vaulted the fence and hurried through the woods. Sirens rang out from behind.

  She knew the authorities would be after her, so she kept to the forest, crossing roads when she had to, making it to the lake in under an hour. She was weakening, but had managed to heal Gwen’s body, save minor scratches from branches whipping at her skin.

  She swam through the water, moving fast, wondering why the men hadn’t tried destroying her remains yet. She knew it had to be a trap, but come she must. She crept onto the island, wishing she could shed her host’s form and use the island to do her bidding, but she couldn’t risk being without a body.

  The witch made her way to the center of the island and looked upon the clearing. She saw one man standing over her grave. He was holding a container in his right hand. She sensed another person, but he was hidden somewhere near.

  “You’re no match for me, warden,” the witch said, stepping into the clearing. “You or your friend.”

  “Silly witch,” a voice said from behind. The witch turned around and saw the other warden. She moved to attack him, for he was only a few feet away, but rebounded backward when she reached the tree line. The man chuckled and shook his head. “Too easy.”

  Having been so enraged and filled with fear, the witch hadn’t felt the power drain, but now she did. But it was impossible, unless they had placed a devil’s barricade around the entire clearing. She heard the hammering of metal, and turned around to see the other warden nailing the final spike into the ground around her grave, the devil’s barricade complete.

  “Nooo!” she screamed and ran at him, feeling her power lessen with every step. She stopped as the man tossed the container he had been holding into the hole. Flames rose up, and the witch felt her soul grow cold. She was dying. The wardens had taken the chance and destroyed her bones. She was already weak from her escape, the giant devil’s barricade that encircled the clearing adding to her weakened state. They had double barricaded her, one to keep her from escaping using the girl’s body, the other around her bones in the event they didn’t destroy them, but had managed to get her back into them.

  “We’ve learned a lot over the years, witch,” the warden by her grave said, and stepped from the clearing.

  “I’ll kill you all,” the witch said, growing weaker and weaker as the moments passed. Her bones were gone. All she had left was her soul and the body she was possessing. She needed to kill the girl’s spirit and make the body hers. It was the only way she could survive. Both wardens were standing outside the clearing and the devil’s barricade. She scanned the area, looking for something to possess, to hide in, but there was nothing. Not a weed, a bug, nothing.

  “You must fight her, Gwen,” one of the men said. “She will try and flush out your spirit.”

  The witch tried to remove the girl’s soul. She gathered what power remained, but her host was a fighter, proving of strong will. Even if she had been able to claim the girl’s body, the wardens would never let her escape. With no other choice, she went to kill Gwen, putting her clawed hand to her throat, but her power had faded enough so that Gwen was able to stop her. She fought the girl, her will strong, but the witch found herself losing. She managed to force her healed tongue between her teeth, bit down, and chewed it like a piece of well-cooked steak. The witch let the pain through so that Gwen felt the anguish. The sudden jolt to Gwen’s system was too much for Gwen to bear, and gave the witch time to act.

  Gwen had never experienced such pain. She had felt nothing, save the burning heat of the witch’s soul, while she was possessed. She hadn’t felt pain—the hits she’d taken from the orderlies, the severed tongue as the scalpel sliced through it, nor the glass slicing into the bottoms of her feet, or the crash landing when she jumped from the window. But for some reason, she felt herself mangling her own tongue. Her eyes teared and she screamed as blood filled her mouth. She lost control, let go of the hold she had over her body. Her hand reached up to her throat. She felt the nails sink in, the pain stabbing, then heard a suction-like noise as her throat was ripped out.

  Gwen’s body grew cold, and even though she was dying, blood caking her front, she was relieved, knowing the witch had left her. Her soul had won, and she would be able to die in peace. Her vision of spending years in a psychiatric ward proved false.

  Gwen smiled as she fell, the landing hard.

  The wardens watched from the tree line as the girl died. There was nothing they could do for her. The witch’s spirit was free. Without her bones, the witch would perish. They had succeeded at the cost of a life, but succeeded nonetheless. A great and malevolent evil had been vanquished.

  “It’s too bad about the girl,” Brody said, “but she never would’ve wanted to live after what that witch did to her.”

  “And with the authorities after her, she’d certainly be locked up for good,” Sloan agreed.

  “Drinks are on me,” Brody said, slapping Sloan on his back.

  “What about the girl’s body?” Sloan asked.

  “We’ll come back for it in a day or two, make sure the witch is gone for good.”

  The two wardens walked down the overgrown trail and back to their boat.

  The witch was almost gone, her spirit soaring around the clearing, desperate and pleading to the Good Mother, when she heard the tiny, remote flapping of wings. A mosquito had flown into the clearing, starved for blood. It went for the girl’s corpse. With her last ounce of strength, the witch sailed toward the insect, entering its body. She immediately felt better as the bug landed on the body and began to feed.

  About the Author

  David Bernstein is originally from a small town in Upstate New York called Salisbury M
ills (Yes, the same town Witch Island is set in). He now resides in NYC (a far scarier place) and is hard at work on his next dark novel. He is the author of the novels, Amongst the Dead and Damaged Souls and the novella, The Tree Man. His forthcoming titles Apartment 7C and The Unhinged will be coming later this year from Samhain.

  David writes all kinds of horror, from hair-raising ghost stories to gore-filled slashers to adventure-filled apocalyptic tales of terror. He loves hearing from his readers. You can reach him on Facebook, at www.facebook.com/david.bernstein.3. Visit him at his website: davidbernsteinauthor.blogspot.com or email him at dbern77@hotmail.com and follow him on Twitter at @Bernsteinauthor.

  Look for these titles by David Bernstein

  Now Available:

  Amongst the Dead

  Damaged Souls

  The Tree Man

  Coming Soon:

  Apartment 7C

  Young and alone against the living dead.

  Amongst the Dead

  © 2012 David Bernstein

  Riley has lived alone with her dad in an isolated cabin in New York State for as long as she can remember. It’s just safer. Her dad’s told her about the time before the zombies, but she can only imagine it. Instead of playing with friends, Riley became a crack shot with a rifle. And she’ll need that skill now that her dad’s been bitten. She’ll be forced to leave the cabin and fight off zombies all on her own. She’s twelve years old. There’s a lot she’ll have to learn about the world she’s never really been part of. She already knows how to kill zombies. But now she’ll learn just how dangerous the living can be too.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Amongst the Dead:

  The log cabin sat within a small clearing of the Catskill Mountains two miles north of the minute town of Roscoe, New York. The hamlet had been a resting point for travelers, its location just off Route 17, a busy highway used by people traveling from New York City to Binghamton. The nearby Beaverkill River, combined with the cabin’s wood stove, supplied drinkable water.

  Two beds stood off in the far right corner of the bungalow, separated by a nightstand made from tree limbs. Each bed had a down pillow and two wool blankets, keeping the occupants warm during the wintry nights.

  The cabin was stocked with food. Canned goods, jarred vegetables, beef jerky, pasta and oatmeal filled the shelves in the underground basement—a rough, but rather spacious, dug-out pit beneath the cabin. A red Oriental-style throw-rug covered the hidden door leading to the food supply.

  Bill and his daughter, Riley, were blessed to have found the place and wondered for the first few days if the original owners would show. No one ever did.

  Bill approximated that the food would last about three months between the two of them. They would dig in, rest for a spell; at least until the harsh winter ended. That was all before he became infected, having less than a few days to live.

  The infection was spreading rapidly. He’d dug a grave, fifty feet from the cabin, as soon as he came back from Roscoe. His right arm had lost most of its color, becoming a chalky white, and was cracked with purple veins by the time he went to bed. He’d been bitten while scouting for supplies in the small town. It had seemed vacant, like most others this far north, but a group of the undead had been hiding out in one of the desolated stores.

  The living dead were known to become docile when food wasn’t present, like a computer monitor switching to sleep mode, as if they were conserving power. Bill never understood why they needed energy; they were dead after all. Maybe it was the whole energy could never be destroyed, only converted into another form concept. Or maybe the living dead needed energy the way a living thing did.

  Not much was known about the human brain, even in the year 2020, but for some reason it functioned in the undead. A zombie’s brains could get blown out, but if the brain-eye connection wasn’t severed in the process, the undead would remain active.

  The eyes of an undead had an eerie, radiant-like quality as if they held a source of power. Usually a shot to the head was enough to sever the connection—the optic nerves running to the center of the brain where they met, before splitting into two again and extending into the back of the head—but taking out the eyes themselves was a sure way to stop them.

  Bill had entered four stores, looking for supplies during his time in town, when the fifth proved fatal. Four zombies sprang at him like hungry hyenas on a weakened prey.

  He’d managed to take out three with his .30-30 rifle, his speed and former military training proving handy. The fourth, however, grabbed him. Man and zombie wrestled, slamming into walls and thrashing about, sending empty bottles and cardboard boxes sailing. During the struggle Bill dropped the rifle, his hand slipping up high and grazing the creature’s mouth. He felt the nauseous sting of rotten, infected teeth puncture his skin. The zombie held on like a pitbull, biting down with ferocious force, taking a large chunk of Bill’s fleshy hand.

  He needed to chop off his infected arm before it managed to spread, but the zombie wanted more of his flesh.

  Bill dove, grabbed his rifle from the floor and managed to get the weapon under the creature’s jaw. He pulled the trigger and sent a splattering of brain and skull matter to the ceiling. The zombie’s left eye went dim, but the right was still aglow. The creature attacked, slamming its fist into his temple as he got another shot off, blasting its right eye to hell. The creature slumped to the floor like it was made of blubber, but the impact from its punch sent Bill flying backward. He bashed his head against the countertop’s jagged edge, knocking him unconscious.

  He awoke four hours later; amputation of the infected area no longer an option. The sickness had had enough time to spread throughout his body.

  The disease, or virus, was spread through the blood stream, killing cells as it traveled. He’d bandaged the wound, hoping there was a chance he’d be okay, but that evening his joints were already aching. By the next morning he found it difficult to move his limbs, experiencing the beginnings of living rigor mortis. He hadn’t told his daughter; the thought of her alone in the world was horrifying.

  Since the planet’s initial outbreak, in 2020, Bill had been keeping a journal of their travels, sights and methods of survival. And since returning from town, he’d spent his time writing down everything he could for his daughter. Every military tip he could think of, adding precise details for fishing, boiling water, cooking meat and hunting. Tears fell on the paper as he wrote, blurring some of the words.

  When Riley was awake, he spent every second with her while teaching her the basics of self preservation, and giving her as much love as he could. She was only twelve.

  She had asked him why his hair was falling out, if he was feeling all right, and why he looked so weak. And every time she asked a question, he would answer the same, telling her not to worry and that he’d be okay.

  Alone, the food would last her eight months. He’d already taught her how to shoot; a necessity for surviving in a world gone to hell. Her shoulder, from practicing over time, had hardened, making the rifle’s impact no longer a problem. Bill’s time was up.

  “Daddy’s going away,” he said, her azure eyes locking onto his. He stared into the extension of himself, the female version, her silky dark hair hanging off her shoulders like angel hair spaghetti.

  “When will you be back?” she asked, gripping his hand, worried.

  He was sweating, the fever reaching delirium levels.

  “I’m sick, baby. I don’t have any time left.” He paused, holding back tears. “Everything is prepared, a bit rushed but ready, nonetheless. You don’t have to worry about food or water for some time.”

  His head ached as if a hammer pounded at it. He was having a difficult time concentrating. “Wait here,” he said, getting up off the bed. He walked over to the mirror hanging on the wall; his reflection was sickening, as if staring into the face of a severely burned radiation victim. His hair was almost gone, with strands poking about in patches. Blackened teeth lined his bleeding gums
; his eyes were sunken in and hollowed out revealing the skull beneath. The face he looked upon so many mornings was now an unfamiliar gaunt mess, void of color and lined with sweat.

  “I have to go now,” he said, turning to his daughter. He was amazed at how little she’d asked about his condition as it worsened hour by hour. She had believed him when he told her not to worry.

  “No, Daddy,” Riley cried, jumping off the bed, running to him and wrapping her arms around his torso. Bill let her have her last good-bye before pushing her away.

  He had thought about telling her how truly special she was, but what was the point? Riley was twelve and would be hitting puberty soon. He had no idea what would happen then. Nothing about her condition was known for certain, and telling her could lead to her doing something careless. So he decided it was best to keep her past a secret. She needed to be on her toes, cautious.

  “I love you, Riley. Always and forever.” He turned, grabbed the rifle—knife attached to his belt—and left, closing the door behind him.

  He limped, brushing aside prickly pines and bare branches, leaving a dogged trail through the snow-covered forest. His right leg dragged as it refused his commands. When he made it to the grave he turned and stood with his back to it.

  If done correctly he should fall backward, collapsing and breaking through the branches he placed across the hole. The forest leaves, twigs and other debris should cover him enough. He didn’t want his daughter burying him or seeing his dead body when she came for the rifle. He’d left her with the .38 snubnose revolver. A nice piece for close encounters, but she’d need the rifle for hunting and long-ranged defense.

  He picked up a small branch and bit down on it before raising the knife to his left eye and jabbing himself with the tip. The eyeball ruptured, its juices exploding like a jelly-filled balloon. He moaned, wanting to scream from sheer terror, but his daughter might hear.