After his friend Clare goes missing, Matthew encounters a series of strange, unnatural events involving a long-dead witch; an unfortunate cat; and a monster that should have remained buried.
With his life on the line, and time running out, his only...
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
-Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken.
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1621 - Northern Ireland
The world turned as it often did, inexorably marching towards tomorrow with no sign of slowing. The sun would soon set and rise once again, not that she would be there to see it.
Tomorrow, Emily would be dead.
Water rushed beneath her feet, swirling in hypnotic eddies that teased her, threatening to suck her in. Further downstream, the river roared, crashing against rocks and frothing up. Looking down at her own grave left Emily with a strange sense of confusion. It was all so... surreal.
"Emily Doyle, you stand accused of witchcraft!"
'Here he goes,' She rolled her eyes, looking at the pompous little man beneath her. He truly was beneath her in every sense of the word. She was more intelligent than he was, taller than he was, kinder than he was. But. He had an order from the church. A tiny scrap of paper that decided whether she lived or died.
"Just get on with it," She grumbled, tapping her foot impatiently.
"Ah, Ha! So, you do not refute the claims!" The vicar screamed, spittle flying from his crooked mouth, where rotten yellow teeth stuck out at uncomfortable angles.
Emily sighed, "Even if I did, it wouldn't matter," She gazed down at the crowd. Behind the mob mentality and religious fury, there was a tinge of sorrow on the people's faces.
A young boy, barely six years of age, looked up at her, his eyes watering, "Why must doctor Emily die? She saved Mary when she-"
"Shh, hush, child. Speak not of that witch lest we join her in the river," A tart woman hissed, placing her bony hand over the boy's mouth.
Emily smiled at the boy. She didn't blame him; she didn't blame any of them, not really. To be frank, it wasn't their fault. The vicar was a whole other story, but the people of this village were helpless, and she couldn't resent them for that.
"It is time, Heathen!" The vicar screeched, clutching his bible the same way a child holds a stuffed toy at night, praying it would ward off the scary things hiding in the dark.
"Took you long enough," Emily muttered, feeling rough hands pushing against her back. It was John, a man she had saved from dysentery two winters past.
"I'm sorry, lady Emily, but my daughter...." John whispered his tone pleading.
"It's alright, John. I left the medicine in a hidden spot, up by the devil's mound," Emily said, her voice calm and measured.
John paused, his expression grim, "You know we aren't supposed to go to the devil's mound, it's cursed,"
