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The Witch House (part two)
I was past my point of comfort now. The woods had stopped feeling familiar and my stomach was starting to knot. It wasn't dark yet but the trees were dense and the light struggled to pierce the branches. I was close now. I could see the outline of it just past the copse in front of me. At the first glimpse of the silhouette the hairs on my arms prickled, the chill of it making me shiver.
"Who's standing on my grave?" I said aloud, mostly to soothe myself.
The house, even separate from the rumours of the witch, gave me a bad feeling. It seemed to exist in a different time, straining hostiley against the trees surrounding it. The building itself was made of black wood, and was shaped as if two huts were sat atop each other, overlapped by a strange jutting roof. It almost could have been charming if it wasn't for its off-putting angularity and the oppresive atmosphere surrounding it. Of course it was her that made it properly frightening though - the Witch of Hackmore Wood. The old woman, who lived unnaturally long, too far in the dark of the wood for any normal person. Stories said she only ventured into town once a year for supplies, and was mostly seen through half glimpses. On the rare occasion anyone heard her speak, they said a horrible feeling came over them and they couldn't get away fast enough. But what really chilled people was the the strange smoke that they saw rising from her chimney during the night, and, most notoriously, what happened to the hunting party that made the mistake of getting on her bad side. Details are fuzzy and change depending on who tells it, but legend says the hunters - drunkeness heightening their cruelty - had decided to pay a visit to the old woman. Some say they pissed on her door, others say they threw stones at her window and one particularly morbid account says they murdered her cat with their hunting rifles. What remains the same in every story though, is what happened to the men. They fled into the night, raving that she had cursed them. For weeks they had fevers, and trembled while they babbled that she was in the room with them, muttering maledictions under her breath. The men recovered, but their lives were overcome with bad luck. They made no money, fathered no sons and their bloodlines died quietly with them.
The witch had died long ago, but the story of the hunters meant that nobody dared go near her house, let alone demolish it. So it stayed, unnaturally placed in the heart of the forest. People that got close enough said they felt sick and shaky, and couldn't face going any further than the front path. But here I was at that same path now, and I had a dare to settle.
© Diane Lawlor
"Who's standing on my grave?" I said aloud, mostly to soothe myself.
The house, even separate from the rumours of the witch, gave me a bad feeling. It seemed to exist in a different time, straining hostiley against the trees surrounding it. The building itself was made of black wood, and was shaped as if two huts were sat atop each other, overlapped by a strange jutting roof. It almost could have been charming if it wasn't for its off-putting angularity and the oppresive atmosphere surrounding it. Of course it was her that made it properly frightening though - the Witch of Hackmore Wood. The old woman, who lived unnaturally long, too far in the dark of the wood for any normal person. Stories said she only ventured into town once a year for supplies, and was mostly seen through half glimpses. On the rare occasion anyone heard her speak, they said a horrible feeling came over them and they couldn't get away fast enough. But what really chilled people was the the strange smoke that they saw rising from her chimney during the night, and, most notoriously, what happened to the hunting party that made the mistake of getting on her bad side. Details are fuzzy and change depending on who tells it, but legend says the hunters - drunkeness heightening their cruelty - had decided to pay a visit to the old woman. Some say they pissed on her door, others say they threw stones at her window and one particularly morbid account says they murdered her cat with their hunting rifles. What remains the same in every story though, is what happened to the men. They fled into the night, raving that she had cursed them. For weeks they had fevers, and trembled while they babbled that she was in the room with them, muttering maledictions under her breath. The men recovered, but their lives were overcome with bad luck. They made no money, fathered no sons and their bloodlines died quietly with them.
The witch had died long ago, but the story of the hunters meant that nobody dared go near her house, let alone demolish it. So it stayed, unnaturally placed in the heart of the forest. People that got close enough said they felt sick and shaky, and couldn't face going any further than the front path. But here I was at that same path now, and I had a dare to settle.
© Diane Lawlor
