Hunger

Chapter 1

Hunger. Raw and aching. It strikes you as you wake from a restless slumber, reverberating through you like a single lonely voice in a canyon, bouncing off the barren walls. Tears are already welling from your eyes. You haven't eaten in eight weeks. Eight weeks of yearning. Eight weeks of longing for even the smallest morsel of the only thing your body can digest; young, human flesh. You get out of bed slowly, your head spinning from the lack of nutrients in your system. Your blood sugar is low. How ironic. Your entire home is one large, sugary confection, with walls made of gingerbread, windows of sugar-glass, and icing icicles hanging from the roof. And yet you can eat not a single crumb lest you become violently ill. No, this house is not for your eating. This house exists for one reason, and one reason alone: hunting. When all you can eat is children, you must be creative, and you must be careful. But, alas, you also have to isolate yourself from the rest of the world. Unless you want to find yourself in the middle of a burning pyre. No. Your sister was a lesson well learned in how painful burning can be. Her screams still ring in your ears daily.

You step into the kitchen, where your gaze rests upon the large, empty oven. It seems to be taunting you; goading you to anger. You open the door and gaze at the blackened stone, and the grey ashes resting at the bottom of the fire pit. The scent of past meals strikes you, a heavy scent of burning wood and spices. You can hear the sizzle of fat as it melts into the meat, tenderizing every muscle. Your mouth starts to water as you remember the last child. A fat boy who took almost a full day to cook. Having to eat children is the scourge of your existence, but it is the only way. You didn't ask to be a witch. You didn't ask to be you. Who would ask for such a fate? It's not like you haven't thought of the alternatives. But truly, what choices do you have as an immortal witch? Kill, cook, and eat children, or take your own life.

You slam the oven door. It creaks loudly in protest, almost as if begging to be used again. You witches have the gift of magic for a reason. It's the reason you are so feared. Spelling children has never been a problem. They are so innocent; so easy to enchant. Sometimes it's as easy as singing a simple song, or enticing them with a particularly handsome apple. Annabelle, your beloved sister, had quite a knack for it. Sometimes she needed simply to look at a child and beckon them forward. That's why you left the enchanting to her. Her skills were far beyond your own. Having a sister gave both of you the upper-hand in your hunting. If she were still here, the two of you would be working in tandem, as you did for so many years before. Annabelle would enchant the children, and you would cook them to perfection. But after what happened, the idea of ever using your magic again is nauseating. You are terrified of what may happen. But the hunger will not be silenced. It is not like the hunger humans feel. It's sharp, like being stabbed in the stomach. It goes deeper, twisting your insides as an iron poker left in the flames until it glows red. It turns you inside out. As time goes on, the pain only gets worse. You've lasted this long, but how much longer can you survive like this? It's been so long since you've performed the magic to enchant children. You're certainly capable, but you've never liked it. It always made you feel dirty, even when they deserved it. But that was your past. This is your present, and your present is ruled by the hunger. Your present is pain, and agony, and you cannot take much more. When the sun sets you will act, using your magic to lure at least one child back to your home.