Until the End of Time

I

Christine knew she’d made it when the moon turned violet. She had followed the ritual precisely; she’d carved the seal into the bark of the old sycamore, broke the seal with her blood, and passed through the Tunnel of Roots. Before her, the Windless Wood stretched out in all directions, as far as the eye could see. It was a sacred place, one that was nestled between the confines of life and death. She would need to tread carefully.

Everything was shrouded in a gloomy coat of dusk; the only light came from the moon that shone through the trees like a black light. The trees were dark and twisted things, covered with gray moss and lichen that groped out like crooked fingers. There was no sound to be heard, and the prevalent smell of the vicinity was the musty earthen stench of strangled air mixed with a sweet and nauseating sap. The forest floor was treacherous, teeming with underbrush and thick roots—the pulsing veins of the woodland. Strange luminescent fungi sprouted from the ground in patches, including the prominent breed of sickly-looking toadstools with glowing green domes, pocked with black oval spots.

Christine approached the nearest tree and examined the moss. The moss whispered to her and told her where north was. She went the opposite way, knowing she was bound for south. She moved carefully through the underbrush, for she knew that the vines and prickly brambles could reach out and strangle her at any given moment.

She walked for what felt like as much as two hours, and as little as thirty seconds—time was immeasurable in this place—until the underbrush began to clear. All the trees and dense vegetation made way for what looked like a grove at first, but once she saw the shimmer of violet moonlight on the ground and the spidery reflections of the trees, she knew she had made it to the Nebulous Bog.

Christine approached the water’s edge, and as she did so, the silence of the realm was broken. A cacophony of ruffling feathers and caws broke out into the night. She turned her gaze to the black, flapping wings. Strange silver-eyed crows, unlike any she had ever seen, began lining the branches that loomed over the bog. Their eyes glowed hideously through the gloom, and as they settled onto their perches, Christine realized they were watching her. They were waiting.

She glanced down at the dark water and saw the silhouette of her reflection. In a moment of weakness, she questioned if what she was doing was right. Could this really be justified? The thought gave her pause. But then she thought of Brad, of all the beautiful times they’d shared together. In her mind, she saw his deep green eyes and beaming white smile, heard his contagious laughter; she could smell his scent, feel his touch.

And then she thought of Rachel. That whore. That goddamn whore.

Christine reached into her pocket and produced a black stone. She dropped it into the water—a gulping splash, black ripples.

The crows hushed their raucous cawing; the waterlilies danced despite the utter lack of wind; the black water splashed and bubbled, making way for something that rose from its shadowy depths. Christine held her breath. She felt terrified, but didn’t want to show it.

When the soaked figure broke through the water’s surface and stood on two feet, she stifled her recoil. She couldn’t let the witch see her fear. If everything from the ancient scrolls of the Green Pantheon could be believed, the witch despised fear, and would strike down anyone who carried it into her bog. But as Christine looked upon the wretched hag, she began to feel that her cause was lost.

The witch stood fairly tall despite her hunched neck and shoulders. She was naked, her grayish-green skin clothed only in sparce patches of slick moss and seaweed, and from her head grew a tangled mess of gray matted hair. Blemishes of a multicolored fungus sprouted out at random intervals along her face, deforming the shape of her head and partly obscuring the bioluminescent violet of her eyes. Over her shoulder, she held a burlap sack, stained red-brown and dripping with bog water at the seams. Christine knew from her studies that the sack was filled with severed heads, and that the witch would carry them with her forever—or as the ancient text put it: until the end of time.

They stood in silence for a moment, tension clinging to the air that even the hushed tranquility of the crows could attest to. It lingered interminably, testing Christine’s resolve. She almost felt relieved when the silence finally broke.

The witch spoke with an amphibious croak.

“What brings you to my bog?”

Christine cleared her throat, spoke as confidently as she could. “I’m here to make a wish.”

“One of love or death?”

“I used the black stone, didn’t I?”

The witch smiled through a twisted mouth of crooked black teeth. “You did.”

All of Christine’s reluctance had vanished upon hearing the witch’s voice. She had already come so far, braved her way through so much. She couldn’t turn back now.

“I need you to kill someone,” Christine said.

“I can arrange that,” the witch said. “But you should know, I don’t do the killing myself.

Christine did know that; she had read the ancient scrolls. The witch’s name was Yasathra, but she was known widely as the Headsman’s Witch. In her mortal life that was lived many centuries ago, she had wed the executioner of the town that bordered her woods. They fell in love under unlikely circumstances, and though their love ran deep, it was doomed to end in tragedy.

One day, the townsfolk discovered she was a witch, and the man who was ordered to burn her at the stake was none other than her dear beloved. They were both killed by an insatiable mob that day—her for her alleged witchcraft and him for his disobedience. Their premature deaths spurred them both into an afterlife of desire and pain, and as such, they took on the role of helping travelers in matters of romance and vengeance. The vengeance was always carried out by the ghost of her husband, who would go off to collect the heads of those who were killed. Wishes of romance, on the other hand, weren’t as clear cut; there were various methods to achieve the desired outcomes.

“I don’t care how it’s done,” Christine said. “I just want her dead.”

“Oh, her?” Yasathra’s grin widened. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Rachel Mather.”

“Mather you say?” The witch cackled like a bullfrog. “With a name like that, I would be glad to.”

“So you can do it?”

“This woman—Rachel. Why do you want her dead?”

“She’s a worthless slut. She stole my boyfriend.”

“And you want him back, is that right?”

“It’s none of your business what I want. What I need is for you to chop that skank head off its shoulders. Can you do that or not?”

Yasathra looked amused by her tenacity. The witch stepped forward, chanting indecipherable words through whispering breaths. The crows broke out into a fit of cawing and flapping, and Christine felt something that she hadn’t felt since setting foot in the cursed realm—wind. It swirled around her in a violent rage, pulling and snapping at her clothes. She felt her body tense up, and she braced herself for whatever was to come.

Once Yasathra had made it to the shoreline where Christine stood, the witch grabbed her by the arm. Christine tried to pull away, but the witch clamped down, digging sharp grubby nails into her skin. She looked up to meet the witch’s eyes and saw that the violet glow within them had lit up, and they were burning into her. She was still hissing that awful incantation, and once it ended, Christine felt a tug.

The witch pulled Christine down into the bog. There was a loud splash, and she was submerged. The black water consumed her in an instant. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Convulsing and flailing, she grasped for anything within reach, only to find an endless expanse of darkness.

II

Christine jolted upright. Her entire body was soaked with bog water. No… sweat. She splayed out her arms and desperately grabbed for anything within reach; she felt bedsheets. When the darkness that obscured her vision had faded, she found that she was back in her apartment bedroom. As soon as the realization became apparent, she relaxed, took some time to catch her breath.

Was it a dream?

The thought was swept away the moment she looked down at the skin on her forearm. Puncture wounds, leftover proof of the witch’s sharp, jagged nails—still stinging, still bleeding. She had done what she had set out to do, and now she would wait.

Christine had a skip in her step that morning. During her routine that was usually mundane—showering, making coffee, cooking breakfast, brushing her teeth and getting ready for work—she found herself skipping and dancing her way around from one place to another. She could hardly wait to hear the news. Of course, Brad would be a wreck, at least for a time. It wouldn’t matter though. Christine would be there to comfort him through it, and he would be grateful for her. He may even learn to love her again. And if he didn’t, that was okay; there was always the red stone.

Christine made it to the office fifteen minutes early that day. She was feeling antsy, eager for a sign that the deed had been done. She found herself checking her phone and her social media accounts at every turn. Just die, you bitch, she repeated in her head over and over like a mantra. Just fucking die.

After about four hours of taking call after call, booking appointment after appointment, she started having those familiar feelings of uncertainty and regret. What was it like to die that way? Was it quick? Would you suffer? How long would your mind remain conscious after the fatal blow? She supposed she should’ve entertained those questions before pulling the proverbial trigger, so there was no use thinking about them now. Dead was dead no matter which way the reaper swung his scythe.

The rest of her shift passed by like a fever dream, and as soon as she was clocked out and in her car, she found herself sitting idly, scrolling through her phone rather than making a beeline for home. After the usual barrage of memes, cat and dog posts and political ramblings, she gave in and went to his profile. She wasn’t just mindlessly sifting, after all. She was looking for something.

Brad had a new post. Christine clicked on it.

It was a picture of him and Rachel, holding hands and sitting on a bed—Brad’s bed—with folded clothes, bags and suitcases strewn about in various stages of packing. Their faces were lit up with the brightest smiles, and Christine couldn’t help but wince in pain when she realized that Brad had never smiled like that when he was with her. Off to Paris with my love tomorrow, the caption read.

Christine began to feel sick. She closed the app and opened up her contacts. She wasn’t sure why, but she instinctively clicked on Latonya’s name.

Latonya was a mutual friend of Brad and herself from back when they were together. As awkward as it was, Brad and Christine had both remained friends with her despite the ugly breakup. Christine wanted to despise her for it, but she couldn’t. Latonya was the only close friend she had left. Sure, she was still in contact with her ex-boyfriend and the whore he cheated with, but in a way, she also felt like a bridge between her and Brad. And if tragedy were to strike—say, the death of a loved one, for example—perhaps Latonya could help pave her way back to him.

Christine pressed the call button and held the phone to her ear. It rang… and rang… and…

“Hey, girl,” Latonya answered.

“Hey, Tone. Are you busy tonight? I could really use a friend.”

“Sorry, babe. I have plans. You good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just forget about it.” Christine always felt awkward when she was rejected at a vulnerable moment, so she kept speaking to snuff out any possibility of dead air. “So, who do you have plans with?”

“Brad and Rachel.”

Of course. Should’ve known.

“How are they?” Christine asked without actually caring how they were.

“Fine. They’re going on a trip. I’m just meeting up to see them off.”

“Oh, yeah. They’re going to Paris, right?”

“They are. How’d you know that?”

The dead air reared its ugly head, and Christine couldn’t find the words to fill it.

“You’re still stalking him online, aren’t you?” Latonya said.

“No. That’s ridiculous.”

“Christine, love. You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Christine let out a sigh. “I know.”

“Is that what’s got you in a mood? You thinking about Brad again?”

“It’s just not fair. I was good to him. I did everything I could for our relationship, and it somehow wasn’t enough.” Christine felt her face scrunch up, her jaw clenching on its own accord. “I don’t get it. What does she have that I don’t?”

“You’ve got to let it go, Christine. I mean, how long has it been now? Six months? A year?”

“Eight months.”

“That’s history. He’s moved on. You need to move on too.”

Christine looked down at the red marks that the witch’s nails had left. “I’m finding my own way to deal with it.”

“I hope so. You’re too young to spend all this time hung up on one man. With your looks, you could find yourself a new one in no time, one that’ll make you forget all about him.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Why not? Brad found someone else, and he’s happier than ever.”

“Brad found that skank while we were still together,” Christine said through gritted teeth.

“She isn’t a skank,” Latonya said, her tone becoming serious. “I think you would like her if you got to know her—if you would leave the past in the past.”

Christine felt a rage resurface in her chest. She had already lost Brad to that vile bitch, now she was losing her best friend to her.

“Whatever,” Christine said. “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait,” Latonya called out just as she was about to hang up.

“Yeah?”

“If you want, I’ll see if I can slip out early tonight. Maybe we can meet up for drinks after I see Brad and Rachel. What do you say?”

Christine exhaled the breath she was subconsciously holding in. “Sounds good, Tone.”

“Alright, love. You take it easy on yourself. I’m here if you need me. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, you too.”

“And I’ll let you know about tonight. Bye, Christine.”

“Bye.”

After the call ended, Christine put her phone away and lowered her head against the steering wheel of her car. Latonya was right. Everything would’ve already been fine by now if she had just let it go. Maybe Rachel actually was a good person. Maybe she was just a lost soul who found love under a less-than-desirable circumstance, and it wasn’t that she’d meant to hurt Christine at all. Christine felt ashamed of herself—about the way she had been since the breakup, about her wish…

She thought about the forest, the bog, the crows, and most notably, Yasathra, the Headsman’s Witch. Perhaps it wouldn’t really happen, and it was all just a twisted dream. After all, she had woken up in her bed, so who’s to say she wasn’t there the whole time, imagining everything? But even as the thought passed through her mind, the marks on her arm began to burn with searing pain.

III

“Where are you going?” Rachel asked.

Brad turned to Rachel, keys jingling in hand. “Latonya is stopping by in a few. I was going to make a quick run to the store, maybe pick up some wine and snacks.”

Rachel was sitting down on the bed, sorting out a neatly stacked pile of clothes. “That’s all you guys—the wine, I mean.”

“You sure? I was going to pick up your favorite rosé.”

“I’m sure.”

“Is it because of the flight tomorrow? I’m getting a cab in the morning, so it’s not like we have to drive anywhere.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it? You going to AA? Joining a nunnery?”

Rachel laughed. “Maybe I should become a nun. Might be the only way to whip you into shape.”

“Whips, you say?” Brad smirked. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“You better behave yourself. We’re expecting company soon, remember?”

“The more the merrier.”

Rachel shook her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Brad set the keys back down on the counter and sat beside Rachel on the bed.

“Well,” Brad said, taking Rachel’s hand, “if you’re not drinking, then I’m not.”

“How noble of you,” Rachel said.

“For now. But you better be ready to sauce up once we make it to Paris. Those French wines are really something else. And on top of that, I’m taking you to Épernay—the champagne capital of the world.”

Rachel dropped the t-shirt she was folding, lowered her head into her hands. “I’m sorry, Brad. I don’t think I’ll be drinking on our trip.”

“Why not?”

Rachel fell silent, but as Brad listened, he thought he could hear something. He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear faint sounds of pouting and sniffling.

She was crying.

Brad moved in and put an arm around her. “Hey, hey! What’s going on?”

Rachel looked up at Brad, her face swollen and soaked with tears. “I was going to wait until we were in Paris to tell you.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a white plastic strip and handed it to Brad.

Brad looked down at it and felt himself grow pale. It was a pregnancy test—two lines running down the strip, a key on the right-hand side translating the lines into a single word: pregnant.

Rachel made eye contact with Brad, feigned a smile. “Surprise.”

“Rachel…” Brad stammered. “I… don’t know what to say.”

“Are you upset?”

“Upset?” Brad leaned in and placed a hand on Rachel’s cheek. Distraught as she was, she was still the most invigorating sight he had ever seen—her hazel eyes examined him, glistening behind a film of tears; her dark hair fell in playful tufts around her cheeks; her lips were pursed, trembling delicately upon jasmine-white skin.

“Of course not,” he continued. “Why would I be upset? I love you more than anything, and I think there’s enough of that love to go around.”

Rachel beamed, a contagious smile sweeping across her features. “I love you too.”

She pulled Brad into a firm embrace and let go of herself, allowed herself to weep into his chest.

“I was so scared,” Rachel choked out between sobs.

“I know, I know,” Brad said, holding her close, rubbing her back gently.

“It’s just… I thought… I thought you were going to leave me.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily. In fact, I have something for you too.”

Brad pulled himself back from the embrace, rose to his feet.

Rachel glanced up at him, wiping away tears with her shirt sleeve. “Brad…”

“I was going to wait until we were in Paris, standing before the Eiffel Tower, but I guess now is as good of a time as any.”

Brad lowered himself down on one knee. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box.

“Rachel Emery Mather.” He opened the box, revealing an icy diamond, sparkling over a white gold band. “Will you spend the rest of your life with me?”

“Yes!” Rachel cried out, glowing with excitement. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Brad cocked a half-smile at her. “So… you don’t want to?”

“Get over here, you big idiot.”

They fell into each other, entwined in the sacred rite of Eros, immersed in the blossoming of new life. The two lovers held each other and kissed passionately, transcending into one being. There was a collective rush of blood—panting, heavy breathing.

“I want you,” Rachel moaned.

“I want you too,” Brad replied.

Just as he was about to reach down and undo her jeans, a burning sensation shot through his arm, causing him to wince in pain.

“Are you okay?” Rachel asked, sobering up with concern.

“Yeah… I’m good,” Brad grunted. “I need to run to the bathroom… Nature calls.”

Rachel let her guard back down. “Don’t leave me waiting too long. Latonya should be here soon.”

“Just sit tight. I’ll be back in no time.”

Brad kissed Rachel one more time before getting up, leaving the bedroom and heading down the hall.

Once he was inside the bathroom, he flicked on the light and closed the door, locking it behind him. He positioned himself in front of the mirror and rolled up his sleeve. The fabric felt like nails raking against his skin as he uncovered the wound. It was still tender, beet red with congealed blood where the fingernails had punctured his skin. Over the past few days, he had been making sure to only wear long sleeve shirts, and to always be wearing one around Rachel, even during the more intimate moments of day-to-day life. So far, she hadn’t suspected anything, which was good. Brad didn’t want her worrying, didn’t want her asking questions.

He rolled open the cabinet drawer beneath the sink and retrieved the ointment he’d been using to stave off infection. Once opened, he applied it generously to his wounds, making sure to saturate them completely. It stung at first—as it always had—but he gritted his teeth and soldiered through, hoping that it would heal up at least midway into the Paris trip.

Before he could even roll his sleeve back down, the lights began to flicker. The light bulbs buzzed and tinkled, darkness pulsing in and out like a black heart. Brad saw his image in the mirror, the way it toggled between varying forms of existence, and then the light died. With a resounding thunk, the bathroom became submerged in pitch black.

A power outage—and what a time for it, Brad thought. They always came at the worst of times, like two life altering moments back-to-back, the expectation of company, or a big trip the next day. Never a dull moment. He shrugged it off and pulled his phone out of his pocket, shining its flashlight into the dark room.

He went to unlock the bathroom door and return to his now-fiancé, but a loud crash rang out in the hall, stopping him in his tracks. It was so sudden, so abrupt, that it caused him to flinch back from the door. He stood still and listened.

Silence.

“Rachel!” Brad called out. “You okay?”

He wanted to go to her, but something about that sound filled him with uncertainty, and he thought that whatever it was could be dangerous. Instead, he stayed behind the security of the locked door and listened for a reply. No reply came.

“Rachel!”

In what felt like an instant, the room was engulfed in an icy coldness that was so potent, he felt as if he was standing in a meat freezer. His skin prickled, his body shivered, and in the beam of his flashlight he could see the frothing mist that rose from his breath. More and more, he felt his courage retreat behind the cold darkness, but it couldn’t go on that way. He needed to go to her.

But the silence was broken again, and it wasn’t by Rachel. It was a scraping sound, deep and hollow, trailing along the floorboards on the other side of the door. He put his ear to the door and listened as the sound traveled down the hall past the bathroom door, toward the bedroom.

A scream. It was Rachel. She was screaming. There was a struggle—crashing and thudding, desperate and agonizing shrieks unlike anything he’d heard from her before.

“RACHEL!”

In a sudden rush of adrenaline, Brad undid the lock and barreled through the bathroom door. The hallway was dark, but he held his light out and broke into a sprint. He made his way to the bedroom as fast as his legs could carry him, spewing out cold mist with each breath. In the back of his mind he acknowledged a deep scratch running along the floorboards all the way down, but he had no time to stop and examine them. There was an intruder in their home. Rachel was in trouble.

Once he made it back to the bedroom, he froze.

There was a towering figure standing in the dark, surrounded by a violet spectral mist: a hooded man dressed in the black cloth of a medieval executioner. He must’ve been at least seven-and-a-half feet tall, and the only distinguishable feature that could be made out were two bright silver eyes that glowed through holes in the cloth that shrouded his face. In one hand, he held a great axe, stained and rusted with a wide blade; and in his other hand, he was gripping onto a handful of Rachel’s dark hair as she struggled against him.

There was no time to think. He needed to act. Brad rushed the hooded man and grabbed onto his axe-wielding arm. Without letting go of Rachel, the hooded man jerked free of Brad’s grip and hammered the blunt end of the axe into his chest. The impact sent Brad flying back, careening into the nearest wall.

When his back slammed into the wall, he felt something shatter inside of him—his ribs or his spine; he wasn’t sure. Whatever it was had left him paralyzed, no longer able to resist gravity. He slumped down onto the floor, choking and wheezing for breath, sucking desperately at the frigid air. His battered lungs felt as if they were filling up with fluid, and whenever he coughed or gasped, blood droplets trickled down from his lips.

Brad watched helplessly as the horrible scene played out before him. Rachel screamed and struggled against the hooded man’s grasp, tears streaming down her face.

“No, please!” she cried out, holding her stomach. “My baby!”

In a seemingly effortless motion, the hooded man threw her to the floor. She crashed down face first, her head cracking like a whip against the hardwood. Rachel whimpered, struggling to move. She looked so small and helpless, like a wounded animal. Her arms writhed in an attempt to find purchase. She was either trying to get up or crawl away, but it was hopeless; the impact must’ve caused a severe concussion at least, a skull fracture at most.

The hooded man positioned himself above her and raised his axe over his head. Moonlight from the nearby window gleamed off the less rusted parts of its surface, sparkling like the diamond of the ring that Brad never got to slip on Rachel’s finger. He tried to scream her name, but only blood and a faint croaking sound rose from his larynx—only the ghost of strangled words: Rachel! No!

The axe came down swiftly. It cut clean through Rachel’s neck, removing her head from her shoulders in one fell swoop. Her severed head rolled and tumbled across the floor. Her headless body twitched a few times, then went limp. Blood oozed from the gaping stump of her neck.

Brad felt his chest sink inward. His helpless body crumpled further down, and his mind descended into spiraling madness. He sobbed the best he could, but his broken body couldn’t even manage a simple release of tears. Instead, his chest heaved in and out in shallow breaths, the spraying of blood accompanying what seemed like every other exhale.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Why was it happening? He didn’t wish for this. His entire world had been snuffed out before his eyes, and he was broken, completely helpless on the floor.

Blood dripped from the hooded man’s axe. He stood tall over Rachel’s corpse—a predator looming over its prey. Brad shivered and convulsed at the sight of him. His body was becoming painfully numb from the cold and the loss of blood.

The hooded man bent down and picked up Rachel’s severed head. He gazed down at it for a moment, admiring his work, before tucking it away in an empty satchel that he wore over his hip. He then turned his silver gaze to Brad. In that moment, Brad could feel again. He felt afraid.

Brad whimpered as the hooded man approached him, the bloody axe still in hand, rusted steel shining with a threatening glow.

IV

Christine woke up in her living room, twisted up in an uncomfortable position on the couch. The book she was reading the night before was splayed open on her chest; and several empty wine cooler cans, her phone, and a half-eaten bag of snack mix rested on the cushions at her side. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she did remember why she hadn’t gone to bed. She picked up her phone and opened the lock screen.

No calls. No texts.

She had spent her entire night waiting to hear back from Latonya, and just then she had realized what a waste of time it was. She could’ve at least said something if she wasn’t able to make it out, but instead she’d left her waiting around all night when she could’ve been doing something else. It wasn’t that Christine had any plans; it was the principle of it all that sent her temper ablaze.

A familiar fit of rage rose up within her. She realized that Latonya had probably ended up staying out late with Brad and Rachel. She’d probably told them about their phone call earlier, about how she still wasn’t over Brad. Christine imagined them all telling jokes together and laughing about how pathetic she was, and she began to hate Rachel all over again. She really was stealing away her best friend; that wasn’t a matter of speculation anymore, it was concrete fact. It became clear that it would never be enough for that bitch until she had stolen Christine’s entire life.

Just then, Christine’s phone started ringing. It was Latonya. She hit the answer button, brought the phone to her ear.

“Hey,” Christine said, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. “What happened last night? You never got back to me.”

The other end was silent at first. But then Christine heard sniffling, and then she heard sobbing. Someone was crying. Then a voice came through—Latonya’s voice.

“I’m sorry… I just… I…” Latonya’s words were minced between dry sobs, and her attempts at speaking only caused her weeping to intensify.

Christine sat up straight, her chest tightening with concern. “Tone, are you alright? What’s going on?”

“… They’re dead… dead, Christine…”

They’re?

In that moment, Christine remembered her wish. She was beginning to write the whole thing off as a delusion or some sort of psychedelic trip, but the mere mention of death had made her a believer again. But what did she mean by “they’re?” she thought. Why would she say “they’re?”

“Who?” Christine asked. “Who’s dead?”

“Rachel…” Latonya choked out. “… and Brad.”

Christine was overcome with blind despair and disbelief. She was stuck between not believing what she had just heard and a crippling weight that threatened to collapse her bones and crush her down into the center of the earth.

“Brad?”

Latonya’s voice began to shake, her teeth chattered over the line. “I found them… dead… Christine, it was horrible…” More sniffling. More heaving sobs. “Their heads were gone… no one knows where their heads are Christine… no one… no one…”

Latonya’s incoherent rambling faded into background noise. Christine was becoming hysterical herself, maddening tears streaming down her face, blurring everything in her immediate sight. Swirling inside of her was a cocktail of emotions strong enough to incapacitate the most heavyweight of drinkers. Brad was gone. Her precious Brad. She would never have him back. She would never see his bright smile or his handsome face again. That face was taken away, and likely stuffed inside a burlap sack, submerged in bog water. But why?

Christine’s arm began to sting where the witch had sank her nails in. Red-hot rage consumed her, along with a ravenous lust for more revenge. The hideous face of the witch reared up in the morning light, warped by her tears, and she found herself wanting to unleash on it, to make it suffer just like she had.

V

The violet moon leered through the canopy of twisted trees. A baying of hounds could be heard in the distance, monstrous howls unlike any beast that lived in the outside world. The moss no longer whispered the way but shrieked: “turn back!” The forest had become a hostile place; it must’ve known why Christine was there. It wanted to spit her back out, but she wouldn’t let it. She would see the wretched bog witch if it was the last thing she ever did.

Underbrush tugged at her heels as she moved. The trees seemed closer than before, more suffocating, black fingers of twigs and lichen sprouting out, grasping for her hair. She pushed against them, snapped through them. Each pounding breath brought her closer until the damp stench of the bog burrowed into her nostrils.

Once the trees dispersed, and the black water stretched out infinitely before her, she could see that the silver-eyed crows were already there, perched upon their jagged branches, silently watching.

“Come out, you old hag!” Christine shouted at the water. “We need to talk!”

Silence reigned—not even so much as a gust of wind rose to answer her. Preternatural stillness clung to every living thing—the dusky trees, the waterlilies, those freakish crows. If the woods had a pulse, it was flatlining in that moment, bereft of life.

Christine bent down and picked up a rock from the ground. She hurled it at the water.

Splash!

“Come on! Show yourself! Come show me that ugly, wrinkly mug of yours!”

Christine fumed with anger, picking up stone after stone and chucking it into the water. It was then that the crows began to stir. Wings flapped, and a chorus rose of sharp, throaty caws. She glanced up at the black birds.

“You guys have something to do with her? Why don’t you tell the old bitch to come out then? I know she’s in there!”

Christine threw one of the rocks up at the trees. It struck a branch, causing the crows that were sitting on it to flinch, and several of them to fly away.

The bog stirred. Black ripples drifted up like smoke rings. There was a splash, and Yasathra emerged through a geyser of water and lunged at Christine. The witch’s fingers closed around her throat—the familiar feeling of sharp nails digging through skin, now accompanied by a restricted airway. Christine’s entire body spasmed as she gasped for air and clutched at the spidery fingers around her neck. The witch only squeezed tighter, glaring hatefully through burning violet eyes.

The corners of Christine’s vision blackened, and just as it was about to fade entirely, the witch released her grip, throwing her down against the muddy shore. She struck the ground with her entire body, bashing into rocks and squelching into mud. She curled into herself and wheezed, sucking at the damp air, her lungs desperate to bring oxygen to her blood.

“I must ask that you do not harm the crows,” Yasathra said. “They are the Children of the Old Moon, and I am their mother. Do it again and I’ll be taking that pretty little head of yours for my collection.”

Christine pulled herself up on her hands and knees. She grunted as she caught her breath, regathered her composure.

Yasathra cackled in amusement. She was submerged in the black water up to her knees, waterlilies dancing in circles around her. The burlap sack slung over her shoulder dripped bright red—fresh blood.

The witch croaked, continued speaking. “Now what brings you back to my bog?”

Christine rose to her knees. She ran a hand along her neck and felt a stream of blood trickling down to her collar bone. Nausea crept its way into her head and stomach, and she couldn’t be sure if it was the blood loss or the anxiety that was attached to it. Weakness coursed through her entire being, but she fought against it, remembering why she was there in the first place.

“You killed Brad…” Christine said in a dry, chalky voice—nearly a whisper. “Why? Why did you kill Brad?”

The witch looked puzzled. “I granted your wish, did I not?”

“I didn’t wish for that! You were supposed to kill Rachel! Only Rachel!”

“Wishes are complicated things, my dear. Sometimes they contradict each other, and other times they work together in the strangest of ways.”

Christine reached down and raked up and handful of mud and pebbles from the earth beneath her. In a blind rage, she hurled it at the water and cursed. The pebbles flew through the air like shrapnel, but Yasathra didn’t flinch; instead, a smile curled up along her black and crooked teeth.

“I loved him, you bitch!” Christine shouted. “I was supposed to have him back, but you killed him!”

“I’m not sure if you recall,” Yasathra said, “but last time we met, I told you that I don’t do the dirty deed myself. I only grant the wish.”

“I don’t care! You’re a monster!”

“Am I? Last I checked, I didn’t kill anyone, and I didn’t wish for anyone to die. You, on the other hand…”

Christine gritted her teeth. “Don’t try to bring me down to your level, witch! I only wished for Rachel to die because she deserved it! I would never wish that on anyone who didn’t deserve it!”

“And who made you a god to choose who’s deserving of life or death? And what did Rachel do besides loving someone with all of her heart? Did you know that they were going to get married?” The witch’s grin widened. “Did you know that she was carrying his child? It’s a shame I couldn’t take its head too—could’ve had them all together as one happy family, but she wasn’t far enough along yet.”

“Liar!” Christine scooped up another clump of mud and stone and lobbed it at the witch. “Liar! Liar! Liar!”

“Look into my eyes,” Yasathra croaked. “Look into my eyes and see the truth of my words.”

Christine glanced up at the witch. In an instant, the violet eyes burned into her with the sacred light of the Young Moon. When the truth burrowed its way in, it wasn’t something she could see or smell; it was something she could taste on her tongue, something she could feel.

The weight of the truth pulled her back down onto her hands, and she leaned over the water’s edge. Christine could see her black reflection in the bog—this time more clearly than before—and she didn’t like what she saw. All the hatred, the jealousy, and the thirst for vengeance she had felt were now aimed at the reflection; and with that same hatred, it gazed back.

Christine glanced back at the witch. “But why Brad? Why? He was such a pure soul…”

“Indeed he was.” Yasathra swung the burlap sack out in front of herself and undid the rope that tied it shut. “In fact, he loved Rachel so fiercely that he came to me with a red stone.”

Christine’s eyes widened. “A wish of love?”

“That’s right,” the witch said, leering with malice.

“What… did he wish for?”

Yasathra reached into the burlap sack and pulled out two severed heads. She held them out in front of her, gripping them by the scruffs of their damp hair. Christine recoiled in terror as she took in the sight. Their faces were a pale gray color, frozen in terror and dripping wet; their eyes were bloodshot and rolled back into their skulls, deposed of the colors of life. Leeches and algae clung to their cheeks and the bloody messes of sinew where their necks once conjoined them to their bodies, and the rot was already beginning to take form with a bloating and sagging of skin.

Christine felt sick to her stomach. Seeing them like this caused the gravity to pull down on her chest with renewed ferocity. Brad… Rachel…

Yasathra pressed the severed heads together, making them kiss. “He wished that they would be together forever,” she said, “until the end of time.”