Pledge Reward
Chapter One
Elaine was looking exceptionally beautiful today standing there on her family’s porch. Her wavy brunette hair cascaded over her shoulders and her light blue patterned dress fit her nicely. Of course being the daughter of a Reverend she always kept it modest.
She’s lovely but she’s young, there’s more than ten years between us. I’ll be thirty-four in the fall and she just turned twenty-two last week. I got her a sterling silver necklace for her birthday. She was grateful, of course, but I could tell she was hoping for something more.
I don’t know if I’m ready for that something quite yet. We met nearly two months ago, courtesy of my sister, Marilyn—who, I must add, married directly into the coal baron family of Little Egypt. My brother-in-law, Joseph, and the Reverend maintain a close relationship, so she naturally felt compelled to play matchmaker. Not quite what I expected when I moved to this small town, but not enough to make me miss Chicago.
“Are you ready?” I asked. She looked at me with her doe eyes. Elaine’s freckles were more prominent now that it’s summer. Although she hated them, I adored the seasonal look.
“Yes.” Her hands slipped around my arm and we went to the church.
Sundays in her company were always a cherished reprieve from the demands of my practice. This was my first summer in Alexandria, and also my first introduction to real humidity. Most days were tolerable but days like today— the temptation to steal Elaine’s fan was overwhelming. Having to sit and sweat in our Sunday best was a new kind of discomfort. Torture, dare I say.
The front doors welcomed us in like they usually do. Like the arms of someone familiar, someone trustworthy. Elaine made it a point to always arrive early to greet all the members before the sermon. Her and all her siblings, each of them greeted with their own level of enthusiasm. I wasn’t much for conversations, so I would find my usual spot, under the maple trees to have a quick smoke before heading in.
I’ve repented, as the saying goes. It happened over Easter, when the Reverend gathered the congregation down by the creek. The sun was bright, the water frigid, and the choir’s dissonant hymns intertwined with the voice of the moving creek.
But when Reverend Matthews pulled me out of the water, I didn’t feel any different. Nothing like how the other members described their baptisms anyways. Of course, this was something I kept to myself.
Growing up, I paid little mind to the church. My family was Catholic, but my mother only seemed to take us to Mass whenever my father’s drinking became excessive. Even now, I can't recall much of what happened inside those stained glass windows other than the high ceilings, latin prayers and constant fear of damnation.
Attending service in Alexandria was simply a formality at this point, not only for Elaine, but I felt it necessary for my image. Despite my sister’s warnings, I learned the hard way that church was mandatory, not a casual suggestion. There were a few Sundays I missed in the beginning, before my courtship with Elaine of course, so rumors began circulating that I was busy indulging in a ‘city born’ vice.
It nearly ruined my practice before I even got started.
Yes, there were many things I did in my earlier years that I’m not exactly proud of. Things of which no one must ever know, not even Elaine. It wasn’t easy, but I am a changed man. It’s been years since I touched a bottle, so their ignorant gossip felt like a rusty scalpel pressed against a healing wound.
I brought myself back into the heat of Elaine’s family church. There, she sat to my left in her usual position. One hand on mine, the other on the bible while her eyes watched her father.
The Reverend stood at the pulpit, his head already glistening with sweat. He too had one hand on the bible but his other hand dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief.
He was a large man with a heavy set frame. Elaine’s mother must be a wonderful cook because the Reverend looked as though he had never missed a single meal. He kept what was left of his grey hair in a combover and often joked that he and I were twins since my own hair had gone grey years ahead of schedule. I always forced a laugh.
His presence commanded the room, he had a boastful laugh that shook the walls and possessed a voice loud enough to wake the dead. Sometimes I found myself trying to draw the similarities between father and daughter. She does carry his smile, but every other grace was inherited from her mother. And I thank the Lord for that.
It felt like an eternity has passed since the sermon began this morning. It was beyond hot and miserable, I didn’t know how much more I could take or if I could survive this summer. Beads of sweat ran down the temple of my face, and I took off my glasses to chase them.
I knew I was near my limit when I could feel the faint ticking of my pocket watch. The temptation to check the time was becoming unbearable.
Before I knew it, my hand had naturally arrived to my waistcoat when Elaine turned her head, her hand tightened around mine in a silent reprimand. We had spoken of this—of proper church etiquette—and how nothing goes unnoticed in Alexandria. Pivoting under her scrutiny, I guided my fingers upward to comb through my mustache instead, desperate to avoid another sermon on decorum later. Her grip loosened.
Begrudgingly, I decided to turn my attention back to the sermon.
“Lastly, let us look at Psalms chapter fifty.” He commanded as he dabbed the sweat from his head. Elaine flipped the pages for me. I wasn’t familiar with the Good Book, so I always let her do the honors.
“In Psalm fifty, verse fifteen, God Himself speaks: ‘Call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you, and you shall glorify me.’” His words flowed with a cadence, common to southern preachers. “Thus, we must cast our anxieties upon the Lord. We must lean on to God in our darkest hours. Say it with me! He shall deliver us!”
“He shall deliver us!” the congregation echoed.
“Let us bow for prayer.” He said, his breath more noticeable now.
I felt immediate relief. I lowered my chin knowing it would soon be over.
I could never bring myself to close my eyes for prayer, my gaze was always too restless. This time I let my vision drift toward Elaine, as this was the only time my eyes could wander the shape of her body freely. Unfortunately for me, the prayer was short this time.
“In Jesus' name we pray, Amen.” He said.
“Amen.” We all echoed in fatigued unison.
…
Elaine always looked forward to visiting with the members afterwards. I, on the other hand, did not. Her exchanges with the town's folk were that of pleasantries, topics like gardening, dinner recipes, even petty town gossip.
However, for me, the people of this town would take this time to inquire about their illness and ailments. Even if the conversations started out genuine at first, they somehow worked their way back to their own aches and pains.
I nodded my head silently as Mr. Hickens explained his mysterious left ankle pain for the fourth Sunday in a row. How it only seemed to appear when he goes fly fishing or just before bed. Then he would pull down his sock to point directly at the spot of the pain. Of course, our conversation always ended with my suggestion that he come see me at the practice, but we both knew that wasn’t going to happen.
I made my way over to the water stand before anyone else had a chance to talk to me. My throat was dry and my garments damp with sweat. But before I could take a sip, I heard an all too familiar voice.
“Doctor Kozlowski!”
I turned my head to the sound of heavy footsteps. There was only one man in this town who correctly pronounced my last name.
“Reverend,” I nodded, “great message today, as always.”
“Thank you Doctor, but it’s the Lord we should thank.”
“Indeed.” I sipped from the glass cup, hoping he wouldn’t ask my opinions about his sermon next. Instead, the Reverend slapped his hand on my shoulder, nearly causing me to spill on myself.
“How is my precious Elaine doing? Are things well with you two? She hasn’t stopped singing praises of that necklace you got her.” I felt the blood leave my face, I knew where this conversation was going and I needed to quickly shift topics.
“Everything’s going well Reverend,” I said with a steady voice, “She has taken a great interest in Chicago of late. I am considering taking her north for a visit once the heat breaks.”
“Oh? And what awaits in Chicago?” His smile grew wider, so did the glimmer in his eyes.
I fidgeted my drink with perspiring hands, I walked myself right into this.
“Family,” I replied with a forced smile. “With my mother advancing in years, and my brother entirely consumed by the family business, I thought it high time to introduce her to them.”
“This is marvelous news,” he chuckled, clapping a heavy hand onto my shoulder. “I shall keep the autumn weather in my prayers, then.”
“Of course,” I muttered, suffocating the urge to look away.
I found out the people of Alexandria rushed to marriage. It wasn't uncommon for folks here to tie the knot after a month or two. And when they did, the whole town of Alexandria was invited. I’ve already attended four weddings since I’ve been here, one of which I was the best man at.
He was a patient of mine, and he was deeply appreciative when I saw to his mother who caught the flu. The boy was sixteen years old and didn’t have a father, how could I say no?
I adjusted my glasses wondering how I was going to exit this conversation. Thankfully Mr. and Mrs. Jones, who were both older than the dirt beneath the church, came up to personally ask the Reverend for a prayer. I took this as my cue to escape and looked for Elaine.
I exited the church and made my way around the corner. The flowers Elaine planted were in full bloom basking in the thick sunlight. A mix of marigolds, daffodils and others I couldn’t remember the name of.
There in the courtyard I saw my sweet Elaine chatting to Mrs. Jameson. Their outfits contrasted with each other, Elaine’s pastel colors was muted by Mrs. Jameson’s bold cacophony of hues. It seems today she chose to wear her blinding orange hat that, in my opinion, resembled a dead parrot.
But something seemed different today. Elaine’s posture appeared tense while the old woman’s was more sharp and animated. I stepped a little closer to hear what they were discussing.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions here.” Said Elaine.
“I just know it was the witch.”
“Witch?” I interrupted.
Elaine spun around, her eyes wide while Mrs. Jameson kept her bitterness.
“Yes, the Riverlore Witch.” Mrs. Jameson retorted.
“Riverlore Witch?” I turned to Elaine with a half smile, “What’s this about?”
Elaine’s lips were pursed and eyes avoidant. I quickly dropped the smile, something was wrong.
“It’s nothing darling, just-” Elaine shook her head, “Mrs. Jameson, please, let’s not talk like that around here.”
“I’m telling you, Miss Matthews, it was the witch that took those girls.” The old woman protested.
My heart dropped.
“What's this about girls?” I asked, not sure if I had heard her right.
Elaine’s gaze dropped again to the ground while Mrs. Jameson huffed. I looked at both of them but none gave an answer.
“What’s going on Elaine?” This time my voice was more stern.
“The Masons didn’t come to church today,” she said in a low voice, “and it’s because their two girls have been missing since last night.”
My blood froze at her words.
“Oh dear.” I muttered.
How terrible indeed.
My mind played back the interactions I had with the family, none of which I found to be particularly helpful in this situation. The Masons were good people but they were different. They did not resemble most families here in Alexandria. Mrs. Mason was a kind woman who was married to a Red Man. They had two daughters.
I recalled back when they visited me in the spring, their two girls were sensitive to the seasonal change. I couldn’t remember their names but both were under the age of ten. The Masons were located on the outskirts of town, they didn't have much but they made it work.
Mrs. Jameson pulled out a smoke and lit a match using the sole of her heel.
“Like I said, it’s just the beginning. The witch is on the hunt again,” she took a drag, “God be with us.”
My brows furrowed at her statement. Where I came from witches were nothing more than fairy tales for ill behaved children. And as a man of human science, I found it difficult to believe in such things, especially magic.
“That’s right Mr. Kasky, you haven’t been here very long, have you?” Said Mrs. Jameson as smoke spilled out her mouth.
“It’s Doctor Kozlowski, but yes I’ve only been here ‘bout four months I believe.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Well, doctor, like many small towns, we all have our secrets.” She continued, “Ours just happens to be a devil woman in the woods.”
“That’s not true.” Elaine protested.
“Oh please, you’ve seen her too, Elaine.” She took another drag, “We’ve all seen her.”
I shook my head, organizing my thoughts. Two young girls were missing and here we were discussing a mystic witch in the woods. I turned to Elaine and rested my hands on her shoulders.
“I’m going to see if the Masons need my help.”
Her hands quickly grabbed mine.
“Harold,” she squeezed tightly, “Please be safe.”
Chapter Two
The heavy afternoon sun was miserable. I stripped off as much of my Sunday attire as decency permitted, keeping my gray waistcoat on but loosened both the collar and maroon tie. My dampened sleeves were rolled up to the elbows collecting sweat, and I could feel the blazing sky through the crown of my hat.
The Mason property sat north near the edge of town so it took a while to get to. I'd only been up this way once before in the spring, a house call for another family in the area.
The roads were horrible in this part of town, underdeveloped, deep-rutted and overgrown on both sides. The kind of path that did its best to discourage visits. Thankfully I was on horseback.
I rode Smoky up the center, where the ground was its firmest. He was a brindle quarter horse, broad in the chest and easy in temperament. A gift from my brother-in-law, Joseph, when I first arrived.
I'd told Joseph at the time that I didn't know the first thing about horses. He'd slapped the animal on the flank and told me Smoky didn't know the first thing about doctors. A few months in, I'd say we were making progress.
When rounding the hill, I heard Mrs. Mason before I saw her.
No matter how much experience I had as a doctor, the sound of a mother’s grief was something I never got used to. It was a primal, desperate cry— a sound that rattled me every time.
She was seated on the porch, collapsed in the arms of a woman I didn't fully recognize. Mrs. Mason had a white knuckled grip onto the other woman's sleeves, her body trembled with each sob. The stranger looked over Mrs. Mason's shoulder at me, her expression held an equal but exhausted sorrow.
I dismounted and approached the two women.
“Mrs. Mason,” I called out, “I’m Doctor Kozlowski. I’ve heard something’s happened to your girls.”
She didn’t reply, only her painful cries filled the empty air. Instead, the other woman spoke.
“The men are in the woods,” she said in a hoarse, heavy drawl, “her husband and mine.”
“Which direction?”
She jerked her chin past the house, toward the tree line. "You'll hear them hounds if they're still workin’."
I nodded in response, my gaze shifted briefly to the quiet woods before looking back at them.
“The girls— what are their names?”
It took her a moment to answer, gathering what little strength she had left to reply.
“Grace and Julia.” Her voice cracked.
“Grace and Julia.” I echoed.
I looked back at Mrs. Mason. Her face was pressed into the woman’s shoulder and she either didn't know I was there or had decided it didn't matter. I thought about saying something to her, but the words refused to take form. I had never been charitable with false hope. In my line of work, a false promise was merely an emotional debt that must be paid back with interest.
I mounted Smoky. With a quick tug of the reins, we rode into the tree line.
The woods were much denser than they appeared. We were making good progress at first but about twenty minutes in I had to continue on foot, leading Smoky behind me. Despite the challenge, the air was much cooler under the forest’s canopy, and I could tell Smoky also agreed.
The sound of summer enveloped the forest as I led us through the thick brush. The horse moved without complaint, picking his feet up carefully over the roots and rocks. He didn't spook at ordinary things. I'd been grateful for that about him since the beginning, he was a very sensible horse.
"Grace!”
“Julia!"
I called out periodically as I went, but was met with no answer. I checked under fallen trees, hollowed trunks, and anything large enough a small child could climb through. Nothing but a few snakes, squirrels, ticks and— once in a while— animal remains.
It wasn’t until another twenty minutes or so had passed when I came across the same downed maple tree as before. My ears burned quietly as I tried to reorient myself, resisting the humiliating notion that I might be pacing in circles. This time I decided to take us left instead of forward.
I called their names again, and again, and again. Nothing. My voice moved through the trees but was always absorbed without much ceremony. Then finally, there was a break in the wood’s density.
Ahead, the canopy above revealed a patch of open sky. Below was a small grass clearing littered with both yellow and white flowers, even hints of wild raspberries. Along with it the forest played its quiet symphony, an ancient song with no words or notes that filled the humid air. I found myself staring into the living forest, watching, listening, admiring. It possessed an untamed beauty I had never encountered in the manicured parks of Chicago. It was a vast, breathing expanse that owed absolutely nothing to human law or design.
It was, in the purest sense, wild.
I drew my gaze up to the sky, the sun had moved. I pulled the leather wrapped canteen from the saddle and took out my pocket watch for the first time today.
Twelve minutes ‘til one o’clock.
The water was warm against my dry lips and tasted faintly of tin. I took a few sips before wiping the sweat off the back of my neck and when I lowered my canteen, that’s when I saw it.
It rested on the ground in a small depression between two roots, maybe four or five feet across. A circle cut perfectly into the dry leaf litter, maybe twenty feet ahead of me or so, near the edge of the clearing.
I watched for a moment then capped the flask. I grabbed the leather reins, giving a gentle tug but the horse didn’t move. I looked back at Smoky, he simply stood there motionless with his head raised and ears pointed back. I took it as a silent protest for dragging him around in circles through the brush. I let the straps hang and walked over to the roots by myself.
I adjusted my glasses as I approached the strange sight. Inside the ring, the soil was dark and wept with moisture. Then in the center, a bundle of dried herbs or grass— I wasn’t sure— was braided and stood upright. Held in place by nothing I could see.
My mind struggled to make sense of this, we hadn't had rain in better than a week and the surrounding earth was dry. I reached down, pressing two fingers into the ring. They came away wet, dark and cold, as though the ground there drew from a different source. I rubbed the soil between my fingers, it didn’t carry a smell but it left behind a black stain on my finger tips.
Then in the corner of my eye, and I swear it, the braided bundle shuddered against the still air. I jumped back scrambling to my feet, a primal chill rippled up my spine raising the hairs on my neck.
I stood there watching, waiting to see if it would move again. Both the terror and my stubbornness kept me rooted. I had to be certain the forest wasn't mocking me, that I was not running from a shadow. I felt my heart pounding against my chest as I steadied my breath.
I am not a man who frightens easily. I've seen the inside of a cadaver laid open on an operating table and felt nothing but focus. I’ve seen what factory machinery can do to a human body. I've sat with dying men, women and children.
I am a physician. Fear is not foreign to me, but it has always, in my experience, had a sensible address. My instinct with unfamiliar things is to name them, and by naming them is to contain them.
But this had no name.
Some time had passed before the distant sound of dogs yanked me out of my trance. I pulled my gaze away, facing the direction of the far off howls. The baying came from the east, deeper in, suggesting they were working a line. I called out, and sure enough, I received a reply.
Relieved, I turned back to the weeping soil, the braided herbs now laid on its side. I made the decision to leave behind the incomplete diagnosis and walked back over to Smoky.
I checked the time.
Thirteen minutes past one o’clock.
The men were on horseback when I found them, their two hounds casting back and forth in front of them.
There was a stocky man named Caine who I'd met once at the feed store. The skin on his face and arms had turned pink under the summer heat. And behind him was Mr. Mason. A tall red man with long dark hair, braided in two.
Both looked tired and worn out.
Mr. Mason rode over when he saw me. He had the look of a man running on a short supply.
"Doctor," he leaned down and shook my hand, "appreciate you coming."
I noticed his other hand clutched to a small white cardigan, my breath held for a moment.
“Of course, any luck?” I asked.
The other man lowered his head while Mr. Mason was trying to find the right words to say. My shoulders tensed, fearing the worst may have already happened.
“Nothing yet, Doctor,” he replied.
I unclenched my jaw.
“I see, can I ask what happened?”
“It was last night. I was feeding the stock, and both of the girls came out to help like always.” He began.
“It was getting late, I told them to get ready for supper but they asked to play in the yard a little longer. Then when I-” Mr. Mason stopped, his grip tightened around the small garment. I listened patiently.
“That’s when I heard Louise calling for the girls, over and over.” He stopped again. “We searched the yard, all that was left was Julia’s cardigan on the edge of the property.”
“The dogs had been castin’ but hadn't locked onto anything clean,” Caine added, “we’ve been searching all night.”
My stomach tightened as I took in the grim details, this search quietly shifted from a rescue to a recovery, in my mind. I adjusted my glasses hoping my expression did not give away my conclusion.
“What about you, doc? See anything?” Caine asked before looking past me. “Anyone else with you?”
My mind returned to the thing that did not have a name. The dark weeping soil and herbs between the roots. But I quickly buried it.
“No, I rode here as soon as I heard.” I replied. “The news broke after church, I’m sure other men are on their way.”
My words hung thick in the air. There were only the three of us in a town where two little girls had gone missing on a Sunday. The reason was its own quiet, ugly arithmetic.
“What parts have you searched already?” I asked, moving the conversation forward.
“We’ve searched all up and down this side of the wood,” Mr. Mason answered, his hand gesturing east and west, “No signs of them or any kind of struggle.”
“All that’s left is the creek.” Said Caine, his tone carried some weight as he adjusted in his saddle.
“Creek?” I asked. “What creek?”
“Riverlore creek,” Mr. Mason said, "we're headed that way now.”
Riverlore.
That word sounded familiar. Suddenly, this morning’s conversation returned to me. Mrs. Jameson’s bright colors and convicting tone. Elaine’s tense posture and taut mouth.
The witch.
I couldn’t help but feel the same absurdity I did this morning. Mother did say folks tend to be more simple the farther you get.
“You ever been in the woods before, doc?” Caine asked, not unfriendly, just calculating how useful a city doctor on a borrowed horse was going to be.
“A few times.”
I lied.
We agreed on a rough division once we reached the creek. The men would push east toward the bend and I would follow the creek south from here. I would work near the bank, and meet them back at the bend or call out if I found anything first. It was a sensible plan. Although I didn't enjoy the thought of returning alone to the dense woods, I kept that to myself.
I followed the creek down on Smoky, keeping to the bank while calling the girls' names every few minutes. Alas, nothing other than the same silence in return. I moved my eyes between the undergrowth, the water, and the spaces in between.
After a while, the canopy above had thickened again and the air cooled. I wiped the sweat from my head when my eyes drew back to the stream. The other side seemed farther and the water deeper.
Riverlore Creek.
I thought about Mrs. Jameson and her cigarette smoke.
A devil woman in the woods.
I shook my head at the notion, but I could see how such a fable was crafted. Perhaps the witch itself is the creek. A simple superstition to keep others away, as it may have claimed many lives in the past. Especially children.
At this point I noticed Smoky had slowed his pace, angling himself towards the water. We’d been going for a while now, forty minutes if I were to guess. I pulled out my pocket watch to check the time.
Thirteen minutes past one o’clock.
My breath hitched.
I lifted the glasses off my nose to get a better look, but the time read exactly that. All the hands were completely still and the clock’s faint ticking heartbeat was absent. Frustrated, I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose while a few curses slipped out. This watch was a parting gift from my brother, an expensive one.
With a heavy sigh, I dismounted Smoky. I let his reins hang loose and watched as the horse wasted no time wading into the creek, dropping his nose to drink. His tail twitched and his head was relaxed, he wasn't going anywhere soon.
I stood at the bank stretching my arms out for a moment before deciding my own body had earned a short rest. I tucked my glasses and dead watch into my waistcoat pocket and proceeded to the water’s edge. I approached carefully as I wanted to be considerate of the remainder of my church wear.
I crouched down and cupped the running water to my face and held it there. The creek water was cool and refreshing. I let it run down my face and collar before splashing some on the back of my neck. I rested there for a moment with my hands dripping, eyes closed, listening to the creek move through the woods.
That was when I noticed the silence.
The creek still ran, I could hear it plainly, but everything else had stopped. The insects. The faint, constant rustling of the canopy. The small, persistent noises a living wood makes without notice. I opened my eyes.
All of it gone in the space of a breath.
Smoky's head came up from the water. His ears went forward, then back.
Across the creek, in the shadow line where the bank met the undergrowth, something shifted.
My natural vision was not strong with distance. The world was blurry across from me, I thought perhaps it was some deer coming to drink. Then I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up just like it did at the weeping ring.
It had stood up.
Not quickly. Not suddenly. It rose the way something rises when it has been still for a very long time. It unfolded itself to a height that my mind took a moment to register. The figure stood tall, taller than any man I’ve ever known. Dark-skinned, lean, the arms long at the sides.
Smoky screamed.
I had never heard a horse scream before. It was high and tearing.
He lunged as I reached for him. The reins slipped through my fingers, and he fled upstream, hooves striking the water and stone in blind panic.
I was left alone.
I reached for my glasses with shaky hands, not taking my eyes off it. Then the figure took shape when I frantically put them on. It had a woman's body but the head— It did not carry the face of a woman, or rather I could not find any face inside what sat atop its shoulders.
It was large, ill fitted to the frame beneath it. There were protrusions, protrusions that forked and branched outward. Whether it was a headdress or something woven or grown I could not tell you. It moved, or parts of it moved, with a slow and independent motion that the surrounding tree branches were not making. A crown of something dark and reaching, something alive in a way the rest of the figure was not. It still had no face that I could find, but it was facing me. Watching me. I was certain of that.
The witch. The thought pierced my head like a gunshot.
“Jesus Christ!" I hissed as I scrambled to my feet. “God be with me,” I prayed aloud, “Forgive me for my trespasses!”
It did not move at all. It stood motionless across the water and simply was.
At that point I turned and ran, and not once did I look back. I did not think to take bearings. I did not mark the path. I did not look back.
The silence followed me all the way out.
Chapter Three
We did not find the girls that day. Nor the day after, or the week after.
Men went out in the mornings and came back in the evenings. Deputy Hanes led the searches, starting from the Mason’s property then splitting the party in two. He led down east while the Marshalls led west, but between them and the land they covered, nothing was ever found. No clothing. No sign of struggle. No small bodies down stream. Nothing. It was as if Grace and Julia Mason had simply vanished from the world, and the dread of the unknown sat over the town like the summer heat, constant and inescapable.
I harbored no pride in admitting I kept my distance from the woods. Whenever my name was called to the search, I volunteered to scout property edges instead. One day I had missed a turn on a dirt path, and I mistakenly stumbled onto another side of Alexandria. A sprawling settlement of homesteads that seemed deliberately tucked away from the main roads. The deeper I went, the more I wondered if this area was still considered part of town. Here in these forgotten margins, I crossed paths with townsfolk I had never seen at the church or the general store before. The population on this side was entirely negro, living quietly way from the town center. I would be lying if I denied my own unease, however, it was plain to see they also regarded me with an equal measure of suspicion.
I was approached by two young men who each shared the same heavy lidded eyes and slender frame, twins undoubtedly. One cradled a banjo against his chest while the other slipped his right hand behind his waist, a gesture that made my pulse quicken. I kept my introduction short, only referring to myself as the new doctor. The brothers gave a nod and kindly pointed me towards the path of the main road. I wasted no time in turning my horse, returning to the midday heat without another word.
It took some time, but the county Sheriff finally made an appearance. He came down from Murphysboro on a quarter horse mix, pelt shining and boots clean. I got a chance to meet him briefly, and as it turned out, the Sheriff was the Reverend’s own brother. I see why Marilyn was so adamant on my courtship with Elaine. It appeared authority was kept within the family circle here in Little Egypt. He attended our church that Sunday, using the pulpit to address the tragedy alongside the word of God. His golden badge glinted under the stained-glass window light as he spoke in a cadence similar to his brother’s. But the good Sheriff didn’t stay very long, the next day a bank robbery in Cartersville called him away to the county line.
The church was full every evening for the first two weeks. I sat in the pew beside her, head bowed, listening to the Reverend's words, hoping to locate the same sincerity in myself but alas the channel was always static. Everyone who came brought something for the Masons, whether it be food, gifts or money. Caine somehow became the unofficial spokesman for the Masons, providing the congregation with updates every so often. Soon, he and his wife also handled all the charity too. On every other day Elaine and her sisters baked extra food for them, while I insisted on covering the cost of the ingredients.
When the third Sunday arrived, Reverend Matthews continued his uplifting sermons during the July heat. One hand clutched his damp handkerchief while the other pressed down on the bible. He reminded us of the great miracles and parables found in the Good Book. The belief that the Almighty would return the two girls safely, and unharmed. But I sat there with the weight of knowing they were already dead. Imagining what’s left of their bodies, somewhere in the woods decaying under this sweltering heat. Most likely scavenged by wildlife, if not already undergoing rapid decomposition. Retrieving a body in such a state is a grim and fragile business.
The town had grown significantly quieter, shops closed early, children stayed inside and it felt like everyone you passed spoke in hushed voices. Even Mrs. Jameson hadn’t uttered a single word about the witch since that fateful Sunday. Yet there were moments that were apparent she may have been reprimanded about such talk. Her quivering, tight lips gave it away whenever whispers about the girls came up. But, the old woman would place a cigarette to her lips instead.
There was a certain cruelty in watching a community pour out genuine faith, only to receive the same silence they started with. Every morning the girls were still gone, yet the prayers continued, though not a single one answered. I wasn't sure whether their steadiness was something to be admired or pitied. One Wednesday afternoon, I said as much to Margaret Rice outside the dry goods store. I was returning home after retrieving my pocket watch from the repair shop. Mrs. Rice was a stout, sharp-eyed woman in her forties who had lived in Alexandria her entire life, and seemed to carry that in her expression. She’s a heavily involved member of the church, as well as one of the top donors. Come to find out Elaine’s mother and Mrs. Rice are cousins, both are connected to some old money from the south. Back before the war, if that tells you anything. On Saturdays she directed the evening Sacred Harp assemblies, and assisted Elaine's mother whenever called upon.
"Does it not—" I paused, then tried again. "Two children, Margaret. How could the Lord allow something as terrible as this?"
Margaret looked at me and for a moment her stare held disdain as her mouth parted slightly. Then her expression quickly turned warm with a smile.
"‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose.’” She continued. “Romans chapter eight, verse twenty eight."
"Don’t they preach the word of God in the city, Doctor?" She said without looking at me, then went inside.
I stood on the steps under the oppressive sun, acutely aware of the ticking in my vest. I weighed and turned the words over in my mind. After a while, I found that it had nothing to offer whatsoever—which I suppose was the point.
I had not told anyone about what I saw at the creek.
Not Elaine. Not the Reverend. Not my sister or Mr. Mason who, of all people, deserved the right to know. As for that day, to anyone whom it concerned, it was a bear that spooked my horse. Nothing more. I told myself many things. Things I found convincing in the daylight and some considerably less so at night. The guilt grew heavier with each sunset, yet I reasoned with myself that I was simply sorting through my observations, and collecting enough evidence to avoid a premature diagnosis. As any good doctor would.
What I did, instead, was write to my brother.
Carson was two years my junior and had stayed in Chicago where he was making a reasonable living with the family business, and an unreasonable one playing cards on weekends. My brother was the only person in my life with whom we shared a long-standing agreement of total honesty. I wrote to him twice every month, and he’d write back when the spirit moved him. Carson’s letters always managed to be both deeply unhelpful yet comforting.
I wrote the letter in my office that same evening after my last patient had gone. I kept it brief, and knew better than to mention what had happened to the pocket watch.
Dear Carson,
There is a strange affair here, two young girls gone missing from a farm at the north end of town. The community is shaken, perhaps you have heard as much from Marilyn already. During the search I had an encounter in the woods that I haven't quite known what to do with. Some woman living in isolation, I expect old, perhaps not entirely in her right mind. I didn't get a clean look at her, but she startled my horse. The town calls her a witch, which I'm sure tells you more about the town than it does her. I mention it only because it has stayed with me longer than I'd like. I expect it will pass. Nothing down here bears any resemblance to Windy City. The heat, the accent, the soil. I'm adapting.
I read it back twice, it was not quite a lie. It was the shape of the truth with insides carved out. I folded and sealed it before I could think too hard about that distinction.
Every day this damned town grew hotter. Even the nights offered no escape, the humidity trapped the heat against the earth, suffocating what little composure I had left. I attempted to leave the windows open last week, only to discover the night brings no breeze whatsoever—only the gnats. I awakened each morning to a suffocating room, my body bitten and slick with sweat. Even if, by some miracle, I managed to steal a few hours of sleep, the nightmares were there waiting for me.
They all began the same, with me standing at the edge of the creek. It was daylight with no shadows in any direction, they were all on the bank across from me. Next came the caw of a single crow and in an instant, the water went still, the forest sounds muted into nothing and my pocket watch lay dead in my hand. That's when I knew she was coming. And there on the far bank the figure emerged. Her crown slowly reached as shadows spilled out into the creek.
I turned and ran every time, cupping my mouth as my teeth began falling out. But the dream never ended there. Above in the forest’s canopy I would notice the crows, there were hundreds, if not more, perched silently on the branches. Although their features were undefined, they were watchful. I always looked back over at the witch but her silhouette was completely dissolved in the growing darkness. Next, the crows would take flight. Then my dreams always ended the same, with the flock swarming me like a plague of locusts, their beaks pecking and tearing the flesh off my bones.
And every time I would awaken nauseous, covered in sweat, along with a throbbing headache. I understood the human mind had its ways of working through traumatic experiences, but there came a point where my insomnia took its toll. I did a good job hiding the fatigue for the first few weeks but eventually it all caught up to me, and thus the quality of my waking hours began to suffer. Both in my professional and personal life, people slowly began to notice my exhaustion. Elaine was the first to say something, she was kind of course but my ears burned with embarrassment, as if I had failed her somehow.
“It feels like you’re somewhere else entirely sometimes, Harold.” The words hurt, and as much as I wanted to explain myself to her, I held my tongue. I believed the restless nights would soon pass, and all I needed was to endure and forget what happened in the woods that day. They were just dreams after all, harmless though inconvenient.
It wasn’t until one afternoon, I had come to realize I had reached my limit. It happened in my office, I somehow mixed up the charts. I had forceps ready in hand, and just as I was about to pull two teeth from a woman’s jaw, I realized she had only come in for ankle pain. That’s when I decided my insomnia required medical intervention. I could not afford to make such reckless mistakes.
That same day, I waited until the sun was completely gone. Rain blanketed the town, breaking the summer's dry spell. I stood in my office, staring at the medicine cabinet, my palms turned clammy at the thought of what I was about to do. I said a quick prayer before unlocking the cabinet. I kept telling myself that this was an urgent matter and that I was not breaking into old habits—just something to get me through one night. What I reached for was not quite alcohol, but something far worse. The tinted glass bottle felt warm in my hand, and the familiar sweet aroma of black licorice filled my lungs, a scent I knew all too well. The rain grew heavy and lashed against the windows as I retreated upstairs to my quarters. I pulled the cork and swallowed just enough to guarantee an escape. I tucked the bottle under the rug beneath the bed, stripped down to my under-linens, laid over the covers and waited for what came next as I drifted into nothingness.
When I opened my eyes again, the morning had arrived. It took me a moment to gather my bearings. Instinctively, I reached for my glasses when I noticed my body felt unusually heavy and sore as if I had spent the whole night dragging a dead horse. I attempted to sit up but my entire body protested in pain. That’s when I noticed a foul smell. I looked down, and my blood ran cold.
I was fully clothed.
A shirt, coat, trousers and a haphazardly knotted tie none of which belonged to me. The boots I wore were caked in mud and leaf litter, my bedsheets damp and stained with mire. I covered my mouth, stifling a cry, and that’s when I noticed my hands. My lungs seized at the sight of them—God help me—my hands were stained with dark blood past my wrists. The smell of iron overwhelmed me as I flung my hand away. I heaved.
Where did this blood come from? Who did it belong to? Was this another dream?
I looked across my room and saw dark muddy tracks that rounded the corner of my doorframe leading to my bed. With panic, fueled by sheer horror, I jumped to my feet and began stripping off the unfamiliar, filthy clothing. Tearing at the fabric as if it were burning my skin, then tossed the remnants in a pile away from me. My gaze dropped down to my hands again, I could not hold them still. The blood was thick and viscous leaving my skin tacky and inflamed. I grabbed the discarded shirt from the pile and forcefully wiped my hands, scrubbing the stains away. Try as I might, I couldn’t grasp a single memory of last night. Nothing at all—except for one clear recollection.
I instantly dropped to my knees, frantically peeling back the edge of the rug searching for the evidence. Alas, with a trembling hand, I picked it up.
The sight of the empty glass bottle made me ill. I wanted to scream, but the thought of slitting my throat arrived instead.