9 Tales Told in the Dark 7 Read online

  9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK#7

  © Copyright 2015 Bride of Chaos/ All Rights Reserved to the Authors.

  First electronic edition 2015

  Edited by A.R. Jesse

  Cover by Turtle&Noise

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  9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK#7

  Table of Contents

  SKINNING THE WITCH by Rik Hunik

  DROWNING AT THE PUMP HOUSE by Sara Green

  THE BATTLE OF REDDICK BAY by George Strasburg

  ASYLUM TREE by Jim Lee

  THE INCUS by Jim Lee

  NOS by Kenneth O’Brien

  VACATION’S END by Shawn P. Madison

  THE WATCHER by Kevin Kekic

  ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS by Christine Rains

  TALES

  TOLD

  IN THE

  DARK

  #7

  SKINNING THE WITCH by Rik Hunik

  The skinning of the witch Breana was made into a public spectacle, starting at sunset, when my brother Kurt, in his black mask, mounted the platform in the center of the town square and began sharpening his knives. Even from my place at the back of the crowd the grating of steel on stone sounded louder than the nervous whispers of the assembled people.

  The more respectable people in the town stayed away, and children were not allowed, but this event generated far more excitement than just another hanging, so the town square was packed despite the rain that had begun to fall over the town as soon as the sun touched the horizon. I went because my brother was the star performer that night, though he didn’t want to be there because he usually doesn’t work in public. And because Breana was my friend.

  The sheriff arrived with Judge Wegbee, who was there to preside over the event and watch his sentence get carried out. Silence fell as they mounted the platform, at the end opposite Kurt and his knives.

  In his most official voice Judge Wegbee called out, “Bring forth the prisoner.”

  Every eye was on Breana when she came out, escorted by a handful of deputies. Although her hair was uncombed and her hands were bound and the rain was already soaking through her thin, gray dress, she mounted the platform with more dignity than all the officials. She did not resist as the deputies strapped her to the table and turned around to face the crowd.

  When Judge Wegbee said, “This woman was given a fair trial,” there was a restless murmur from the crowd and I put my hand over my mouth to keep myself from denouncing him as a liar. “She has been found guilty of the crime of witchcraft, casting spells to harm and influence others. Her sentence is that she be skinned alive.” He addressed Kurt. “Carry out the sentence.”

  My brother is very precise, and the judge, he has told me, can get creative. His newest contrivance was a device that held all the fingers securely so they could be worked on and Kurt used it tonight, flaying her fingers with the fingernails intact, then stripping her hands back to her wrists.

  Breana lay calmly through it all, not struggling or crying out, but I couldn’t watch so I studied Judge Wegbee instead. I swear he looked disappointed about her lack of reaction, but when Kurt did her feet and she still didn’t react the judge's face got tighter and he looked grimmer than ever.

  The rain mingled with Breana’s blood, flowing off the table to the platform, down through the gaps between the floorboards and out toward the feet of the crowd. Nobody seemed to notice, or care if they did, but when I saw the stained water approaching my boots it gave me shivers that had nothing to do with the cold rain and cruel wind.

  Crouching unnoticed at the front of the crowd I saw a girl, maybe ten years old, using a rag to soak up the bloody rainwater, then wringing the rag into a jar, which was nearly full. She must have felt my gaze on her because she glanced once my way, our eyes meeting for only a brief instant, then she melted into the crowd.

  I retreated from the bloody water, trying to follow the girl, and eager people pressed forward, filling my space, but I never even caught a glimpse of her.

  Taking up a position at the edge of the square I stood by the corner of a building, partially sheltered from the rain. Not really watching the proceedings, but aware of Kurt’s progress, I saw the arrival of Reginald White, the prosecutor. He wore a big black coat with the collar turned up and his hat down low to cover his features, but even though he stood right beside me he was so intent on my brother’s work that he didn’t even notice me while I got a good look at him.

  Breana couldn’t possibly see him but she called out to him by name. “Oh Reginald, tell me again how beautiful I am to you, how much you need me, how you crave my touch.”

  He said nothing, he just went pale, turned without a word and hurried away before anybody else knew he was there.

  A hush settled over the crowd as Kurt worked on. Some people couldn’t take any more and left, but most were fascinated by the gruesome spectacle, which had become something far different than what they expected when they started watching. I couldn’t watch, but every few minutes I felt compelled to look. I didn’t always look, because I knew I wouldn’t like what I saw, but I had to see. Her entire front and sides were exposed, the skin laying on the table around her, still attached at the back. A normal person would have died screaming before a third of that had been done.

  At last, his voice determined, but not quite steady, the judge asked the question that was on everybody’s mind, “Why don’t you die?”

  “You sentenced me to be skinned alive, and alive I’ll stay until I’ve been skinned.”

  “Finish the job,” the judge commanded.

  Kurt rolled her over and finished quickly, holding up the skin by the hair to show when he was done. The crowd dispersed quickly and quietly. Nobody wanted to talk within earshot of the judge or the witch.

  In the three weeks since I haven’t managed to forget that night but I have managed to push it from the forefront of my mind so I don’t dwell on it all the time.

  Then my brother brought it all back when he showed up in the hour before midnight, banging at the back door of the little shack attached to my blacksmith shop. As soon as I opened the door he said, “Judge Wegbee is dead.” His eyes gleamed with a strange light in the glow of my single candle.

  “How?”

  “Killed by Breana.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Maybe so. I didn’t see it, and neither did Reginald White, but the judge’s wife told him and he came to tell me.”

  While I closed the door and seated him at my little wooden table he continued talking. “It seems to be common knowledge that Wegbee had Breana’s skin tanned and kept it in his study as a trophy.”

  I nodded. I had heard the rumor, but until now I hadn’t believed it to be true. Or maybe I just didn't want it to be true.

  “And Quint, the man who tanned her hide, died recently of a mysterious ailment.”

  “I hadn’t heard about that.” I sat down opposite him.

  “It’s true, and I’m telling you she did it.”

  I wasn’t convinced of that but
chose not to argue. “What did the judge’s wife tell Reginald?”

  “She went into his study to bring him some bread and cheese. The tanned skin had somehow come loose from its mount and its hands were wrapped around the judge’s throat. She dropped the tray and grabbed the skin with both hands, tore it off the judge and threw it into the fire, but it didn't burn, it filled with hot air and smoke, caught the draft and flew away up the chimney. When she went to the judge he was dead in his chair, strangled.”

  “Well, that is a fantastic story.” Hearing it third hand I wondered how much could be true.

  My brother sensed my skepticism and reached across the table to grab my arm, leaning forward and holding me just as tightly with his eyes. “I believe it happened just as she said. Reginald came straight to me and while he was talking to me his house caught fire and burned down, with his wife and three children in it. His life is ruined and he was spared only so he can suffer more. I’m next, I tell you, and after what I did to her I’m sure she’s saving the worst for me.”

  There came a knock at the door.

  Kurt said, “For god’s sake, don’t answer it.”

  But I did, and as it swung open I thought I saw Breana standing there, naked, but she wavered, like a curtain in a breeze; there was no solidity to her and I thought I was seeing a ghost. Startled, I fell back a step, and the hollow semblance of my dead friend floated into my home.

  She ignored me and I felt no fear at her presence but Kurt sprang up from the table and backed into a corner. “No, stay away, I didn’t mean it. Please don’t take my skin.”

  She floated closer to him. “I don’t want your skin. I want your heart.”

  “My heart?”

  “Only a heartless bastard could do what you did to me.”

  She held up her hands and her fingernails seemed to get longer, then faster than my eyes could follow in the dim light her hands flashed forward, plunged into his chest, and tore his rib cage apart. While his scream was still building in intensity she reached into the opening, ripped out his heart, and held it up to his face so he could see it as he died.

  His eyes glazed over and she let the body fall, then she dropped the bloody organ onto it and turned to me. I trembled in fear, near fainting from the shock, but the rage and madness were gone from her features. Even hollow, with nothing in the eyeholes, I saw the gentle face of the Breana I had known. It was almost like seeing a real person. She reached a hand toward me and I saw that her fingernails were normal and I was no longer afraid.

  She saw that I wasn’t afraid but she saw my brother’s blood on her hands and didn’t try to touch me. “I was, and still am your friend,” she said, her voice calm, sounding like it had when she was alive, “but there was a price of vengeance that had to be paid and now it is done so I don’t have long on this plane. I had a brief affair with Reginald. When his wife found out he said I had bewitched him, but in truth I only did it because he threatened me. To save himself he accused me and arranged that sham trial with Judge Wegbee. Now they have paid.”

  “But my brother wasn’t in on it. He was just doing his job.”

  “Causing that level of pain isn’t just doing his job; he enjoyed his work way too much and he’s lucky it ended so fast. But enough of that. My time here is over and I must ask a favor of you to assist me in the crossing.”

  “Yes, of course, but what can I do.”

  “Burn me. Throw this skin into a hot fire, hold it down and burn it to ashes so there is nothing left to bind me here. Please, I cannot endure the pain anymore.” She sobbed and her next sob turned into a long sigh as the skin deflated and settled to the floor.

  I built up my fire and did as she’d requested before I called the sheriff.

  In light of what happened to the judge and the prosecutor I thought I would have little trouble convincing the sheriff that a madman had pursued my brother, torn him apart right in front of me, then disappeared into the night, but he didn’t believe that. He had his own explanation already.

  “ I strongly suspect that what you thought was a madman wasn't even human. It was a demon, sent by that witch Breana to avenge her death. There’s no sense looking for it because there won't be any sign of it.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” I turned away to hide the little smile that threatened to show on my face.

  THE END

  DROWNING AT THE PUMP HOUSE by Sara Green

  Another night of dancing would begin in an hour. Already the late August sun had given up, and the sky shaded the large chapel sized windows a red-orange. Inside, Juliet walked a festive fall themed streamer across the dance floor.

  She stole glances down the golden strip of paper at Jonathon. Already several orange, red, and brown streamers stretched from the various corners, barely ten feet off of the ground.

  “This will do.” His voice echoed and taunted Juliet. They were alone for only an hour more. Jonathon stood on his tippy toes and tied his end of the streamer to a nail. Juliet let go of her end and smiled at him. He almost lost his balance as he returned the smile.

  The pump pulling water from the James River hummed a familiar song for the two. A song they’d heard often in each other’s presence. They recalled it in each other’s eyes, daring the other to falter, to blink.

  “You know my father approves of you. I can’t see why,” Juliet said.

  In an hour their song would be lost in the music played loud enough to drown out the conversations of hundreds of their peers. All came from downtown Richmond to the most popular place on the James River. It was as if more could happen if you just left the confines of the city’s main buildings.

  “I’ll tell you why, it’s because, well I’ll use his words,” His voice deepened into a thick drawl catered with sophistication, “That girl Juliet, she cannot begin to understand that she is a woman. You, young man, are crazy enough to try.”

  Juliet blushed and slung her arms down to her sides, dragged her feet as she went to meet him mid-dance floor.

  “Now, you’re ruining your dress.”

  She tugged it up above her knees and continued marching. She had nearly made it to his corner before they met. Her shoulders touched his before he raised his hand to her cheek. His thin mustache brushed the other cheek like the wind. She leaned into him.

  “We should light the lanterns.” She whispered in his ear. She had been on her tiptoes and leaned back to her heels, creating a good distance between the two.

  “One day you might have to prove to me you are a woman.”

  She winked and spun on her heel. She went right back to their preparations. Her golden hair bounced in large curls. They were tied to the top of her head by a blue ribbon. Jonathon imagined the feel of the ribbon. He worked through his mind how it felt as it slipped from its knot, and how her hair would fall to her shoulders.

  Across the red-orange room her voice echoed as she asked if the flowers were appropriate, or if it was too soon to include the just ripe pumpkins. It meant a lot to her that tonight’s affair would be memorable. It wasn’t often that the Pump House was left to someone other than her normal caretakers and decorators. All over Richmond, it was well known that tonight Juliet Mayweather would be hosting. It was all her father’s doing. He was not keen to let his daughter go unmarried for another month without earning her keep. Juliet had pitched her ideas for weeks and was finally granted early autumn décor. A warm fall night by the river, the end of summer. Her enthusiasm won over the Pump House’s normal presenters: Jonathon’s parents.

  Juliet had no doubt their son’s appreciation of the youngest of the Mayweather girls was what led to their permission. She had no doubt Jonathon’s inclusion in the decorating was part of a plot between both their parents. But it was better to fight one’s parents, when they had no idea that you were already very much in love.

  They might’ve only pressured to two young lovebirds as a matter of convenience, but it would certainly be more than convenience. Their marriage, that is. Juliet kn
ew that Jonathon would grow more dashing as he aged, his cheekbones were strong, and his jaw stronger. He took after his father, but had been granted the soft blue eyes of his mother.

  A group of older gentlemen entered the dance hall. They seemed shocked to see Juliet and Jonathon. They hesitated before their polite wave and exit.

  “Friends of yours?” Juliet chimed.

  “What an ease your question is! I should be pleased they are not your friends.” His voice traveled more than it should’ve and his charming grin fell as he worried just how far it went.

  Juliet picked her dress up above her ankles and skirted back to him just at one of the many large windows.

  “Who were they?” Her inquisitive eyes searched Jonathon for an answer.

  “They come here often. That’s all I know.” But he knew more, and he didn’t convince Juliet otherwise.

  “Why? I’ve never seen them stay for the dances.”

  “They just do.” He didn’t want to tell her what gentlemen of their sort did. It was not fit for a young lady.

  “They are Confederates, planning the second rebellion.” She knew she was wrong but said it anyway.

  Jonathon laughed.

  “Don’t laugh, that day will come.” Then she asked, “They aren’t Confederates?”

  “No.” He hoped his answer would satisfy when he said it but knew it would only keep her sentences ending with a question. He hoped the truth would silence her, even if it lacked any of the sordid details. “They are not Christians, and it would serve you and I best if we just let them go their way.”

  His answer shocked Juliet. She stared back at the door they had accidentally entered through. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. It was as if at any moment they would come back through.

  “I don’t like them,” she said.

  “Neither do I.”

  ><><

  Before long, the disturbance was forgotten in a fresh river of dancers, even the Governor showed up. Juliet met praise she could not handle. She twisted her arm through Jonathon’s and let him thank them for her.