Untamable Matriarch: The Witheridge Witches

Chapter 4

TW: umm? Violence, Murder, etc...? If you know my writing style then you already know. What are our thoughts on twigger warnings? Should I put a blanket one at the beginning of the book and none per chapter? The issue is that I'm releasing this book a chapter at a time...

Margareth

The Parish around me feels like home. No matter where I am the stone floors and ornate stained glass windows along with the hard wooden pews have been my constant companions. I long since abandoned God as I came to terms with what I am. After my coven found me back in France centuries ago I quickly found out I was different than them. And I didn't find out until the mid-1800s why - when I had fallen pregnant with my second child, Charlotte. While my mother was a witch, my father had been a demon. I'd almost been ousted from my coven entirely upon finding out the truth. They only didn't because I was seen as too valuable of an asset to them. It had been a hard pill for me to swallow as a practicing Catholic. I'd since embraced what I am.

Demons aren't allowed past those pearly gates mentioned in Revelations. We were cast down to Hell or to roam the Earth and Purgatory. I never had a chance. Regardless, I find solace sitting in a church. After all, while being one of the black sheep of the family I am still one of God's children.

"Ah. Miss Basel, I presume? My 1:30 appointment for confession, yes?" the heavily accented, middle-aged, balding priest asks.

He smelled putrid. I detected Dutch in his accent which I had only heard at quite a distance, previously, confirming that he was from the Netherlands. The death clock counting down above his head confirmed that he was my target.

"Yes." I stutter meekly.

An act, obviously.

Today, I dressed as Miss Alison Basel, one of my favorite aliases. No one thought twice about a little old woman. They were invisible. I masked my face to sag and wrinkle more. I made my hair start to grey on the top while the bottom half was poorly dyed blonde and frizzy. My hair was bluntly cut above my shoulders as if she'd done it herself. Probably to save money. Large glasses covered my face and I dawned an itchy matching woolen sweater and long skirt. I clutched my well-worn Bible to me along with my rosary as I stood. I let my ankle turn over in my black leather clogs as I stood up before catching myself on the edge of the pew in front of me chuckling nervously.

This wasn't my personal Parish. I didn't shit where I ate in a manner of speaking. Not that I wouldn't if the need arose. I went to St. Bartholomew's closer to my townhouse. I did my research. Priests tended to dabble in more devilish things than I could ever fathom. And I liked to give them a taste of what was to come for them. It had been a personal hobby of mine for centuries now even before I knew what I was.

"Sorry." I apologize to the man in front of me as he offers me his hand.

"No need to apologize, miss." he assuages as he motions for me to follow him to the confession booths.

I internally grin to myself as I watch him lead the way. I'd enjoy this. It'd been too long since I'd let this side of me out. And although this wasn't important to why my coven had stationed me in D.C. it was important to me. And I was so hungry for it.

We both took our positions in the confession booth and he began with a prayer. When he finished I signed the cross and said, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been six weeks and two days since my last confession."

"Go on, my child." he says in rote.

Child.

I stifle a grimace at that.

He was so unsuspecting. He never thought he'd get caught. Or punished. They never did. I eyed him curiously from beneath Alison Basil's heavy glasses. I wonder when the last time he'd touched a parish member's child.