A Family Secret

In the early morn, with the hard packed earth painted with a thin layer of fog, a girl set out to the well to retrieve a bucket of water; the silver handle glinting in the cold, pale light. Just over the horizon, a deep orange dominated the eastern sky, darkening to a rich mauve, than finally, a lingering darkness. It was dawn, and the frost yet clung to the parched grass, yellowing in the harsh autumn chill. The leaves above swayed lethargically, whispering, blazing in every colour, mimicking the smoldering flames in the lanterns lining the street. 

It was Hallows Eve, the day of mourning and sadness, where the living pleaded the dead to remain hidden beyond their veil, whereas the spirits restlessly paced the border between this world and the next. It was a time to remember, a time to celebrate beneath the waxing moon, the final harvest yielding turnips and radishes, their smooth, festive hues dotting the fields in her passing. The girls father was the towns reverend, and today, he would gather the masses, to preach the sacred word, and listen to the whims of those whose hearts yet felt sorrow for those lost. 

She remembered the many who had died this year, those touched by the cough, and those whom the seasons had not been so kind. The little stable boy, who had taken a fall, and had never gotten better. And of the pretty frail woman with flaxen hair, who hadn't made it through her harsh labor. Indeed, this year had not been kind to their village, and she prayed that the blessings this night would bring would release the tense hold the dead had on the living. 

Sighing, pulling her long brown hair over her shoulder, her wool shawl clenched close to her throat, the girl passed by the cemetery, taking a moment to trace the familiar names with her dark eyes. She had been to this place, every year since she was able to walk, to care for the head stones, their stories a friend, their relative’s familiar faces in the daily proceedings of her life. It was an old cemetery, one that held the dead from near a century past. She knew every one of them by heart. It was an on going battle to keep the creeping weeds at bay, with the dark woods lining the southern fence, the old wooden staves rotting and uneven in the rocky earth. 

It was to the very back she found her gaze falling, to a lone slate stone, its surface smoothed by the years, its epitaph worn away, completely illegible. It was a lonesome grave, one set apart from the rest, the grass never quite growing over. Worn, unkept, her father never let her near it. "It's the grave of a witch," he'd say, his voice low and somber, as if to ward off a forgotten secret. 

She'd asked around the village once, and yet, no one would tell her of the witch, the woman buried in that sad little grave. No one ever visited; no one ever talked about it. She was sure no one even cared for the marker, and yet, it was untouched by nature, the soil still black as if freshly disturbed, and the stone unmarked, though worn. Her steps slowing, the girl paused by the wrought iron gate, chewing on her lip hesitantly, grasping the metal handle, a forgettable weight in her hand. 

It wasn't the stone that drew her eye now, nor was it the oddity of its placement, nor the story behind it. It was the black cat, a small, pitiful looking creature with a bony spine, sitting in the damp soil, still as the grave itself. Its tail moved slowly, flicking from one side to the other. "Hey," she whispered, urgent, stepping through the entrance into the cemetery, her steps hurried as she headed towards the grave. "Get away from there silly cat."

Waving her hand, she stooped down towards the creature. Yet, it paid her little mind, a bare pivot of its ear. "You know, you're not supposed to be here. Hallows Eve you know. Spirits are lingering." 

It turned to her than, luminous green eyes gazing up towards her, and the girl found her chest tightening, a cold feeling spearing through her heart. A sense of déjà vu. Meowing, the cat stood up from the grave, sprinting out over the grass, and vanished into the woods before she could react. Blinking, her hands pressed into the thick fabric covering her knees, the girl stood, her fingers curling together to ward off the chill in their joints. 

Time hung silently for a moment as she lingered, hesitantly glimpsing the grey squatted head stone, only to pause. There was something gleaming faintly in the shadows, polished and bare of dirt. It was out of place in this old weathered cemetery. Leaning in close, her eyes squinted, the girl peered behind the grave, only to gasp, her steps staggering as she stumbled back, turning to flee towards the main road.

Scattered in the grass, white and morbidly bare, three rotting mouse skeletons lay still, picked clean of fur and meat.

________________________________________________________________________

“Are you sure you don’t want to come now love?”

Her father was a kind man, though careful with his words. He’d lived in this village his entire life, sworn to the church at a young age. There was nothing he loved more than to spread the word of his God, offering hope and Faith to those down trodden and wary. His love for his belief was only met by his love for the woman who had been her mother. 

It was strange she supposed, that a man of religion would marry, sire a child. Perhaps it had been a punishment, the death of her mother during the birth that would give her life. A punishment for his severed love. Yet, her father preached of forgiveness, and though at times she mourned for the woman she would never know, the girl was content in this life. 

“Yes father. I’ll be along just as soon as the pies are ready. Go. Tend to your flock.” Laughing, she hurried over the creaking floor of their home to his side, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek, her skirts swirling around her calves. “Now here’s your cloak. And your walking stick,” she hummed, pressing each into her father hands, absent minded as she eyed the counter. She’d need to grab some water again before she could make the dough. 

His chuckle interrupted these thoughts, and the girl found her eyes back on the aging man. He smiled, his face furrowed with the lines of his age, his large, weathered hand reaching up to cup the side of her face tenderly. “Always with her head in the clouds; my sweet daughter is. How ever will she find a husband?”

“Please father. You tease. Now off you go. I’ll be along within the hour.”

Watching as he walked down the path, the girl smiled, waving to him before shutting the door. The air was warm, heated by the blazing fire in the hearth, painting shadows across the floor and walls as she moved back towards the rickety table, grabbing the bucket handle hooked onto an old metal peg. Their home was an old one, set near the edge of the town. Yet, it had a comfort to it, a familiarity that came from growing up in these same walls, their wooden planks whispering with memories long past. 

Leaving the door unlatched, she hurried along the bend, turning right, where her father turned left. The well was near old Farmer Tom’s fields, the only one in the area. It was a familiar path, one she had taken thousands of times before. Yet, it was this time when she slowed as she came around the first bend, the dark cemetery seeming completely forsaken in the pitch of night. The watchmen had yet come around to light the lanterns, and the only illumination offered was the large orange moon in the sky. Ominous darkness, it devoured every corner of the patch of earth, the Iron Gate a crouching, grotesque thing in the night. She remembered the cat from this morning, a dark creature with green eyes. 

Slowing to a stop near the gate once more, something she did without truly thinking about it, the girl grasped the cold metal, peering out into the murk of the tangled woods. The wind was still, and the leaves fluttered from their perch within the trees, a shower of yellow and orange, red and brown. 

It was than curiosity won out.

Slipping through the space left by the half open gate, the girl moved slowly through the damp grass, her hands stretched out, sliding over the rough stone graves in her passing like a trance. She knew each one; the towering red marble angel for Miss Elizabeth, the late wife to the towns Blacksmith. The squat obsidian granite slab with the words now and forever printed in pearly white, two separate dates foretelling the lose of the elderly couple who died not even three months apart. They became more scattered the further she went, until at last, she stood in the ring of isolation that seemed to exist around the Witches grave, a solemn gargoyle, the bare soil rippling with light and shadow cast by the moon. Sighing, she knelt down at the edge of the loose dirt, her long tattered cloak sprawling out over the grass behind her, black and withered like ravens wings. 

“Who were you,” she murmured, reaching forward, her wrist pale in the surrounding darkness. “What were you like when you yet lived? Why… do people fear you?” Pausing, her hand hovered just over the stone, her breath curled like ghosts around her throat, twisting, suffocating with invisible hands. 

“How did you die?”

The girls finger tips grazed over the face of the tomb stone than. It wasn’t any different than the other stones, cool from the dropping temperatures, worn and rough beneath her hand. Pulling away, gripping the edge of furred lined cloak, she stood, looking down upon the forgotten person. A dark, wet patch marked the stone. A glance to her hand revealed a smear of red on the tip of her index finger, the scrap throbbing as it drew her attention like a chained dog. 

A heaving breath shattered the silence.

It echoed off the trees, each inhale rattling in her ears, filled with fluid and sounding of sickness. Her eyes turned towards the forest, her heart pounding frantically in her chest as green green eyes gazed back towards her.

They were too high, too large. Another shuttering breath came from the creature, and a rustle of grass sounded like a gun shot. Gangly, gnarled limbs, emancipated and twisted staggered with their odd proportions. Black black fur, glossy with oil hung like a gossamer mantle at its throat, whisping over its jutting shoulders. It trilled, like a bird, the sound of tearing paper as its white teeth flashed against its crimson tongue. “L-l-l-i--y.” A inhuman growl, yet so eerie as it fell from its lips, the wrongness of rotting vocals attempting to form words. 

The girl was frozen, her hands aching as they grasped onto the handle of her bucket, eyes wide in her pale face, lips grey. It drew closer, the foul creature, mutated, a thing concocted of dark magic. “L--l-l-ll-iy,” it whined again, crooked talons reaching towards her at it grasped onto the edge of her cloak. She trembled, her boots shuffling over the damp soil of the grave. It smelt of death this poor, pathetic creature. Something forced into creation. It was horrific, and as the sound of ruffling, dry skin slid up her slide, the girl screamed, her hand lashing out, the sound of cracking wood verberating up her arm as the bucket collided with the things head.

Breathing heavily, she twisted to get away from the thing, the monster, the gurgling sound behind her drawing a helpless sob from her throat. She didn’t look back, heading towards the gate, her hip striking hard against the metal as she slipped through the bars. The road leading back to her home seemed to go on forever, her hands holding onto the thick fabric of her skirts as she hurried towards the halo of light spilling from the windows. 

The door clattered shut behind her when she burst through the entrance. Once, twice, it took for her to pull the lock into place, and soon, all that could be heard was her rapid, frantic breaths, her hands trembling as she untied the knot holding the cloak to her throat. It fluttered around as she backed away from the door. “What…. was that,” she whispered, her hand pressed to her chest as she tried to calm her breathing. It was… an abomination. 

She could remember it now even with perfect clarity. The patchy black fur, the rope like tail dragging through the grass behind it. The crooked limbs and those eyes. Those horrible, agonized eyes. It was the cat, possessed, and twisted by the Witch. Whimpering, she collapsed into the blankets in her bed, gazing into the fire as her panic continued to spiral out of control, frantic whispers echoing her ears. The Cat… The Witch…

A scrap sounded against the door, and the girl froze again, her eyes turning towards the wood, where she could see a faint shadow flickering through the crack at the bottom. "L-ll-ll-il--y," the croaking voice whined, the sound of the creatures claws sliding over the metal seams, the hush of fluttering wings accompanying the echo as its lengthy limbs pressed against the barred entrance. "Go away," she cried, pulling the blankets over her head, the girl pressing her shoulders into the wall behind her. 

The sound fell away for a moment, only to begin again, louder, harsher. "Lily!" 

The girl, Lily, pulled the blankets back from her head at the word, eyes wide as she stared at the door. The creaking grew louder still, even as the creature continued to cry her name. 

"Lilly... Liilly... Lilly" 

"Who... are you?" she whispered, just as the door splintered, shrieked, a gapping hole appearing where the creature had been clawing at the wood. It's long, gangly paws reached in, and Lily couldn't help the cry that sounded at the sight of its razor sharp talons, white hooks that peeled away at the wood, the creature forcing its way into the home.

In the light of the fire, she could see its skeletal appearance. Its spine was hunched in a painful arch, tapering off into a long whip like tail, more bone than flesh. Its limbs jutted out from its body awkwardly as it staggered across the floor, the head hung low between its front legs as frothy, pained breathes jolted through its body. "Li-ly," it crooned, reaching the side of her bed after a moment, bulbous green eyes seeking her out through the mess of blankets. 

Lily, her hands grasped in the knitted blanket, leaned back, watching with wide eyes, her heart stuttering in her chest, as the feline dragged itself onto the rickety bed frame. "Lilly," it said again, the girl flinching, its bony weight pressed against her, the wiry whiskers tickling her face. "W-who are you?"

It stopped moving, a silent moment passing as the thing merely gazed upon her. Reaching towards her, Lily flinched away, her eyes frigid on the claws seeming to draw closer to her face. Gasping, leaning back, her eyes clenched shut, and seconds ticked by as she awaited the pain of those claws cutting through her skin. Yet, it was a tug against her throat that made her open her eyes, the image of the creatures claws tangled in the silver chain that encircled her neck awaiting her.

Hanging from the chain was the locket her father gave her as a child, the only thing she ever had of the woman who gave her life. "What?"

"He... killed me." The voice was soft, feminine.

________________________________________________________________________

The years had not been kind to their village. She remembered the many who had died that year, those touched by the cough, and those whom the seasons had not been so kind. The little stable boy, who had taken a fall, and had never gotten better. And of the pretty frail woman with flaxen hair, who hadn't made it through her harsh labor. Of the beautiful woman, accused of being a witch, murdered by her loving husband. And of their daughter, a maid pure of heart, who died the night of Hallows Eve, her home set ablaze by a fire left unattended. 

She was buried in their sad little cemetery, in a gown of ivory lace, with a beautiful marble tombstone, etched with flowers and a date that came far to early. And upon her grave, a black cat sat, soil black and freshly dug, with green green eyes.