Tracie Hicks

The man ran through the dense forest undergrowth, his ragged breathing the only sound in the stillness. Thorny brambles scraped against his skin, drawing blood that mingled with his sweat. The cries of the hunting party echoed behind him, their hounds howling for his blood, their cries growing louder with each passing moment. He could feel their hatred, anger, and thirst for vengeance, and it spurred him onward, deeper into the labyrinthine depths of the woods.

But even as he ran, the memories clawed at his mind, shredding his sanity like the thorns that tore at his flesh. He saw her face, the witch he had slain, as he pinned her to the rough bark of the ancient tree, her eyes wide with shock and betrayal. With her wrists and ankles pinned by his knives, he had prepared to slit her throat, the metallic scent of blood already thick in the air. But right before his blade met flesh, he had heard an incomprehensible whisper escape her lips, carried on a breath that smelled of herbs and something darker, more primal.

He stumbled, his foot catching on a gnarled root, and he fell to the damp earth with a thud that knocked the wind from his lungs. The ground was cool against his cheek, the scent of moss and decay filling his nostrils, heavy and oppressive. For a moment, he lay there, listening to the sound of his own ragged breathing, the pounding of his heart in his ears drowning out the distant shouts of his pursuers.

Then, through the haze of pain and confusion, he heard a soft, sibilant voice coming from everywhere and nowhere at once: “Sleep, my child,” it whispered from the shadows, the words brushing against his skin like a ghostly caress.

He felt his eyelids grow heavy, his limbs turning to lead like an invisible weight pressing down upon him. The world around him blurred and faded, the cries of the hunting party growing distant and muffled, as though he were sinking beneath the surface of a murky pond. He knew he should fight it, cling to consciousness with every ounce of his strength, but the voice was so compelling, its pull so irresistible, that he could not resist its siren call.

As he slipped into darkness, the witch’s face appeared again, her eyes brimming with a profound sadness that pierced his very core, a sadness that tasted of bitter regret and unspoken goodbyes. “What have I done?” he whispered, his words swallowed by the encroaching gloom, the silence that followed as heavy as a burial shroud.

When he awoke, he found himself in the bleak confines of a dungeon cell, the cold stone walls slimy with moisture beneath his fingertips. The air was heavy with the stench of mold and human waste, the reek of despair and slow decay. Rats scurried in the shadows, their eyes glinting in the meager light that filtered through the barred window, their sharp claws skittering across the filthy, straw-strewn floor.

He lay on a thin pallet that reeked of sweat and filth, his flesh aching from the bruises and cuts that marked his skin, each one a throbbing reminder of his desperate flight through the forest.

Beyond the cell door, he could hear the murmur of voices, the clink of chains, and the tramp of booted feet on stone, each sound amplified by the oppressive silence of his prison.

He knew what awaited him in the coming days. They would bring him before the emperor to answer for his crimes, and he would feel the weight of his sins almost palpable in the cramped cell. And at that moment, he almost longed for it—welcomed the chance to confess, to lay bare the festering guilt that gnawed at his insides like a hungry rat.

But even as he braced himself for the ordeal to come, he could not shake the feeling that there was something more to the witch’s last words, some hidden meaning that danced just beyond his grasp, taunting him with whispered secrets and half-remembered dreams.

The emperor sat upon his throne, resplendent in his crown of gold and jewels that caught the torchlight and fractured it into a thousand glittering shards. His gaze was hard and cold as he fixed it upon the prisoner, his eyes like chips of ice that seemed to pierce the very soul. The empress, seated to his right, struggled to conceal her disgust and grief, her face a mask of porcelain beauty that barely concealed the cracks beneath the surface. To the left, the royal children huddled together, their small bodies trembling like leaves in an autumn wind, their wide eyes filled with a fear that no child should ever know.

Before them, in chains and rags that stank of sweat and blood, knelt the man who had once been a hunter of witches, a man whose very name struck terror into the hearts of those who whispered it. But now, he was a broken thing, his face gaunt and haunted, his eyes sunken and rimmed with shadows that spoke of sleepless nights and unrelenting torment. He looked like a man who had stared into the abyss and seen the horrors lurking within its depths, leaving an indelible mark upon his very being.

“Why did you kill the witch?” the emperor asked, his voice cold and unyielding as the stone beneath their feet, each word weighted with the full authority of his throne.

The man looked up, his gaze meeting the emperor’s with a flicker of defiance that quickly guttered out like a candle flame in a storm. “All witches are the Devil’s children,” he spat, his voice raw from screaming. “They are a blight upon this land, a curse that must be eradicated, root and stem, lest they poison us all with their foul magic.”

The emperor’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinning into a hard line that spoke of barely contained anger. “You know the Church protects the witches,” he said, his voice rising with each word until it filled the hall like the tolling of a great bell. “You ignored the law, and in doing so, you have brought shame upon yourself and upon this kingdom.”

The man’s shoulders slumped, his head bowing beneath the weight of the emperor’s words, each one a blow that struck him to the very core. “The Church is mistaken,” he whispered, hoarse and broken from disuse. But then, his words grew louder, taking on a fevered intensity as he cried out, “The witches are evil, an abomination in the eyes of God and man alike!”

The emperor silenced him with a curt gesture, his hand slicing through the air like a blade. “The witches have saved countless lives,” he said, his voice ringing through the hall with the clarity of a bell. “They have healed the sick, comforted the dying, and protected the innocent from the dangers lurking in the shadows. They are a light in the darkness, a beacon of hope in a world that often seems devoid of it.”

The man shook his head, his eyes wild and desperate, his breath coming in short gasps. “But they have taken lives, too,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion as he fought back the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. “They have stolen children from their cradles, cursed crops and livestock, and brought ruin and despair wherever they go. They are a plague upon this land, and it is our duty to exterminate them, to purge their filth from the world.”

The emperor sighed, his gaze sweeping over the assembled courtiers and nobles, their faces a sea of shock and disgust. “Yes, it is true,” he said, his voice heavy with sorrow, each word weighted with the burden of his crown. “Just like us, the witches are not perfect. Some have used their powers for evil and have brought suffering and pain to those they were meant to protect. But they are not all the monsters you believe them to be. Many are kind and gentle souls, only seeking to use their gifts to make the world better.”

He turned back to the man, his eyes hardening once more, his jaw set with grim determination. “And even if they were the demons you claim them to be,” he said, his voice like a whip crack that echoed through the hall, “it is not for you to decide their fate. That is the province of the law, and the law says that the man who kills a witch must die, his blood spilled in payment for the life he has taken.”

The hunter’s eyes widened, his face draining of color until it was as pale as the snow that blanketed the land outside. He opened his mouth to speak, to beg for mercy or plead his case, but no words came out. He could only stare in mute horror as the emperor raised his hand, his thumb pointing downward in the unmistakable gesture of condemnation, a gesture that sealed his fate as surely as the executioner’s blade.

“The man’s fate is sealed,” the emperor declared, his voice reverberating through the hall like the final notes of a funeral dirge, each word a nail in the coffin of the man’s hopes and dreams. “He has broken the law and must pay the price for his crimes. Let his death serve as a warning to all who seek to defy the will of the Church and the authority of the Crown.”

The guards stepped forward, their hands reaching for the man’s chains, their faces grim and impassive beneath their helms. The man struggled, his eyes wild with terror, his breath coming in great, gasping sobs as he fought against the inevitable. But it was no use. The guards were too strong, their grip too tight, and they dragged him from the hall like a sack of grain, his screams echoing off the stone walls until they faded into silence, swallowed up by the darkness that seemed to press in from all sides.

As they led the witch hunter to the gallows, the ropes creaking in the chill wind that whipped through the square, a hooded figure emerged from the shadows of the waiting mob, his face hidden beneath a cowl of rough-spun wool. “Wait!” he called out, his voice cutting through the crowd’s murmurs like a knife through butter. “I have something to tell him, a secret he must know before meeting his maker.”

The guards hesitated, their hands tightening on the man’s chains as they glanced at each other uncertainly. But the hooded figure pressed forward, his steps sure and purposeful, until he stood before the condemned man, his breath hot and foul against the hunter’s face as he leaned in close.

“The woman you killed,” he whispered, his voice like the hiss of a serpent, each word dripping with venom, “was your mother. You are a half-witch, an abomination in the eyes of the law, a creature born of the unholy union between a witch and a mortal man. Your very existence is a crime, a sin that can never be forgiven.”

The man’s heart stopped, his blood turning to ice in his veins as the words sank in, each one a dagger that pierced his very soul. He shook his head, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, his mind reeling with the revelation that threatened to shatter everything he had ever known. “No,” he croaked, his voice a broken whisper that seemed to come from a great distance. “That’s not true. My father told me…”

But the hooded figure laughed, a sound like the scrape of metal on bone that sent shivers down the man’s spine. “Your father lied,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “He lied to protect you, to hide you from the truth of your own nature, from the knowledge of the tainted blood that flows through your veins. And now, you will die for his sins as much as your own, a fitting end for a creature such as you.”

The hunter felt hot tears of shame and despair well up in his eyes, blurring his vision as he squeezed them shut against the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. Memories of a mother he had never known, a love he had never felt, flooded his mind, each one a bitter reminder of all that had been stolen from him. And at the center of it all, his father, the man who had raised him, who had taught him to hate and fear the very blood that flowed in his veins, to revile the witches as monsters and abominations.

In that moment, the hunter understood the truth that had eluded him for so long. But it was too late. The guards were hauling him up the steps of the gallows, the rough wood biting into his feet as he stumbled and fell, his legs no longer able to support his weight.

As the noose tightened around his neck, the coarse rope chafing against his skin, the hunter felt a strange sense of calm wash over him, a peace he had never known. He closed his eyes, his mind filled with visions of the mother he had never met, her face a blur of shadows and light, her voice a distant echo that seemed to call to him from beyond the veil.

And then, with a final shuddering breath, the hunter felt the trapdoor beneath him give way, his body jerking and twitching as the rope snapped taut, his neck breaking with a sickening crack that echoed through the square. For a moment, he hung there, his eyes bulging, his tongue protruding from his mouth, a grotesque parody of life. But then, his body went limp, his soul slipping free of its mortal coil, rising into the air like a wisp of smoke on the wind.

But even as the hunter’s spirit drifted away, borne aloft on the currents of the afterlife, he felt a strange tugging sensation, a pull that seemed to draw him back towards the earth, towards the land of the living. As he turned to look, he saw a glowing green light, a beacon that shone through the darkness like a star in the night sky.

It was his mother’s spirit, her ghostly form shimmering with an otherworldly radiance, her eyes blazing with the same emerald fire that had once burned in her son’s. She reached out to him, her spectral fingers brushing against his cheek, her touch icy and electric, sending shivers down his spine.

“My child,” she whispered, her voice a sibilant hiss. “I have bound your soul to this world, to the land of the living, so that you may atone for your sins.”

The hunter felt a surge of fear and despair wash over him, his spirit trembling at the thought of the endless torment that awaited him. But even as he opened his mouth to protest, to beg for release, his mother’s voice cut through his thoughts like a knife.

“You must wander the earth, a restless spirit, for the good witches you’ve slain and my death, until you have broken the curse that binds you to this mortal coil. Only then will you be free to join the afterlife and find the peace and rest that your soul so desperately craves.”

And with those words, the hunter felt himself being pulled back towards the earth, his spirit merging with the shadows and the mist, his form becoming one with the darkness that cloaked the land. He could feel the weight of his mother’s curse upon him, the burden of his own guilt and shame, the agonized screams of the witch he had murdered echoing in his mind like a never-ending chorus of despair.

And so he roamed the earth, a spectral figure with eyes that blazed an otherworldly green, his presence a curse upon the land and all who dwelt within it. Wherever he went, misfortune and despair followed, the icy chill of the grave clinging to him like a shroud, the agonized screams of his victims echoing in his mind like a never-ending symphony of pain and suffering.