Timber Witch

It was a quarter after one, and I was still stuck in the library. A ten page paper on the fall of the Roman Empire due tomorrow morning constantly loomed over my thoughts like a storm cloud. I was beyond tired, and the back to back Dunkin Donuts lattes were barely keeping me awake. I decided to walk around to try and get my blood moving. I aimlessly walked through the endless aisles of books until I made it to the religion section. That’s when I began to hear the voice, the quiet but welcoming voice. “Come see me” said the voice, wispy and soft. I followed the voice to the end of the aisle, until I found the source. Stuffed between the Bhagavad Gita and the Upanishads was a book called Timber Witch and Other Stories. The book was very old, with brown pages and a cracked spine. The author didn’t give their name, only calling themselves The Salted Muse. I opened the book and began to read the first story, The Tale of the Timber Witch.

November 8th, 1779

Damaris Wright walked quietly through Roark woods, like a hunter stalking its kill. The smell of fresh blood permeated through the woods, and not even a mouse was moving about. Death was haunting these woods, and Damaris knew exactly why. On the previous night, a group of farmers decided to intercept two squads of British soldiers passing through the woods. Damaris’s father, Cotton Wright, was the leader of the group of revolutionaries. Armed with muskets, pistols, hunting bows, and axes, the group went and hid in the woods to wait for the soldiers. As night fell, the sound of screams and gunfire bellowed from the woods. Damaris watched the woods from her window and listened as the carnage ensued. Suddenly, a blinding green light shot out of the woods and the gunfire stopped.

Many people, including her grandmother, told Damaris not to investigate the woods, telling her to avoid it at all costs. “Beware the Timber Witch, that light is she!” said Damaris’s grandmother. “I’m not afraid of the Timber Witch,” Damaris said defiantly. “Five Brits lose their heads and she’s back from the dead!” shouted Damaris’s grandmother, and Damaris left her grandmother's house. Damaris knew that she had to go into the woods to find her father and discover the source of the light. Ignoring the concerns of her grandmother, Damaris prepared to go find her father. She put on her work clothes, filled a satchel with bread and a bottle of water, grabbed the only weapon left at home, a small scythe, and ventured into the woods.

Into Roark Woods

The leafless trees swayed in the wind, and black moss was growing all over them. As Damaris found trees filled with bullet holes and missing chunks of moss, she knew she was getting closer to her father. She remembered her father grabbing his double-barreled pistol before leaving, and wondered if he used it to kill the leader of the redcoats. “My father is a hero of the revolution,” Damaris said triumphantly to herself. Damaris reached the scene of the battle, and what she saw caused her to puke. Most of the dead were killed in the fight, laying where they died. Many of the soldier on both sides were riddled with bullet holes and laying in pools of their own blood. Others had been gored by ax or sword, and five redcoats had lost their heads. One revolutionary, a boy no older than 15, had been impaled and pinned to a tree with a bayonet. The red coat who killed him laid below his musket, a bullet having gone through the side of his head.

The rest of the dead, including her father, looked to have been drained of life. Their skin was gray and clinging to their bones, and green ooze was coming from where their eyes used to be. All ten bodies laid in a circle, frozen in poses of battle. Both redcoats and revolutionaries were prepared to kill a common threat. Damaris ran over to her father’s body and began to weep as she took her father’s pistol out of his hand. “I’m gonna kill whoever did this to you!” shouted Damaris as she pulled out her scythe. “You should’ve listened to your grandmother!” shouted a menacing, feminine voice.

Out from behind the tree that the dead militia man was pinned to, emerged a grotesque nightmare. A skinless and hairless woman with dark green muscles and black bones walked towards Damaris. “You’re the Timber Witch!” exclaimed Damaris, readying her scythe. “Not quite girly, I still need me skin” said the Timber Witch. “What did you do to my father?” asked Damaris angrily. “You see, after the five Brits lost their heads, I was able to leave the underworld. When I got here I needed their life energy to reform my body, so I took it.” said the Timber Witch as she oozed with green slime. “Well if you try to take my skin I’ll blow your brains out!” shouted Damaris. “Oh, but I want it so bad! So white and pristine, and I love your red curls too!” said the Timber Witch as she walked over to Damaris.

Damaris swung at the witch’s head with her scythe, but the witch dodged her blade. Damaris swung again, this time at the witch’s legs, but the witch was too quick. Finally, Damaris swung at the witch’s stomach and grazed her just below her chest. This angered the Timber Witch, who grabbed Damaris and threw her against a tree. The witch then ran over to Damaris and plunged her hand into Damaris’s stomach. The witch thought she had Damaris, until she felt an explosion in her head. She staggered back to see Damaris holding her father’s pistol with both barrels smoking. The Timber Witch dropped dead and oozed back into the ground. Damaris set her father’s gun down at her side, and succumb to her wound. She died happy, satisfied that she was able to avenge her father and save her town.