THE HAGWITCH of COTTER'S FOREST

I suppose I am writing this as a confession, though it’s the same thing I told everyone back then. No one believed me thirty years ago, so I don’t expect anyone to believe me now, but I don’t care. There’s a sense of release and relief in telling this story one final time before I do what needs to be done.

It was autumn, when the leaves had just begun to turn and fall, and the wind had begun to carry a chill.

The cold, dry air would leave our knuckles and faces red and cracked after riding on our bikes all day. Our mothers would admonish us, and tell us to at least wear gloves, but of course we wouldn’t listen.

It was on one of those autumn days that my mother insisted I take my younger brother, Benjamin, along with me and my friend Tommy on our bike ride.

“But, mom,” I protested.

“If you don’t take your brother, then you aren’t going either,” she threatened.

“Fine,” I unhappily gave in.

We threw on our jackets, grabbed our bikes, and rode into town.

It was the usual routine. Grabbing comic books off the rack and reading them until Mr. Clancey would cough to let us know we either needed to buy some or get out. Finding an empty lot where Tommy would try to do wheelies, though never quite succeeding. Passing by Mary Anne Dockerty and her friends, and me squeaking out the most timid and embarrassing “hi” and awkward raising of my hand.

“Let’s go to Cotter’s,” Tommy eventually suggested.

“Sure,” I agreed with a shrug.

“Isn’t that pretty far?” Benjamin asked.

“Mom made you hang out with us, so you have to hang out with us,” I retorted. “Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not a baby, Franky,” he said with more hostility than I was expecting.

“Okay, okay,” I threw my hands up.

“Are you two done?” Tommy shook his head. “Let’s go.”

The three of us rode out to Cotter’s National Park, past the play area, the picnic tables and pavilions, and up to the tree line of Cotter’s forest propper.

We paused briefly at the edge of the acres upon acres of thick woods before Tommy said “come on” and we followed him down one of the trails into the forest.

The three of us rode deep into the woods, slowly following the main trail for maybe twenty minutes or so before Tommy stopped again.

“This way.” Tommy got off his bike, leaned it against a tree and started walking down a narrow opening which may or may not have been an intentional path.

“I don’t know, Tommy,” I protested without any confidence. “It’s getting late.”

“Don’t be a baby, Franky.” Tommy continued walking.

“Yeah. Don’t be a baby, Franky,” Benjamin mocked me as he pushed past and followed Tommy.

I reluctantly went in after the other two, and deeper into the woods.

The “path” was barely wide enough to walk down turned sideways, making it a chore to work our way down it, pushing branches away, and being careful not to trip on exposed roots.

Eventually, the way opened up into a large clearing canopied by tree branches, and carpeted in fallen leaves.

“This is perfect,” Tommy remarked.

“Perfect for what?” Benjamin asked.

“Ever heard of the Cotter Hagwitch?”

Benjamin shook his head.

“She’s, well, a witch that lives hidden in these woods. She’s always around, but you can’t see her unless you do the steps to summon her. Or enter into her world. Something like that.”

“Are we gonna try and see her?” Benjamin’s eyes got wide.

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“You walk eight slow steps backwards without looking back, stop, then, when you start to feel that she’s there, you turn around and you’ll see her.”

“It’s just a stupid story,” I said, in an attempt to ease my growing fear and discomfort, as well as discourage Benjamin’s growing interest in the subject.

“If it’s just a ‘stupid story’, then nothing will happen when we do it,” Tommy retorted. “Unless you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Benjamin declared almost like a challenge to me.

“See? Benjamin’s not scared. You gonna let your little brother show you up, Franky? We all have to do this together. It won’t work otherwise.”

“Fine.” I capitulated.

Tommy clapped his hands once together in excitement.

“We’ll line up facing that way,” he pointed down the direction that was to our right when we had entered the hollow.

Benjamin rushed the area Tommy had indicated, jumped to his chosen spot, then stood up straight, staring down the corridor of arching limbs and branches.

Tommy took his position to Benjamin’s right, and I reluctantly shuffled over to my brother’s left.

“Remember,” Tommy spoke while staring straight ahead. “Eight steps, and don’t look behind us until I say so. Ready.”

“Yup!” Benjamin affirmed.

“Sure,” I said.

One

A shiver ran up my spine.

Two

I could feel it suddenly growing colder.

Three

The already overcast sky became a darker gray.

Four

The far end of the clearing began to pull away like the corridor was being stretched.

Five

The smell of dirt and rotting leaves became overwhelming.

Six

I could hear, and feel, all manner of worms and insects crawling and scuttling out from under the leaves.

Seven

I could smell rot mixed with the sharp and bitter smell of burning ozone.

Eight

I heard the crunching of leaves from some distance behind us.

We stood still for a moment until a shaking and hoarsely whispered “now” from Tommy told us to turn.

A black and oozing twenty by seven foot box shaped thing approached on centipede-like legs. It stopped and lowered itself down, as the flesh that was stretched over the rib-like walls pulsed and squirmed.

We watched as the center of the wall stretched open like some putrid, circular orifice and the Hagwitch emerged.

She wore an open black, hooded robe that looked slick and leathery. Wet strands of hair, the darkest and most sickening of greens in color, dangled from under the hood. The skin on her face was old, spotted, and stretched too thin over her jagged features. The nostrils of her beak-like nose twitched as she looked at us with her solid black eyes. She ran her diseased tongue over her rotted teeth, as some thick, black and brown liquid dripped from her lips.

The Hagwitch flung her arms out wide, her large, claw-like hands outstretched, causing her robe to fall open.

The mucusy squelching of the constantly sliding, intertwined eel-like tubes that made up her body grew louder as she rushed toward us.

She didn’t run or fly.

It was as if the ground had become a fast moving conveyor belt, pulling everything toward her.

We all screamed, turned, and ran.

Tommy bolted ahead, and I saw him dart back into the tree line close to where we had entered just as I tripped and heard Benjamin calling out from behind me.

I hit the ground hard, and frantically turned myself over to scramble backward on my backside.

“Franky!” Benjamin screamed, his hand outstretched.

The Hagwitch clamped her vile hands on Benjamin’s shoulders, and I turned and ran.

God forgive me, I ran.

I stumbled back out on the main trail, my face, hands, and clothes scratched and torn by branches, near where two bikes remained leaned up against the trees.

I mounted my bike, and frantically pedaled out of the forest, past the picnic tables and pavilions, and play area, until I skidded out trying to avoid the park ranger that tried to stop me.

Sirens.

Flashing lights.

Questions, many of which I didn’t comprehend at the time.

I told them everything.

“There was nothing you could have done,” someone assured me.

I didn’t believe them. Then, or now.

My story never changed, no matter which detective or psychiatrist asked.

Their interpretation was almost always the same.

“They had primed themselves with their ghost story to be afraid. The context they had already created for themselves then manifested this particular coping mechanism for the trauma they endured. The most likely explanation was the boys encountered a drug addict living in an RV, who terrorized them, and kidnapped the youngest. An unfortunate, and terrible, coincidence that has left traumatic scars on the other boys’ minds.”

I heard so many variations of that explanation, that I almost started believing it myself.

We moved away a few months after all the combing of Cotter’s National Park was done, and the case was officially declared cold.

My parents never outwardly blamed me at least.

My mother coped with liquor, and my father with “projects” in the basement.

Tommy didn’t speak for years, and spent most of his life in and out of psychiatric hospitals.

I visited him a few times over the years.

“She still wants us,” he whispered to me one of the few times he spoke. “I can feel her watching me. From the shadows. From the mirrors.”

I found out a few days later Tommy had used a shard from one of those mirrors to free himself from her gaze.

I’ve spent my life mostly in solitude. The only real intimacy I’ve been able to sustain has been in a bottle.

Lately, I’ve been hearing Benjamin calling out for me.

Whether it be for a chance to save him, to lure me in for revenge for leaving him, or just a trick of the Hagwitch, I don’t know, nor do I care.

It would be justice for having run that day, and take care of what I’ve been too scared to do myself.

I’ll return to Cotter’s Forest tonight, take the eight steps backwards, then face my fate.