The Moon Inside

Venturing out to visit the village for the first time in ten years was not supposed to end my life. My surroundings are dark, my familiar rickety old barn seeming to gobble up any form of light, any form of life.

Witch, they called me.

Witch.

Now, hiding in my darkness, a laugh bubbles up from deep, deep inside.

Witch, indeed.

Running and hiding was the norm of my life. It was the norm of any woman’s life should she be accused of witchcraft. It was common enough that I had not risked speaking to anyone for ten years—

The wind howls in the night, drawing my attention to my new reality.

Cold, chilly air makes its way inside my burned barn. Inside the place I called home for 79 years. Water drips down the beams in the ceiling— landing atop my long black hair. Hysteria rises up again but I force it down, lest it gives away my location too soon. The wind howls, and I listen. I listen and call it in to whisper in my ear.

Whooshes of voices instantly make their way to me, swaying strands of my hair back and forth— into my eyes, my mouth.

“FIND HER.”

“HANG THE WITCH.”

Bellows and cheers erupt— dogs bark. The wind at my ears becomes wild— as if entranced by their foul words.

I call the wind away. My old barn was a thing of fairytales. Stories about it had surfaced years back, about the girl that showed herself in the shadows. Men told boys about their adventures— the raven-haired girl with locks to her knees, in the dark, masked in shadow and with a sinister smile. It was always fun to see humans so frightened by me. By my shadows. By my glowing skin. My lips contained their blood, though they never realized it was their own. My black eyes held their fear, relished in it. Screams and begging were normal— invisible hands that slammed the wooden windows and doors seemed to laugh at the humans, at their uncontrolled terror. The winds raged in response.

These men bragged about the foul words they spat at the girl, about the fear in her eyes when she glimpsed a knife drawn in their hands.

Liars.

But they were all believed. No man mentioned the haunting voice so beautiful and sweet that weapons found themselves in the hay, thrown away by the same men who were brave enough to venture into my home. No man mentioned the dripping red lips full of their blood, the glowing bone-white skin given by Mother herself— the Moon.

For 79 years I dwelled here, living in no fear. Relishing the horror and surprise of others. And yet— there was a time where it wasn’t like that.

My mind ventures back to that day— the day I understood what I was, or rather who I was. It started with dreams of an old voice, so wicked and smooth. It wasn’t the first time the voice made its way into my dreams, but it was the first time it told me my name.

“Salem,” it whispered.

“Salem,” it laughed.

“Who are you?” My voice echoes out into the chasm, into the void.

Sparkling white light greets me as if swimming up through deep water.

That invisible water pulsates with every spoken word, “My child, look to the night sky and see. Look and you will never be forgotten for I have no end and no beginning. Take my hand, wish upon me, and you will be safe in my light.”

“Find me, Salem.”

The lull of the voice sang me to an endless sleep, woke me to a forever slumber.

It was hard to leave the orphanage, I was only shy of 18. But the wind whispered to me, it guided me in the night, through the window and out into the cobbled streets below.

It took a year to find my place. To find Mother’s barn. To find the place where I would be safe, understood. Life at the orphanage was full of constant red welts on my cheeks. Hot tears running down my face. It was the images in the mirror, the wind and luminescent skies that filled me with wonder. With questions. What made my miserable life, better. One look at the decaying wood of the barn, the hinged doors and stale colour and I knew— I knew Mother wanted me there. This place was so unlike the orphanage.

Whereas the figures, the shadows — they would speak at times, keep me company when the tears would choke me. Here, the shadows answered me. I sought them out and they obliged, willing to do whatever I desired.

The power of my voice came in the year spent searching for Mother’s barn. I learned the lull of words, of songs. I willed it to manipulate, to erase traces of my existence.

80 years.

80 years and a child’s mind was left unchecked, my voice still echoing in her memories. Rumours of witches were common, but the witch in the forest made a name for herself. She was a thing of nightmares. I was a thing of nightmares. My name butchered amongst these humans, their tongues making whispers of it.

Salem.

The child—a girl— slipped past me. She told them. I watched in horror as she spoke of my hair, so long and so black it reached down to my knees, of my blood-red lips newly stained. They hunted for me. And just by the edge of the forest, before I could disappear into the folds of green and black...

I was seen.

My voice would not lull as many people at once. I had to run. I had to go.

Now, the shadows whisper close to me,

Salem, Salem, Salem.

A smile creeps up my face, even in the danger of my home, their voices soothe me, lull me awake.

All who ventured here— all who were brave enough to— merely thought me a figment of their imagination. Not real. A trick of the light, perhaps.

But now, they will believe.

I call the wind, wrapping it around myself, willing myself to listen.

“SHE’S HERE, FOLLOW ME QUICK.”

More cheers. This time closer, not brought by the wind’s voice.

They’re almost here.

I call the winds away, my long hair floating in the process. The white of my gown visible through the darkness, the pink of my lips glinting, hungry for fresh blood. I stand from the corner, walking to where I know the old windows are— walking to peek outside, just to see her again.

Mother.

She stands glistening in the sky, the sight of her lifting my hair up, obscuring my face in darkness.

The sky is freckled by stars, Mother’s light making the foggy woods milky, translucent. She tells me to be brave, to sing for her.

And so I do.

I begin the words to a lullaby, letting my voice echo— letting my voice draw them in.

Hush little one

You long to rest,

Once inside,

My face awaits.

Hush little one

I give you my word,

Peer inside,

And I’ll let you go.

Hush little one,

Come creep in,

And inside,

You’ll find your dreams.

I call the winds to me now, hearing hushed voices as my hair whips about.

The door to the barn creeks open, and I smile.

“Reveal yourself, witch,” A man whispers.

I turn around, slowly— my face of nightmares lowered. Humming, I sense the humans coming closer, peering at me. Ever so curious.

Their torches now light up my glowing skin, my flowing hair. My now blood-stained mouth. As their horror and fear make their way to my lips, I look up.

I am the Salem witch— and I will not fear.