Gravity Rises (S3)

Minisode Two: Lilith Crypt

Content warning: Historical representation of the American South in the 1960s. Some racist speech.

TENNESSEE, USA, 1960

Ten-year-old Fiddleford McGucket tore down the dirt road. Where he was going, he didn't know, as long as it was away from his pursuers.

A small mob of adolescent boys chased after him. As they ran, they yelled at Fidds, showering him in insults and threats. "Don't try to run from us, Biddy Boy!" they shouted, using one of their cruel nicknames for their prey. "We're gonna getcha, and then we're gonna teach you the meaning of pain!"

Fidds had no idea why these bullies targeted him. All he knew was that he needed to get away from them. His lungs burned with a needling pain as he ran. Go away! he shouted in his mind; he had no breath with which to voice his thoughts. Leave me alone!

The bullies did not hear his mental pleas. So Fidds continued to run.

Where could he go? What could he do? He was faster than the bullies, but not by much. They'd catch up to him eventually. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, tears squeezing from his eyes. He tried to blink them away — he had to be able to see if he was going to get out of this — but there was no stopping them. They just came.

The road sloped up into a hill. Fidds took it without much thought. In the back of his mind, he thought desperately that he may be able to hide once he got over the hill. In practicality, though, the upward climb only served to tire him more.

The bullies behind him didn't seem to be winded all. Not based on their continued jeers.

How did these boys still have energy?! Why would they expend it chasing after someone as insignificant as Fidds? Didn't they have better things to be doing?

Finally, Fidds crested the hill. By then, he'd managed to stop crying, and the tears in his eyes no longer obstructed his vision. He could make out what lay on the other side of the hill in near-perfect clarity.

His heart sank.

At the base of the incline lay a secluded shack. Its walls were filled with rotting planks; brightly colored cloth hung down over the entrances. This was a shack Fidds had only heard about in legend: the lair of the local witch.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Fidds made a split-second decision. He dashed down the hill.

Straight to the shack below.

"Hey, McSuckit!" one of the bullies yelled. "You gonna go hide out with the witch?"

Someone else laughed. "Maybe he's a witch too!"

When Fidds didn't stop, the yells became a bit more concerned. "Biddy, you know who's down there, don't you? The witch is gonna eat you!" They kept chasing him, but their resolve seemed to be failing.

Fidds tried to ignore them, tried not to take hope in their faltering. He kept his eyes trained on his feet as he ran, so he wouldn't trip over rocks, but his eyes kept flicking up to the shack in the distance. His heart raced, and not just because he was exerting himself. Was he really going to do this? Was he really going to gamble his safety on a fabled witch?

His ears trained on the running feet behind him. Yes. He had to. It was either the possibility of a witch eating him, or the surety of these boys beating him up.

Please, please don't let there be an actual witch in there.

He made it to the base of the hill. The witch's shack was only a few yards away. Fidds took as big a breath as his tired lungs would allow—