A Hollow in the Moment

A Hollow in the Moment
A Story of the Crow Witch
by Mike Phillips

There was something about the porcupine that struck Jason Kelso as strange. It was in the way the creature moved, like it wasn’t used to walking on all fours, like any moment it would stand like a man and run away.

“Craig, wait up,” Jason shouted to his older brother.

Though he could still hear him as he crashed through the thick undergrowth ahead, Jason wasn’t exactly sure in which direction his brother had gone. He was afraid of getting too far away from camp and getting lost in the mountains.

“Craig, come on, wait!”

“Move it you slow poke, it’s getting away,” Craig’s voice sounded from a direction Jason hadn’t expected.

“This is weird. Something’s not right,” Jason shouted as he ran toward the sound of his brother’s voice. “It’s going too fast. It’s not natural.”

A sliver of the setting sun lay gently on the mountaintop, casting dark shadows that would soon darken to night. Pushing through the last of a thick growth of brush, Jason could now see his brother in the dim light. He was maybe fifty yards ahead, mostly in the straight up direction. The porcupine was barely visible, nearly to the top of this steep part of the mountain.

“Come on Craig, it’s getting late. Something bad is going to happen.”

Craig looked over his shoulder every now and then to make sure Jason didn’t get too far behind but he kept climbing, grasping thin tree trunks and branches to help him on his way.

“What are you afraid of?” Craig asked in a disgusted voice.

“I don’t know,” Jason said quietly, following. “I just don’t like it. It gives me the creeps. I don’t know what we’re chasing the stupid old thing for anyway.”

“Come on! It’s getting away.”

Craig waited for his brother at the top of the rise, helping him up, but he complained about losing precious time all the while. They had come to a flatter part of the mountain where they didn’t have to use their hands to remain upright. There was even a little path, a slip of a foot trail cut into the rock that looked as if it hadn’t been used by anything but bears and wolves for the last hundred years.

It had grown dark during the climb, making Jason even more nervous about the situation, but Craig insisted they keep going, quoting leaf and stick lore to support his case. Jason was too tired to argue.

“Look at that. There he is, almost like he’s waiting for us,” Craig said, untying an old shirt from his waist and wadding it round his hand. “I’m going to get a few of those quills. I’ve never seen anything like that. The color, it’s so cool, almost like magic.”

“Yeah, magic,” Jason replied, but with dread rather than awe.

“You can be scared all you want. I’m going after it.” With that, Craig was off once again, leaving his younger brother behind.

“That thing’s too fast, you’ll never catch it,” Jason shouted discouragement from behind. The more he saw of the porcupine the more his feeling of apprehension grew, but he followed his brother all the same.

Then the porcupine stopped. Even as Craig grew closer, the animal didn’t move away. It just kept licking its paws without an apparent worry in the world.

“Look, we tired it out,” Craig called out greedily, coming within ten feet of the thorny monster.

The porcupine stirred, moving slowly toward something that Jason couldn’t quite make out in the growing darkness. Craig made his move, closing the distance, coming close enough to be within reaching distance of the creature’s back.

“No, it’s evil. Run! Run away,” Jason called out suddenly. “It’s a monster. It’s a trap.”

But it was too late. Without a sound or a sight to mark their passing, Craig and the porcupine were gone. Jason was alone in the forest.

“Craig!” Jason shouted, but his echo was the only reply, answering again and again as his voice treaded from stone to stone and then faded away.

He bit his lip and began to cry, but hearing a noise in the direction of the disappearance, he turned and ran away. Running wildly, without knowing where he was headed, Jason left the trail, going heedless into the forest. He didn’t know that part of the mountain very well, had always followed his brother’s lead on their adventures anyway. Now he was on his own and he felt certain that something terrible was after him.

His feet coming out from under him, Jason slid down a steep slope, finding at the bottom what he thought was a familiar bush and outcropping of rock. Optimistic, he pressed on in that direction for what seemed hours, no longer running, but walking and often sliding downhill as fast as he could go. His only hope was to find camp, take his bicycle to the road, and find help.

Something followed. Jason heard it first as only a rustle behind him. Then it seemed to be at one side or another, sometimes both sides at once. The sound grew louder as he neared the camp, just as he was able to see the last flicker of light from the unkempt fire through the trees.

“That’s it, I know that’s the camp,” he told himself through his fear. “All I have to do is get my bike and I’ll be out of here before anything can get me.” Finding strength from he knew not where, he started to run again, determined, desperate.

A fierce roar beat him back from his path. He looked up and there was the biggest black bear he had ever seen, standing between him and the camp. Everything he knew about bears was forgotten as he turned and ran away.

The bear snorting huskily behind, Jason ran for only a short while before he tripped and fell, branding his knees and palms with pain. Any moment he expected the crush of heavy paws upon his back or the bite of powerful jaws at his neck. Neither wound ever came. The forest was again quiet.

The bear was gone, but now he had no idea where the camp was. Thinking the bear followed at a distance to make a meal of him once he had tired, Jason stood and kept going. A bear could smell blood from a mile away, said the old men at the feed store. Jason felt his hands and knees and discovered a wetness that he knew would mark his fate.

From that moment out of reckoning, every little sound startled him into a new direction until he wandered hopelessly and completely lost. At length and to his great relief the forest ended, and in the light of the quarter moon, Jason came upon what looked to be a farmhouse at the edge of a field.

All the lights were off inside, but the boy hoped he could rouse someone from sleep. He didn’t know what he would tell the people who lived there, surely not what he had seen. His brother had simply disappeared into a shimmer of darkness, as if he had been pulled into a rip in the fabric of time like in some bad science fiction story. Fearful of the bear, he knocked on the door anyway. No one answered.

A crow cawed from behind. Jason turned and saw the black bird sitting atop a scraggly old oak tree, leering at him with piercing black eyes. He turned away to knock again, but before he could set flesh to wood, he heard a voice.

“Jason Kelso, what brings you to my doorstep tonight, even though it is a fine summer evening for unexpected visitors?”

It was a woman’s voice that spoke, and though he remembered the voice from somewhere, Jason couldn’t place it. He turned, but the shadow of the tree on which the crow had perched made it so his view of the woman’s face was masked.

“Hello? Who are you?” he called.

“You’re confused because you’re lost,” the voice replied, though Jason thought he heard other things spoken, ancient words that were lost upon the wind. For some reason, he felt better. The voice was soothing. It let him forget his fears.

“How do you know?”

“That’s not important now.”

“My brother,” Jason stammered, “a bear got my brother. It was the biggest black bear I’ve ever seen.”

“No, you and I both know it wasn’t a bear,” the woman said gently, still hidden by the moon shadow of the tree. “I’ve had word of your troubles.”

“Word? What do you mean?”

Patiently, the woman explained, “Friends, I have friends in the forest. They sent word of your troubles, that an evil being of some kind has taken your brother captive. My friends set you on the path to me so that we might liberate him.”

“Friends? Oh, I’m so confused. I still don’t know what friends you’re talking about. I don’t even know who you are.”

“No? You don’t recognize my voice then?” she asked, stepping from under the tree. “I’m Miss Weigenmeister, the librarian.”

“Shouldn’t we get the cops or something? Maybe we should get my dad, he has a gun.”

“No weapon of that type will do us any good. This is magic we’re dealing with.”

“I knew that porcupine was trouble,” Jason said, giving in to his fear and crying.

Miss Weigenmeister stepped forward and drew an arm around his shoulder. “Now then, we’ll put this to rights. This is a task for you and me, not for the police.”

“What can we do?” said Jason, his voice small and trembling.

“More than you think,” the woman said, laughing. The sound of her laugh was kindly, bright and warm as a spring day, and it pierced the darkness with words that were fortifying to the spirit, like her secret voice had been. The laugh gave Jason the strength to face his fears and do what he knew he must. “Shall we go?”

“Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll go, but I don’t know where to go.”

“Follow me then, we’ll chase the steps you made in coming here.”

Jason wiped his tears and smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. The night has yet to reach its halfway mark and there’s still much to do! Let us go.”

And with that, Miss Weigenmeister took Jason’s hand and they began to run, back into the wilderness. They ran so fast that Jason felt as if he were flying. Even after all the pains of his earlier efforts he was invigorated somehow, like he could go on forever without food or rest. Before Jason knew it, they were at the base of the mountain where he and his brother had chased after the porcupine to thief its pretty quills.

“Now, be quiet,” Miss Weigenmeister said, without even breathing hard from the run.

“It’s not far. You’ll have to show me the rest of the way. Do you remember?”

Jason was surprised to find that he wasn’t breathing hard either. He nodded in reply to the question, but in the dark thought better of the gesture and whispered, “Yes.”

He led her up the slope by the same sad way in which he had lost his brother, almost as if he were being drawn. He found the place where Craig had helped him climb, where the little path was lost to time. Then at last they stood near the very spot where the porcupine had sprung its trap.

“Here it is,” Jason said. “What is it?”

“A hollow in the moment. Tell me, what do you see?”

“See? I don’t see anything.”

“Do you mean you see blackness? Do you see a distortion?”

“No, I mean I don’t see anything.”

“Interesting. Then how do you know it’s there?”

“I don’t know,” Jason said. “I just feel it. Is that strange?”

“Possibly. Have you ever encountered anything like it before?”

“No. What’s a hollow in the moment? What is that thing?”

“If you’re looking for a rational explanation I don’t have one. I use a translated name that comes from a native tribe that once inhabited these lands.”

“What does it do?”

“That depends on who’s controlling it.”

“Can you control it?”

“Yes, but then we wouldn’t find your brother inside. That place would not be the same place in which your brother is being held. He is inside a place that was created by whatever abducted him. It will be a reflection of that creature. If it is very adept, once we’re inside it will be able to change our surroundings at will.” Miss Weigenmeister added warily, “It may try to confuse us.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Well yes, I do think so. It has taken your brother captive. That’s not at all a friendly thing to do.”

Looking away, Jason replied, “Yeah, I guess.”

“I must send for help now that we have found the exact location. Will you wait? My summons will take but an instant.”

“Sure,” Jason said, but he barely spoke the words before he lost sight of her. He turned his head to see where she had gone but as he turned back, Miss Weigenmeister returned as if she had never left. “Wow, how’d you do that?”

“I’m a librarian. Most of the world’s secrets are open to me.”

“Oh, but…”

“No time for questions and answers, we must go now. Gather your courage.”

“How about I gather a big stick and a few rocks instead?”

“Violence is not your place in this,” Miss Weigenmeister said with a forcefulness that was not unkind. By those words Jason was strangely reassured, however. He nodded and followed her into the hollow.

What was once night became twilight. The sounds of the insects and frogs and birds suddenly stopped. They were in what seemed a cave, but the rock somehow didn’t look right to Jason. The floor was smooth as pavement. The walls were rough but were more like the stage set for a school play rather than any cave he had ever been in.

“This won’t be much trouble,” Miss Weigenmeister said in a low voice, but with a surprising confidence. “Whatever created this has little imagination. Of all the places in the entirety of creation that could be made of this, we end up in what could be expected to be here anyway.”

She brushed a hand against the wall, talking to herself as if thinking, “There’s an utter lack of detail. The rock is hard but not solid. The walls vary little in gross shape. The finer detail doesn’t vary at all. It’s like we’re walking through the same five feet of cave over and over again. Whatever did this probably doesn’t even realize that it is in control, that this cave came about because of its will.”

“Good,” Jason said.

“Mind you, it is still in control.”

“Then how do we find my brother?”

“There haven’t been any branching tunnels. I think we’ll find him at the end.”

“What then?”

“I may have a trick or two that would be helpful.” She paused a moment. “Hush now. See the light ahead, the glow? That seems a fire’s light to my eyes.”

“Yes, I see it.”

“Time for my trick then. Close your eyes and say a prayer for guidance.”

Jason did as he was asked without question. When he had opened his eyes, Miss Weigenmeister was gone. In her place was a crow and a crumpled pile of clothes, the floral print dress the librarian had been wearing.

“What? You?”

“My tricks are my own, thank you,” Miss Weigenmeister said curtly. “Now, take my clothes and come with me to the edge of darkness. I will distract whatever it is. I want you to grab your brother and run. Whatever happens, just keep going until you’re outside. You’ll be safe then. I’ll be right behind you but you mustn’t stop. Promise me.”

“I’ll do it, but what if he’s tied up?”

“That won’t matter.”

“But...”

“But nothing, we must act.”

They crept quietly down the cave until they came to a wider area, a chamber about the size of Jason’s bedroom. There they lingered for a moment at the edge of the ruddy light cast by the fire, trying to see inside, but they could not do so and remain hidden. With a reassuring nod to Jason, Miss Weigenmeister hopped into the light.

“What? Who’s that?” came a harsh voice, the source of which was not seen by the boy. “Don’t come no nearer or I’ll bash ya’ brains in, stupid bird.”

There was a moment’s pause. “I said go away.” Then angrily it said, “All right then, take this!”

Something shattered against the wall. A crow’s sharp caw filled the cave.

“I’ll get you stupid bird!”

Jason pushed his head into the light, finally able to get a look inside the small chamber. There was his brother, resting on a floor piled with old bones, his head down, possibly sleeping. His arms and legs were cast into heavy chains.

The thing chasing after the crow was no longer a porcupine. It was a little man, about a foot shorter than Jason, with a thick beard and mustache that were flaming red. Its black eyes were wide as river stones and marbled with fine greens and grays. It had broad shoulders and its arms and legs were gnarled as the rock under a waterfall. From bedtime stories long forgotten, Jason would have named the little man as a troll.

As it ran about the chamber, chasing the crow as she flitted about, the troll bashed a stone club against the walls, missing its target time and again. The troll was distracted. It was time for Jason to act.

Gathering his courage, Jason burst into the room and took hold of his brother. Fingers tingling, he thought he heard Miss Weigenmeister speak strange words. The chains fell away. Craig suddenly awoke, confused, but with Jason’s urging they were off, back up the cave as fast as they could go.

“Hey, come back here!” the troll howled after them, furious. “I’m gonna eat the both of ya’s. Come back here!”

“No!” Miss Weigenmeister said sharply. “You wicked little man, you can’t have them, not as long as I draw breath to protect them.”

“A talking bird?” the troll said in surprise. Then in gathered anger he said, “That’s it, uh? Come back. I’ll get you. Come back here you rotten bird!”

That was all the brothers heard. They fell out of the hollow and into the forest once again. Heaving with fright, they ran away down the trail and into the night.

“No! Stop! Miss Weigenmeister, we must save Miss Weigenmeister,” Jason said to his brother. Tired and frightened as they were, the two boys picked up rocks from the path and headed back toward the hollow.

“Here I am, safe and sound,” Miss Weigenmeister called from above. Upon a branch she sat, her wings folded gently at her side, her feathers darker than the darkest night, a shadow amidst shadows.

“Not so safe!” shouted the troll, appearing from the nowhere of the hollow. The rough voice called out in delight, “Ha ha, time for dinner and it’ll be roasted boy meat tonight for me.”

There was a great roar. A gigantic black bear appeared from the darkness. It grabbed the troll by the scruff of the neck, lifting it high from the ground. The troll struggled at first, kicking and swinging its arms, but with a hard slap to the back of the head with a humongous paw, the troll struggled no more.

“Jack, you are a fine friend indeed,” Miss Weigenmeister said with a laugh, “and as punctual as ever. Thank you.”

The bear gave a low growl in reply that almost seemed to the boys to carry some meaning. Like a foreign tongue, the words were just at the edge of their understanding.

“Yes, I do believe that we have finally apprehended the culprit,” said the crow with a self satisfied air, the statement directed to the bear. “But it is sad as well. Many little ones of the forest are missing. That is the way of life in the wild, I know, but it doesn’t make it any easier, neither to me nor to their parents, I suspect. They may at least see that justice is served.”

The bear groaned in assent.

“A bear talks?” Craig asked.

“And a librarian flies on crows wings,” Jason said in amazement, having that night learned many things about the world that he had never before suspected.

“Or is it a crow that reads books and enjoys an occasional slice of strawberry rhubarb pie?” Miss Weigenmeister said with a conspiratorial chuckle. “You boys are safe now, but take this as a lesson. Don’t go chasing off after any more of the inhabitants of the forest. No one likes to be harassed and you never know what you’ll get for your trouble in return.”

“I promise,” Craig said.

“Good, now I have to go. I have other matters to attend to. My friend here will lead you back to your camp.” Climbing into view on a nearby rock was a porcupine.

“What about the hollow in the moment?” Jason asked as the crow had taken to the endless night sky.

“For now, that is for you to explore. Make the best of it. Learn what you are able of its magic. I may need your help some day.” And then she was gone.

* * *
Mike Phillips is the author of Reign of the Nightmare Prince and The World Below: Chronicles of the Goblin King, Book One. His short stories have appeared in ParABnormal Digest, Cemetery Moon, Sinister Tales, The Big Book of New Short Horror, World of Myth, Dark Horizons, Mystic Signals and many others. Online, his work has appeared in Darker, Lorelei Signal, Midnight Times, and Fringe. He is best known for his Crow Witch and Patrick Donegal series.

Caught in the Weave

Caught in the Weave

A Story of the Crow Witch

by Mike Phillips

Screaming in anguish, the girl turned and writhed as she lay on the bed, struggling to free herself from her bonds. But there was nothing she could do, the strips of cloth held firm on her wrists and ankles. Tormented beyond words, her fingernails tore at the sheets, her clothes, anything within reach. She screamed again, a sound to shatter glass and make the ears bleed.

Two women hurried in through the door. Each had a lantern in one hand, a crucifix in the other. Though it was night and well past time for decent folk to have gone to their beds, they were both fully clothed, arrayed in stout, woolen dresses that swept the floor as they hurried inside the room.

The first and the youngest of the women was Edna Hanselbacher, though she was in truth in the latter years of being middle-aged and not in the habit of being considered young at all. She took the girl in the bed, her daughter Judith, roughly by the upper arms and used all her weight to hold the girl down.

The other woman, Grandma Hanselbacher, hobbled into the room as fast as her old bones would carry her, but if anyone were to witness the two, they would have said that she were the most formidable of the pair. Even as her daughter-in-law held her granddaughter to the bed, the old woman began to utter prayers aloud; to greater effect in calming the situation than anything Edna was doing, as well intentioned as she was.

The simple phrases worked to lessen the influence of that which possessed the girl, giving her strength in a deep sense, giving her the ability to fight the unholy influence. In moments, her screams and struggles became less pitched in ferocity, then she fell back into the dreamlike stupor that had marked the last week of these terrible events.

“This is something beyond the two of us to remedy,” the old woman said, looking doubtfully over the state of the girl. “We need help.”

“But people will find out. You know how they talk,” Edna Hanselbacher replied, the importance of these facts foremost in her mind. “We’ll be ruined.”

“That’s no matter now,” old Hanselbacher said, making no attempt to hide her scorn. “We must save this poor girl from torment or we’ll be as guilty as if we called the devil upon her ourselves. This has gone too far already and I’ll not let you stop me from making an appeal for help, regardless of the damage to your reputation.”

“But who will you call, Father Luke?”

“No, well intentioned as that young man may be, and as fine a priest as ever you will find this side of the veil, he’s not the one. Maybe in another twenty years when he’s seen a bit more of real evil in the world, but not now. He’d take one look at that poor girl and turn to jelly.”

“Who then?”

“Miss Weigenmeister.”

At the mention of the name, Judith began to struggle fiercely, shouting curses. It was all her mother could do to keep from being thrown to the floor.

Catching her breath and settling down on her struggling daughter as best she could, Edna Hanselbacher said, “But what can she do? She’s not even a Nunn from what I understand.”

“The righteous come in many forms, remember what Saint Paul said about angels.” Old Mrs. Hanselbacher turned and started toward the door. “Hold her down the best you can, I’ll wake the coachman.”

* * *
There was a discreet knock at the front door, hardly loud enough to be heard within the stately manor for its thick walls and rich paneling. If Grandma Hanselbacher hadn’t been pacing back and forth between the staircase and kitchen, wringing her hands with worry as she waited, she would never have heard it.

The screaming had stopped and poor Judith was sleeping, but that didn’t quiet Old Mrs. Hanselbacher’s concern in the least. The hard part wasn’t over. Evil spirits just didn’t go away on their own accord. They had to be driven out.

Looking to the clock that stood in the corner, the hopeful expression on her face fell into disappointment. There was no way the coachmen could have returned. What with the blizzard whipped into a fury outside, it was unlikely that he had yet reached his destination.

The knocking came again, slightly louder this time. Beginning to prepare her excuses so to be rid of this interruption as soon as possible, Old Mrs. Hanselbacher opened the door. To her surprise, she was greeted by a slight woman with dark hair, wearing a thick, fur lined coat that was plain but well made, pulled close to guard against the raging snowstorm outside.

The woman had a maturity in her features that bespoke experience beyond the usual allotment, but her skin was ageless, flawless, marred neither by blemish nor seam of the passing years. Something about the woman hinted that magic was involved, but her smile was filled with such guile and charm that such suspicions were immediately dismissed as fanciful speculation. She was fortunate, was all, not enchanted. Fairies only existed in stories.

The woman at the door gave Mrs. Hanselbacher a nod and a slight bow in the old way, but the greeting was not returned in kind. “May I come in?” the woman finally said, indicating the ferocity of the storm with a slight inclination of the head.

“Miss Weigenmeister?” Old Mrs. Hanselbacher said in shock, still trying to overcome the depths held within her visitor’s eyes.

“Yes, it is I, Misses Hanselbacher,” the woman at the door replied, the snow beginning to collect upon her shoulders. “Good evening to you. I understand that you are in need of some assistance.”

“Yes indeed,” her glance went once again to the clock, “but how?”

“No time for questions and answers,” Miss Weigenmeister interrupted as Grandma Hanselbacher cleared the way inside. “We must get down to business, so to speak, and I am certain you agree that such things are appropriate for fireside stories and not desperate times such as these.”

“Then you have had word of our troubles?”

“Yes.”

“But the coachmen could not possibly have reached you.”

“News travels fast,” Miss Weigenmeister said dismissively, putting an end to that. “Where is the girl?”

Closing the heavy door and making certain the latch and bolt were securely fastened, Mrs. Hanselbacher turned and indicated to Miss Weigenmeister that she should follow, saying as she went, “My daughter-in-law sleeps. If it is all the same to you, I think our fortunes will run more favorably if we leave it thus.”

“If such is your will, then may I comment upon the wisdom of your request?”

Old Mrs. Hanselbacher looked back, trading a wry smile. “You’re a feisty one.”

“Birds of a feather.”

* * *
They arrived at a room located off a small hallway behind the kitchen, one of the servant’s quarters, the vacated abode of a once favored cook, grown lonely with the passing of time. Old Mrs. Hanselbacher paused a moment to listen at the door. All was quiet within. Miss Weigenmeister took a book from a satchel that hung at her side, opening the book to a marked page.

“Is it in your Bible, then, some prayer perhaps?” Old Mrs. Hanselbacher said knowingly.

“This is no Bible, but the evil spirit we seek to excise will find what is contained within these pages difficult enough to deal with, I promise you.”

“But the devil.”

“If this truly were one of the fallen, I would have fled to safer parts rather then come to your aid. Such a foe is well beyond my ability to challenge.” Placing a finger into the book and closing it, Miss Weigenmeister lifted the latch, saying, “Now, I will try to put her to sleep first, but the spirit is likely to attempt some sort of display to frighten us. Do not be concerned. It’s just the sort of thing they do.”

“Yes, I’ll be prepared.”

Miss Weigenmeister nodded. She said affectionately, “I knew you would.”

“I’ll need your lantern to see by, but the tricky part,” at this Miss Weigenmeister retrieved a small earthenware bottle from her satchel and held it up, “will be getting the spirit trapped inside this.”

Trading the lantern for the bottle, Old Mrs. Hanselbacher said, “I’m ready. Let’s get started.”

Opening the door only part way, Miss Weigenmeister peered inside. The room was dark but for the faint light of her lantern, and this was positioned behind the door to block the majority of its light, but she could plainly see the girl lying on the bed. Judith was sleeping, and the spirit within must have slept as well, for no protestations were made as Miss Weigenmeister carefully opened the door and slipped inside. Grandma Hanselbacher followed warily behind.

Taking advantage of the circumstance of vulnerability, Miss Weigenmeister held the lantern aloft and began chanting the obscure dialect written within the pages of the book. Like she had been struck with a fiery brand, the girl awoke, her eyes opened wide in surprise, her screams beyond even what she had managed so far. Old Mrs. Hanselbacher gave Miss Weigenmeister a concerned look, but was returned only stiff resolve.

The girl thrashed her arms and torso, unseen tentacles reaching out, taking hold of Miss Weigenmeister and thrusting her hard against the wall. The lantern fell to the floor with a crash, the oil splashing onto the floor and the bottom of Miss Weigenmeister’s coat. The flames spread as if driven by some malevolent force, and soon the floor and Miss Weigenmeister’s garments were ablaze.

“No!” Grandma Hanselbacher shouted, running toward her granddaughter with a rage and ferocity that belied her advanced age. She leaped upon the girl, blanketing her with her body, breaking the spell the spirit within had worked.

Miss Weigenmeister fell to the floor, knocked senseless from the violence for but a few moments. She tore off her coat as it burned, using its folds to put out the fires that had reached the hem of her dress. The rest was left to burn away as she quickly picked up the book and found the marked page once again.

“Tell me who you are,” Miss Weigenmeister said, desperate to keep her voice even, to keep from showing her fear. She was flipping through the pages of the book, looking for the right incantation, but in the light of the growing fire that was beginning to consume the paper on the walls and the curtains on the windows, she was having small luck finding what she looked for.

“My name?” the Spirit said, its voice thick with sarcasm. “Such power in a name, how foolish you must think me to be. But you, my dear Miss Weigenmeister, might remember me as Shadow Spear.”

“Shadow Spear, the spirit styling itself as tormentor of the Ojibwa Tribe?” said Miss Weigenmeister, having to step away from the door for the increasing flame, abandoning her only means of escaping the fire. “But I thought Father Baraga was rid of you long ago.”

Shadow Spear’s reply was full of mirth, “Yes, and so you would have. I remember you, lap dog that you are, never one to take the glory for yourself, saving that honor for any fool that comes along.”

“You are mistaken, for Father Baraga put you in a prison that lasted for over a hundred years, no small victory if I am to judge.”

“The girl found me by accident and no fault or desire of her own. She released me and here I am. Are you satisfied now?”

Finding the page she sought, Miss Weigenmeister said triumphantly, “When the world is free of you once again, I shall be.”

The girl’s body moved as if to take some action as reply, but Miss Weigenmeister gave a shout, investing the words with command, saying, “Stop!”

The Spirit froze. Judith shook her head as if awakening from a drug induced sleep. She looked around her, seeing her grandmother, the other woman that she but vaguely recognized. “What’s going on?” she said.

“Now, Misses Hanselbacher, step away,” said Miss Weigenmeister. “Though I have a talent for controlling unclean spirits and the undead, sometimes my influence is short lived.”

The old woman was crying and professing her eternal love for her granddaughter, but she did as she was asked, climbing off the bed and onto the floor. Judith was scared, beginning to realize in some part what was happening. Black tears ran from her eyes as Miss Weigenmeister began reading once again.

Shadow Spear, one time tormentor of the Ojibwa Tribe appeared, an inky black cloud hovering over the girl. Weigenmeister manipulated her hands, pushing the cloud into a small sphere like the kneading of bread dough, chanting the conclusion of the spell, the final phrases that would hold the Spirit to her will, over and over again.

“Quick, get the bottle,” Miss Weigenmeister managed to say before losing control. “It’s time.”

Old Mrs. Hanselbacher produced the bottle, having nearly forgotten it in all the excitement, pulling the cork as she stepped across the room toward Miss Weigenmeister. But then her foot caught on the rug and she fell. The bottle flew from her hands and broke upon the floor. “Oh no, look what I’ve done,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Just get something else,” Miss Weigenmeister said impatiently. The sweat was beading on her forehead and the strain of the holding the spirit, weakened though it was, was beginning to take its toll. “Quick now or I’ll lose it.”

Thinking quickly, the old woman swept the cause of her vexation, the woven rag rug, up off the floor and tossed it over the dark cloud of the spirit. Giving a whoop of delight, she said, “Just like netting fish.” The rug had done the trick. The spirit was gone from sight.

Miss Weigenmeister took a deep breath of relief, marveling at what had just happened. “It’s gone, you did it. I don’t know how, but you got it somehow, caught in the weave.”

“Just like netting fish, I shouldn’t wonder,” the old woman said again as Miss Weigenmeister inspected the rug front and back. The spirit was indeed trapped within.

“I can feel it in there,” Miss Weigenmeister said, amazed. “And the prison should be as secure as any, just as long as this rug is never burned, perhaps buried in the backyard. Even so, I don’t think we shall ever have to deal with it again.”

“And good riddance,” the old woman agreed. “If you don’t mind, I should like to trod upon it for a while, give it some of the trouble it caused us for a time. One good turn deserves another.”

“As you wish,” Miss Weigenmeister allowed, “but better that you have your fun and be done with it. Now I must go.”

* * *
“The place is coming along great,” the Broker said, twirling her long, dark hair in her fingertips and snapping her gum each time she chewed. She was an attractive woman, and as she ran her hand over the banister it seemed as much a display for her client as affectation. “How did the sale go?”

“Dreary,” the middle-aged man replied, looking more at the woman than at the fine detail of the old house, something he had no interest in other than for the current market value. “But the estate is nearly settled.”

The Broker made a pretty laugh, “It will all be worth it. We should get top dollar once you’ve put on a fresh coat of paint inside and gotten rid of the rest of the trash.”

The man looked dejectedly at a pile of boxes and oddments that hadn’t been deemed worthy of the sale. “I suppose I could rent a truck and haul it all away, unless you know someone.”

“Honey,” the Broker said seriously, “you’re ‘Up North’ now. I keep trying to tell you that things aren’t nearly so complicated here. Just drag it out back and burn it.”

“You can do that?”

“Why sure.” She opened her leather portfolio and presented her client a slip of paper, saying, “Your burn permit, not that anyone else bothers.”

“You think of everything.”

“That’s why I’m the best.”

“You certainly have been wonderful. I don’t know how I would have managed liquidating all of my grandmother’s assets without you.”

“Just doing my job.” She smiled as she said the words. “And that pretty much ends it. You can fly home and I’ll let you know when the offers start rolling in.”

Deciding something, the man said, “Hey, by the way, you want to stop by later, maybe we could get some take out and watch the fire?”

At the proposition the room seemed to become hollow and the distance between them lengthen to a chasm. The Broker’s smile became forced. She said, “No, I’m so sorry, but I already have commitments for the evening.” She started toward the door, the wood floors of the ancient manor creaking under her stylish shoes.

“Oh,” the man said. “Well, I’ll talk to you later, then.”

“Just as soon as we have an offer,” she replied as she stepped out the door.

* * *
The Broker was gone and the man stood open mouthed in her wake, disappointed but not surprised by his rejection. Ruefully looking at the great pile of worthless items, he shrugged and began carrying it all outside. The job took much longer than he thought it would, the man had little experience in physical labor, and it was well past dark when he finally had everything set in a pile in the clearing outside, a hose at the ready in case things got out of hand.

The last of it had been a woven rag rug, an ugly thing, old and worn and perhaps never having been attractive in all its existence. He had found the rug in the basement, and had put it out at the entry for the workmen to wipe their feet upon as they entered and exited, carrying the antique furniture and other items for the estate sale. Now it was best gotten rid of, nothing to detract buyers from the sale, or so said the Broker when she was giving him her best advice.

As the man tossed the rug onto the pile, a gallon of gasoline in a cheap can by his side, a new book of matches from a Syl’s Café in his pocket, he was given to a strange feeling of anticipation. For no particular reason he could explain, he was at total peace with what he was about to do, not at all plagued by making so many important decisions as he had been throughout the rest of the liquidation process. He knew that he was doing the right thing just turning it all to ash and dust.

* * *
Long after the spirit was forgotten, ages gone by, Miss Weigenmeister strolled the Farmer’s Market, admiring the summer’s harvest of fruits and vegetables. The collapsible awnings were assembled one to the next, looking like a sultan’s caravan on market day. But here rather than what meager offerings such a market could provide, there was a bounty of late strawberries, early cucumbers, beans, some young sweet corn, honey on the comb in jars. There was so much to see and all of it looked fabulous, not a blemished onion in the entire place.

There were even some artists performing for the crowd. A young man was speaking poetry to music in a way that was so popular with young people these days. A painter was hard at work behind an easel, a fair haired child sitting prettily before her. It was a perfect day, sunny and warm, with nearly half the county buying and selling like folks seldom ever did these days.

A pack of young girls raced through the crowd on their bicycles, expertly dodging adults and children, harming no one but causing a great deal of alarm. They traveled as if in a world all their own, belonging to none. Everyone else was just empty faces in a crowd, no more recognizable than flags in a slalom course. As the girls sped by Miss Weigenmeister, one of the hindmost hit her brakes and came to a screeching halt, leaving a long, black streak upon the pavement.

“Hey Miss Weigenmeister,” a young girl said brightly. She was eleven years old and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, cheap sunglasses covering her eyes and a variety of plastic bracelets adorning her wrists, looking much like the rest of her friends. Miss Weigenmeister looked at the young girl’s wrists and thought it a better price than what was paid for Manhattan.

“Jenny Bracco,” Miss Weigenmeister replied brightly, “doing your best to stay out of trouble, I trust?”

“What me? Oh, yeah, no problem.” Jenny turned to her friends, schooled fish with gaping mouths and empty, bulbous eyes, not believing one of their number had purposefully stopped to speak to an adult.

Jenny said to her friends, “Hey, I’ll catch up later.” With a few, indistinct affirmations, the girls were off again.

Once they were alone in the relative privacy of the crowd, Miss Weigenmeister said, “Tell me, how have your studies been going?”

“It’s summer vacation,” Jenny said, incredulous. Then after a moment’s pause, she said, “Oh, you mean my studies.”

“That was the gist of my inquiry, yes.”

Lowering her voice to a whisper and discreetly looking about to see if anyone paid them undue attention, Jenny said, “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, and funny that I find you here of all places. I thought you were supposed to be all in tune with the mystical world, but here you are, lollygagging around like nothing’s going on.”

“Wait. Slow down,” Miss Weigenmeister said, holding up her hands like she were fending off an attacker. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“You mean you still don’t know?”

“How could I?”

Jenny let out a deep breath to emphasize her frustration. “If you were at the library this morning like you were supposed to be, then we could have had this settled already.”

“What settled?”

“Well, I had this dream last night.” Acting wary of the people of the crowd, she added with a shift of her eyes, “You know, a certain kind of dream.”

“All girls experience that sort of thing. The correct term I believe is hormonal change, or something of the like. I was never one for the medical sciences beyond a smattering of herb lore. You really should be having this conversation with your mother.”

“Not that,” Jenny said, louder than she had meant to, getting the attention of several people around them. She smiled until the shoppers turned away, then whispered to Miss Weigenmeister, “There was a warning of danger in the dream. I could feel it, some power or other. It’s going to do something really, really bad.”

“That’s a bit thin to go on. Could you be more specific?”

Spotting a middle-aged man in the crowd, Jenny’s features grew pale. She didn’t reply. Sweat began to run on her forehead and her upper lip began to quiver.

“Jenny? What’s the matter?” Miss Weigenmeister said, following the young woman’s gaze but finding nothing out of sort. “Jenny? Tell me.”

Turning her head but not taking her gaze from a rather ordinary looking man, Jenny said in a whisper, “That’s him, the man in my dream.”

Looking again in the direction Jenny was fixed upon, Miss Weigenmeister saw a man. He was a little heavy set, with plain features that did nothing to separate him from any of the other middle-aged men, other than he was alone and not being harried by a spouse or any number of unruly children. He wore khaki trousers to hide his legs and the type of casual shirt that is favored by most regular guys. Almost like he had sensed the stares upon him, the man looked up, catching Miss Weigenmeister as she scrutinized him. Recognition came at once, and the man grew flush with rage.

“Shadow Spear, but I thought you were caught in the weave,” Miss Weigenmeister said quietly. “Jenny, get behind me.”

“What? Why?” Jenny protested, more herself again. “I’m not running away from that dork.”

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“Yeah, and until I said something, neither did you.”

The man had decided not to let his anger get the better of him. He abruptly turned away from Miss Weigenmeister and Jenny, trying to put as many people between them as possible. Making good speed as he cut through the crowd, he was quickly disappearing among the awnings and shoppers.

“This is not the time,” Miss Weigenmeister insisted, hastening to follow the man. “Though you have faced peril with me in the past, you are ill prepared for the dangers you would now face.”

“The dream came to me. I’m ready.”

Turning toward Jenny, Miss Weigenmeister put a friendly hand on the young woman’s shoulder and said, “Your body is beginning to undergo a profound change, Jenny. Your mind is opening up to a wider world, but that circumstance is not a mandate for action on your part.”

“I’m not going to let that guy hurt anyone, and I coming and you can’t stop me.”

Miss Weigenmeister turned away without another word. She looked for the middle-aged man in the crowd, but did not find him.

“Come on, he went between those buildings,” Jenny said, starting to walk off in a direction entirely different from the one Miss Weigenmeister would have guessed. “I’ll show you.”

“Fine, if I can’t convince you otherwise, then I suppose we could treat this as a learning experience. It shouldn’t be too dangerous, but do stay a safe distance from any altercation that may occur.”

“You have my most solemn promise.”

“Why isn’t that a comfort to me?”

Their pursuit was short lived and fruitless. When Miss Weigenmeister and Jenny entered the alley, the middle-aged man was heading back toward them, having found his way blocked by an odd addition to the stockroom of one of the two buildings and a rather high chain-link fence. He raised his arms, contemplating an offensive of some kind, but then thought better of it, turning on his heel and leaping toward the fence. With his arms outstretched before him, the man flew off into the air and was away.

“Neat trick,” Jenny said.

Miss Weigenmeister grunted an indistinct reply and began walking off toward the library. Jenny followed hurriedly.

“Why don’t you follow him? I’ll take care of your things.”

“It’s too dangerous with all the spectators about and there are certain articles I require.”

“If you taught me how to turn into, well, you know, maybe not a crow, but let’s say something smaller, like a blue jay, they’re related you know, then I could just go and find out where he’s going and report back to you. That sounds smart, doesn’t it?”

“Good try,” Miss Weigenmeister said, “but I think I know where it’s going. It’s headed back to the old Hanselbacher place, I’ll be bound. It’s the only thing it knows that remains in the world.”

Jenny stopped. “You keep saying it. What’s that all about?”

“Spirits such as this are not precisely male or female, though they may have certain attributes that cause them to be ascribed in folklore as such.”

“Spirit, not some perfectly normal whacko like a dictator or a serial killer?” Jenny asked, her voice quavering.

“Evil spirit in possession of a human host, strictly speaking.” In response to the inflection in Jenny’s tone, Miss Weigenmeister put a hand on her shoulder and said kindly, “Courage, child. There is no more reason for concern now than before.”

Jenny made a weak smile. “It seemed to know you.”

“Yes, we have had dealings in the past. I’ll explain on the way.”

* * *
The once stately Hanselbacher mansion looked better than it had in fifty years, its reputation as a haunted house perhaps more deserved now than in times past when it was less well tended. Even before a sign had been planted in the yard the work had begun, the brick façade had been washed clean. The grass was neatly mowed. The shrubberies were trimmed. Flowers had been planted in the beds. A new fence of wrought iron befitting the dignity of the classic architecture had been erected.

But despite all the renovations, the feeling around the old place was not one of cheer. A quiet, brooding malice lay thickly about the once cheerful home. Neighborhood dogs growled on porches and small animals found other holes to inhabit. No birds sang in the trees. As they came up the sidewalk to the gate, Miss Weigenmeister and Jenny Bracco could feel the presence of Shadow Spear like barometric pressure, painful to the brain, prescient of the coming storm.

“Did you find a suitable vessel?” Miss Weigenmeister asked for the third time, her nervous energy more for her young companion than herself.

Jenny answered uncharacteristically, “Yep, right here.” She patted her backpack.

“May I see it?” Miss Weigenmeister said. “In our haste I failed to inspect the article. Is it without flaw? None can say for certain what minor imperfections such a spirit may be able to exploit.”

Failing again to argue or even to comment, Jenny slipped her shoulder out of one of the straps and swung the pack around in front of her. Unzipping the pack only enough to admit her hand, she pulled out a half full soda bottle and shrugged.

“You cannot be serious.” said Miss Weigenmeister in disbelief. “You think you’re going to capture a spirit in that?”

“Are you kidding? This thing will sit in a landfill for about a billion years. What could be better than plastic?”

Thinking for a long moment, Miss Weigenmeister said with a shrug, “My apologies, you have made a wise choice.”

Jenny opened the bottle and took a swig. “You want some? It would be a shame to waste it.”

“I don’t know if the spirit has a true physical form. I expect the prison is as much symbolic as physical in nature.”

“Okay, over my head on that one, but I hope he likes Rock-and-Rye.”

The new gate opened noiselessly on its hinges. Miss Weigenmeister and Jenny proceeded up the walk to the front door of the house. It was there that their progress was cut short.

“It’s locked,” Miss Weigenmeister said, testing the handle. “Perhaps we could go around back, but I would suspect that with the pending sale, all the routes of entry have been properly secured.”

“Just a second, I might be able to do something about that,” Jenny said. A small box suspended on a ring of metal hung from the door handle. Jenny lifted the box and began fumbling with the knob of a combination lock. “One of my mom’s ex-boyfriends was a real estate agent. He liked to show off by taking us inside people’s houses when they weren’t home.”

“The proper owners couldn’t have approved.”

“No, he got canned for it.” The lock popped open. Out came a key. Jenny put the key into the lock and opened the door. She explained, “They pretty much have one code so there’s no fuss.”

“No barriers to the making of money.” Opening an old book to the place where the page had been marked by a scarlet ribbon, Miss Weigenmeister said, “Now, if you will step behind me, we will see what we can accomplish against this spirit.”

“Time to take him out and beat him like a rug,” Jenny said enthusiastically.

“None of that,” Miss Weigenmeister scolded, “this is serious business. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned any of the particulars. Those sorts of comments are just the thing we need to avoid.”

They went inside, but the middle aged man from the Farmer’s Market was waiting for them, sitting in a leather club chair of antique origin, his feet propped up on a table, a glass of whiskey in one hand. “Yes, and now here you are, you have arrived,” Shadow Spear said as they entered.

“Did you believe that I would not come?” said Miss Weigenmeister in response.

“No, no, after I saw you I knew that you would be along, by and by. Frankly, I am surprised to find you still in business. How old are you now, two-hundred, two-fifty?”

“A lady never discusses her age.”

“Yes, uncomfortable that, I’m sure. The circumstances surrounding your abilities, your longevity, are not innocent, not something you would like to discuss, are they? So it seems there are skeletons in your closet, Miss Weigenmeister, and I am afraid that I underestimated you in our first two encounters. What is the expression my new friend uses? ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’”

“About him, you must realize that I won’t allow you to continue to victimize him any longer.”

“Victimize? No, that was never my way. I offer him blessings beyond the expectations of mortal man. That silly Hanselbacher girl fought incessantly against me, some outlandish moral code, a sign of times in which she lived, perhaps. This one has no such compunctions. He has much more sense. He values what gifts I have to offer. We are hand in glove.”

“I see that you have learned nothing during your imprisonment. You are the same pathetic miscreant that you have always been, less than a demigod, a story to scare children, and I will not have you trouble the world with your foolishness any longer.”

“No? And tell me, my virtuous friend, who is your companion here? Is she yet another pawn of yours, a mortal to be used for your purposes and then discarded? Young lady, this woman cares not at all for you, only what you can do for her. She will take what you have to give and then sacrifice you in the name of some holy crusade, some cause that has no real meaning or effect in the world.”

“You lie like a rug,” Jenny said.

Shadow Spear was speechless. Even after a prolonged silence, the only comment he could manage was a feeble, “Charming.”

“Yeah, like I’m going to believe you,” Jenny replied. She gave appropriate emphasis to the next bit, “I’m not going to let you walk all over people. Let’s get rid of this creep, Miss Weigenmeister.”

Hiding a grin, Miss Weigenmeister opened the book and said, “I agree.” She found the page marked by the ribbon and began chanting the spell that would return Shadow Spear to a metaphysical cage.

The middle aged man reacted as if struck. He fell over backward in the chair, his breathing labored, his chest heaving with the effort. He cried out in pain, fighting against the words that began separating him and the spirit that had become such a part of him in so little time.

Managing to gather his faculties, Shadow Spear rolled the man onto his side, and coming to his knees, threw up his hands. Miss Weigenmeister was flung into the air. The book fell to the floor, the power of her enchantments abruptly put to an end. But as she was hurled toward the ceiling, Miss Weigenmeister began to pull back into her clothes.

Her limbs and body grew smaller and shiny black feathers sprouted from her smooth, white skin. Then as her dress floated lightly to the floor, she appeared in the guise of a crow, cawing loudly, flapping her wings to be away from the hazards Shadow Spear pitched at her. The middle aged man was after her at once, hurling bolts of fire, chasing into the foyer and toward the high ceiling of the grand stairway.

“Don’t mind me,” Jenny said after they had gone, her voice echoing in the emptiness. “I’ll just wait right here.”

The struggle in the next room was becoming desperate. There were explosions and crashes, cries of defeat and triumph.

“Forget this.”

Jenny wasted no more time. Picking up the book and finding the page marked by the ribbon, she began to read aloud, chanting the words of the spell, going after Miss Weigenmeister and the spirit at a brisk walk. She heard a scream even before she saw the middle aged man, and she knew that what she was doing was having the intended effect.

Coming into the foyer, she opened the soda bottle with her teeth, pointing the open mouth in the direction of the darkening spirit as it fully manifested in the world, separating from the nameless middle aged man. Speaking around the cap held firmly between her teeth, chanting the final phrases of the spell over and over, Jenny made sweeping motions with the book, summoning Shadow Spear forth, calling the spirit into its new prison. In a moment it was over. Jenny replaced the cap and screwed it on tight.

“Well done,” said Miss Weigenmeister from her perch on the banister. “If Shadow Spear hadn’t used its time in prison for ethical contemplation, it had certainly used it for gathering strength. There were a few surprises. Thank you for your assistance. I was wrong not to think your abilities of value on this expedition. You did well to make such a powerful spirit captive.”

“Yep, the old carpet bagger will be down in the dumps soon enough.” Jenny tore the label off the bottle, negating the Michigan ten cent deposit, ensuring that the bottle would never be rescued from the trash. She looked up with a smile, expecting some kind of reaffirming comment of disapproval, but found only a disappointing weariness of expression. “Okay, they were both a stretch, but look at the material I have to work with.”

Miss Weigenmeister sighed. “Whatever am I going to do with you?”


* * *
Mike Phillips is the author of Reign of the Nightmare Prince and The World Below: Chronicles of the Goblin King, Book One. His short stories have appeared in ParABnormal Digest, Cemetery Moon, Sinister Tales, The Big Book of New Short Horror, World of Myth, Dark Horizons, Mystic Signals and many others. Online, his work has appeared in Darker, Lorelei Signal, Midnight Times, and Fringe. He is best known for his Crow Witch and Patrick Donegal series.
Mike's latest novel, The World Below, is now availble from Damnation Books. Check out the book trailer and the synopsis: 

In ancient times, magical creatures inhabited the earth. They lived on mountaintops, in trees, at the bottom of lakes and rivers. But that was long ago, before the human race declared war on the creatures they feared and hated. Now the enchanted peoples are all but gone. Those few that remain fear being stretched out on an examination table in some secret, governmental facility. The only place they can hide from the ever increasing number of satellites and smart phones is in the World Below.   Mitch Hardy is going through a hard time in his life. In his early twenties, he was working his way through college when he suffered an accident that left him flat broke and physically deformed. When Mitch decides to make a fresh start in a new town, things start looking up. He finds a place to live, a decent job, good friends. He even meets a nice girl. Unknown to Mitch, his new girlfriend is one of the Elder Race, what some call the Faerie Folk. Mitch doesn’t know that Elizabeth is looking for a father she never knew. The key to finding him is somehow tied up with the mysterious Blade of Caro. Desperate, she steals the Blade from its protector, the despotic ruler of the World Below, the Dragon of Worms, Baron Finkbeiner. When Elizabeth is kidnapped by the Baron, Mitch is pulled into a world or magic and monsters he never imagined.

The Wolf Skin

The Wolf Skin
A Story of the Crow Witch
by Mike Phillips

The knife was sharp, worked from a black flint stone with veins of gray that seemed to feed the ragged edge with ashen blood. Effortlessly, the knife cut through the victim’s flesh. The animal whimpered feebly as the violation was made. It was a wolf and it was not dead. The man needed it alive.

The wolf’s back was broken at the neck, but not fatally so. Until the entire skin had been removed, the wolf must remain alive. He was a master, the man, an expert at the job and he did not make mistakes like killing. He never killed unless such was his need, even if that need was pleasure.

The man had trapped the wolf easily enough. It was early winter. The snow in the mountains slowed the smaller animals, but the deer and the elk and the moose were not yet troubled by the depths of snow or by the cover of the vegetation that came later in the season. The wolves were hungry but not desperately so. They would not yet maim themselves to escape a trap.

A bit of raw meat set in a snare had caught the wolf, but there was always a chance of damage, so the man had been watchful. He would not let such a precious thing escape. It was a lone wolf, a male, two years old. It was strong but not yet strong enough to have a territory of its own, to have females. And so the lone wolf had been easily caught, and there was no help for it now.

Kneeling beside the fire and chanting ancient words, the man made his first cut long and deep. It started under the wolf’s chin, in the soft spot between bones, and the cut traveled on and on and on, down over the wolf’s sternum and then his stomach. The cut circled his male organs and his lower vent, then split down each leg.

Carefully, expertly, the man removed the legs from inside the skin, slipping them like a hand from a well made glove. Nothing of the skin could be wasted. It had to be perfect. In the same way the front legs were done, and then finally the head. In one unspoiled piece, the entire skin was removed.

The wolf whimpered again for mercy, begging for death as it saw its hide spread upon the ground. The man did not answer the plea. He took a burning stick from the fire and quenched it in the snow. With the black remains he drew sigils on the inside of the still live flesh, signs of power that predated words, signs that had been gifted to mankind long, long ago.

And when the work was done, the man took off his clothes and stood naked in the snow. Reaching up to the sky and then bending low upon the ground, he made the invocation, putting the evil to work.

* * *
“What’s this?” Lynn Weigenmeister said as she stepped out her front door. There, on the porch in the snow, was a newspaper. Confused, wary, she looked over the freshly fallen snow, searching for some sign. There were no footprints, no tire tracks, only virgin snow upon the ground.

Picking up the paper with caution, she looked it over with a great intensity, wondering what the thing was and how it had gotten there. She didn’t have a subscription to the newspaper, had never had one, and newspapers just didn’t fall accidentally at one’s doorstep in her neck of the woods.

She lived out in the country, far from town, far from any other home, too far from civilization for paper delivery. It could only have arrived by magic, or at least by some purposeful means. She looked round once again, trying to find some spy or agent that could have placed such a thing in her way; but she found no one, not even after using her certain unique abilities to make the search.

After shoveling the walk and the drive, Miss Weigenmeister brewed a cup of tea and sat down at her kitchen table, the curious newspaper before her. She sung a few verses of an old song that she thought might help with the process, but was revealed nothing. Then she tried an amulet gray with age. That didn’t help either. At last, she poked the newspaper. Nothing happened.

“Well, I guess there’s nothing else for it, then,” she said in a nervous sort of way, removing the plastic bag in which it was delivered, smiling in a private way about how little boys used to take such pride in how they folded a newspaper for delivery, and how they had once been able to make any number of boats or hats or airplanes from the remnants of the day’s events. She even remembered a particular part of a book about a curious monkey making a fleet of boats from a stack of newspapers before riding a rocket into space. But then, she thought with an ache in her heart, now children had television and computers, and plastic bags.

Opening the paper, she ignored the national and state news, thinking that whatever was happening in the world at large was not something she could be expected to deal with. When she came to the regional section she found out what the big story was. The local high school athletic team had won some important competition and was moving on to the national level.

“Well, that can’t be it,” she said aloud, reading on. There were stories about the impact of new state legislation, a proposal to replace the old swing bridge across the Ontonagon River, all things that she didn’t have much interest in, having gone through it, in one way or another, before.

Then, on the top of page three, there was an article about the loss of a cow on the old Gagnon Farm north of town. The cow had been killed and eaten by wolves. It had happened two days ago. The Department of Natural Resources had been called in, and confirmed the cause of death.

Such a thing happened from time to time, but usually much later in the season, and the tragedy usually involved an unlucky calf, the mother being too big to succumb to an attack by a starving pack. The DNR were moving to capture and remove the offending animals for resettlement in a more remote location, but these attempts so far had yielded no positive result.

“Interesting,” said Miss Weigenmeister to herself, taking a sip of tea and refolding the newspaper, “a wolf problem, most disturbing. Well, I suppose an investigator should begin at the scene of the crime.”

She looked to the date on the top of the paper, saying, “And tonight is the last night of the full moon. That means werewolves, not so bad if you give them a chance to explain themselves. The local section of the paper was probably put to bed yesterday morning. I wonder if anything happened last night. Well, they’ll be talking down at Syl’s Café, and I could use a slice apple pie.”

* * *
“There you go, Joe, and good luck to you,” Syl said to Joe Gagnon as he handed over a large paper bag. “I threw in a couple of pies for you, napkins and forks and all that. Is there anything else you think you need, then?”


Joe set the bags on the counter, careful not to tip them for fear of ruining the pies, saying, “No, thank you Syl. Hopefully we’ll have some good luck out there tonight.”

“Yeah, funny things going on out there, eh?”

“You said it,” Joe replied tiredly. “Them wolves are tricky as the devil himself. We didn’t even think they’d come back last night, but you got to try.”

“Oh yeah, got to try.”

“The buggers sneaked up right under our noses. I barely closed my eyes all night, and you know them young kids they got from the game department are sharp as tacks.”

“How many birds they get then?”

“Five,” Joe said, handing over a fifty dollar bill.

“Five? Holy cow!”

“Good laying hens too. Funny though, it was just like with that cow. They just ate some of the guts and left the rest, like taking the first bite from an apple.”

“That is strange. So what’s the plan now?”

As Syl handed back his change, Joe said, “Well, I don’t rightly know. I think they’re going to set out a few more of them baited traps they got and hope for the best.”

“Well, good luck to you.”

“Thanks, well, I got to get going.” He picked up the bags in explanation and headed toward to door.

“Sure thing, Joe. Thanks for coming in, I’ll see you Sunday.”

Miss Weigenmeister had been listening intently to the conversation, waiting in line to be seated while Joe Gagnon paid his bill. The apple pie was sold out, sent to feed the men working in the snow. Blueberry and pecan was left. Miss Weigenmeister ordered the blueberry but she had already gotten what she came in for. The trouble at Gagnon’s Farm was not over. The wolves had returned.

* * *
After eating the pie at her desk with afternoon tea, Miss Weigenmeister closed the library. She wanted to get out to the Gagnon Farm while it was still light out so she could look over the scene, perhaps come up with some sort of plan before the moon rose. Locking the exits and shutting off the lights, she went to the lady’s restroom. There she bolted the door behind her, opening the window on the far wall. She took off her clothes, folding them neatly and leaving them on the basin.

Then she looked into the mirror and was struck by how severe, how very much like a crow’s her own eyes had become. That was how the change began. She thought about the sun and sky, riding the winds high above the trees. She thought of the crow’s speed and its tricks and how it used its talents in avoiding enemies.

Her eyes grew fully black. Her nose lengthened and hardened, becoming beaklike. The fine hairs on her arms broadened and lengthened into shiny black feathers and her arms folded into wings. In a rush the transformation was complete, and she flew off through the open window and into the sky.

The bare trees along the road provided a haven as she made her way out of town, beating her wings in short flights, taking the guise of a perfectly normal crow in search of an evening meal. The houses and trees of town gave way to fields, the stubble of corn yet visible through the blanket of snow. The wind was cold and the dark clouds hinted that more snow was yet to come, likely that same night.

The old schoolhouse came into sight, the red stone of the old two story building rising above the field as a beacon upon the shores of Lake Superior. On one side of the building a scrawl of painted letters read, “Eat more beef”, and Miss Weigenmeister knew she had arrived at the Gagnon farm. She landed upon the roof of the abandoned school, careful to avoid the holes that time and neglect had made. Other crows were there in the old building; and there were gulls too, all making noise in the abandoned classrooms, sounding like the ghosts of children.

Trees had grown up near the old structure, but had not otherwise been allowed to take root and gain size, so there was a good view of the lands in all directions. She saw where the men were, out at the edge of the fields, away in the swamp where wolves were thought to go until night fell. Miss Weigenmeister flew down to them, listened for a while but heard nothing of importance.

From up in the sky she spied the place where the fateful meal had been taken. The only remains of what had happened in this place, the blood soaked ground and snow. She saw that the men had followed tracks into the woods, but their search had stopped a mile into the wilderness. She flew on, following the wolf tracks, thinking to find a cave or some other hiding place.

That is what she found some five miles distance from the farm. It seemed to her a long way for such a beast to come for a meal, especially two nights in a row. The wolf’s den was a shallow hole dug under a popple tree. Finally she lit upon a branch and waited, deciding what to do next.

“Well, what do you want?” came a rough voice, a man’s voice, from down the hole. “You didn’t come just to ruin my nap, did you?”

Surprised at being recognized, Miss Weigenmeister said, “Well, I didn’t think that I would disturb your slumber.”

“So what do you want?”

“Well, sir, I see that you have mastery of your faculties. That is to the good and quite unexpected. It should make things easier for us. We won’t have to figure all that out. That part is always difficult, moon rising and falling, all quite a bother really.” She took a breath. “Oh, yes, sorry. I’ve come to help you.”

“Help? Did I ask for help?”

Taken aback, Miss Weigenmeister said, “Well, no, I just thought that you might need a friend, considering your recent condition.”

“My condition?” the man said curtly. “And what exactly is wrong with my condition?”

“Well, you could try being a little more agreeable for one,” Miss Weigenmeister said with a librarian’s equivalent of scorn. She tried to see down the hole, feeling that if she were being watched, having a look herself would not be impolite. For all the darkness, she could see almost nothing down there, lest it be the black nose at the end of a long snout.

“Oh, so you’re one of them do-gooders. Well, if you’re gonna be my conscience you’re gonna have to come up with some dinner first. How about some pig? That dumb old farmer got rid of all his pigs already. Well, what do ya’ say, Jiminy Cricket? Get me a little bacon? You gonna make all my wishes come true?”

“Wishing was the blue fairy’s business, but let’s not get off topic,” Miss Weigenmeister said, clipping the words neatly. “I came to help you. This thing that has happened to you, I can help you adjust. I can help you to use your gifts for a higher purpose.”

The man laughed raucously. When he had enough of the show, he said, “I don’t know, I kinda like the way I am. I may not look like much now, but soon I’ll have my full strength. Then I can really start having some fun. You know, grab a few kiddies, maybe even eat a grandma or two. What do you think of that? Look out little Red Riding Hood ‘cause here comes the big bad wolf.”

“I don’t approve.”

“Oh, too bad. So what do you think you can do about it?”

“Perhaps much, I warn you that if you continue along the path you have chosen, I will do all that is in my power to thwart you.”

“Listen sister, the way I see it you and me are two of a kind, so don’t get all high and mighty. I know how you came by them feathers, sweetheart.”

“We are nothing alike, sir.”

“Oh? So I missed my guess, eh? Well, you don’t smell much like a witch, but I wouldn’t mind a little entertainment!” As the last was said, the wolf leaped from the den. He was much bigger than an ordinary wolf, and he moved twice as fast. He was out of the den and jumped toward the limb where Miss Weigenmeister sat in the blink of an eye.

But he wasn’t fast enough. The crow took to the air, flapping her wings calmly once or twice before settling on a branch higher up, one that was comfortably out of range for even an extraordinary wolf. She chuckled to herself, thinking how difficult it was to catch a crow off guard.

“Get back here! Get back here or I’ll rip you to pieces!” the wolf shouted, making several half hearted attempts to knock her off her perch.

“Well, how rude. Now that we understand each other, I’ll be going.” And with that, she took to the sky.

“I’ll get you. Don’t you come back here ever again. If you do, I’ll make a feather duster out of you.”

* * *
That night despite the cold, Miss Weigenmeister tucked a few choice books under her arm and went outside to the patio, setting her things down on one of the benches that encircled a much used fire pit. But before starting her research, she set about making a fire. She knew that having a very hot fire was a necessity, so on the way home from the library, she had stopped at the local hardware store.

After digging around in the back for nearly twenty minutes, the clerk finally produced the last bag of charcoal in the place. With the bag from the hardware store and the half bag that remained of her own stock, Miss Weigenmeister made a good sized pyramid, following the instructions on the back of the bag in such a way that would make all the folks at Kingsford proud.

Satisfied with her work, she doused the whole thing with excessive quantities of kerosene, and at the touch of a match, the pyramid was in flame. The fire started, she went back into the house and returned with a pair of tongs, a small sort of cup made of clay, and a finely made, walnut case.

She opened the case and took a deep, sad breath. One must be sacrificed, she knew. There was no way around it, not now, not with so little time remaining. Though she had brought the books out with her in hopes another way could be found, she knew that such hopes were false, fantasies of an overly optimistic, overly sympathetic, heart.

She gazed into the sky, trying to think if there was another way. Such a deed was entirely loathsome, perhaps one of the most terrible things that she had ever set about doing. But it gets dark early in the north during the winter and she could waste no more time. Moon shadows had already gathered.

With a silent prayer for forgiveness, she looked again into the case, seeing before her the magnificence of the family silver as the pieces glinted in the firelight. With reverence and not a little indecision, she began to reach for a teaspoon.

“Oh, but you are so dear to me,” she said, taking back her hand suddenly as if burned. She knew the teaspoon could be the only real choice, the responsible choice. There were eleven others, after all, and something like a butter knife might seem useless in the grand scheme of things, but it would be impossible to replace.

Then she made the choice. Plucking up her courage, she selected a shrimp fork. Saying, “I never did like seafood much anyway,” she quickly shut the lid before she could change her mind. Into the crucible the fork went, and with the pair of tongs, Miss Weigenmeister carefully placed the vessel into the center of the fire and waited.

* * *
There was a terrible crash. Miss Weigenmeister woke abruptly, throwing back the covers and landing with bare feet upon the cold floor. Hearing the rush upon the stairs, she left off putting on her robe and slippers and reached for the gun, just as the wolf struck her bedroom door.

“Daddy’s home,” the man in wolf’s skin shouted merrily. Again he struck the door, and this time, it broke open.

Stepping away toward the window, Miss Weigenmeister lifted the gun and shouted, “Don’t you come a step nearer.”

“What’s that? A blunderbuss? You must be joking,” the man said with a derisive laugh. “And with a flintlock too. Oh, this is too much.”

Ignoring the insult, Miss Weigenmeister replied, “I must warn you that I know how to use it. Lycanthrope or not, a silver bullet will do the trick.”

“Lady,” the man said lasciviously, looking her up and down in her nightgown, “that old thing would just knock you on your cute little bottom. You should get yourself one of those girlie guns. Or better yet, get a dog. How about that? I could be your dog. Would you like that?”

“I think not. Now, if you refuse to give up your skin and allow me to bind your powers, I will dispatch you.”

The man’s attitude changed. Baring wolf’s teeth, his menace seeming to grow with each step, he started toward her. “Dispatch me? You’re kidding, right? That gun’s no good and you’re not much of a witch you know.”

“Oh, I’m not?”

“Nope,” the man said, sneering, licking lips with a tongue the color of fresh blood, “I slipped right in under those wards of yours as easy as you please.”

“No, I am afraid that you are mistaken. You did not ‘slip right in’ as you believe,” said Miss Weigenmeister, leveling the weapon, her finger tense on the trigger. “You have fallen into my trap.”

A brilliant flash and a deafening crack, the smoke and noise an insult to the senses, the blunderbuss bucked like a cannon as Miss Weigenmeister pulled the trigger. The man was knocked against the wall, then dropped to the floor. The shot had taken him in the chest, and he could do no more than look up in confusion as he breathed his last.

The wolf skin began to change. It shriveled as if days had passed, breaking open where the knife had done its work, revealing pink skin underneath. No longer did the body of the man fit so neatly within its confines. It was an animal skin, a covering a man might use as any other, like a shirt or jacket, no longer magical in any way.

With caution, Miss Weigenmeister stepped toward the body, not knowing what to expect. The man was dead, and it was certainly the body of a man that lay upon her floor. She wondered what the people from the game department would say, it from what had happened here if another conclusion would be drawn. That was none of her concern. She was just a woman defending her home.

She whispered to the blunderbuss, setting it down on the bed. Like the wolf into a man, the gun took another form. But this was only an illusion. She had no power to change what the blunderbuss was. It would seem real enough to anyone who might take an interest, a twelve-gage pump action shotgun, nothing special.

“Now,” she said, speaking the words aloud to chase away the ugliness of what she saw before her, “to call the police.”

* * *
Mike Phillips is the author of Reign of the Nightmare Prince, available in fine bookstores, online booksellers, Kindle and Nook. His short stories have appeared in ParABnormal Digest, Cemetery Moon, Sinister Tales, The Big Book of New Short Horror, World of Myth, Dark Horizons, Mystic Signals and many others. Online, his work has appeared in Darker, Lorelei Signal, Midnight Times, and Fringe. He is best known for his Crow Witch and Patrick Donegal series.

Victims of Love

Victims of Love
A Story of the Crow Witch
by Mike Phillips

 

Lights shined in the darkness, dancing amongst the trees, the unearthly glow flickering in and out like the fractured beat of a broken heart. Swept like pollen on the springtime winds, the lights traveled the forest, seeking a receptacle for its master’s affections, some flower to join with. But something was wrong. Something hinted that it was not love, but malice and sorrow that drove the lights on their errand.

“Did you see that? It looks like starlight come down to Earth, or maybe even angels,” said Jim in a quiet voice, bent forward as he looked through the windshield and into the darkness of the forest. “Oh, now it’s gone.”

It was a hot night in late summer. The moon was only a sliver of pale white in the deepening sky, allowing a few stars to show themselves in the opposing distance. Jim and his friend Bill had decided to get out of town, find a nice quiet place to talk and to listen to music, to enjoy the summer as only the young can. Bill had even swiped a bottle of whiskey from his father’s secret stash for the occasion.

They drove out a dirt two-track and came to a park that wasn’t much more than a wide place where the road made a sweeping curve as it scaled the mountainside. From where they parked, the young men had a view of the wooded slope as it ran down to Lake Superior, the waters looking as vacant as the endless sky.

“I don’t know,” Bill said, not at all listening. He set the whiskey bottle to his lips and took a big swallow, the rough character of the alcohol making him shudder as he forced it down his throat. Releasing a deep breath, he tried to keep himself from coughing but it did no good. He hacked in deep spasms, covering the opening of the bottle with the palm of his hand in an attempt to keep from spilling as the fit passed.

“Don’t know? You don’t know if you saw it or not?” Jim said, the spell of what he was witnessing broken as he turned his head to face the young man seated next to him. “What’s that all about?”

Bill was famously unconcerned. True to his usual manner, he checked his hair in the mirror and said in a tired voice, “Whatever snowy owl or albino deer or whatever else is so important just doesn’t mean that much to me. I just don’t care.”

“Shut up and take a look. It’s not any of that. Maybe it’s even aliens.”

Indulging Jim mostly because he didn’t want to walk home, Bill did as he was asked. He didn’t at all see what he had expected. It wasn’t some moose with part of an antler missing or a black bear with cubs. As amazing as his friend Jim would have considered witnessing either of those sights, none of these were what Bill now saw as he looked into the darkness.

There were lights down the slope. As the forest faded into obscurity for the nighttime gloom, the lights, perhaps as many as a dozen, turned round each other in complex forms that seemed at times to merge into one. Then just as quickly as they appeared, they were gone.

“Fireflies,” Bill said after but a moment’s scrutiny.

“No, too big, way too big,” Jim replied. “You think I don’t know fireflies?”

“Okay, college boy, you aren’t a zookeeper yet.”

“That’s zoologist.”

Bill laughed, knowing the insult had hit its mark. “Same thing, whatever. But to us dummies who go to community college, it sure looks like fireflies. If it walks like a duck and quacks, well, you know the rest.”

Turning off the engine and pulling the keys from the ignition, Jim said, “You can do what you want, but I’m taking a closer look.”

“And what am I supposed to do if you don’t come back?”

Opening the car door and stepping lightly onto the gravel so he made as little sound as possible, Jim said with a shrug, “What are you worried about?”

“Being accused of murder, that’s what,” Bill said, looking up. He wanted to get drunk and didn’t have a mind to go chasing all over the forest.

“Come on,” Jim urged him.

Bill scowled. “Two guys go to some out of the way place like this, you know what people will think when they hear about that, then one turns up dead. It’s movie of the week stuff. I’ll end up doing thirty years with Big Ricky as a cellmate.”

“Wait. Listen.”

Filling the void left by the radio was quiet singing, coming from somewhere far, far away. It was a woman’s voice, captivating beyond words, soft and sweet and filled with longing. The music drifted like dry leaves on an autumn wind. The sound of the singing called to them, drew them to it. They couldn’t help but fall under its spell. Bill looked at Jim and made a silly grin, needing no more convincing to investigate.

* * *

There was something strange going on in the forest. It was a pleasant enough night, but the insects and frogs were quiet, no longer singing out to their lovers. The wolves did not morn. Bats were not chasing after their meals. Miss Weigenmeister sat in a chair on her patio, a book closed in her lap. She had been about to go inside, but was unnerved by the quiet. Standing, she looked across a field that had been allowed to grow wild and into the mountains. Something was happening out there.

A soft breeze blew. Flower pedals, delicate and white, tumbled across the bricks of her patio. She was well versed in the local flora, being interested in the herbs most people shunned in favor of modern medicine, but these were unknown to her.

Rubbing the flowers between her fingertips, Miss Weigenmeister felt the softness of the petals, smelled the aroma as the delicate tissues bruised under her touch. She sensed the life within the flower, the possibility of creation that would never be realized, the end of purpose and the death of what might have been. The flower had been plucked and its usefulness was over. It would never now join with pollen. It would bear no seed.

With the flower fixed in her mind, Miss Weigenmeister reached out into the world, traveling through the nothingness to find the source of this new threat. She heard whispers of danger, felt the stirrings of magic. Darkness surrounded her. There was no feel of heat or cold, stillness or wind. There was only her mind and the emptiness, the flower and that which she sought.

Light bloomed before her eyes. She saw an open meadow deep within the mountains, the gentle slope running into a forest of popple trees, their bark seeming to shine with a light of their own. A trickle of water flowed through banks of rock and clay, growing as it went, possessing a life of its own. The smell of flowers was thick in the air. Wind blew through the grass, singing a song of woe and heartache.

Seated on a throne of living wood, a tangle of vines with flowers like horns pointed in expectation toward the rising sun, was a woman of strange and wondrous power, one of the enchanted peoples. She was clothed in a shimmering silk like moonlight and there were white flowers in her hair. She was full of longing and pain, and all the growing things seemed to share in her sadness.

Figures moved around her. The grass rustled with the passing of their feet. They were young men, all of them naked, dancing in a circle. The woman watched them with lurid fascination, but they brought her no joy, only more pain, more sorrow. They had come in answer to her call, but now she did not want them. Or if she did have a desire for them, it was only in their destruction that she would take pleasure.

Their eyes met. The woman saw Miss Weigenmeister. For a moment their minds touched, but just as quickly the contact was broken. Miss Weigenmeister gasped. She was standing on her patio, alone. She knew what was soon to happen and what she had to do.

* * *

Closing and locking all the doors and windows on the first floor, Miss Weigenmeister made her way upstairs. Certain she was alone and unobserved, she went into the bathroom, firmly bolting the door shut behind her.

Ready to begin, Miss Weigenmeister took off her clothes and folded them neatly upon the basin, chanting the words that would set her transformation in motion. The way of the change was in part the speaking of an ancient spell and in part the imagining of what it was to become a bird. She thought of the profound hunger and the wasting of the body as the cold winter winds blew and the snow piled deep in the forest, covering what little food remained. She remembered the coming of spring, the joy of winter’s end, flying high in the air free of the punishing northern winds, the welcomed heat upon her back and wings.

And in this way the change began. Looking into the mirror, Miss Weigenmeister saw her dark eyes grow black as night. The fine hairs on her arms broadened to shiny, black feathers. Her arms grew into wings and her feet to claws. Then all in a rush, the transformation was complete. She stood upon the tiled floor as a crow. With a flap of the wings, she was gone.

* * *

Taking the guise of a crow, into the night sky Miss Weigenmeister flew. Contrary to what their appearance might suggest, crows are children of the light and have little talent for nocturnal activity. All the same, Miss Weigenmeister knew that she must go, risk the hazards of the night, taking to the air in pursuit of the enchanted woman of the forest. When her wings ached and she feared she could go no farther, she at last found the clearing of her vision.

Marveling at what she saw, Miss Weigenmeister lit upon a branch of a popple tree at the clearing’s edge. Every plant, from the grasses and clovers of the meadow to the shrubberies and trees of the forest, was aglow. Each blade and leaf glinted with an unearthly light, pale white, much like the light of the moon, as if the plants were giving up what the sun had gifted during the day.

In the clearing, the men were yet dancing, stepping in a rhythm they alone knew, turning in circles around the center of the clearing. Their feet were caked with mud, their legs scratched and bloodied. Flies buzzed like mad, drawn by the scent of stale sweat. The men looked haggard, exhausted from their incessant display, and they had the blank expressions of those who had lost control of their minds.

Seated upon a throne was the woman. She had the purest skin, flawless, white as milk, with hair like spun gold and eyes like moonstones. Her features were ageless but somehow Miss Weigenmeister could sense the profundity of time the woman had witnessed. There could be no uncertainty that she was one of the enchanted peoples, but now that she had a closer look, Miss Weigenmeister thought she knew exactly what the woman was.

“Wood nymph,” she said to herself in amazement. Not since her childhood had Miss Weigenmeister seen one, but there was no way else to describe what she saw. Their eyes met.

“Come,” the wood nymph called out. She was soft spoken, barely audible, but her words carried weight, held command.

“I did not recognize you, dear child, or else I would have invited you sooner. Do you like my entertainments? Come, I invite you, such peoples as ourselves should be friends and share all that we have. Wouldn’t you agree? Please, do not be shy. I am Diana of the Lost and I am your friend, or wish to be.”

The wood nymph stood, her gown shining. She extended her arms, offering a gesture that beckoned Miss Weigenmeister forth. Behind her the throne of living vine grew up in her support, cradling her body like a lover. Flowers budded and bloomed, the scent of sweet nectar as pungent as wine and as dulling to the senses.

Diana said in a hypnotic voice, “You are from the old world also. Come, be my companion here in the forest.”

“Yes,” Miss Weigenmeister said in a daze, the fragrance upon the wind an intoxicant beyond any the arts of man could produce. She was lost to the smell of the flowers and the sound of the woman’s soft voice, all her senses collecting rapturously beyond her control. The gentle whispering entered her mind, became a part of her thoughts, was more important than any objection or principle. She took to the air, flapped her wings with no sense of flight, and landed on the woman’s open hand.

“Now my pet, come and kiss my lips and our friendship will be consummated. Be my friend. That is all that I will ever ask of you. Be my friend and we shall rule the forest, make these silly men our slaves, live as our people were meant to live.”

“No,” Miss Weigenmeister said in a far off voice. “No, we can’t, we can’t.”

“Certainly we can,” Diana soothed, stroking the black feathers, the palm of her hand warm and soft, as smooth as silk upon glass. “We are the enchanted, women possessed of great and terrible power. These boys are but playthings for our amusement. Look how they dance for me. Look how they wish to please me.”

“But no, it’s not right.”

“Worry not, for they love me and they will love you. Just be my friend.”

“Be your friend.”

“Yes, be my friend and you will see. They are happy to please and gladly give all that they have. And we will treat them well, as all good masters do.”

“But…”

Putting a hand to Miss Weigenmeister’s beak, Diana of the Lost said, “But hush now, listen to my voice, be my friend. Forget all your worries. Just be my friend and everything will turn out as it should. These men live to please us, to serve us. Be my friend and…”

“No!” Miss Weigenmeister shouted, breaking the spell, turning her head in a flash and taking a savage nip at the woman’s hand. Then she was off, making a short flight to the ground below, careful to perch upon a boulder to stay away from the enchanted plants. “I have come to set them free.”

“Silly girl, I am Diana of the Lost, daughter of the trueborn lords of the forest. Here I rule above all others.”

“I have come to save those young men and I will stop you if I may.”

“Arrogant fool, you may not!” Diana said, her hands twisting in obscure patterns, the light of some magic fire starting to burn within her grasp. She raised her arms and the throne grew up around her, a thorny armor following her every turn. The whole forest seemed expectant, every leaf and twig a possible advisory. Diana was beautiful and terrible, given the power of all that grew, master of the woodland realm.

“Stop,” Miss Weigenmeister shouted, investing the word with command. Powers of the mind were her particular talent, and even in the guise of the crow, she could use those powers to great effect.

Diana lowered her arms. The light of the fire was extinguished. She seemed confused, but then in her eyes the light of reason returned, and she remembered herself once again. In a cold voice, she said, “Use my own tricks against me, I think not. Perhaps I shall trade with you in kind.”

In the beautiful woman there began a change. A white light surrounded her, growing outward, radiant like the sun. The outline of the woman that was could be seen through the brilliance, and as the light grew in intensity, she grew small, the shape of her limbs changing. Her nose and face curved in a beak and her arms grew thick with feathers. In a few seconds, she had transformed herself into a sparrow.

Screeching wildly, Diana soared down to where Miss Weigenmeister perched upon the boulder. Testing her foe, the crow waited until the last moment before taking flight, causing the smaller bird to cast herself against the rock as she flew away. But Diana was not so easily beaten. She chased after the crow, following her under the branches of the forest.

The night had not yet abated. The forest seemed utterly black, as dark as the deepest cave. Miss Weigenmeister flew with caution, hardly able to see, regretting her decision to go amongst the trees, a feeling of malice growing in the air like fog.

Something breezed by her face, missing her by fractions. The crack of a whip, a branch shot out from nowhere, striking her in the wing. She tumbled to the ground. The wound was painful. She had lost feathers and maneuvering while in flight would be much more difficult because of it.

The trees and shrubs reached out with skeletal hands. The grass grew up around her, enveloping her, the edges knife blades cutting her. Frightened, Miss Weigenmeister pumped her wings and was away, making a short flight to the safety of a nearby rock. She knew that she could not stay here. The contest would have to be joined in the meadow, and so to the meadow she returned.

Diana was not far behind her. The sparrow flew into the clearing, coming to rest upon her living throne. She had done little better than Miss Weigenmeister in the forest. Though she did not have angry flora to contend with, the darkness was her enemy and she was little tested in her present form. She had caused herself some small injury and the experience had left her exhausted.

“You look as bad as I do. Shall we talk, now?” said Miss Weigenmeister as they caught their breath. “I must compliment you on your choice of antagonist. Many would have chosen an eagle or an owl, thinking a greater bird more likely of victory.”

“Is it such a wonder to you? I have seen the tribes of men rise and fall, and have known all that happens in the forest. Only the sparrow and a few others are ever really the match for a crow. Might does not always make right.”

“How correct you are,” said Miss Weigenmeister, her voice becoming stern. “Can we not settle this contest another way?”

Looking scornfully toward the dancers Diana said, “Men, they deserve it.”

“Tell me why you have done this thing. You are not evil and I believe they have caused you no harm.”

All through the meadow, the plants seemed to wilt, to grow less alive as Diana sunk into a profound melancholy. “I am troubled, humiliated to speak of it.”

“Tell me and I may help you.”

The coloring rising in her face, Diana said quietly, “Sardis the elf, we had a disagreement. We quarreled and said things that we shouldn’t.” Her voice trailed off.

Miss Weigenmeister laughed. “All this hullabaloo over a man? You should be ashamed. It’s just silly.”

“I do feel rather foolish now,” Diana agreed, breaking into a smile.

“And what purpose does it serve? Putting these fellows through this, did it accomplish anything?”

“No,” Diana admitted weekly.

“You’re better off without a man like that anyway.” Miss Weigenmeister paused for a moment, thinking, and then her face lit with amusement. “Awful funny, though. And a few of them are, well, certainly attractive.”

“They are a handsome bunch,” Diana agreed in a lurid voice, looking to the men as they continued to dance.

Giving a crow’s equivalent of a sidelong glance, Miss Weigenmeister said, “It would be a shame to waste the show.”

The wood nymph shrugged. “Not a bad way to get over a lover. Unadvised, perhaps, but I would have let them go after a day of two, when I was done. I would have wiped their minds clean. They wouldn’t have remembered any details, just had the pleasant feel of satiation.”

“Then the only question left for you, Diana of the Lost, most honored and noble of the woodlands, will you be my friend?”

The wood nymph laughed. “Yes, my mysterious crow, I will.”

* * *

Mike Phillips is the author of Reign of the Nightmare Prince, available in fine bookstores, online booksellers, Kindle and Nook. His short stories have appeared in ParABnormal Digest, Cemetery Moon, Sinister Tales, The Big Book of New Short Horror, World of Myth, Dark Horizons, Mystic Signals and many others. Online, his work has appeared in Darker, Lorelei Signal, Midnight Times, and Fringe. He is best known for his Crow Witch and Patrick Donegal series.