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A Fire in Wynter

A Tale of Terror

By Michael CritzerPublished 2 years ago 18 min read
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Art by Illustrator Monk

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Outside, a Studebaker rattled the boards of the small creek bridge. Wren looked up to see her tiny childhood home, gleaming in the moonlight. She saw her bedroom window, where as a girl she’d sit on her hope chest, brushing her long black curls. She’d imagine the men who would come take her away from this hillbilly town—first the father she never knew, the king of some small European country. Later it was Rock Hudson or Cary Grant, who had heard of their would-be leading lady trapped in the mountains. As the car’s tires now jostled the uneven gravel, Wren steeled herself against the guilt she’d felt for leaving.

“Such a hidden little treasure,” Ms. Susan said from the driver’s seat.

“Yes, it’s one of a kind,” Wren answered, glad that it was a clear night. She rolled her window down to the chirp of crickets and the sweet waft of witch hazel. After two years of campus life, she could appreciate the beauty of this place again.

“So secluded, though, up here behind all of these trees.”

“That’s what makes it beautiful,” Wren said, remembering the security she and her sister felt, playing in the secret clearing of sunlight and magic, even as they knew their mother wasn’t coming back. But there was something ominous behind the beauty of it now. Instead of peering with wonder at imagined fairies in the surrounding leaves, she felt things were watching her from the dark rim of trees, things that no longer welcomed her into their presence.

“No sense hiding beauty,” Ms. Susan insisted. “Maybe you’ll clear some of those trees out when the place is yours.”

Wren’s breath caught in her throat. Her grandmother wasn’t even dead yet. She knew when she accepted Ms. Susan’s ride from the train station that she’d have to endure a dose of gossip and meddling, but she didn’t plan on blatant disrespect. “Wynter’s the eldest,” she said, trying to distract the old woman’s agenda by bringing up her sister (“Twenty-four and still unmarried? What a shame!”).

“I know this may not be the best time for social calls,” Ms. Susan said. “It just sure would be nice if you could find a few moments to catch up with Cole. You’re still all he talks about. I’ll never understand why you two broke it off.”

Wren groaned. Not even a restraining order could stop a small town woman from matchmaking. She wanted to tell dear Ms. Susan that her nephew was a controlling alcoholic who didn’t like to take no for an answer, but she wouldn’t be able to stomach the justifications the stupid old woman would provide.

The car came to an abrupt stop. “Well, this is it,” Ms. Susan said. “You don’t mind if I say goodbye here, do you? My arthritis is acting up.”

They were still three car lengths away from the patio and Ms. Susan had already shifted into reverse, holding a nervous foot on the brake. Wren felt a sudden indignation that she hadn’t experienced since she was a child, picked on for not attending Sunday school. “Don’t you want to come in and say hi to Grandma?” She suggested with a firm tone.

“Oh no! I mean I would. You give her my best. But it’s late, and I just don’t think I could make it out of the car right now anyways.”

Wren seethed in disbelief. Who knew how many days her grandmother had left, and even the biggest town gossip wouldn’t dare step inside their house, all because of some stupid superstitious rumor. Wren didn’t say anything as she jumped out of the car and let the door slam behind her. She did the same with the back door after pulling out her hastily-packed suitcase and walked away from the car.

Ms. Susan called out from the cracked window, “You give Cole a call now, you hear?”

Wren was about to wheel around and give the audacious woman hell, but Wynter’s feline form appeared in the doorway, backlit by candlelight. Wren’s sister used to chide her for being a hothead. She didn’t need her homecoming to start off with a fight. She hissed over her shoulder, “Thanks for the ride,” and took determined steps up to the house.

The car crunched gravel on its way back down the driveway, and Wren tried to muster up a smile for Wynter. Even in the dark, she could make out her sister’s smirk. Wren hated that smirk. All through her childhood it told her that she was young and naive and that Wynter had more experience and knowledge. Even now, behind Wynter’s Veronica Lake hair, icy blonde from a botched home dye, it still made Wren grind her teeth. She made a mental note to brag a lot about college life during her stay.

“She couldn’t even pull up to the turn around?” Wynter asked.

“I thought you were exaggerating when I read your letter. Are things really this bad?”

“Worse since I brought Grandma back to the cabin. Two more cows died on the Johnson farm last week. I had to run off some kids throwing rocks at the windows.”

“How can these simpletons believe that nonsense?” Wren asked, walking into the house.

“Simpletons? I guess the college girl is above the hillbillies back home now.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Wren said, already exasperated. “How’s Grandma?”

“She’s weak. She can’t speak. But she seemed happy to leave the nursing home. She wanted to be back here when—"

It took Wren off guard to hear her the choke in her sister’s voice. Her bags slipped to the floor as she felt her own tears welling up in her eyes. She looked at Wynter, regretting the rift that had grown between them. A tremor broke on her sister’s face. The two of them embraced for the first time since Wren had left home.

Wren shuddered awake in the rocking chair and looked across her grandmother’s bed. Wynter was concentrating on the knitting she held in her hands. “Why don’t you go get some rest,” Wynter said. “I’ll wake you if she stirs.”

Their grandmother was lying still. Her breath was barely perceptible. Leaving wasn’t an option. What if the moment came and Wren wasn’t there? Wynter shifted and took a deep breath, a subtle sign that she too was in need of rest. Only childish competition kept her there. Their grandmother had kept Wynter close by but sent Wren away to college to escape being an Appalachian housewife. Her big sister had tried to wear that insult like a badge ever since. Why couldn’t she just go to bed and let Wren watch for some of the precious few hours that remained?

“There’s a storm coming,” Wynter said. “You should sleep now before the thunder starts.”

“I’m not a child anymore. I’ve slept just fine these past years, thunder or no.”

“Wrapped in some big brave med student’s arms?”

Wren scowled at her sister, who still didn’t bother to look up from the knitting. She knew Wynter was just picking a fight to stay awake, but so what? It would work for Wren too. “I’m not there for a husband. I could have been chained to a stove and a bed right here for less money.”

“I thought college boys were enlightened.”

“You won’t find a Cole McAdams there, if that’s what you mean.”

Wynter’s nose and lips curled into a snarl at the mention of Cole’s name. Wren tried to remain silent, but that sneer on her sister’s face replayed in her tired mind until she couldn’t hold back the laughter. Wynter began to laugh as well. Soon they were both in hysterics. Their shared disgust for Ms. Susan’s nephew reminded Wren of the big sister who cared for the black eye she brought home from a date, who called the sheriff despite Wren’s pleadings not to. Wren couldn’t stay angry or jealous, or whatever it was she had felt before they were both taken over by the euphoric waves of childlike giggles.

When the thunderstorm had passed, a large moon rose out of the clouds to crest the surrounding mountains. Occasional gusts of wind still rattled the windows, but Wren didn’t notice. She sat at her vanity, staring at the candle flame in the surrounding darkness. Guilt for not crying anymore sank into her stomach—guilt for just sitting there in Wynter’s borrowed, too-short nightie, brushing her hair as though nothing had changed. Her grandmother was dead, and after the initial wave of grief, all she could do was go through the motions. Maybe Wynter was just doing the same. The idea of cleaning and dressing a dead body, though, even the dead body of their grandmother, was too much for Wren. It wasn’t her sister’s fault that the sheriff or coroner couldn’t make it out on the flooded roads; still, beneath her grief lurked a suspicion that Wynter had chosen the macabre duty out of spite. Wren could imagine it being lorded over her later: “You didn’t have the stomach to take care of grandma. You were calling friends and family while I did what had to be done.”

Her tears came again then. Even in her grandmother’s death she was taking time for her petty sibling feud. Maybe she wasn’t the granddaughter she thought she was, going off to college to live her grandmother’s dream. Neither of them worried about Wynter, who’d never had a head for books and kept would-be suitors at bay with a sneer. At least Wynter had stayed.

If only she could get back to making those calls, she could least keep her mind busy. Everything went dead in these damned mountain storms. She recalled the moment the lines went down and clenched her fist in a different kind of anger. Ms. Susan had the audacity to call her at the worst time possible and invite her to a family dinner. “Cole misses you,” she’d started in again.

Wren had been ready to loose all of her wrath on the woman, but, “Grandma passed away—” was all she was able to say before the line went dead.

As she sat there seething, she noticed a flame floating in her vanity mirror. She turned around and saw it through her bedroom window. Someone was approaching the house from a distance, carrying a torch. Her anger turned to panic as old nightmares resurfaced in her mind. Why else would anyone bring a torch to the house of a rumored witch? She grabbed her robe and ran down the hall. The door to her grandmother’s room was closed. She knocked and called out, “Wynter? Are you still in there?”

There was no answer.

She opened the door to the warm glow of multiple candles—what she saw inside chilled her blood. Her grandmother was laid out on the bed in a white gown with her hands placed around a Bible. Wynter sat naked and crossed-legged on the floor surrounded by candles and clutching a large black book against her pale body. They stared at each other for a moment before Wren gasped, “What are you doing?”

Wynter’s expression went from surprise to indignation. “I’m taking care of grandma,” she said, with a tone that implied she was the only one who had ever done so.

Wren was too concerned about the scene in front of her to argue. She was about to demand an explanation again when they both jumped at a loud pounding on the front door.

“That’s what I came to tell you,” Wren said. “I saw someone walking this way from the woods.”

Wynter put down the book to stand up. Wren noticed beads of blood on her fingers. “What happened?” she asked, trying to grab her sister’s hand and inspect it.

Wynter pulled away and put on her own robe. “I pricked my finger—no big deal.” She brushed past Wren, who was about to demand more of an explanation. Then the pounding became more insistent. They went downstairs without another word.

The flame of the torch expanded and contracted through the frosted glass of the entryway. Wren felt a strong urge to stay inside and hide from whoever it was. Wynter threw open the door, though, so suddenly that the person who had been knocking on it stumbled forward a step.

Wren recognized Jemison, Cole’s simpleminded cousin. A redheaded man stood to the side of him, holding the torch. Wren didn’t know him, but behind both stood the tall and severe form of Cole, with his dark, glassy eyes glaring down at her over a square angled jaw. She felt sick as she recognized the look in those eyes. That look said he had been drinking just long enough to disregard the consequences.

“Hello Wren,” he said slowly in his deep, determined voice.

She pulled her robe tight around her body.

“Yes?” Wynter demanded.

Wren placed a restraining hand on Wynter’s shoulder.

“Your sister could learn some manners, Wren,” Cole said, as he flicked the ash from his cigarette. Wren noticed the rifle in his hand.

“Look, we can talk, if you want.” Wren pleaded. “There doesn’t have to be any trouble.”

“Well that’s going to depend on you.”

Jemison had a rope over his shoulder and kept looking to Cole, for some kind of permission.

“The devil’s been in this house,” Cole continued. “It needs cleansing. You’ve got one chance to come out willingly.”

Wren tried to think of some way to stall them. If she could just keep him talking, maybe the alcohol would wear off or the sheriff would make it over the bridge. But before she could think of anything to say, Wynter snapped.

“And you had to wait for an elderly woman to pass away before you big brave boys could come crusading?” she asked.

Wren gasped.

Cole said, “Take ‘em.”

Jemison grabbed Wynter and pulled her out of the house. Wren screamed as the redheaded man reached for her waist and pulled her outside as well. She kicked and beat at him and almost got away by slipping out of her robe. He caught her wrist before she could break into a run, and he continued to pull her along the path to the garden.

They stopped at a tree, Wren saw Cole behind them, still carrying the rifle. Maybe fighting them wouldn’t do any good, but it was eerie to watch Wynter just submit as Jemison tied her wrists together and then fastened them above her head to a tree limb. If there was ever a time to be “hotheaded” they had found it. Was her sister just going to passively accept whatever Cole and his gang were going to do? She steeled herself as the redheaded man tied her own arms up next to Wynter’s.

“Cole, please,” she begged, having to stand on her toes to keep her nightie from rising too high. “You’ve never cared about superstitions. This is about us. Let’s just go somewhere and talk. You don’t have to do all this.”

“You had your chance to talk,” he replied, looking toward the house. “You left. You can’t just come back when it suits you.” He turned and said to the other men, “Go see what we can take before we burn it.”

The redheaded man began walking to the house with the torch, but Jemison protested nervously, “Do you think we should be robbing a dead witch? What if her spirit’s still there?”

“It won’t be able to follow us back across the creek,” the redheaded man answered, without turning around or slowing his pace.

Jemison looked at Cole and said in a shaky voice, “Look, you didn’t say nothin’ about going in the house. You just said I had to watch the girls.”

Cole took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it carelessly. He walked up the path, raised the rifle, and slammed it lengthwise against Jemison’s chest. “You just lost your cut.”

Jemison was shaking as he took the gun and watched Cole walk away toward the house. He turned to face the girls. “Now you girls just take it easy. No one’s gonna hurt you. You just stay put, an’ we’ll be gone soon,” he said, trying not to shiver.

“Thank you for staying with us,” Wynter said, but it wasn’t her voice. She sounded breathy and childlike. “I wouldn’t have felt safe with the others.”

Wren felt her sister moving slightly back and forth next to her.

Jemison looked at the ground. “Now just stay put,” he said. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You’re a gentleman,” Wynter continued. “I know you’ll protect us—Oh!” Her robe had loosened with her movements, and she had timed it so that the “Oh!” came just as it shook completely open to reveal her naked body gleaming in the moonlight. “Oh, please help me!” she said.

Jemison dropped the rifle and ran up to her. “I’m so sorry!” he spouted, trying to refasten the ends of Wynter’s robe. Wren couldn’t believe the depth of his idiocy, as she waited for Wynter’s next move, a kick to the groin or maybe slip her bonds and grab the hunting knife on his belt? But then she saw someone slam the butt of the rifle against the back of Jemison’s head.

It was Cole. He tossed Jemison aside and began kicking him furiously. “You damn fool!” he shouted. “I knew I couldn’t trust you! How long until she got you to hand her the gun as well?”

Wren cried out for Cole to stop, then shuddered at the glimpse of a grin she saw on her sister’s face. Cole didn’t stop until the voice of the redheaded man came booming up the path, “We have a problem.”

“What?” Cole demanded.

“The witch has a Bible on her chest. If we burn her with it, the devil doesn’t get her soul. He won’t touch a Bible.”

“So move it.”

“Then the devil comes to take her. And I don’t want to be in the room for that.”

Cole let out an infuriating roar that made Wren shiver with bad memories. “I’ll do it myself, you coward!” he yelled as he stormed toward the house.

The redheaded man stepped over Jemison’s unmoving form and walked up to Wynter with the torch, further illuminating her body. He was even more terrifying now. His face had dropped a façade. His eyes blazed in the firelight with something sharper, more primal than the dull, drunken gleam in Cole’s.

“That was quite a stunt you pulled,” he said, leaning into Wynter’s face.

Wren couldn’t see her sister’s expression but felt her standing oddly still.

“You know there’s going to be a price?” the man continued.

“I know,” Wynter answered, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Then let’s finish what you started,” the man said, reaching up and untying her hands.

Wren began to sob again. “Please, don’t do this.”

But the man turned and walked down the path to where he had called out to Cole a moment earlier. Wynter followed, not bothering to cover herself, even when the man turned around to face her.

“You know, your grandmother did something similar when her aunt passed,” the man said as he knelt to pick up the black book Wynter had been clutching in their grandmother’s bedroom. “I’ll be more vigilant when your time comes.” He grinned at her, and with a movement so quick it shook even Wynter’s strange composure, he clutched her wrist and held it up to the fire light. He began squeezing it with throbs that Wren saw reverberate through her sister’s body. Blood trickled from Wynter’s fingertip once more. The man licked his lips in a way that sent invisible spiders crawling over Wren’s skin. He released her sister’s hand and held the book open. Wynter staggered onto her knees before reaching out and moving her finger around gently and deliberately in the book.

When she finished, the man slammed it shut, and she collapsed to her knees at his feet.

“A soul for a soul,” he said.

Wren felt as though she was about to scream and never stop until an icy breeze blew through the garden. It cut through her nightie with sobering pain and must have done the same thing to Wynter. Wren saw her steadily rise to her feet and turn from the redheaded man to look at the house. She muttered something Wren couldn’t make out in the wind. The next instant they heard a scream from inside. It was Cole, and it was followed by a sudden blaze of fire from an upstairs window. The screaming continued as the fire took on a human form. It ran throughout the house leaving a trail behind it until tongues of flame were flicking out of every window.

Wren hadn’t seen the redheaded man leave, yet he was no longer there. Wynter now held the torch. She stood there, still looking toward the house, with her robe moving slightly in the breeze. Wren tugged against the rope and wanted to call out for help, but she was afraid of what she might now see in her own sister’s eyes.

THE END

Short Story
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About the Creator

Michael Critzer

I write stories when I should be grading papers.

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