deepundergroundpoetry.com
THE TRAIL OF THE WITCH
I stood at the edge of the forest in the rain, as ashen grey clouds thickened above. It was one of those days when the sun refuses to make an appearance. I stood there contemplating whether to climb over the barbwire. It was a small forest by European standards. English forests are small and shabby. You can walk from one side to the other of most of them in an afternoon. They’re far too small to get lost in, unless you venture in after dark.
The sun that hadn’t shone was going down behind the leafless oaks. It was cold after the March rain. The birds had begun to sing again, but the day carried no warmth. The wild garlic had risen out from the sodden mud. The land was at that point before the warmth of spring, when everything waits in expectation, trees, plants, animals, all waiting for the warmth of the sun. When the sun hits, everything bursts into life and the stillness of Winter is forgotten by all but human kind. I didn’t fancy getting lost. The leafless forest would be waiting for me in the morning. In the morning I would pick up the trail of the witch.
TWO
Deep inside the mossy wood
In a glade forgot by the sun
The hog witch thirsts on man’s blood
Skinning their shinbones for fun
The Hog witch was a local myth. It had sunk over the town of Suttonsford like Winter fog. Superstition turned into dogma, when a boy of nineteen went missing, the townsfolk said he had been taken by the witch. When an elderly homeless man disappeared, the witch was blamed. When little Malcom Green, a child of seven, disappeared, the witch, the witch, the witch.
The Detective inspector assigned to the case didn’t believe in the myth of the Hog Witch. Patrol cars and news crews flooded into Suttonsford to find the truth. Thousands of people were interviewed, the rivers, fields and woodlands were searched to no avail. A child had disappeared and after a year of searching the police left without solving the crime.
I carried on searching. For the little boy was my son and I could not give up. I didn’t believe in the Hog witch. I did believe in murderers. Whoever took him would be brought to justice. I could not rest until I found him. My heart would stop before I gave up.
THREE
I remember the first time I came to Suttonsford. I drove up to visit my Ex-wife who’d bought a derelict house, and looked to make a subsistence living in the country. She was as mad as she was driven. When she got an idea in her head, she drove herself to complete it with a masochistic intensity, she carried an unwavering surge of self-belief. It took her a month of muscle burning labor to get the house to the point at which I consented to letting our son move in. It was clean, and she had planted a garden full of veg and herbs. Malcom loved helping her in the garden. Slowly she got to know the locals. They were strange farming stock, mingled with city escapees, elderly earth born, and ex-soldiers mostly, they were friendly enough, but didn’t like outsiders.
The first time I drove into the generic red brick town center. I remember seeing a woman with pale white makeup, a black mop haircut, and pastel blue eye shadow. When I stopped at the traffic lights, she looked into the car and our eyes met. I drove on to the other end of town towards the medieval church, there she was again, it was as if she had moved faster than my car. I saw her again as I drove into the outskirts of London. Either they were triplets or this woman could move like the wind. Her face was the mask of death, frozen white and cackling. It unsettled me to such an extent, I had frequent nightmares after. I dreamt of her, she had tracked me down to my flat, and climbed up the dusty stairs, I heard the step creak, the one third from the top always creaked. I saw her pale white face cold and lifeless, the mask of death, silent. It stared over me and I couldn’t move. But at no time did I think her a witch, just a mild hallucination, a coincidence, because the women of Suttonsford all dressed the same. They had the same haircut, and went to the same salon’s, and got themselves made up by the same hairdressers. It was an illusion coupled with a rum hangover. I could not entertain the idea that a witch could outrun a car, even if her face had invaded my dreams.
I didn’t like the place. But my Ex-wife Sandra loved it. She loved the fresh air, the closeness of nature, the lack of sirens, and her spacious garden, where she grew her own produce. Malcolm got on well, he joined a local primary school and started to make friends. I noticed how he changed his vocabulary and accent to fit in. It angered me, but he had to do it in order to avoid bullying. If he had carried on with his big words and posh drawl, he would have become the verbal punch bag of the class. He was smart, smart enough to know how to blend in. He looked much healthier than he did in the city. His asthma cleared up and he grew stronger. I came to visit them as much as my job would permit. But I never liked the town. I got the feeling that everything we did was being watched. I didn’t like the town but I never imagined Malcom would be stolen from us.
FOUR
Sandra sat in a dark room, a shade-less table lamp gave off a meagre ray, she was slumped on a worn leather sofa, half asleep from a heavy session of neat gin. In the days after they took Malcom, the fire that drove her through life was dowsed with rain. She didn’t talk much. She didn’t even turn on the T.V. She just sat their drinking the evenings away. She did it to numb all memory of her son. I came to visit her whenever I got time off work. I still cared about her. But my visits were more for my own sense of sanity. I needed a place to stay while I searched the country side for my boy. I turned up, found the door was open, I walked in but she didn’t notice. She was deep in her grief. A thousand people could have poured in with a party in mind, she would have sat there, unmoved.
‘Sandra,’ I said with pain. She looked at me, said nothing, and went back to her trance.
‘Sandra, you can’t just sit there, you have to eat.’
‘You don’t have the right to tell me how to deal with grief,’ she snarled at me. She was right. It hurt me to see her sat in the same clothes she had on the last time I visited. She wore a food stained paisley blouse and her gardening jeans. Her eyes were cold.
‘I am searching the woods again tomorrow. Please come and help me.’
She stared at me with a rage that I had seen before. She was the hardest woman I had ever known. I once saw her beat a man to the ground. He deserved it. But I did not want a taste of it.
‘What’s the fucking point. He’s gone Luke, he’s…’
She started to cry. She reached for her glass, poured out another mouthful and downed it. I went over to try and console her. She recoiled.
‘Don’t touch me, don’t touch me,’ her words turned into primal sadness, she croaked and sobbed until her eyes closed. I pulled a blanket over her, and went upstairs. Malcom’s room was shut. I felt the sting of my own grief at the sight of his door. He had put a homemade keep out poster on it. Sandra left it up. I took a couple of sleeping pills and dived into the dust of the spare room. I slept on a mattress without a bed. I could no longer sleep in the conjugal suite. I waited for them to kick in. I stared into the night, rain was all I saw, cold disgusting rain.
FIVE
When I came down in the morning, Sandra was where I left her, deep in the dreamless slumber of gin. I didn’t wake her. I looked around the kitchen for something to eat. All she had was a box of stale cereal. The crushed wheat smelt of childhood. I rinsed out the dust from a clean bowl, and filled it with cereal. Milk was next, I opened the fridge and found the milk had turned to cheese. I poured cold tap water over the wheat and ate it quick, if you eat it quick, you can pretend it’s skimmed milk. Out I went into the chill March morning. It was still raining, the fine rain that’s almost mist. I drove through the town. Trying not to look at the residents, for fear of seeing the woman that haunted my dreams. When I felt safe enough to look I saw her. I nearly crashed my car and when I checked again the woman was gone. She smiled into my soul before she disappeared. I drove to the carpark by the medieval church. Then there was a short walk over the fields behind to the forest.
The forest waited for me, I felt as if it knew I was coming, like the trees had consciousness of humans. They were silent, as silent as the day before, but they watched on as I drew near. I got to the edge of the tree line. A dying barb wire fence ringed the trees. The posts had rotted letting the tension from the wire bow. I pulled it down with ease and stepped over. I looked back at the steeple of the church. It rose over the yew like a priest. The warning of the rhyme came into my head. The kids at Malcom’s school had taught it to him.
Deep inside the mossy wood
In a glade forgot by the sun
The hog witch thirsts on man’s blood
Skinning their shinbones for fun
“Skinning their shinbones for fun,” I said out loud and shivered. I felt the dull heat of fear invade my belly. I put it to the cellar of my mind. I had walked this forest before. I knew it’s paths, I knew it’s trees, I had walked it a hundred times, I needed to find something, I had to find something to lead me to my son. My fears of the place grew with each visit, but I kept searching, if I stopped, the grief I ran from would catch me like a bear trap.
SIX
My path took me along old water logged timber lanes. The grass grew over the mud and shone bright green against the brooding leafless trees. I saw a flash of white, it was a deer. An albino deer rushed off. I took it as a sign. I followed its path. It stopped in the distance, took a look back at me and descended into the gully beyond. I wish I had a dog with me. Dogs have a keen sense of life and danger. I wish I had a bull dog, something that would frighten a would be attacker. These woods were deserted, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
The myth of the Hog Witch was never far from my mind. It was said she dwelt in the heart of the woods. In the ancient oaks, where the lumber company refused to chop. A place that put the fear into seasoned lumberjacks. I had yet to find it. I got close to it once, but the darkness always turned me back. I had no desire to be lost in the woods after dark. I made for the place they called the Witches Wood. The rain fell softly. The trees took most of the drops before they fell over my back. I jogged to make the distance. The night wouldn’t stop me. I would search the oaks and then jog back out. I heard the harsh cries of a lone crow. It broke my trance. I looked up to see where it was perched, and it flew off deeper into the woods. I carried on until I found the stream. It trickled down into the valley beyond. Down I went. I nearly slipped over on the leaves and mud. I caught hold of trees to steady myself. At the bottom of the valley the light of day was dimmer. The trees were green with moss, unlike the ones above.
Deep inside the mossy wood
I had been here before, but this is where I turned back. I went on further along the valley, and further from the path back to Suttonsford.
SEVEN
The afternoon was running out. I had gone further into the moss covered trees. The valley opened out onto a clearing. Tall oaks grew around it. In the center was a thicket of Blackthorn. The white petals covered it like snow. Blackthorn is the first blossom to wake after Winter. It was thick and I had a way to go before I could see what was inside the thorns. When I drew near I felt eyes. The sun was burning through the rain. A clear blue emerged over the clearing and as I came to the edge of the thorn I saw a figure inside. The eyes stared out at me watching my movements. The face was pale, pale as the blossom. I couldn’t move. My legs were slipping. The figure in the thorns smiled and came closer. I stood there as caught in a day dream. The blue eye shadow, the red lips, the black shortened hair. It was the woman from my nightmares. She drifted towards me without a sound. She reached for my eyes and closed them. I fell back onto the wet bracken. When I woke it was night. I looked up at the stars. I felt warm. I was lying by a fire. My hands and legs were bound…
Skinning their shinbones for fun
Published 13th Mar 2023
Author's Note
This is for the Witches and fans of Witch Craft on DUP.
I was inspired by Zazzels's: Witch Patch Series, and by the concepts raised in KristinaX's poem: Standing at the gates of Hell. I have been writing this story over and over for a few years. Some of it may be familar to people who have read my work over the years.
This is part one of Two. I have yet to write Part Two.
It is for DUP, not for my other blog.
I was inspired by Zazzels's: Witch Patch Series, and by the concepts raised in KristinaX's poem: Standing at the gates of Hell. I have been writing this story over and over for a few years. Some of it may be familar to people who have read my work over the years.
This is part one of Two. I have yet to write Part Two.
It is for DUP, not for my other blog.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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The author encourages honest critique.
27th Mar 2023 4:51pm
I love that you included the audio, it is great to listen to the unfolding as I read. The voice is unhurried and full of feeling, details granting full dimensions to the mind's eye images. Really great work.
27th Mar 2023 9:25pm
Thank you for reading and listening mate.
I mimick the style of an early audio recording of HP lovecraft stories. I have finished the second part. I will put up the written conculsion soon. It has an erotic element so I am unsure if I will read the final part out loud.
Your comment has given me with strength.
Regards
James
I mimick the style of an early audio recording of HP lovecraft stories. I have finished the second part. I will put up the written conculsion soon. It has an erotic element so I am unsure if I will read the final part out loud.
Your comment has given me with strength.
Regards
James
27th Mar 2023 8:51pm
Wow!!
Tremendous spoken word, James!
Loved the way you delve into your reading, it really amplifies the story and makes it feel more personal and intriguing.... Plus, I love the accent... can't help it!
Excellently done... truly wonderful!
I'll be listening again, for sure!
🌹 💙
B
Tremendous spoken word, James!
Loved the way you delve into your reading, it really amplifies the story and makes it feel more personal and intriguing.... Plus, I love the accent... can't help it!
Excellently done... truly wonderful!
I'll be listening again, for sure!
🌹 💙
B
27th Mar 2023 9:29pm
Thank you so much for reading and listening.
I have been deep within the woods I describe. I am very glad you enjoyed the reading.
I have the concuding part written. As mentioned in the comment above. I don't know if I will do a reading of the second part as it has an erotic section. and Reading erotic stories is new territory for me. i will put the written conclusion up soon.
Thank you for you encouraging words
Regards
James
I have been deep within the woods I describe. I am very glad you enjoyed the reading.
I have the concuding part written. As mentioned in the comment above. I don't know if I will do a reading of the second part as it has an erotic section. and Reading erotic stories is new territory for me. i will put the written conclusion up soon.
Thank you for you encouraging words
Regards
James
