The Riverlore Witch: 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, a summer hum— if you will. 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 by myself to the roots.
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.
I am not a man who frightens easily. I've seen the inside of a body 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.
A primal chill rippled up my spine raising the hairs on the back of 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 stood there for a while, observing.
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, the worst had likely already happened. 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 cooler. I wiped the sweat from my head when my eyes drew back to the stream. The other side seemed farther and the water deeper now.
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 letting a few curses slip 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 the horse wasted no time wading into the creek, dropping his nose to drink. His tail twitched and his head 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 simply stood 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. That silence followed me all the way out.
I did not go back.
Chapter One
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