9. The Witch Catcher

   The jeep drove under towering oak trees surrounding what appeared at first to be abroad field.

                “This is it,” stated Brea. 

                Chris Dunnom and Breanna Monroe had been together for a year and a half.  Camping was a shared enthusiasm, especially when it was planned around historic sites. Here in Bluebell, Pennsylvania the foundations of a small rural town lay before them. They wandered on foot through the former buildings reduced to edges of stone as if they were house hunting in a cozy neighborhood. Chris was leaning toward a rather large footprint of fieldstone entwined with vines. A well of gray granite echoed when he whispered Breanna’s name. Then he looked up and saw her on a small rise lowering her heavy backpack to the ground.

                She stared up at a fireplace and chimney unusual in its twisting rise of brick. It was a spiral.

                “A witch catcher,” she breathed. 

                Chris had arrived beside her in time to hear.

                They stood side by side and gazed with admiration at the tall cyclone of bricks. The hearth was the expected deep enclosure suited for a good-sized fire. The blaze they set there lost its gray smoke to the improbable tortuous ascent of chimney. Ghostly mist rose to the star-scape above. They ran their hands in exploration over the jutting contours of the meticulous design like a fan of cards rising over and over on itself to become a narrow twisted hulk.

               “I’ve heard of these, more of a legend really,” whispered Brea. “Dark magic abounded. Witches were a problem in particular.”

                “And so, the witch-catcher was the defense? What about windows, the door?”

                “No, not a threat. She needed an unimpeded entryway. No wood. No glass.”

                They both enjoyed the shiver that gave them.

                “Well, it won’t protect us,” he said. “There’s no roof or walls.”

                “But maybe she would want the traditional mode of entry anyway,” laughed Brea. “We may be preserved by that.”

                They turned in by firelight and the drowsy sounds of muted nocturnal activity.

                She didn’t know how long she’d been awake. Eyes closed, she was still relaxed from sleep. But she knew there was something there. Close.  So close that it was almost touch. It was next to her face.

                Sparks of alarm began to course through her chest. It wasn’t Chris. She was somehow certain.

                The fascination occasioned by this drugging fear made her wonder, if she lay still playing at sleep would it be satisfied and go away? No scent, no breath, no sound. But it moved, a slight shift. Waiting.

                She could tell the fire was out. No light seeped through her eyelids. The dark was absolute. She could not hear Chris’s breathing. Silence. Chris?

                Remaining motionless was getting more difficult. Her arms were tangled in the sleeping bag.

                Had it been many minutes since this baleful proximity had awakened her?

                On the far side of the twisting witch catcher a small creature waited, nose quivering. Its teeth were laved thoughtfully by a moist tongue.

                Brea opened her eyes.

                A shrill piercing scream rose above the ruined confines of the ancient house and was silenced prematurely.

                The small creature crept foreword to dip its snout in a narrow trickle of blood. Witch’s blood. Chris shone a flashlight at the hearth. Blood, deep purple rivulets, ran from the upper reaches inside the chimney. Twisted fingers slowly disappeared within the slowly turning chimney as it ground its victim to nothingness.

                Brea stared in shock at the claw marks across the ground that extended from her side to the bloodied hearth.

                “It still works.”

               

(603 words)