"The Witchcraft":
I had just turned twenty when everything changed in our little hamlet of Lower Quinton. My uncle Charles and I shared a small cottage on the edge of the fields, where the land stretched out flat and endless under the open sky. He was seventy-four, bent from years of hard labor, but he still went out every day to hedge or plow for the local farmers. I took care of the house, cooked our meals, and mended his clothes. We didn't talk much; he preferred his own company, feeding the birds in the garden or staring at the hills in the distance. Folks in the village said he had a way with animals, like he could call them to him without a word. I never thought much of it until that February in 1945.
That morning, Uncle Charles rose early, as always. He sharpened his trouncing hook on the stone by the door, the metal scraping in a rhythm that echoed through the quiet rooms. "Edith," he said, his voice rough from disuse, "I'll be at Firs Farm today, trimming the hedges for Mr. Potter. Expect me back before dark." I nodded, handing him his lunch wrapped in cloth—a bit of bread and cheese. He patted my shoulder awkwardly and stepped out, his boots crunching on the path. I watched him go, his figure shrinking toward Meon Hill, where the fields met the old woods.
By midday, I busied myself with chores, but a nagging worry crept in. The village felt off that day. I walked to the shop for flour, and Mrs. Higgins behind the counter barely looked up. "Have you seen my uncle?" I asked, trying to sound casual. She shook her head, her lips pressed thin. "Not today, dear. Best not wander far." Her words hung there, unfinished. On the way back, I passed Mr. Evans near the church. "Uncle Charles working up at the hill?" I called. He glanced away, muttering, "Likely so. Mind your own path, girl." No one met my eyes. It was as if a shadow had fallen over everyone, making the air thick with unspoken things.
As the light began to fade, Uncle still hadn't returned. I paced the cottage, peering out the window every few minutes. Finally, I couldn't wait anymore. I grabbed my coat and lantern, heading toward Firs Farm. The path wound through the fields, the ground soft underfoot. I called his name softly at first, then louder. "Uncle Charles? Where are you?" No answer came. My steps quickened. Up ahead, I saw Mr. Potter, the farmer who employed him, standing by a hedge, his face pale in the dim light. Beside him was Harry Beasley, a neighbor boy. They turned as I approached.
"Edith," Mr. Potter said, his voice low and urgent. "You shouldn't be here." But I pushed past, following their gaze to the ground. There, in the ditch below the hedge, lay my uncle. At first, I thought he had fallen, maybe slipped while working. But then I saw the blood—dark pools soaking into the earth around him. His throat was slashed open, the wound gaping like a cruel smile, his own hook lying beside him, slick and red. His head was bashed in, bits of bone showing through the mess. Worst of all, a pitchfork was driven through his neck, the prongs buried deep in the soil, holding him down like some pinned insect. His eyes stared up, wide and empty.
I stumbled back, a scream catching in my throat. "What happened? Who did this?" I whispered, turning to Mr. Potter. He shook his head, avoiding my eyes. "We found him like this. Harry here spotted him first while walking home." The boy nodded, his face ashen. "I thought it was a scarecrow at first, miss. Then I saw the blood." Mr. Potter put a hand on my arm. "Go home, Edith. I'll fetch the constable." But I couldn't move, staring at the way the blood seemed to flow deliberately into the furrows of the field, as if feeding the ground.
The police arrived soon after, local at first, then men from Scotland Yard—Inspector Fabian and his partner. They set up in the village pub, questioning everyone. I sat with them in our cottage, my hands trembling as I made tea. "Tell us about your uncle," Inspector Fabian said, his notebook open. "Did he have enemies?" I shook my head. "No, sir. He kept to himself. Worked hard, that's all." But even as I spoke, memories flooded back—whispers I'd overheard at the market about Uncle's "powers," how he could make birds flock to him or calm a wild horse with a glance. Some called it a gift; others, something darker.
The inspectors pressed the villagers. I heard snippets of conversations as I walked by. At the green, old Mrs. Webb spoke to her neighbor in hushed tones. "It's the old ways," she said. "Blood for the land. The crops failed last year, remember? Wheat gone bitter." Her friend nodded. "And Charles... he knew things. Bred those toads in his garden, didn't he? For blighting fields, they say." I hurried past, but their words followed me.
Days turned into weeks, and the fear grew. Doors locked early; children stayed inside. I lay awake at night, listening to every creak, wondering who among us had done this. Was it Mr. Potter? He owed Uncle money, I'd heard, and was the last to see him alive. Or someone else, driven by old beliefs? The inspectors found a book in Uncle's things—tales of folklore, with marks on pages about sacrifices for fertile soil. "This was no random killing," Inspector Fabian told me one evening. "The pitchfork, the slashing—it's like something from ancient rites. To let the blood renew the earth."
I confronted Mr. Potter myself one afternoon at his farm. "You were his boss," I said, my voice steady despite the shake in my knees. "Did you see anything? Anyone?" He leaned on his gate, eyes distant. "Charles was a good worker. But folks talked. Said he could curse a crop with a look. Maybe someone thought... to fix things." He paused, then added, "Best let it rest, Edith. Stirring it up won't bring him back."
But I couldn't let it rest. One night, I slipped out to Meon Hill, the place where it happened. The field was empty now, the blood washed away, but I felt eyes on me from the woods. A rustle came from the bushes—a black dog, sleek and silent, watching. I backed away, running home. The next day, word spread: another cow had died in a ditch, bloated and still. Villagers whispered it was a sign, but no one spoke up.
The inspectors left eventually, the case unsolved. "The village knows," Fabian said to me before going. "But they're protecting their own." I stayed in the cottage, alone now, bolting the door each night. Sometimes, I hear footsteps outside, or see shadows by the hedge. Who among my neighbors held that pitchfork? Who believed spilling Uncle's blood would save their harvest? The fear never leaves; it roots deep, like the prongs in the ground. And in Lower Quinton, the fields grow green again, fed by secrets buried beneath.
"The Spirit Child":
I returned to my village in northern Ghana after five years away in the city, hoping to reconnect with my family. Work had kept me busy, but letters from my mother made me worry. She wrote about my younger sister's new baby, born with a twisted leg and weak cries. At first, I thought it was just the usual hardships of village life—poor health care, not enough food. But when I arrived, things felt off right away.
My sister, Fatima, greeted me at the door of our mud-brick home. She looked tired, her eyes red from lack of sleep. The baby, little Kofi, lay in a woven basket, his small body still except for faint whimpers. "Aisha, it's good you're here," Fatima said, hugging me tight. "The child... he's not well. Father thinks something is wrong beyond what we can see."
I nodded, trying to smile. "Babies get sick. We'll find a way to help him." But as I settled in, I noticed how the neighbors avoided our house. No one came to visit or bring gifts for the new child, like they usually did. That evening, over a meal of millet porridge, my father spoke in a low voice. "The crops failed again this year. And your uncle lost his job in the market. Troubles keep coming since the boy arrived."
Fatima glanced at me, then at the basket. "Do you think...?" She trailed off, but I saw the fear in her eyes.
The next day, I walked to the market to buy herbs for tea, hoping to ease Kofi's pain. On the way back, I passed the elder's hut at the edge of the village. Old Man Abu, known as a concoction man, sat outside grinding roots with a stone. He had always been part of village ways—mixing potions for illnesses or blessings. But people whispered about him handling deeper problems. As I walked by, he called out, "Aisha, the city girl. Come sit."
I hesitated but approached. "How are you, Uncle Abu?"
He smiled, teeth stained from years of chewing kola nuts. "Your family needs help. The child brings bad luck. I've seen it before."
"What do you mean?" I asked, sitting on a low stool.
He leaned forward, his voice a whisper. "Some children come wrong. They take from the family, make everything fail. We have ways to fix it. Talk to your father."
I left feeling uneasy, but pushed it aside. That night, I heard voices outside. Peeking through the window crack, I saw my father talking to Abu under the moonlight. "The soothsayer must confirm," Abu said. "Bring me tomorrow. If it's true, I'll prepare what needs doing."
My father nodded slowly. "For the family's sake."
When they left, I slipped back to bed, questions racing in my mind. What confirmation? What preparation?
The following morning, Fatima pulled me aside while washing clothes by the stream. "Aisha, Father went with Abu to see the soothsayer in the next village. They think Kofi is... a spirit child. One that curses us."
I stared at her. "That's old talk. Kofi is just sick. We can take him to a doctor in town."
She shook her head. "You don't understand. Here, if the soothsayer says yes, the concoction man handles it. It's been done for generations. To save the rest."
"Handles it how?" I pressed, my voice rising.
Fatima looked around, then whispered, "They make a drink. From roots. The child drinks it, and... the problems go away."
I grabbed her arm. "You mean they kill him? Fatima, no!"
"Shh! It's not killing. It's sending the spirit back. But yes, the child dies." Her eyes filled with tears. "I don't want it, but what if it's true? Our home is falling apart."
I spent the day watching Kofi, his tiny fingers clutching at the air. He seemed so innocent, not a curse. But doubt crept in as I recalled the failed crops, my uncle's lost work. Could it be?
That afternoon, my father returned alone. At dinner, he announced, "The soothsayer confirmed. Abu will come tomorrow with the mixture."
Fatima gasped. "Father, please. Give us more time."
He slammed his hand on the mat. "Enough! We've suffered long. This ends it."
I couldn't stay silent. "Father, this is wrong. Kofi is family. Let's leave the village, find real help."
He glared at me. "City ways have made you forget. Stay out of it, Aisha."
Sleep evaded me that night. I lay awake, listening to Kofi's soft breaths. Around midnight, I heard footsteps outside. Quietly, I rose and looked out. Abu was there, carrying a small gourd. He wasn't supposed to come until morning. My father met him at the door. "Why now?" Father asked.
"Best done quiet," Abu replied. "Before the village wakes. Bring the child."
I rushed to Fatima's side, shaking her. "They're doing it now. We have to stop them."
Her eyes widened in panic. "Aisha, we can't. They'll turn on us."
But I wouldn't listen. I grabbed Kofi from the basket, wrapping him in a cloth. His whimpers grew louder. Outside, I heard Abu say, "The roots are strong. One sip, and it's over quick."
Father's voice trembled. "Make sure he doesn't suffer."
I burst through the door, holding Kofi close. "Stop! You can't do this!"
They turned, surprise on their faces. Abu's eyes narrowed. "Girl, this isn't for you. Give him here."
"No," I said, backing away. "This is murder, not tradition."
Father stepped forward. "Aisha, think of us all. The soothsayer knows."
Kofi cried out, his leg kicking weakly. Abu uncorked the gourd, a bitter smell filling the air. "Hand him over, or the curse spreads."
I turned to run, but villagers had gathered, drawn by the noise. Faces I knew from childhood stared back, silent and stern. One woman, our neighbor Ama, spoke up. "She's interfering. The ritual must happen."
Others murmured agreement. "For the village's good."
Panic rose as they closed in. Fatima appeared at the door, crying. "Aisha, please."
I dodged past Father, sprinting toward the village edge. Behind me, shouts echoed. "Stop her! The spirit will doom us all!"
My legs burned as I ran through the dark paths, Kofi bouncing in my arms. I heard feet pounding after me. Abu's voice carried, "She'll bring ruin!"
I hid behind a baobab tree, breath ragged. Kofi quieted, as if sensing the danger. Minutes passed. The footsteps faded, but I knew they searched.
Creeping further, I reached the road leading out. A truck rumbled by at dawn, and I flagged it down. The driver, a stranger, looked puzzled but let us on. "Trouble?" he asked.
"Just get us to the city," I gasped.
In the rearview, I saw figures at the village entrance, watching. Abu stood front, gourd still in hand.
We made it to town, where doctors helped Kofi. He grew stronger with time. But I never returned. Letters came, pleading forgiveness, saying the family suffered more without the ritual done. Fatima wrote once: "They blame you. Abu says the spirit lives on because of you."
Nights now, I wake to imagined footsteps, the bitter root smell lingering. The village ways cling, even far away. And I wonder if escaping changed anything, or just delayed what they planned next.
"The Witch":
I came home from the clinic that evening, carrying a small bag of medicines for Arun. He had been feeling weak for days, complaining of headaches and dizziness. As a nurse, I thought it might be something simple, like low blood sugar or stress from the farm work. Our village sat quiet in the hills, with mud houses clustered around a few wells and fields. People here stuck to old ways, relying on herbs and prayers more than doctors.
Arun lay on the mat in our room, his face pale. His mother, Leela, sat beside him, fanning him with a palm leaf. She looked up as I entered, her eyes narrow. "Priya, where have you been? He's worse."
"I brought some pills," I said, kneeling down. "Let me check his temperature."
Leela snatched the bag from me. "Pills? You think your city medicine will help? This is not normal sickness."
Arun's sister, Rani, walked in then. She called herself a healer, always mixing powders and muttering words over sick animals or people. The villagers trusted her, even feared her a little because of the stories she told about spirits and curses. But I never believed those tales. Rani wore a red sari, her wrists heavy with bangles that clinked as she moved.
She bent over Arun, touching his forehead. "Brother, can you hear me?" Arun groaned softly. Rani turned to me. "What have you done to him, Priya? Ever since you came here, things have gone wrong. The crops failed last year, and now this."
I stared at her. "What? I've done nothing. He's my husband. I love him."
Leela nodded at Rani. "She's too independent. Working at that clinic, handling money on her own. It's not right for a wife."
Their words stung, but I tried to stay calm. "Please, let me give him the medicine. He needs rest."
Rani shook her head. "No. This is deeper. We need to fix it the proper way." She left the room, and I heard her calling the others—Arun's brothers, Vikram and Sohan, and their wives. Soon, the house filled with family. They whispered in the corner, glancing at me.
That night, they decided on a plan. Rani said it was a ritual to bring strength back to Arun. "We tie him with sacred threads," she explained. "Sprinkle kumkum powder, chant the old verses. It will drive out the weakness."
I didn't like it, but Arun was too sick to argue, and the others agreed. They moved him to the center of the main room, where the floor was bare earth. Vikram brought yellow threads from the temple, and Sohan lit incense that filled the air with thick smoke.
"Priya, you stay back," Rani ordered. "This is family work."
I watched from the doorway as they bound Arun's wrists and ankles loosely with the threads. Rani began chanting in a low voice, words I didn't understand fully, old dialect from the hills. Leela joined in, her voice rising. Arun stirred, mumbling, "What... stop..."
But they kept going. Vikram held a small knife, carving patterns in the air above him. "This will help," he said. "The elders did it for my grandfather."
Hours passed. Arun grew quieter, his breathing shallow. I stepped forward. "This isn't working. We need to take him to the hospital."
Rani spun around, her face twisted in anger. "You! You're the cause. Your shadow on him. You've possessed him with your ways."
Possessed? The word hung in the air. Leela gasped. "Yes, sister. Look at her—educated, always questioning. She's brought this on us."
Vikram grabbed my arm. "Sit down, Priya. Don't interfere."
I pulled away. "This is mad. Arun needs real help."
But Sohan blocked the door. "The ritual isn't done. We have to finish it."
They turned back to Arun. Rani sprinkled red kumkum on his chest, then pressed harder, rubbing it into his skin. Arun cried out weakly. "It hurts..."
"Quiet," Rani hissed. "The pain cleanses."
I tried to push past Vikram, but he held me firm. "Wait. She knows what she's doing."
The chanting grew louder. Leela brought a bowl of raw rice and pulses, forcing handfuls into Arun's mouth. He choked, sputtering. "Stop! He'll suffocate!"
Rani ignored me. "This feeds the strength back in."
Arun's eyes widened, his body jerking. Then, suddenly, he went still. Too still.
Leela touched his neck. "He's... he's gone."
Rani didn't flinch. "No. This is part of it. We kill the bad to bring back the good."
Kill? My mind reeled. They had murdered him, right there, in the name of some twisted belief.
Vikram released me, his face pale. "What now, sister?"
Rani pointed at me. "Her. She's the witch. Kill her, and Arun will return."
Leela nodded eagerly. "Yes! The elders said so in stories."
They advanced on me. I backed into the corner, grabbing a stool for defense. "Please, no. Think about our son, little Raj. He's sleeping in the next room."
Sohan hesitated. "The boy... maybe he's affected too."
Rani's eyes gleamed. "Bring him. We check."
Vikram fetched Raj, who woke crying. "Mama?"
They placed him next to Arun's body. Rani chanted again, sprinkling kumkum on him. Raj squirmed. "I want Mama!"
I lunged forward, but Sohan tackled me, pinning me down. "Hold her!"
Leela held a sword—the old family one from the wall. She gave it to Maya, Rani's young daughter, who was barely a teen. "You do it, child. Pure hands."
Maya looked scared but obeyed, sitting on Raj, the sword heavy in her grip. Raj screamed. "No!"
I fought harder, kicking Sohan. "Stop! He's just a baby!"
The blade came down. Blood spread on the floor. Raj went limp.
Tears blurred my vision. My boy... gone.
Now they turned fully to me. Rani smiled coldly. "Your turn, witch."
They chained my ankles, the metal cold and biting. Vikram held my arms while Leela beat me with a stick, blows landing on my back and legs. Pain exploded everywhere.
"Why?" I gasped. "I did nothing."
"You took our brother's spirit," Rani said. "Your freedom poisoned him."
Sohan forced my mouth open, shoving a small coin inside— an old ritual token, they said. It lodged in my throat, choking me. I gagged, unable to speak or scream.
They chanted louder, circling me. The knife appeared in Rani's hand, glinting. She raised it slowly, aiming for my chest.
I twisted, the chain rattling. My hand found a loose stone on the floor. With all my strength, I swung it at Vikram's head. He staggered back.
Sohan lunged, but I rolled, the coin shifting enough for a weak cry. "Help!"
Outside, a neighbor must have heard the noise earlier. The door burst open—old Uncle Ram from next door, with two other men. "What's happening here?"
Rani dropped the knife. "Nothing! Family matter."
But Uncle Ram saw the bodies. "Murder! Call the police!"
They scattered, grabbing Rani. I lay there, bloodied, the coin still in my throat, but alive. The men helped me up, one running for help.
Days later, in the hospital, doctors removed the coin. I could barely whisper. The police arrested Rani, Leela, Vikram, Sohan, and Maya. They confessed, saying it was to revive Arun, blaming me for everything.
I left that village, moving back with my parents. But at night, I hear the chants in my dreams, see the kumkum-stained floor. The fear never leaves—knowing how quickly belief turns to blood.
"The Sacrifice":
I had just turned twelve when the ground shook like the world was ending. My family lived in Collileufu, a small place by Budi Lake, far from the cities where people spoke Spanish all the time. We used Mapudungun mostly, and our homes were simple, made of wood and thatch, scattered along the water's edge. My father fished, my mother wove baskets, and I helped with the animals. Life was quiet until that day in May 1960.
The earthquake hit hard. Everything trembled—trees, houses, even the lake seemed to boil. My father grabbed me and my little brother, pulling us outside as our roof cracked. "Stay close," he said, his voice steady but his eyes wide. Waves from the lake crashed up, flooding fields, drowning chickens and goats. People screamed, running to higher ground at Cerro La Mesa. My mother clutched her shawl, whispering prayers to the spirits.
We gathered there, the whole community—maybe fifty of us, wet and shaking. The old ones said it was the anger of the land and sea. Juana Namuncura, our machi, stood tall despite her age. She was the healer, the one who spoke for the ancestors. "The earth demands balance," she announced, her voice cutting through the wind. Everyone listened. No one questioned a machi.
Days passed with more tremors. The lowlands stayed flooded, our homes ruined. Food ran low. My little brother, only five, cried from hunger. "When can we go home?" he asked me, tugging my sleeve. I didn't know. Father hunted what he could, but animals had fled. Whispers started—about calming the spirits. I overheard elders talking by the fire one night. "A gift," one said. "Something pure to stop the waves."
Juana called a meeting at dawn. We circled around her on the hill. She burned herbs, the smoke thick and bitter. "The sea wants peace," she said. "It spoke to me. We must give what it asks." Murmurs rippled through the crowd. My father shifted uneasily beside me. "What does it want?" someone asked, a fisherman named Pedro.
Her eyes scanned us. "A child. Pure blood for the water."
Gasps. My mother pulled my brother close. I felt cold, like ice in my veins. "No," a woman cried—Maria, whose husband had drowned in the first waves. But Juana raised her hand. "The ancestors chose. Juan Painecur's grandson."
Juan was an old man, his face lined like cracked earth. His grandson, José Luis, was my brother's age—five, maybe six. An orphan, they called him, since his mother worked far away in Santiago. José played with us sometimes, chasing birds by the lake. Now, he stood by his grandfather, unaware, picking at a stick.
Juan's face went pale. "Why him?" he asked, voice breaking.
"The spirits named him," Juana replied. "For the village. Or more will die."
Arguments broke out. Some nodded, saying it was tradition. Others begged for another way—animals, offerings of grain. My father spoke up. "This is wrong, Juana. He's just a boy."
She turned to him sharp. "You doubt the ancestors? The waves will come again. Who loses a child then—yours?"
Silence fell. My mother whispered to father, "We can't fight this." He looked down, defeated.
They took José that afternoon. He didn't understand at first, thinking it was a game. "Where are we going?" he asked his grandfather as they led him down the hill. Juan wept but walked on. The group—Juana, a few elders, and strong men like Pedro—headed to the beach. The rest of us stayed back, but I followed quietly, hiding in the bushes. I had to see.
The sand was wet, scattered with debris. Waves lapped angry. Juana drew a circle with a stick, chanting words I half-knew from old stories. They placed José in the center. He started to cry. "Grandpa? I want to go home."
Juan knelt, holding him. "It's okay, little one. For the village."
Pedro and another man stepped forward. Juana nodded. They grabbed José's arms. He screamed, thrashing. "No! Let me go!"
I wanted to run out, stop them, but fear glued me in place. Juana raised a knife—sharp, from her healing kit. "For the earth and sea," she said.
The blade came down. Blood sprayed. José's cries turned gargles. They cut quick—arms, legs—his small body jerking. Juan sobbed, helping hold him. Finally, they stuck what was left into the sand like a post. The tide rose, pulling him out. Red mixed with foam.
I vomited behind the bush, shaking. When I crept back, the village was quiet. No one spoke of it. The waves calmed that night. No more floods came.
But nights after, I heard cries in the wind—like a boy's voice. My brother woke screaming sometimes. "José's calling me," he'd say. Father drank more, staring at the lake.
We rebuilt, but the village changed. People left when they could. Juana died years later, unrepentant. "It saved us," she'd say.
I never forgot that beach. The blood. The screams. Tradition, they called it. Horror, I know now.