The Witch Is Wicked

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. And has burned on the same night ever since. August seventeen, the anniversary of her death, well… what I think of it as, her murder.

With a chill in the still night air the flame flickered silently. The four of us stood at the edge of the dark wood, our warm breath creating puffs of mist in our torch light as we exhaled into the cold night. We watched the candle curiously as the little blaze danced to music we could not hear.

‘Okay we have seen it; can we go now. Please.’ Jennifer pleaded.

‘Aww is little Jennifer afraid of a little candle?’

‘Shut up Christopher!’ I said shoving him with my flashlight.

‘I told you we should have left her at the house, Jessica. The little baby should have stayed at home and played with her My Little Ponies.’ Christopher continued, turning to face and further taunt my little sister.

‘I don’t have any My Little Ponies!’ Jennifer cried.

‘Shush!’ Justin sternly scolded from the tree closest to the cabin. ‘I heard something.’

We stood silent once again. I stared at the candle for a long moment before the darkness beyond the gentle little glow had my imagination running wild. I moved my eyes over to the old wooden museum sign that had fallen from one of its posts, the plank of wood now hanging vertically with the first letter H swinging near the muddy ground. Most of the letters are missing, H E L then four patches where the missing letters used to be, followed by;

A T M U S E U M. I shuddered at the creepy coincidence. Then the old cynic in me projected images of vandals in my mind, knocking off the E and N from her first name and the B, E, R and N from her last.

‘How do we know someone isn’t actually living in there?’ Christopher questioned the legend of the ghostly witch returning to her lair once a year to light a candle signalling to the unforgiving world of her presence.

‘Somehow, I don’t think Jennifer is the only one who is scared.’ I said with a smirk unseen in the shadowy night.

‘Did people really die in there last year, Jess?’ Jennifer asked as she slipped her gloved hand into mine.

‘Yes, and it was the witch that done it!’ Christopher whispered. My little sister quivered at his unwanted reply.

‘They were intoxicated!’ I cut in. Jennifer gasped. ‘She poisoned them?’ her little voice trembled. ‘No, no they were drunk. They had too many beers.’

‘What did the witch do to them?’,

‘Nothing. The witch didn’t do anything because witches don’t exist.’

‘If they don’t exist then why was she executed for being… a witch?’ Christopher, our too smug cousin, questioned.

‘She was wrongly accused Christopher; petty gossip and ignorance had her hanged. She was not a witch; she was an old spinster living in her dead father’s cottage in the woods. It just so happened children were going missing in the area. And because she was a little strange and also vulnerable, unable to defend herself, she became society’s scapegoat.’ I was out of breath and feeling enraged all over again. I was in disbelief when I read an article on why the museum which stands foreboding in the shadowy night, glaring back at us with dark windows as its eyes, was finally closed. An old cabin once occupied by an evil, malevolent witch turned into a tourist attraction further exaggerating the tale that was more wicked than the truth. Once Helen’s story was released to the public, people felt it was in poor taste to visit a museum set up like a nasty witch’s lair.

‘If she weren’t a witch then how do you explain the missing children?’

‘There was no proof that she had anything to do with the disappearance of those kids.’

‘No proof she didn’t either.’

‘So, you would have someone hanged with no evidence to prove they committed the crime?’

‘Shut up, you two!’ Justin growled.

‘I’m scared.’ Jennifer whispered.

‘Why does this ruffle your feathers so much? It was three hundred and whatever years ago… who cares.’

‘I care!’ I nearly shouted, for a second forgetting where I was. ‘She was an innocent woman who found herself in a desperate situation and all for what? Being herself.’

‘You talk nonsense! The witch was wicked and she got what she deserved. End of story.’

I bit my lip fighting the urge to claw at his face like an angry cat. He can’t possibly believe that, he is just doing it to torment me.

‘If you don’t think she was a witch, then who is lighting that candle?’ Jennifer innocently asked.

‘The witch did, she comes back every year and lights that candle and they say…’ Christopher deepened his voice from a whisper ‘Whoever is in the cabin when the candle goes out, will disappear; forever with the witch.’ Christopher cackled after his taunting little speech.

‘I want to go home, please, can we just go home.’ Jennifer begged hiding her face in my coat.

‘You are cruel, Chris.’

‘Are we going in or what?’ Justin asked walking over to us.

‘You two can, I am taking Jen home.’

‘Ha, if you really believe she was an innocent old woman who was wrongly accused then why are you scared of going in there?’

‘I never said there was no ghost in there.’ I said pointing in the direction of the eerie old cabin, ‘I am a nice person in life but if I were hanged for a crime I did not commit, I think I would come back as a nasty witch ghost and haunt the community for ever and always too.’

With that my torch flickered twice and switched off. I clicked the power button on and off but the battery was dead. ‘Dammit.’

‘Looks like you are coming with us, unless you want to crawl home blind.’ Christopher laughed.

Justin took the lead while Jennifer and I followed along in Christopher’s shadow.

The museum had long been closed before I was born, so the four of us had never seen the inside of this old building. The cabin was made of wooden planks, from floor to ceiling and our movements were echoed with creaks. And with my knowledge of the real Helen Bernat, I was appalled at what I was seeing within Justin and Christopher’s torch light. There were cages hanging from the beams with wax figures of children wearing clothing from the 1600s inside. Their little tormented faces looking down at us as they held onto the metal bars. As I scanned the dark, dusty room I could see more items that supposedly belonged to Helen that were drenched in stereotypical ideas of what a witch would own; spell books piled on a little table, a giant black pot sitting proudly in the fire hearth, a shelf filled with jars of dead insects and small decomposed animals, one had dried up leaves, another had feathers.

‘This is some hocus pocus Bette Midler shit!’ Christopher whispered.

‘What are they?’ Jennifer asked pointing at what appeared to be old metal farming equipment hanging from the wall. Justin flashed the torch over the museum label. I caught a glimpse of the highlighted title Torture Weapons. Oh, come on!

‘That is what the witch used to cut out children’s tongues to feed them to her cats.’ Christopher cackled. Jennifer squirmed furrowing her body into my side and burying her head into my arm.

‘What’s the matter Jennifer, cat got ya tongue?’ Justin joined in on Christopher’s wicked taunts.

‘Shut up both of you! You are scaring her.’

‘That is what she gets for being a whiney little brat that wouldn’t let up until we let her come.’ Christopher said.

‘They were put here, Jen. They didn’t belong to Helen.’ I said in an attempt to ease her fear.

Vandals had certainly had some fun in here too, most of the windows are smashed and there is shattered glass covering the floor; crunching under our steps. Graffiti scribbled across the walls, most of it is gibberish but some I recognised from horror movies. When I saw the broom sticks leaning up against the wall next a small weathered door a hearty sarcastic laugh rolled up my throat.

‘You gotta be kidding me!’ I blurted out.

‘What?’ Justin asked. I pointed to the brooms.

What fear I had diminished at the sight of Winifred’s broom. This is ridiculous.

‘Why did they shut this place down anyway?’ Justin asked.

‘Because after the verdict of the mock retrial and Helen’s truth going public people felt it was insensitive to keep a place that portrayed her in such a wicked way open. The museum as you can see influences tourists to believe she was evil.’

‘She was evil!’ Christopher spat. I ignored his attempt to get a rise out of me and continued. ‘There were plans to reopen it as a historical sight rather than a spooky Halloween set. Rewrite the story of Helen Bernat, let her soul rest with the knowledge of her truth being made known to the general public.’

‘What a load of crap, you are such a know-it-all Jessica.’

‘Argh! Something touched my leg!’ Jennifer squealed. My heart raced and the fear from before returned.

‘Shut up!’ Christopher shouted. ‘Or I will chuck you outside.’

‘That is creepy as shit!’ Came Justin’s voice from behind one of the thick beams. Jennifer and I hurried behind him and peered over his shoulder. I noticed the candle on the window sill, still silently flickering. But sitting beneath the window sat the wax figure of an old witch, with her head down. The wide, black brim of her pointed hat covering the top part of her face. Her long black dress was tattered and torn, the material heavily flowing over her knees down to the floor. The bottom of the old velvet skirt was ripped and covered in mud. Her pale hands with faded brown freckles gripped the chair arm tightly forcing the purple veins in her bony hands to protrude through her translucent skin.

‘It is so realistic.’ I whispered.

‘Wow!’ Christopher said slowly leaning in to get a closer look at her face. ‘I can almost see her breathing.’

I leaned forward and pushed him forward ‘BOO!’ I yelled.

‘YOU BITCH! I will get you for that.’

Justin cackled and walked back into the main room.

Jennifer stood firmly, eyes penetrating the witch’s shadowy form, I could see the shallow breaths she was taking by the quick movement of her shoulders.

‘It’s okay Jen, she is just a wax model. Most museums have them.’

Although the resemblance to an eighty-year-old lady was uncanny. She even had the posture of a tired old woman sitting in her chair waiting… waiting for death to take her away from her miserable existence. The shadowy flickers of the candle made her presence unsettling, her mouth held a grim yet stern look. I shifted uncomfortably and swallowed the remaining saliva in my mouth to wet my throat.

‘They have done a good job at making her look…’ I paused.

‘Like what?’ Jennifer asked.

‘…like a witch.’

I stared at her unmoving face, daring myself to keep staring until she moved. The image of her lifting her gaze horrified me and I gently guided Jennifer by her shoulders away from that section of the museum. I shuddered at the sound of a door creaking open.

‘Girls! Come check this out! Christopher called.

We stared down into a dark basement. Justin directed his flashlight down the steps, lighting up more of the staircase.

‘Well… who is game enough?’ Justin asked.

‘Go on Christopher, you are a big brave man. Go on! You go down there!’ I said shoving him forward.

‘Fine, but don’t you do anything stupid.’

Christopher began his descend with Justin taking slow steps behind him. I snatched the flashlight out of his hands.

‘HEY!!’

‘Use Christopher’s.’ I said shining the light in his face. He continued down the steps muttering something under his breath.

‘What’s down there?’ I asked when they reached the bottom and disappeared out of sight.

‘Nothing interesting. Just crates and boxes.’ Christopher said unamused.

‘It looks like it was the museum storage room.’ Justin added.

I grew bored and walked across the room with Jennifer clinging to my arm.

I flashed the light across the graffitied walls. Amongst the initials and ‘Wuz ere’s’ were provocative statements made about Helen.

‘Bitch got wot wuz cumin for her!’ wrote one, ‘Weirdo in the woods’ wrote another. ‘Hope the evil bitch is rotting in HELL!’

A ball of sadness plunged into my stomach making me feel nauseated. Seeing the truth play out in my mind, I wanted to cry for her. I wanted to shake the world until everyone realised, she was innocent.

Based on the evidence given at the time of her sentence and events that took place only a year after her execution, in her retrial Helen was acquitted, found not guilty of the murders of those children. Historical documents revealed that when Helen was questioned about the children, she referred to them as her brothers and sisters. It states that her behaviour was unpredictable, she was calm and reserved then would flare up into fits of violent rage. Every time the investigators would mention the murders Helen would become hysterical, as though it was the first time hearing the news of their deaths. The descriptions of Helen’s behaviour at the time would be recognised today as Dementia. Witness statements provides further evidence of this by their recollection of her confused state on the day of her execution. She was looking at the noose and commenting on the quality of the rope, how her father would be pleased with her if she could bring some of it home to him. The eighty-year-old seemed to have miss placed the forty years that her father had been deceased. It was as though she didn’t know she was about to die.

People worried her behaviour was caused by her workings with the devil. During the time of the children’s disappearances people from the surrounding villages grew suspicious of old Helen and when the small bodies turned up, Helen was soon sentenced. Only a year after Helen’s execution, when the dust had settled and the heartbroken families of the victims had started to move on with their lives, children started to disappear again. Rumours of old Helen returning, ascended from the dust. Helen Bernat was back. If this happened today those rumours would have been knocked on the head and buried, as it was obvious that Helen was never a murderer.

I looked down at the long timber table with dusty old books and feathers scattered over it. I noticed writing had been engraved into the wood, I pushed a large white speckled feather away to read the words.

She wasn’t wicked in life but wicked in death. She is hellbent on revenge, her tormented soul will not rest.

Perhaps her spirit still lingers in this old place. Maybe the death of those curious drunks was not a coincidence. Something brushed passed me.

‘Was that you?’ I gasped swinging my flashlight around to get a glimpse of who was behind me.

‘No, what?’ Jennifer panicked.

I could hear the boys laughing down in the basement, it couldn’t have been them. Jennifer took a dramatic breath.

‘What?’ I asked looking at Jennifer’s terrified face, pale like the blood from her head had drained away. ‘What Jennifer, what is it?’ I demanded to know. Her hand slowly lifted, pointing at something behind me.

‘Where did she go?’ she cried.

‘Where did who go?’ I asked as I slowly turned and saw the empty chair where the wax figure of the witch had been sitting. The little candle no longer flickered, I could see a small puff of grey and white smoke swirling above the wick, like the flame had just been blown out.

The floor creaked behind us, I flashed the torch over to the culprit and next to the basement door stood the shadowy form. Jennifer’s screams filled the room. Then with a swish of black material, the shadowy figure disappeared down the steps into the basement, the wooden door slamming shut behind it. Jennifer continued to scream. I pulled her arm and dragged her out the door back into the woods. We ran, tripping over the sticks and branches and between Jennifer’s screams I could hear the blood curdling shrieks of my cousin and his friend.

***********************

After all these years I can still hear their terror. I close my eyes at night and hear them screaming my name. And every time I open my eyes, I see a quick flash of her dark shadow lingering in the corner of my room. Jennifer refused to leave the house for a year after that night. Our parents were beside themselves, not knowing what to do with us. No amount of counselling could take away the horrors of August seventeen. People who didn’t believe the legend believed it now. Sceptics with unchanged minds believed it was a prank that had gone wrong and that I was to blame. Stories of what happened evolved and with evidence that the boys had put up a fight, the most popular version of events was my cousin and his friend were murdered.

All I know is, we were not alone in that cabin that night. Whether it was Helen returning from her grave to claim her victims, seeking revenge. Or there is a fanatical serial killer out there, looking for justice for Helen Bernat. Either way, the candle was lit and the flame danced silently on the window ledge and when it vanished, so did my cousin and his friend.