M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

Bright sun shone down from a deep blue sky, decorated here and there with only the barest trails of wispy cirrus clouds. Though no longer pristine and unblemished, a deep blanket of snow still covered the city. Wide swaths of trampled footprints from children at play cut paths through otherwise smooth, white, rolling lawns. Across the street a stocking cap adorned snowman stood sentry outside the entrance of a carefully constructed snow fort. Armed with a broomstick, he stood rigidly at attention, executing his assigned duty like a frozen Marine.

Dirty grey mounds replete with grime, cinders and chemical additives were heaped alongside curbs, courtesy of County maintenance crews, resting exactly where they had been placed by the passing street department plows. They lined the avenues like the ornamental walls of a fairy tale winter wonderland estate. Each passing hour of warmth from the radiant sunlight slowly and painstakingly sculpted the piles into smaller versions of themselves, sometimes gouging Swiss cheese holes through areas of lesser density.

Later, when the temperature would again dip well below the freezing point, the process would switch gears, grinding mid-motion into reverse, and they would once again harden with crusty layers of glistening ice.

Iridescent stalactites flowed downward from the edge of our roof-several of them refracting the sun as Mother Nature’s slender prisms. Electric-hued primary colors danced through their conical, transparent shafts seeming to undulate slowly as the frozen water hovered just the other side of liquid fluidity. Shimmering droplets rolled steadfastly downward and gathered purposefully at the tips. Each drip growing and bulging ever larger until its weight combined with gravity to send it plummeting toward the earth below, only to be followed momentarily by yet another, and another…

I took a sip from my steaming oversized mug of hazelnut coffee as I watched the scene through the picture window of our living room. A little more than a week had passed since the great midwestern blizzard had all but completely buried Saint Louis and most of the bi-state region for that matter. It had taken a full two days for the city to dig itself out, and talk had already begun about the ability of the metropolitan sewer system to handle the impending run-off. Twenty-three inches of snow-all in one fell swoop-wasn’t exactly normal for the area, and winter still had a good month left to go. There was even panicked speculation that we could be in for a spring that would make the flood of ‘93 look like a minor mishap with a backed up kitchen sink.

As devastating as a flood would be, it was the least of my concerns at this particular instant. Fear had stalked me every moment, asleep or awake, since my becoming involved in this investigation. Each day that passed without another body turning up allowed me to relax a little more. But I knew deep down that it was only a temporary reprieve. This killer would be passing judgment on someone else and carrying out an execution based on his warped interpretation of an equally warped manuscript. Of this, there was no doubt in my mind. My only question was “When?”

Absently, I reached over and tended to a tickling itch on my forearm. Entirely unlike the burning pain that had once occupied that spot, the sensation was merely that of new skin growing as my body repaired itself. The wound had healed almost as quickly as it had appeared, lending even more credence to my feeling that it was an ethereal sign meant solely to gain my attention. With its mission accomplished, there was no longer a need for it to remain. The symbol was now visible as nothing more than a faint pink scar. With luck, that too would soon fade.

The savory smell of Felicity’s family recipe corned beef hash wafted throughout the house, riding piggyback along the sweet scent of freshly baked sourdough bread. My mouth watered slightly, and the mixture of aroma’s sparked a low grumble from my empty stomach.

“Honey,” her singsong voice called from the kitchen. “How many eggs do you want?”

“Two would be fine, thanks,” I answered over my shoulder.

“Over easy?”

“Always.”

“Toast?”

“Please.”

Upon returning home I kept my promise-as if I had a choice-and recounted for her the details of the day I had spent with Ben as well as the night sequestered in the city morgue. Doing so had been like re-living a nightmare for me. Fortunately, at the same time, it had been necessary and unquestionably therapeutic-an overall catharsis that allowed me to expunge at least some of the horror.

I could talk about my visions and my feelings with Ben, or anyone else for that matter. I could even make them believe. Then I could prove incontrovertibly that what I witnessed by ethereal means was in fact ultimately true and painfully accurate in the physical realm. Still, no matter how much I talked to the uninitiated, for me it remained a dark and lonely ache; for even my best friend could never truly understand the experience.

However, another Witch could not only understand but could empathize as well. This fact, among many others, served to make my auburn-tressed wife both my friend and confidant-my personal psychiatrist and steadfast anchor in this reality. But, most of all, Felicity was my soul mate.

Beyond the double-paned window, I could make out the faint noises of rubber singing against wet asphalt as vehicles cautiously made their way up and down the street. The muted but unmistakable squeal of damp brakes punctuated the other outdoor sounds, and the familiar shape of a Chevrolet van halted in front of the house. After waiting for a car to pass in the opposite direction, the worn-out looking vehicle canted a shallow turn into my driveway, splashing through the gutter full of icy slush and squeaking again to a stop.

My heart catapulted itself into my throat then dropped slowly back down to its rightful place in my chest, performing an advanced series of somersaults all the while. My first assumption was that our self-proclaimed inquisitor had passed sentence upon his third victim. Even though I was expecting it, the possibility thrust me into a weary catatonic gaze.

The dogs began the boisterous announcement of their presence in order to chase away the intruder and in the process disrupted our three peacefully slumbering felines. Furry masses bolted from perches on sunny windowsills, and our English setter led the canine charge for the front door. Thankfully, the sudden commotion wrenched me away from the unblinking stare.

Ben hadn’t called this morning and neither had Carl Deckert. There had been no mention on the news of a body being found as yet. I quickly decided it would be more logical to at least wait until my friend had made it to the door before jumping to any conclusions. I took another sip of my coffee and pushed back the unwanted thoughts, calming perceptibly. However, I was still left with the sickening aftertaste of fear on the back of my tongue.

“Sweetheart,” I called out as I watched the occupant of the van unfold himself from the seat and start up the narrowly cleared path of our walkway. “You’d better get out another half dozen or so eggs. We’ve got company.”

Our friend’s appetite being legendary, as well as his proclivity for showing up at mealtime, she didn’t even bother to ask who it was. My only slightly exaggerated estimate of the additional food needed was clue enough. From the kitchen I heard the faint sound of cracking eggshells as she added more to the skillet. The muttering that followed formed a simple, matter-of-fact comment. “Okay, we’ll have scrambled eggs then.”

The dogs had settled for a moment and now burst back into excited yelps at the sound of heavy footsteps on the porch. I shushed the two noisemakers and commanded them to sit, which they did in almost perfect unison. Ben was just reaching for the bell when I opened the heavy oak door.