The Darkness Within

A darkness had begun to plague our village. Blather of the head sickness and murder had befallen the nearby settlements, and it was only a matter of time before the fear set in and turned even the most respectable men into witch frenzied hunters. I let my thoughts drift back to the pandemonium that had swept England; this land was supposed to be safe. The evil that haunted us then was not meant to follow us here. Yet, you could almost taste the panic rising. The coarse wind bit at my cheeks as winter began to take hold. The profound chill seemed as though it were not of this world, but something dark and sinister, as it moved through claiming lives for itself.

I made my way to the butchers, the dew of early morning clinging to my shoes, when I heard the screams. I came upon the somber crowd to see women pulling their children inside shops and homes, some with tears staining their faces, others with petrified fear soaking their features. Doc Thomas and a few other men were kneeling next to something by old maid Mildred’s dwelling, the town gossip. One might call her a pillar in this small, ramshackle town. Her very being radiating with both knowledge and contempt. However vile she might be; it certainly never outweighed her superiority. Most in the town thought her to be an old crone, but none ever dared to say it aloud in her presence. But truth be told, she wasn’t as horrible a person as they all thought, she merely lacked a good sense of propriety. But I suppose all spinster’s had that way about them.

Drawing in closer to see what all the bustle was about; that’s when I saw the slack form lying on the ground. Pale and unmoving in the crisp morning air. There in the center of the grim townsfolk, I saw the face of dear, sweet Mildred. Her face contorted in agony, her rich blood hemorrhaging out of the deep gash at her throat.

“Help me move her inside until we can bury the body,” came Doc Thomas’ voice. John Goss, the butcher, along with Ralph Toller, the blacksmith, and young Peter Brown, the pastor’s son, all grabbed a frail limb and carted her back into her empty home and laid her down. But it was Martha Young that stood from the crying crowd, and began retelling stories of old Mildred.

The people came together as one to share their stories and cry with one another at the great loss we would all feel at the absence of Mildred. The sun began cresting in the sky and warmed the terror coated chill that had befallen our village. It was too bright for the darkness that now surrounded us all. The murmurs faded into a fog as one sound cleared through the haze; the calm hoot of a barn owl caught my ear. I looked up into the slender tree directly above me to see its haunting black eyes staring at me; within me.

As the men emerged from her dwelling, I made my way to Peter’s side, “Peter, is it true? Is Mildred really dead?” I asked with sincerity.

He stopped to look me in the eye as he said, “Yes, I’m afraid it is Abigail. You need to take heed until this evil is condemned.” Peter’s warning gleaned and tinted his warm brown eyes with a soft glow, leaving me breathless. Mildred’s blood clung to his hands and the sleeve of his shirt, soaking the cuff in deep crimson; the color so rich like Aunt Louise’s favorite berries.

“I really must be going Abigail. I have to get word to my father so he can begin making preparations for the burial.” And then he turned, crossing the clearing to the church where his father was likely immersed in morning prayer. Feeling the distance grow between us, the words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them.

“Peter,” I called, “you look rather dashing today.”

I must not have spoken loud enough for him to hear because he kept walking, his tall, lean back to me. His long strides marched to the beat of my heart, as he carried it away unknowingly. Overwhelmed with embarrassment at my words falling on deaf ears, I began my trudge home.

Opening the front door, I found Aunt Louise, quiet and content, in her usual wooden chair knitting away, unaware of the lurking horrors. The remains of the night's fire simmered within the hearth, hardly warming the small house. Growing sunlight crept along the tabletop illuminating Aunt Louise’s straight needles as the chair creaked under the sway of her relentless rocking.

“Is that you Abigail? Aunt Louise called.

“Yes auntie, it’s me,” I sighed.

“Did John have everything I sent for? Goody Prudence always tries to buy out his best cuts. I ventured to ask her last week…” I cut her off before she continued her unfavorable ramblings about the cobbler’s wife.

“Auntie, something terrible has transpired in town. The old crone, Mildred, has been killed.”

***

Today is not for work or chores. Today we spend mourning the life lost in our small town. As the sun began to lift its head, I pulled my tired feet from the warmth of my bed, the cold unwelcoming floor biting at my toes. Usual morning would have consisted of breakfast, chores, errands and caring for Aunt Louise. Though today was not a normal day. Oh, it was still a fine day out, the weather mild and perfect for another chance at Peter taking note of me. After we finished baking, just as the rest of the town, we would bathe and don our best attire for the funeral of dear Mildred.

Stealing a glance in the small mirror above the washbasin, I glimpsed the simplicity of my face and plainness of my dress. What did Peter see when he looked at me? The townspeople certainly never looked my way. No one except Peter did. They seemed to care only of the terrors we had recently endured. We were, it seemed, swallowed up in darkness and superstition, living now in fear. Only a few weeks ago, young Bridget Marbury’s father returned from trade in Weymouth with unsettling rumors of evil that had spread there and then vanished. Even Doc Thomas had returned from his travels with gruesome tales of battered bodies. No one cared who had brought these tall tales to our town, only that they spread like the damning wildfire that they were. Now those rumors had brought those afflictions here.

The silence of the church was clinging to my bones as a monotonous wave swept over me. Tear soaked eyes crowded the dim, open room, showing no likeness to my stone faced features. I could seldom keep my eyes from wandering to where Peter stood, lingering on his handsome face. The warmth of my cheeks shook me from the thought as I found myself following the crowd out into the square.

“Abigail, Dear.” Auntie Louise called after me sweetly, “Goodwife Blythe will see me home. Find Butcher John and give him my requests for tomorrow’s order.”

“Yes Auntie!”

Aunt Louise nodded and smiled as she turned to take her leave, looking right at me. Often, I wondered how blind she really was. I would find her eyes following the sound of my steps, but perfectly aligned with where I stood in the room. The thought, however heavy, was quickly left to the back of my mind at the sight of swift movement across the square. The moon shining bright overhead provided only enough lumination to see how many figures retreated toward the edge of town, but not who. My curiosity stole me away as I followed the shadows dancing down the side of the schoolhouse. I stopped dead in my tracks as my eyes found Peter sneaking off to the decrepit barn on the outskirts of town and with him was Bridget, hand in hand.

***

The air, cool on my damp face, as I watch the girl that should have been me, now dressed again and leaving the barn in haste at the late hour. There he stood, gathering his disheveled clothing from around him, unaware once more that I existed. Were these tears on my face? The broken, uneven beating of my heart erupted in me, as blackness surged throughout. The breeze seemed quiet as it blew into the barn, over the body that lay still on the hard, frost bitten ground. The boy I had loved from afar was now gone; his face contorted in the horror it held during his final moment. The thick, dark wetness clinging to my hands was heavier than it should have been as the smell of blood invaded my sleep.

Jolting from my sweat soaked bed, I threw my hands out to find no blood or remnants of death. The breath I held captive was finally free, but I still felt trapped within myself. It was too vivid for a nightmare. The fear took over me as I leapt from my bed to dress, the sun not yet making himself known. Down the stairs and out the door I ran as fast as my tired feet could carry me. With no more than a few roaming in the square, I had little concern for what could be said of me behaving so strangely. It seemed as though I had been running for hours, then, there it was, the dark creaking wood of the barn towering over me.

Standing at the opening of the old building, I stared into the darkness, the sounds of nature itself seemed to halt with me as piercing cold, sharper than a knife cut through me. A disfigured massive form lay unmoving on the ground. Bile began rising in my throat and my body seemed so weak all at once. I didn’t have to examine the body to know who it was. In my heart, Peter’s name rang clear. Another murder… and this time I had dreamt it. My feet, heavier now, would barely take a step away from this madness. Turning to run, the sun was just beginning its ascent into the winter sky, and I saw it again. There perched atop the nearest tree was the same Barn Owl, hollow eyes black as pitch, gazing into my soul, observing what lay under the surface.

There was something there lurking within me, fighting its way to the exterior world. My thoughts began tolling in my head like the clang of the town church bell. Visions of death clouded my mind as that lurking being inside stalked ever closer to existence. I ran, as fast and as hard as my legs would carry me. As if I might be able to outrun the darkest bits of my soul.

“Aunt Louise!” I called as I shoved open the front door. She was there in her knitting rocker just as she always was.

“What is it, child?” Nothing but soothing calm in that tone.

“Auntie, there has been another murder. It’s Peter. Peter Brown, he’s… he’s dead.” I shouted at her if only to awaken a tendril of the fear now consuming me.

“Quiet girl! Lest the neighbors hear you shouting such atrocious things!” She snapped at me, “Now come stoke this fire dear, I’d like you to boil me some water.”

“Aunt Louise, didn’t you hear me? There has been another murder, we must leave here at once!”

“Abigail, child, there are some things we need to discuss. Come stoke the fire like I asked and listen as I tell you about our family ancestry.” Aunt Louise said calmly.

I shouted, “We don’t have time…”

“Quiet!” She roared. I’d never heard Aunt Louise raise her voice to anyone before. The command of it, so at odds with the frailty of her body. But I did as she asked; stoking the fire before putting some water on to boil.

“Your mother had the head sickness too. And it’s not something that can be treated by herbs and natural remedies. It demands to be felt, to take from this world the unthinkable. It demands a sacrifice, blood.” She sighed and took a breath, “You are the one who has committed these murders Abigail.”

I turned slowly away from the fire to look into her unseeing eyes, and my stomach plummeted to the depths of the sea as the blue of her eyes was more clear than I’d ever known it to be. As if… as if she could indeed see me. I held her gaze as frightening memories began flooding my mind. Almost like her eyes were the door behind which all my inner darkness ran rampant.

I beheld Mildred’s hateful stare as my hands sliced through her throat and relished as the warm blood coated my hands. I watched as Peter held Bridget in a lover’s embrace and felt the rage burn from within as I gripped the knife and dug it deep into his back. The sharp edge lasserating his insides the way his betrayal had ripped through mine. The moment when we had finally been close, but not in the ways I had longed for.

I knew what I gleaned in her eyes was true. I think I had always known that darkness was lying in wait for me. Frantically I knelt before Aunt Louise and begged her to understand that I never meant to do these awful things.

“You must believe me auntie! I never meant to kill anyone! I loved Peter!”

“It is your nature child. It will always be your nature. Now, dry your tears and finish boiling me some water.” She said as the glaze slid back into place over her cerulean eyes.

Undilated rage flowed through my veins. Taunting whispers echoed somewhere in the distance crooning, “Kill her too.”

“She deserves it.”

“Do it!”

“Kill her NOW!” The last shrilled out and sounded unnervingly like Aunt Louise’s voice. But she just sat rocking in her chair knitting away, completely unaware of the voices urging me to take her life.

I felt the thrum of power course through me, a heightened sense of awareness that told me I truly could be the kind of evil that did these hideous things. The fire in the hearth steadily grew until the room became stifling. Again, visions of my hands committing such beastly acts throughout not only our village, but surrounding towns as well paraded within my mind. My murderous acts seemed to span ages, and I delighted in it. The horrors, the screams, the blood; I reveled in the joy it brought me to take a new life. The voices became a chant of an unknown tongue, growing louder and louder as that monster within me stretched its limbs.

Aunt Louise began humming a tune in time to the chanting chorus that filled my ears. With predator-like stealth, I grabbed the hunting knife off the table and stood to take aim. As I plunged it into her wretched beating heart, I felt her lifeforce flood into me with a cunning and wicked smile.

I pulled the knife back and watched as her blood, my blood dripped to the wooden floor. Her mouth indeed stretched into a blood soaked grin. The chanting voices faded to the background of my mind and the fire dulled to a simmer. A shrill hooting caught my ear, I turned to see that damned barn owl perched on the window ledge. His ominous black eyes reflected the death that lingered there. He continued hooting loudly in the bright mid morning sun.

***

Walking along the town square, I began taking note of the local shops that filled my surroundings. It had all the necessities of the day; a church, a butcher shop, a general store, and a schoolhouse. It looked a lot like several other villages I had come to call home over the ages. It would do for what I needed.

“You must be new here,” came a strong male voice from beside me.

“Yes, hello. I’m Abigail. I only arrived a short while ago. I just wanted to take a stroll and see my new town.”

“I’m Issac, my father is the preacher here. Would you grant me the pleasure of accompanying you?”

“I’d like that Issac, thank you.”