The Witch Who Would Not Burn
They called me a witch. I remember their faces more clearly than I remember the flames. The priest who held the Bible, the blacksmith who tied my wrists, the women who watched from their windows, and the children who threw stones at my feet. I begged them to listen. I screamed that I had done nothing. But fear had already turned their hearts against me. They burned me alive beneath a blood red moon. And as the flames swallowed my skin, I made them a promise. “You will all remember my name.”
Thirty years have passed since that night. The village has changed. The church has grown older, the houses have crumbled, and the people who condemned me have grown comfortable in their little lives. They tell their children that the witch was evil, that burning me saved them all. How amusing. For thirty years, I have watched them sleep. And tonight, I have come home.
The first to die was the priest. He was found inside the church, kneeling before the altar. His eyes were wide open, his mouth frozen in a silent scream. Every candle in the room had burned black, and written across the altar in ash were four words.
SHE WAS INNOCENT.
The second was the blacksmith. His wife woke to the sound of chains dragging across the bedroom floor. When she turned, she saw him standing in the corner, his body trembling. A little girl stood behind him. Her skin was burned, her hair was gone, and her eyes glowed like dying embers. He recognized me immediately. He tried to scream, but I had waited thirty years to hear him beg. One by one, they began to disappear. The villagers locked their doors, covered their mirrors, and prayed until their voices became hoarse. But prayers could not save them. They had forgotten something. The dead do not need invitations.
On the seventh night, I visited the village square. The very place where they had tied me to the stake. The wooden post still stood there, rotting beneath the moonlight. I ran my fingers across it. And the flames returned. The entire village woke to screams. Fire danced through empty streets, yet not a single house caught alight. Shadows moved behind curtains. Doors slammed shut. Something scratched at bedroom windows. Then every clock stopped at midnight. I stood in the middle of the square, looking at the faces gathered around me. The children hid behind their mothers. The old men trembled. Some fell to their knees.
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One woman stepped forward. She was the granddaughter of the priest. “Please,” she whispered. “What do you want?”
I looked at her and smiled. “Justice.”
She began to cry. “But they are all dead. Everyone who burned you is dead.”
For the first time in thirty years, I stopped smiling. Because she was right. The people who had murdered me were already gone. So why was I still here? A cold wind passed through the square. I looked down at my hands. Beneath the burned skin, something black was moving. Then I heard a familiar voice behind me. You promised them revenge. You never promised yourself peace. I turned. And there I was. The woman they had burned. The woman I had buried beneath all that hatred. She looked exactly like me. Except she wasn’t smiling. I finally understood. The flames had killed my body, but it was my hatred that had kept my soul alive. And now, after thirty years of revenge, I had become the very monster they had accused me of being. The villagers watched as I slowly disappeared into the darkness. But before I left, I whispered one final thing.
“Remember, children. Not every monster is born evil. Some are made by people who call themselves righteous.” And somewhere beyond the village, another fire began to burn.
Written By:
Darkest Flow Studio
