Usurped

Chapter 5

Many years ago, my mother would tell me these tales as bedtime stories.

Centuries ago, a coven of thirteen witches—each gifted and hailing from distant lands—came together, united by a vision for a better world. But ambition twisted the hearts of three, stirring a thirst for power beyond the others.

Driven by curiosity, they cast a forbidden spell, summoning dark spirits that seized control of them. Their magic turned malevolent, and from that moment, witches were marked as evil across the world. Innocent lives were lost as fear spread, branding all witches as threats.

On the first autumn day of 1868, a crowd gathered before three women in their mid-thirties—Isabella Pravati, Elizabeth Cooper, and Dianne O’Conner. As the last of the coven’s original thirteen, they faced justice, their madness ending as the clock struck three. With the covert aid of good witches in secret, the three were hanged, stripped of any chance to wield magic. That night, under a blood moon, the restless howls of dogs and screeches of bats filled the air.

Yet, the witches regrouped, restoring the thirteen and uncovering a prophecy: centuries later, the three would return—young and innocent at first, but destined to unleash their dark power once more.

In an instant, I found myself in the same place, now surrounded by modernity—from the buildings to the clothing of those around me. Yet, the three girls remained bound, unchanged by time.

“...Your grandmother was the first High Priestess, the one who took on the task before me,” Mom’s voice was steady as her clothes shimmered, shifting into the familiar red dress she had worn the last time I saw her. My pulse thudded in my ears, each beat quickening.

“I managed to banish them, but our spell fractured, and they vanished,” she continued. “Now they’ve returned, and only you can set things right. You carry my blood—you have the power. Do it before the blood moon rises again.”

Before I could utter a single question, the vision shattered like glass, yanking me back to reality. I jolted awake, my heart racing, while my friends remained lost in slumber. I slipped out of the room and rushed toward town, urgency propelling my search for a taxi.

When I reached our old, abandoned house, wild vines choked the walls and crept across the floor. I descended the cement staircase, the air growing thick and heavy, and plunged into a darkness that enveloped me like a shroud.

I raised my phone’s flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness, revealing three young girls bound to the wall by thick ropes. They looked different from the girls in my mother’s tale, yet their clothes and style held an uncanny resemblance.

“Help us,” whispered one of them, blue eyes brimming with tears, her voice quivering.

I stood frozen, caught between duty and disbelief. I was a police officer; someone had asked me to find these girls, and now that I had, my instincts urged me to act. But memories of my dream clawed at my resolve.

“Sir, pl-please,” the girl with dark curls stammered, “we… haven’t eaten in days.”

With my gun back at the house, I tightened my fists, ready to protect myself and the girls if need be. “Who put you here?” I asked.

“We… don’t know,” replied the blonde, her voice frail. In the center, a girl with brown hair just remained standing, probably buried in the silence of her sorrows. The three were coated in dust, their skin pale as chalk. “Every night, masked people stand before us, chanting in the dark.”

I stood, paralyzed, unsure of what to do until my hands moved on their own, loosening the ropes binding one of the girls. “Thank you, sir,” the blonde girl whispered, her tears streaked with the faintest hint of a smile. I freed her, then moved to the girl in the middle, who blinked awake, startled to see me. Finally, I released the last girl.

The moment the ropes fell, all three turned to me, eyes shining, and threw their arms around me in a grateful embrace. “Thank you,” they murmured together.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the station, reporting the mission accomplished. I requested paramedics for the girls and backup from Richmond officers to track down whoever had left them here in this darkness.

“Great job, Detective Inspector,” said the police chief, shaking my hand with gratitude evident in his shining eyes.

As the sun climbed higher, we stepped out of the house, finally free from whatever nightmare had held the three girls captive. Days passed, and the world felt unchanged—life moved as it always had. We returned to Westershire, yet I couldn’t shake the need to check on the girls I had rescued. When I did, I saw them happy, nestled in the warmth of their families—sweet, caring, and full of life.

In that moment, I recognized the shadows of my own trauma, the lingering scars from witnessing my mother’s death. My therapist echoed this truth when I saw her again; no child should carry such weight. But I was grateful—I hadn’t succumbed to false memories, and in saving those girls, I had perhaps shielded them from the darkness that once marked my own life.

Just as life began to settle, my mother’s presence faded from my dreams. Instead, the red moon haunted my nights—a silent, burning omen that lingered without explanation.

Perhaps my mother finally found peace, her visits to my dreams no longer needed. The red moon, I reasoned, might echo her favorite scarlet dresses—a memory left behind.

I still don’t understand why she took such a path, but I know the truth will reveal itself in time. For now, I’ll carry on with life.

I take pride in finally closing the case that consumed my father for so long. The police unearthed the remains of the three girls who vanished back in 1978, identified through DNA tests as children taken forcibly from their families. Knowing the girls I saved were spared that fate fills me with quiet relief.