When summer's heat drained Lake Catterstone, the roots of the weeping willows tasted air for the first time since the days of the witch trials. That's what the trees remembered most, all the ash in the air and the bodies tangled beneath the calm waters.
That's what they brought up to the surface, all those mud-drenched bones that slowly reformed themselves into the women who'd been murdered in that same spot. Their voices rang out around the village once more, begging for their lives and cursing the men who killed them all in the same breath.
When whole families were found dead in their homes, we knew the witch hunter's children had been found and their victims had dealt themselves one final justice. There was nothing we could do but bury them in the church grounds and pray they didn't come back when the rains next flooded the cemetery.
That's what they brought up to the surface, all those mud-drenched bones that slowly reformed themselves into the women who'd been murdered in that same spot. Their voices rang out around the village once more, begging for their lives and cursing the men who killed them all in the same breath.
When whole families were found dead in their homes, we knew the witch hunter's children had been found and their victims had dealt themselves one final justice. There was nothing we could do but bury them in the church grounds and pray they didn't come back when the rains next flooded the cemetery.
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