The Witch House

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It was the first time I’d seen it since I was a child. My family had always owned it; it happened to be on land my father bought after he married my mother. My parents were hardly the type to entertain tales of the supernatural, and thus the legends of the cabin being “haunted” or home to some to some malevolent entity were laughable to them. I was barely aware of the cabin, until in elementary school, when some of my classmates began to giggle about the ghost stories surrounding it. Some kids called it the “Black Cabin” because of its stacked stone facade the color of bonfire smoke. Most kids however, called it the “Witch House,” because of its supposed inhabitant. It went without saying that a “witch” lived there, but what that “witch” actually was, was never elaborated on by the school children. There was no cauldron or broomstick ever mentioned, nor a wart-nosed, cackling woman. The witch was simply an embodiment of all things spooky and scary (or as much as could be imagined by the innocent mind of a child). The mythos of the Witch House was always a bit murky but one thing was agreed upon: when the candle in the window was lit, the witch was home.

I could not have been more than seven years old the first time I went to the Witch House with my friends Tommy and Victor. The woods wherein the Witch House lay could be found behind my childhood home. After a fruitful night of trick or treating on Halloween, the sun set and we snuck away from my backyard, venturing into the woods in search of the house. I liked Halloween. I enjoyed ghost stories. I was excited at the prospect of finding this spooky house and giggling with my friends. We smiled and laughed as our small feet crunched dead leaves and broken twigs for what seemed like a mile but was likely only two hundred yards or so.

When we finally saw it, it looked out of place. It was an incongruity of wet charcoal-colored stone planted amid falling ochre and orange leaves. We fell silent. My smile faded. I remember immediately regretting that I had gone out at all. My face felt cold though perspiration developed on my brow. My stomach twisted with nausea the moment I stood in the House’s shadow. I couldn’t have explained why, even to myself at that moment. I noticed the glow of a candle in the window and felt immobilized in its sinister luminescence. It wasn’t the gossamer of thick spider webs across the door and windows. It wasn’t the mysterious, miasmic syrup that oozed between each brick. It wasn’t even the white plume of smoke emanating from the chimney that I knew I saw, even if none of my friends ever mentioned seeing it to one another. It was the sum of all these parts that left a deep scar in my mind, along with what I saw next.

In front of the oddly misshapen burgundy door there had been what appeared to be a small pile of snow. I took a few steps closer and saw that it was moving. The pile of snow was actually a fawn with silvery pearlescent fur laying on its side. Why had it chosen this spot to rest? I was struck by the beauty of the fawn’s frost colored coat, and it was not until I approached the animal that I saw the horror that had befallen it. With a few more steps, I noticed the splashes of deep red spread across the underbelly of the animal. Its stomach was open, entrails spilling out, and though it remained alive and attempting to stand, a small rodent was eating it from the inside out. The rodent’s head poked inside the abdominal cavity of the suffering creature as it continued to gnaw and pull at the fawn’s viscera. That moment felt like hours, but I likely only viewed this grotesque display for only mere seconds before backing away. Before I completely averted my gaze, the burgundy door opened ever so slightly. The set of fingers that emerged from the doorway and began to peel away the skin of the infant deer with a crude hand scythe, are seared into my mind’s eye. The fingers were less pale and more a translucent bluish grey, purple veined and inhumanly long. I did not stay to see their owner, I turned and ran back toward my house.

I am uncertain of who came up with the name Skin Witch. It may have been Tommy, it may have been Victor, it may have been someone else completely, but the moniker was unforgettable for me. As was the alleged name of her infamous scythe; Skincarver. My mother and father could never quite ascertain what upset me about the cabin. I returned home that evening, holding back tears. I threw up. I slept in my parents bed for comfort. I could not explain why. Even if I wanted to explain, I couldn’t have; I did not comprehend what I had witnessed, nor did I fully understand what upset me so greatly.

What was certain to my parents was that the cabin had frightened me somehow, and they wasted no time in boarding up the ominous abode lest I be tempted again to visit it. My father inspected it thoroughly and all but hermetically sealed it up with planks and chains to ensure no curious kids, wanderers or vagabonds would find their way inside. I think they assumed I would forget about it. I think I did too. I tried to. I used to imagine older versions of myself unbothered by the haunting memory of that wretched hand and the gutted fawn.

Over twenty years have passed and the Skin Witch has remained in my mind every day. The terror of that day lies heavy on my heart and visions of flickering candles in windows come to me during my darkest moments. Neither professional care nor close relationships with family and friends permanently rids me of this fear, of seeing the Witch again, of not being able to leave if i do.

As time goes on and I see the candles less, though I am still not always sure that I am imaging them. In fact, often I am certain that I am not. I will see a candle in a store window, or a house near my apartment and feel stricken by fear once more, transported to that moment as a child with eidetic clarity. Every worry, every embarrassment, every failure, every moment of self doubt: a vision of a candle in the window. Each time I grow more angry with myself. I am angry that I went to that cabin as a child; I am angry that the memories still burrow deep holes in my brain; I am angry that despite how hard I try not to, I keep imagining candles in windows that spell my doom. I have begun to question my own sanity. It has been decades since I’ve seen Tommy and Victor. Were their names even Tommy and Victor? Had I even been with anyone that day? Was I the only one perpetually obsessed with those horrific images? I lived in that same house, near the cabin, throughout my childhood, and since moving out, I have visited many times. I often revisit the Witch House, but I stand at a safe distance. I make sure I see no signs of light in the window, only worn out wooden planks weary from years of weather. The holidays brought me back to my childhood home for the first time in almost a year. The night was full of merriment and laughter. I tried my best not to think about the Witch House, and I was successful for a time. As the festivities ended, and I headed to my car, preparing to drive back to my apartment across down, I paused. I looked toward the woods behind my parent’s house. I turned and continued toward the Witch House shaking my head with each step. I am stupid for needing to check, something is wrong with me, I say to myself as I travel farther and farther into the woods, only my flashlight from my phone lighting my path.

Cursing myself along this blackened path of self loathing, my heart begins to race, my muscles grow tense. Finally, I see it, and my breath catches. A candle was burning in the window.

Blood drained from my face, a thousand needles stabbed my chest as my stomach shot bile into my throat. My bowels ached to be emptied. I took a deep breath and a step toward the cabin. I thought about running but I did not. I had long grown tired of being afraid. This was it. I wanted to see the Witch, right then and there. I took a step forward, and another. The burgundy door was within arms reach. There was no fawn this time, but the door was inexplicably moistened, as if it was also anxiously perspiring. I turned toward the window and saw the black wax candle glowing. I stared at it for a moment and thumped hard on the door with my fist. The needles in my chest had spread to my stomach and my extremities, I felt nearly completely numb. With vision narrowed and my head feeling weightless, I kicked the door as hard as I could and it opened not with a creak but a loud twang like metal strings snapping. As I stepped into the house bathed in darkness, my eyes fought to adjust. I put my hands in front of me and felt a barrier in my path. I feel something damp and coriaceous, as if a smooth animal hide was made into some sort of curtain, and I am grateful I cannot fully make out what sort of being it belonged to. Beyond the leathery hanging I found myself in the center of the house illuminated solely by the black candle. Heavy putrid air corrupting my senses, I looked toward the light and began to process the contents of the house. In the corner beside the candle I saw what initially resembled a group of trinkets piled high to the ceiling. Upon further examination my still adjusting eyes revealed a much more horrific truth. The pile was actually made up of once living parts, animal and human alike. Bowels and bone, suntanned skins and woven sinew created a gruesome and terrible shrine of bodily oddments. My transfixion was broken by the sound of soft scratching.

My eyes shifted downward and I saw the Skin Witch, fully, for the first time, seated in front of me, head bowed. A mane of filthy storm-cloud-colored hair hung matted and knotted over the Witch’s face. I looked upon the Witch’s lap and saw the source of the odd noise; their mangled fingers gripped Skincarver tightly and with it the Witch was scraping the hide of an animal. I recognized it. The color of silver frost. The hide of the fawn. I stared at the Witch, unmoving, afraid to speak. I mustered the strength to fill my lungs with as much of the thick noxious cabin air as I could, and exhaled loudly, hoping to draw attention to myself. It worked, the Witch stopped, head still lowered. They slowly rose from their seat. I found myself unable to move. They took one step toward me. And another. Still, I was frozen, trying to control my breathing, trying to keep my head above the waves of fear. Suddenly and violently the Witch’s hand shot forward and their gnarled digits gripped my throat. My own hands reached for the source of my asphyxiation, trying to free myself but I felt my life force draining as what little light surrounded me began to dim. I felt myself slipping away. I began to allow the slip. After all, this was what I always expected, what I always feared would happen. I knew the Skin Witch, though I had never truly seen them, would kill me. I looked down at the Witch’s other hand, in it was Skincarver, thirsting for flesh, inching closer and closer to my face. The blade was close enough that the scent of rusted metal and dried blood penetrated my nostrils. I closed my eyes. I felt the cold iron on my cheek, and something awakened within me. I violently pushed the weapon away from me. The Witch’s grip loosened slightly around my throat, enough for me to fully break free of the murderous clutch. I knocked the Witch to the ground, falling on top of them in the process. More than adrenaline, untamed fury pulsed through my veins as I placed my own hands around the neck of my demonic foe. I squeezed with all the strength in my body and spirit, and the Witch, writhing underneath me, shook away their grime-filled hair revealing their face. I stared at my enemy’s face and froze once more. The Skin Witch’s face resembled my own, uncannily so. I stared into that pair of eyes, a mirror of my own, for a moment before an inhuman screech from the Witch broke me out of my trance. I squeezed again. My face reddened, my eyes teared; I knew I had to kill this thing before it killed me. I felt the neck in between my palms shrink, the body under me evaporate. I shut my eyes in between heavy breaths and suddenly the Skin Witch was gone. I was alone in the Witch House, the candle extinguished, pale moonlight peering in through the cracks in the wooden planks covering the windows.

After a long breath, I wearily stood up. I left the Witch House without looking back at it. I felt no need to look this time. I walked back to my car and I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. Strangely, there were no marks or bruises on my neck. On the drive home I listened to music; songs of struggle, songs of love, songs of perseverance. I wept almost the entire journey. Exiting my car and walking toward my front door I stopped and looked into the wondrous firmament of the night sky. I looked at each of the stars. I stared at the moon for a moment. I took a deep, triumphant breath before turning toward my building and walking inside. For a brief moment, I felt certain I saw a candle illuminating a store window...but I must have been wrong.