The Witch of the Flood

"Beware, beware! The Witch shall have your blood should you venture out to the flood!" The old man's voice cracked like a whip in the silent, humid air. His wild eyes darted from one shadow to another as if the witch herself might spring from the gloom. His tattered clothes clung to his frail frame, and his matted hair swayed as he staggered on unsteady legs.

Young Aldrin Black, though unsettled by the man's shrill cry, kept his composure as he strolled through the town square of Sukurin. The oppressive heat of the afternoon hung over the desolate town like a suffocating blanket, but the sweat trickling down his neck didn't bother him. Not today. Not when there was so much yet to discover.

Jacko, his loyal Border Collie, trotted alongside him, ears perked and eyes alert, ever vigilant. The dog's black and white coat stood out starkly against the muted, dusty surroundings, but it was his calm demeanour that gave Aldrin comfort. Jacko was more than just a pet; he was a protector, a friend who'd been with Aldrin through thick and thin. As they walked, Aldrin couldn't help but notice the way the townsfolk glanced at him—quick, furtive looks that held a mixture of pity and suspicion. Sukurin was a place where secrets lingered like the mist that clung to the swamp at dawn, and outsiders were often met with wariness. But Aldrin wasn't just any outsider; he had roots here, even if the memories were faded and fragmented.

"Pay him no mind, Jacko," Aldrin muttered under his breath, more to reassure himself than the dog. The old man's warning echoed in his head, but he shook it off. Sukurin had always been full of ghost stories and superstitions. And yet, there was something in the man's voice—a raw fear that gnawed at Aldrin's thoughts, like the persistent gnats that hovered in the thick air.

They passed by the remnants of what was once a bustling market, now reduced to a handful of weathered stalls. Most were abandoned, their owners long gone or too fearful to stay. The few that remained sold only the barest essentials—dried meats, stale bread, and the occasional medicinal herb. A woman, her face lined with age and worry, quickly averted her eyes as Aldrin passed, muttering a prayer under her breath.

Aldrin's steps slowed as he neared the centre of the square, where an ancient well stood. The well's stone edges were worn smooth by time, and the rope that once lowered the bucket into the depths had long since rotted away. He could almost hear the echoes of the past—the laughter of children, the gossip of women, the clink of coins exchanged for fresh produce. But now, only silence remained.

Jacko suddenly stopped, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air. The dog's ears flattened, and a low growl rumbled from his throat. Aldrin's hand instinctively went to his side, where his father's old hunting knife was sheathed. The blade had seen its fair share of use, but it was the stories behind it that made it valuable—stories of courage, of survival in the unforgiving wilderness.

"Easy, boy," Aldrin whispered, his eyes scanning the shadows that crept along the edges of the square. The sun was sinking lower, casting long, twisted shapes across the ground. The swamp, with its dark waters and twisted trees, loomed just beyond the town's edge, a constant reminder of the unknown that lay within.

He felt it then—a presence, something cold and intangible that brushed against his mind like a gust of icy wind. It was fleeting, but enough to make his skin crawl. Jacko sensed it too, his growl deepening as he took a step forward, placing himself between Aldrin and whatever lurked in the gloom.

"Beware!" The old man's voice rang out again, closer this time, as if he'd followed them. "She watches, she waits! The flood will come, and with it, her wrath!"

Aldrin turned, his heart pounding in his chest, but the man was nowhere to be seen. The square was empty save for a few lingering souls who quickly disappeared into the safety of their homes, leaving Aldrin and Jacko alone in the growing darkness.