The Replica Spell

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The spell was complete. The old witch stepped from her chalk markings, blew out the match, and looked about the cabin. This was her best attempt yet. The small space glowed warmly in the light. The bed in the corner was now covered in warm, soft quilts. The lamp at its side had burst to life, flames dancing in the sconce. The witch smiled as she ran her fingers through her silky hair, examining the fresh blonde color. She could hardly believe it was hers.

The chimney awoke, a small fire roaring forth, and a once ancient pot was filled with rabbit stew. It bubbled and bounced over the fire, hissing as liquid escaped its hold. The witch examined the contents of the old cauldron. A fingernail floated by. She hissed and chided herself for such an amateur mistake. She fished out the nail, chopped it small, and tossed it back in with a sprinkle of flaked frog lungs. She whispered over the pot for good fortune. She could barely contain her excitement. He was going to take a bite. And then he would be hers. Hers to consume. To use. To eat. The winters were always harsh, and she needed more meat. She crossed the room to her hanging dried herbs and gingerly pulled them free from their binds. She stacked them in a basket and hid them under the table. She nodded approvingly at the room. This would do. This would work.

***

The wife lit her candle on the table and carried it to the window. She leaned forward, cupped her eyes with her hands, and peered through the frosted glass. The first snow had fallen, and he was coming home, finally. He had been five months gone, this time. It was too long. They had needed the money and supplies, so he took the summer job greedily, leaving her to tend their small crops. But she missed him desperately. She felt incomplete without him. She rubbed her hand over her swollen belly and smiled. He would be so surprised when he saw her. He left before she knew it was to be. Being alone in the wilderness and pregnant was hard, but it would be worth the winter together. A new family. She sighed, straightened the bed quilt, and lit the lamp next to it. She brushed her golden locks once more, wanting to look her best for him.

A pot of rabbit stew above the stove hissed as liquid spilled onto the fire below. She checked the contents. The carrots came in nicely this year, giving her several to can. She nodded. This would do to welcome him home. She took a small book to the table but couldn’t concentrate on the words. She was too excited. She waddled to the window once more and stared out. Would he be coming around the corner now?

***

The husband lifted his head from the rock he had cracked it on. What happened? He took a moment to take stock of himself. His fingers fumbled over his jacket and pockets. Nothing seemed broken. His knapsack was in the powdery snow a few feet above him as he lay in a ditch off the path. His fingers grazed a small cut on his forehead. He remembered then. A tree branch swung forward and knocked him down. It had been strange; with no wind or storms, the tree seemed to move on its own accord. He gathered himself and moved slowly into the clearing. He was at a fork in the road. But that wasn’t quite right, was it? He couldn’t seem to remember which path was home. A small voice carried in the wind. Sweet and small, like his pretty wife. “Right.” The way home is right. He stepped onto the path and turned right towards home. He couldn’t wait to see her.

***

The cabin came into view just around a bend. He wasn’t expecting it so soon, but the candle glow in the window warmed his soul. His wife was waiting for him. He threw open the door and bustled in, throwing a shoulder against the creaking wood. It felt as if the door had not been cracked open for ages. His wife stood still in the center of the room, a tiny smile playing on her lips.

“Welcome home. Take off your boots and sit by the fire.” She hadn’t moved from the place. Her voice sounded rough, out of use. He wondered when she had last spoken aloud, and his stomach sank.

He tugged off his boots, hurrying to feel the warmth of the fire against his skin, ignoring her coldness. It was unlike her to stay rooted in the room. His wife showered him with affection every time he returned home. Perhaps the time stretched for too long, and she was angry.

“I’m sorry, my love. The months were long without you. I hurried to get back.”

He moved towards her, but she stepped away, shooing him to the hearth. He took a seat on his wooden stool. It groaned under his weight, unaccustomed to him. “Christ,” he thought. “Even the stool has forgotten me.”

His wife threw a quilt over his shoulders, and a whiff of old mildew caught in his nostrils. He sniffed the air around him, but the scent was gone. She stood with her back to him, leaned over the fire, and fussed over a pot of stew. He had missed her cooking. Deer jerky and pub dining halls had been a poor substitute. Now that he saw her lithe frame, his palm had also been a poor substitute. Although, as he took her in, her backend tucked under her skirts, she looked almost frail and hunched. He leaned forward to run his hand through her beautiful blonde hair, but she moved away, out of reach. He sat back and lifted the quilt higher on his neck, sighing.

She came around behind him, muttering something under her breath. She always sang, but she never talked to herself. The words seemed foreign as he tilted his head to listen to her more clearly. She stopped speaking as a light dusting of salt settled around his shoulders. He snapped to attention. Did she throw salt at him? He turned to ask, but she was in front of him again, quick like a cat, and placing a bowl of stew in his lap. He smiled. The salt was forgotten as the stew steamed up into his senses. He could die a happy man now. He had all he wanted. A home, a wife, food on the table. She skirted around his stool, but this time he snatched her hand.

“Thank you, my love.”

Her smile faltered for a moment. She nodded and slipped her hand from under his. It was dry and leathery. Not at all like the soft, warm woman he left five months ago. She must have worked too hard in the crops without him. He cursed under his breath and began to stand, to reach for her, but she hushed him, telling him to eat. Slowly, he sank back down. He would eat, wash up, then take her to bed and apologize in their warm quilts through the night. He lifted the spoon to his lips. It was cold. The steam was gone. He held the bowl close, and a rancid smell lingered above it. He leaned back, and the steam returned. Something wasn’t right. He shook his head. The fall might have been more severe than he gave it credit.

He stirred the bowl again and glanced around the room for his wife. She had retreated to the shadows in the corner. She watched him as a smile crept across her face, her fingers lightly dancing on her lips. She seemed not well, maybe even ill. He glanced back into his bowl in time to see a human eye roll under the surface. He bellowed and threw the bowl into the fire, upsetting the stool and falling flat on his back, knocking the air from his lungs. The room seemed to sway around him. His wife scampered to the candle in the window and blew it out. Then she cackled a strange and hideous sound.

It was dark for a moment, and movement scurried around him. The room came into view slowly. It was cold and dead. His breaths stuttered out in front of him as he gulped air into his lungs. The blanket wrapped around his shoulders was damp and moldy, with a light furry fuzz growing. He cast it off quickly. Bugs scurried up the walls, and ivy grew from a sunken part of the roof, letting in a small pile of snow frozen below. The chimney had collapsed long ago, and a vile cauldron of murky fluid sat amongst the rubble. This place was forgotten. It was full of whispers and shadows.

His wife was hunkered on all fours, furiously whispering and drawing with chalk on the splintery floorboards. He finally saw her; this stranger was not his wife at all. Her movements were animalistic. She was old and sunken in. Her skin was ashen, her hair like white wires wound tight in a braid around her head. Her back was knotted and twisted. She wore a long white sheath dress with bare feet. Slowly, he rose, taking the stool in his hand, and shuffled quietly to the door. As he reached for the handle, she turned on him and bared her teeth. He cracked the old witch across the chest with the stool, pushing her to the floor. She skittered on her elbows and heels, recovering quickly as she made her way back to him. He wrestled with the door, yanking on its warped age to free himself. The door cracked, then jammed again.

She snagged an ankle and jerked him into the chalk markings. He struggled to keep upright. She scampered up his body, muttering as black mist poured from her mouth and nose. She dug into the nape of his neck with yellowed nails and breathed heavily over his face. The black fog consumed him. His thoughts turned hazy and foreign. Snakes, owls, and naked women dancing filled his mind. He had never seen anything so perverse. He clamped his mouth shut, held his breath, and pushed her in the chest as hard as he could. Her hold was dislodged, and she bounced outside of her chalk outlines. The mist stopped. The hag shrieked as he reached the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

She ran at him, clawing his back and yelling words he couldn’t decipher. He shrugged her off, but she came right back, biting and clawing. He turned on her, pinning her arms to her chest, and struggled to carry her across the room. He cried out as she stomped her heel into his shin. Her screams bubbled the cauldron waters, churning them higher. A drop of liquid splashed onto her dress, and she shrieked as her dress began to burn. He Lifted her high above the pot and tossed her head first. The soupy mud danced with her cries as she struggled to lift from the spell she cast. The man didn’t wait to see if she could break free. He ran and threw himself through the window, shattering glass and spells. He laid in the snow, battered and bloodied, and laughed, unbelieving. He was going home.