A nightmare
Mist settled in the witch's vision, thick and uncomfortable. A line of unmarked graves faded into obscurity, mere stone shapes. Whose graves? She couldn't remember in her young life having seen so many together. Five together, fresh dirt packed into carefully dug holes.
Looking down, her hands were muddy, dirt coated in mist, the humidity so heavy it dampened the soil that tainted her. Where did it come from? She was covered in dirt, every inch of her pale blue dress stained black. No.
Her chest ached, skin burning. What was happening? She looked up, and the ground raised around her. She grasped at the lip of the hole as it sank, screaming until her lungs burned as she clawed herself out of it, splitting skin open for blood to bloom on her dress. Blackened blue became damp, dark red.
"Mama?" Her own voice sounded foreign to her, and she received silence in response. "Mama?!"
A soft, lilting laugh came from the mist, and the young witch stumbled in after it. "Mama come out, please. I'm scared. Everything is scary mama I'm not ready for this!"
"You have to be. You're the only one left." The voice came from the space around her, echoing and dissonant. Six separate voices calling to her. Shadows moved in every direction and she didn’t know which one was mother.
Her steps squished in the mud as she went numb. Everything was so cold but she had to find mother. She needed to find mama.
The longer she walked, huddling in her cloak and bleeding out, the louder the voices got.
"You have to be ready. NOW."
"You're the only one left. GO."
"Dont let me die, Meggy."
"Find the box find the box find the box find the box."
"It's Time. NOW. GO. FIND THE BOX."
She heard herself scream before she felt the air tear from her lungs, tumbling to the ground as she tripped over a root. When she looked up, the only thing still visible in the mist was a pair of silver rimmed eyes. And her own voice responded. "It's time."
______________________________________________________________
It’s just a hallway.
That’s it.
Just a long, empty hallway with a harmless door at the end.
There’s nothing behind that door.
That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Mae couldn’t avoid the icy chill that paralyzed her spine as her hand wrapped around the door knob. She’d gotten to this point twenty times in the past two weeks. Her hand was on the knob, but why couldn’t she open it?
It was like a lightning strike when she heard the click as the knob turned of it's own accord. She jerked back, stumbling in the hallway as the door creaked open ever so slowly, like a breath of wind gently pushing it. The room on the other end was exactly as She’d left it. A bit more dust than before, but the green damask design of the furniture was unstained by the effects of time. The solid Cherrywood coffee table sat, with a cup of tea that had tried to dust long, long ago. The teapot sat beside it, spiderwebs tying the spout to the cup like even the beasties had tried to pour it after She’d gone. The rug was dusty, leaving a greener-than-before footprint when Mae stepped on it, reverently, as though to disturb a single thing in this room was akin to finally knowing her mother was gone.
The entire far wall was window panes, the view open to the bog. The evening mist had settled, leaving the tree scape dark and eerie, but that had never bothered Maeghrah before. It was this room, so much colder than it was supposed to be. Her mother’s parlor had been a room filled with life, just eight years ago. A room where all of her sisters had gathered, to work on their needlework or their reading. Where tea was shared between them all, and Mother always had a smile on her face and a fire in the hearth. Where mother had sat, tirelessly watching the woods like a sentinel on shift, when her sisters, Gretchen and Bridgitte had done their trials in the bog, to be accepted by the spirits. Mother had held her sigil, a bone needle with runes carved into it, and had cross stitched for both of her older sisters a rune to wear on their belts to keep them safe while they braved the bog. She’d never taken that trial, herself. Mother had died before that. Mae knelt before her mother’s sewing box, leaving fingerprints in the dust as she gently lifted the lid. Inside, just as she expected, was the needle. She took it in hand, fear trembling her fingertips. No. Don’t be afraid. Mamma wouldn’t let you be afraid. This is something you have to do. Something you’re ready for. Take the needle and make the rune. Just the way you need to. She found the bottle of ink within the box, and palmed it, then closed the box, sheepishly as though Mother would scold her for touching it. It was finally time. She would never really be ready, but if she didn't start now she never would.
