Jon Bendera's Blog: Tagging the City

(I wrote this story for Halloween and thought I'd share... hope you enjoy!)

Under a Witch’s Moon (Copyright 2013)

It was the same dream again.

The one where her heart hammered wildly in her chest, pounding against her ribs in a seeming attempt to burst forth and so outrun its host. As if to escape from some unimaginable fear. Still, she ran, and, as always, tripped over a tree root. Dazed she felt the bump on her head and looked to the night sky. It was the same. Branch fingers of the gnarled tree grasped eagerly the pale skull-yellow moon, which slowly washed away in a haze of bloody clouds. Then the laughter. Then...

Rayne turned to the clock. 12:01. One minute into the Witching Hour. The third time this week. The same third time this week. 12:01. For the past several nights she woke drenched in sweat, her red hair plastered to the sides of her face, her green eyes darting wildly, trying to make sense of the dark around her. Familiar objects would reveal themselves slowly. Too slowly. First, the clock. 12:01. Its green nimbus highlighting the lamp next to it, its own on-switch close. Then the red light from her TV set indicating it was off but ready for her to watch. Again. Its ancient sit-coms and "paid for commercials" ready to help her through the next 59 minutes. For then, and only then, could she fall back to sleep.

Pulling her blankets tight, Rayne clicked on the set, using the remote still on the blankets where she'd left it last night next to her. The TV’s light created a small isolated bubble of protection, pushing the blackness back into the corners and out into the hallway of her home. But the darkness seemed patient. It knew it could outlast the light. Still, she felt safer, her heartbeat and breath taking on more manageable levels.

As she watched the mindless commercial, the one with the cheesy pony-tail guy on steroids claiming his exercise machine made him muscular and a "chick-magnet," Rayne reflected on her dream.

The first night it hadn't been her running. It was someone else, someone who looked a lot like her, but Rayne distinctly remembered she watched it from a distance. It was just as scary. She wanted to help so badly, but couldn't. It was like she was trapped in a mass of spider webs, clinging and suffocating, a spectator-fly knowing that her turn was next. The next night was the same, but when the woman looked up at the moon, she instead found Rayne's eyes and in that moment their roles had changed and Rayne had known that something was now coming for her.

12:06. Only minutes ago she had heard its laughter and felt the cold earth of the ground. Rayne wiped her hands on her white duvet, attempting to dislodge the dirt she was now sure was there. Nothing.

12:07. Why had these dreams began? she questioned herself. Did I see some scary movie? Or read anything?

The journal. Her birthday present. It was the only connection.

Three days ago the package had arrived with a card from her grandmother. The card was sweet and was written in one of her grandmother's more lucid moments. The tragedy of it brought tears to her eyes. Rayne so loved her grandmother; they had had so much in common. It read:


Miss Rayne,

My dear child, I have missed you. So much now is unclear, but one constant always returns, your happy smile. I'm so sorry this is late, I know your birthday is May 21st, but often time passes me by and forgets to take me with it. Please enjoy this gift. It was your ancestor's, the first O' Daniel, and her name too was Rayne. It was her journal and now it is so old it is almost impossible to read. But I'm sure she would be happy to know that it now resides with her namesake.

Always remember I love you, Happy Birthday,

Grandma


The tears came again. Cleansing ones. It felt good to know her grandmother. To know and remember what a remarkable woman she was. "And still is," Rayne chided herself. But it had to be something to do with the journal. She would look in the morning. The answers had to be there and her own understanding of psychology would see her thorough this nightmare. Unresolved feelings, Jung would argue. That's all.

1:03. She would sleep now.


* * *


Dust motes danced in the sunshine as Rayne awoke refreshed for the new day. The nightmare had receded into her memories and everything seemed better. With a little song on her lips, Rayne busied herself with her morning ritual of getting ready for her day.

By the time she had an iced coffee in hand and ushered Emily through breakfast and into her room to play, Rayne was exhausted. Sitting down she sipped her coffee quietly. This was her time, her time to unwind and prepare for the day.
As she sat silently contemplating both classes and work, Rayne remembered the journal. It lay where she left it, just on the mantle above the fireplace. It looked worn but comfy there, its leather faded and torn, but the inner thoughts written carefully on the pages contained the hopes and dreams of her ancestor. It left Rayne with a feeling of hope herself, a feeling that her life too had meaning and that her dreams would one day see fruition. But then she remembered the nightmare.

In Rayne's dreams, her ancestor had not ended her life happily. It had ended in fear and blood. Rayne shuddered. Her coffee was suddenly very cold, sending rivulets of ice into her veins and up her arms. The tears in the leather took on new life and Rayne could hear the laughter and feel the scream welling up in her throat.

"Mama?"

Rayne jumped.

"Emily?"

"Mama, can I have some juice?"

"Later dear, finish your water. I'll come get you ready for pre-school in a minute. You can have juice at lunch."
Rayne's heart was still beating wildly as her daughter exited the room a song on her lips just like Rayne was wont to do when she got ready. So cute. She's just like me, Rayne reflected.

Rayne's heart stopped. Just like me. And I'm just like her... Rayne's eyes found the journal. Not my daughter. No.

The journal would have to wait, Rayne needed to get Emily to school and then she could spend some time on it. She picked it up tenderly anyway and placed it in her book bag. She too had to prepare for school, but no song would come. Just a sick feeling that started in the pit of her stomach and worked its way up into her throat, making her swallow hard in an attempt to draw breath.


* * *


It was watching her.

It had started as soon as she pulled out the journal and sat at the small cubicle desk, one of the many set in a nice, orderly row on the third floor of the library. Rayne liked this floor because it was quiet and she could work uninterrupted on her studies. It was hard to get uninterrupted time in her busy life. Raising a daughter, getting her psychology degree, and working enough hours to support them both, was a handful. A social life? Who had time for one of those? Not Rayne. Sometimes it saddened her, but more as a lamentation for childhood and the freedom it allowed her. The one she now gave Emily. There was a guy in her life, one who would always be there, but she had to do this on her own. She had to succeed without aid.

"Though," she mused aloud, "it's nice to have someone I can count on or have dinner with on a Saturday night."
Immediately she was "shushed" by someone nearby, but Rayne was more embarrassed that she had spoken aloud. It was to break the quiet, she thought. To somehow get those eyes off of her. Yet they were still there. Watching. Anticipating. Hoping she would do something. But what? Open the book?

She did. And felt, more than heard, a sigh of relief come from somewhere in the air around her. It cut through her psyche, sounding like a vacuum lid pulled back slowly. Air escaping after a too long confinement. In its wake it left a feeling of anticipation on her soul and a question, "What was in the book?" She felt the eyes blink.

The first time she had leafed through the thick gold leafed pages and glanced at the neat flowing script. It was hard to decipher and the language was archaic with lots of "thees" and "thous."

This time Rayne went by feel. There was something beyond the psyche here. At least the knowable one. It was more empathic, more spiritual, more a feeling that lent the dreams. So it stood to reason that Rayne had to let go a little of the tangible world and feel for the page that would reveal her need.

My need? Rayne thought. Or her ancestor's? It was strange how the two were blurring the more she thought of the journal. It was ever since she saw the dream woman's eyes. Green mirrors of her own. They were linked and Rayne felt somehow that if she could discover something in the journal, then her life and, more importantly, her dreams would return to normal. It would be nice to sleep again.

Closing her eyes, Rayne began to slowly leaf through the pages, allowing her hand to hover over each one for a few seconds. Hoping some tingle or feeling would compel her to open her eyes.

There.

Rayne opened her eyes. Her finger lay slightly against the page and pointed out one paragraph, darker and bolder than the others around it. This paragraph had been important to the writer; important enough to leave an indentation from a harder pressed script on the page. Was that what stopped her, the simple feel of the page or was it something more. Rayne read the sentences:

He is there again. Always there. Watching me. Who is he? When I approach he disappears into the crowd. And when I resume my duties, he is there again. I can feel his eyes bore into my back. He wants something. I think he wants me. I am afraid. No one will listen. I am alone.

The paragraph ended and a new one began. Something about looking forward to a social the town was having later that week. Nothing about the watcher. Rayne turned some more pages, eyes tightly shut, hand lightly brushing each page.
Her hands moved frantically now. One turning pages the other lightly brushing each in turn. Rayne felt her eyes blinking rapidly, as if in REM sleep, and tearing as she blurred through the text. Stop! her mind screamed. Tears streamed down her face. She stopped. Her eyes opened and read the new paragraph.

He is there in the darkness every night now as I sleep. I open my eyes and search for him, but I'm too afraid to move. I want to run. But it feels as if I do... I'll die. I'm so afraid. It's almost dark now. I can see the shadows lengthen across the floor. The sun is almost dead. Its light my only hope. The moon is death. I sense it is so. When it is full he will...

The text ended abruptly and began anew about the next day and what she must purchase for her employers. It seems that her ancestor was a servant in the employ of a Mr. Harvester, a lawyer in Salem Town. Salem? thought Rayne. As in Witches and burning, Salem? As in Puritan times? Huh. That would explain the hysteria of the text. A single woman with no husband at that time would cause circumspection in the minds of many. Hated by women for her freedom and desired by men who wanted to own her. But who was this Harvester? And what did he have to do with her fear? Could he not have helped? Strange.

Rayne continued with her empathic scansion of the pages, flipping each and allowing her hand to find its own way. She stopped only a few pages later. An electric shock sent a current to jolt her heart into stopping her perusal. A new paragraph. Quite simple and more than specific. Now Rayne had a name.

I know his name. Jackson Hollow. He is the new town magistrate. Mr. Harvester is discussing business with him. They are in the den. I have lit the fire there to hold back the darkness. But he is still here. He touched me. I can still feel his hand on mine. Like ice. So cold. So cold. I cannot keep warm now. He is all through me. I can feel him everywhere. His touch, his eyes, his feel... so cold.

Days pass in the journal with no other strange entries. Some very mundane, others quite romantic. Even some poems and sketches of exquisite detail beautified the margins. Rayne allowed her eyes to close again and leafed through the pages again quickly.

Rayne screamed... loud and long. Pure and heart-rending she screamed. Chairs fell back as students around her leapt back at the unexpected cry. She had no time to feel embarrassed though. No time to feel anything other than horror. No time to waste. Rayne opened her eyes and looked down at the journal entry. There was blood on the page. It was fresh.
She quickly did a once over, checking her hands, her nose. Nothing was bleeding. Then where had this blood come from? Rayne heard the laugh echo in the halls of her mind. Then... the laughter stopped and she heard the voice whisper her name.

"Rayne. You are mine."

Rayne looked closer at the page, another scream welling in her throat. She read the entry. The last entry in the old leather journal. The last entry in the link to her namesake. Rayne of Salem's last entry.

Harvester is dead.
The moon has risen full.
He is coming.
I see fire in the streets.
Torches!
I hear people.
At the door.
Their cries for my blood...
No!
I am not a witch!
I must run...

First nausea and then the world spun. She felt hands on her. Trying to... Rayne struggled. She lashed out. She could see the darkness. Her last thought... I am not she.

Mercifully, Rayne passed out as her head hit the floor.


* * *


Bells.

Were they real? Rayne wondered. Where are bells in the library? Is there a fire?

A brief throb of pain pulled Rayne's hand up to tenderly touch the back of her head where she hit it when she fell. The pain made her ears ring. She sat up with the help of someone nearby, blushing with embarrassment. If her head didn't hurt so much, Rayne would have bolted out of there. But it was too much even just to sit up.

Nearby a voice intoned, "Just sit still, dear, an ambulance is on the way.”
An ambulance! Great, that's just what I need, thought Rayne. But instead she said, "I'm fine, really, I just need a glass of water."

"I'll get you one, dear," responded the librarian who had helped her up. "Just sit still."

Rayne was feeling a lot better as it was. The dizziness had passed and the ringing had stopped. And as soon as the woman was out of sight, Rayne bolted up, grabbed her book bag and the journal, and ran for the exit.


* * *


Later that night, after Rayne had put her daughter down to sleep, she sat in her living room going over her schoolwork, steadfastly ignoring anything to do with the journal. It was a great class, she mused. Everything she enjoyed. Her recent study was on dream theory and its implication on waking actions, essentially that one's reality is actually a reflection or manifestation of one's dreams. Her thesis. She was quite proud of it and knew that she would do well. Her professor loved the idea and, after the finished copy, was considering putting it forward for publication in the school journal. And if she did this well she'd have her pick of graduate schools. Rayne got so excited just thinking about the potential this idea offered her. But more so, she believed it was true. Take her own life...

Rayne stopped. There it was again. Her dreams. Her reality. He was watching her. Rayne spun around, searching the gathering shadows in her house. It was getting dark. And the full moon was only a day away. She would have to sleep soon. And then the dreams would come again. He would be there watching, waiting, and...

Rayne pulled herself from her reverie. No. Enough. She could control her dreams. She could. Again she remembered something she and her boyfriend, Cole, had once joked about. He argued that the Freddie Krueger movie, Dream Warriors, was actually an incredible movie in that it offered a solution to nightmares. It was all about control. In your dreams you could be anyone or do anything you wanted. And the film showed that to its audience. To beat Freddie the protagonists need only learn how to control their dreams and thus manipulate their realities. It made sense. Psychotherapists often recommended such treatments to their patients. Take control of your nightmares and they will stop. Hopefully, in tonight's dream (Rayne knew it would come) she would be able to control it and thus end this craziness. The worst part was that she had looked in the journal again. There was nothing in there she could read now. But still she couldn't shake the feeling that the handwriting was familiar... almost as if it were her own... and that she should be able to read it; even as aged as it was.

Drawing a deep breath Rayne rose to get ready for bed. A bath would help, and then, refreshed, she would sleep and have a restful night. Everything would be better in the morning. She was sure of it. If only the shadows would stop gathering in dark clumps in the corners. If only the feeling of someone just around the corner or just outside the window would disperse. If only... stop. Time to stop, Rayne scolded herself. Time for a bath and a little television.


* * *


Sleep came surprisingly quick. One moment fear threatened to overwhelm her senses as she turned out the lights and shadows leapt in to encompass her in cold darkness. Then... sleep. As if something had turned a switch inside of her, exchanging her fear for exhaustion. Rayne slept, but not soundly. She tossed her sheets off and then just as quickly hunched herself back under. Hot and cold competing to be her body temperature, neither able to agree on a compromise. But still Rayne did not wake. Her body just went through the physical motions of sleep's subtle movement. No, Rayne was as distant as her dreams would take her.

Only her small cat, the one she took in one day, noticed the change... noticed the clock blink from 11:59 to 12:00. When it did, the cat hunched as far away from Rayne as it could and hissed with vehemence, spitting at some unseen presence. It tried to stand its ground, its hair on end, but instinct was too strong. It ran. To the far end of the house. Into the deep shadows behind the fridge. Where the heat and quiet hum of the motor lulled it too to sleep.


* * *


Rayne woke to darkness. Not total darkness. Her window was open and the waxing moon shone almost full over her bed. That was strange. She was sure she shut the blinds. She always did before bed. From her bed she could see the tops of the trees.

The tops? But she lived in a one-story home. She rose quickly, feet landing lightly on the rough wood floor. She would have to sand it again soon.
Huh? Did she just think that? Sand it? She had carpet. A soft beige carpet. Plush and warm on her toes in the morning.

She lifted her white homespun cotton shift and padded across the floor, careful not to wake Mr. Harvester. He would get angry if wakened.

What?!?! Rayne wanted to scream. Who was speaking in her head? Where was she? Why was she wearing someone else's clothes? She had to be dreaming. But she was dreaming someone else's dream. But the dream was horribly different. The fear was palpable. No running. She now stood frozen, like a rabbit, hoping vainly that by not moving the hunter would miss its prey and continue on. Killing another. Anyone but her.

She looked out the window. Frost had formed intricate spider webs in the corners. It was cold outside. The trees swayed in a strong breeze, fingers and arms reaching in homage to the almost fully risen moon. It was so close. Bearing down on her with its weight. She heard a sound from the far end of the hallway, outside her oaken door. Had she locked it last night? Did she slide the small latch into place to deter Harvester from visiting? She couldn't remember. And he was coming.
Rayne, divided in personality, began slowly to inch toward the door, as quiet as her bare feet would take her. Inch by inch, one foot then the other. As she placed each silently down, she felt more than heard the echoing boom of Harvester's own feet, moving in tandem with her own in some horrid dance. She tried to move faster, but she was caught in slow time. Ice and spider webs tugging her back to the moon. Attempting to trap her under its light. To hold her, fully revealed to Harvester. The prey trapped by the hunter.

She was at the door now. Her hands slowly slid up the wood, her eyes barely making out the latch. It was unlocked. Her heart beat wildly, a startled hare trapped in her chest. Harvester was on the other side she knew. His hand slowly, inexorably, moving to the handle. Rayne could hear him breathing, rasping in his chest with anticipation. Hungry.

Clumsy frozen hands found the latch and tried to slide it across. It wouldn't give. It needed more force. But to do so might mean noise. And if he knew she was awake he would force the door in. She had held him away this long. If only she could get the door shut. Tomorrow she would see the magistrate. He would help her. He had promised.

The handle turned. It was only a push away from opening, from flooding darkness from the hall into her moonlit room. Something inside her snapped. An anger she did not know she possessed. A hidden reserve that forced her hands to stop shaking. A power that took the door handle in hand and, instead of hiding, wrenched the door open to force a confrontation...

The door swung wide, driven by the force of her anger... and there, revealed in the light of the moon, was... nothing. No one. An empty hall.

Even as she thought the words, Rayne knew she was wrong. A chill wind blew through her shift and through her very body emerging on the other side to continue its tireless march to the bed and ancestor Rayne's sleeping form, oblivious to her danger.

As the moon touched the silently stalking specter, Rayne could make out wispy outlines highlighting the features of a large man, well-built and handsome. He wore a suit, buttoned high on his neck and his hair was thick and well-groomed. He wore gloves on his hands and his shoes seemed burnished as the moon accented the toes. His jacket was long, the tails almost touching the floor and he moved with an athletic, almost animalistic, grace. A predator. And Rayne, her ancestor, was its prey.
Without thinking Rayne rushed forward vainly attempting to distract the man, but he ignored her as if she wasn't there. Her ancestor sat up in bed, but had no time to scream before an iron hand clamped on her mouth. Rayne stood helpless as her ancestor's eyes opened in fear. Then those same green eyes that Rayne had seen once before... saw her... and when they locked something strange happened. Rayne realized that she was in the body of her ancestor and her ancestor now stood helpless in horror. But Rayne was not so helpless now.

Harvester's was huge, but Rayne was angry. He didn't stand a chance.
They struggled. Rayne's hands, knees, and feet weapons. A grasping hand found a nearby water pitcher. And it, in turn, found its way against the side of Harvester's head and he stumbled backwards. Shards of pottery fell in a bloody trail to the floor.

Rayne bounded after him and planted a kick to his chest knocking him farther back and into the frosted window... which broke and disgorged the heavy man onto the cobbled street below.

With that, Rayne found herself back in her spirit form and her ancestor stood at the window looking down at the dark mass and the ever-widening pool of blood on the snow. Screams and shouts erupted suddenly from the street below and her ancestor stood awestruck in the moon's glow. Revealed for all and everyone. A single woman. One who had just killed a prominent lawyer in a Puritan controlled town.


* * *


Rayne woke in sweat drenched sheets a scream of horror on her lips. She had just killed a man. No not her, but her ancestor. But it was her in her ancestor's body. It was all so confusing. Worse yet, her ancestor would face this crime. And the last thing Rayne heard, before she was wakened by her fear, was a male voice rising above the tumult, "The witch did it!" That meant that they'd burn her, for as far as Rayne knew, that's what they did to witches.

Rayne wanted to scream aloud. She wanted to tell somebody, but who would believe her? Cole might, but even if he did, what could he do to help? No this was something with which only she could combat. Somehow, someway, Rayne had to go back. It was all her fault. She had to save the woman. But what if she couldn't? Would she cease to exist? Would Emily?

The questions were too much and weren’t helping anyway. Rayne had to get back. But first she needed answers. And then tomorrow night, the night of the full moon, she would return. And then she would save her ancestor or perish in the attempt.


* * *


The next day, in a new coffee place, not her usual, in case she embarrassed herself again, Rayne went over the journal. Each page was illegible now. There was no sense of familiarity like she had before and no feelings of empathy that indicated important passages. There was nothing. It was as if the spirit had gone. As if her ancestor had once again been forced to change bodies. The first time was in her fear, running down some path in a forest under the full moon. They had locked eyes and momentarily exchanged bodies. Then Rayne had been able to read the journal. But now, after the altercation with Harvester, they had changed back.
How could she force the change with her ancestor? How could she be sure that at midnight she would once again be in a position to help her namesake? It was simple. She couldn't ensure she would be there. It was all too strange and too unpredictable. And there was no opportunity for practice or trial and error. If it happened at all tonight, there would be only one chance, and Rayne felt intuitively that her future and her daughter's rode on Rayne's inner strength and ability to succeed.

Her iced coffee spilled as she put it down none too gently on the table, her frustration evident. Coffee went everywhere, her lap, her books, and the journal. A waitress scurried over like some mother hen, a damp cloth already dabbing at the spill on Rayne's book.
Rayne noticed nothing though. She was too intent on one thing. The journal had been open and the spill revealed something else on the pages. She lifted the journal high, coffee still dripping to the floor and held the page to the light. There were indentations in the page as if a page was missing, but the penmanship on the other page was forceful enough to leave a mark. It was written over, but there, revealed in the light was another message. Her ancestor writing back in time to her.


I killed Mr. Harvester. I don't know how. It wasn't me. Not really. Something was inside me. It was angry and vengeful and it was as if I watched from a distance as this malevolent spirit killed Mr. Harvester. I told the magistrate, Mr. Hollow. He smiled and said, "Yes, I know." It was as if I was a small girl and he was just agreeing with me. But there was something in his eyes. Something that said he did know. Then he smiled and said, "Fear is powerful, Miss Rayne, with it almost anything can happen." At first I thought he meant I killed Mr. Harvester out of fear and he was siding with me. But again, his smile and eyes said something else. I am afraid. He wants something. But I don't know what and I don't know why. I wish I had the strength to stop him. I wish...


It ended there. But something struck a cord with her, "Fear is powerful, Miss Rayne, with it almost anything can happen." That was the clue and that was Hollow's reason for pushing her ancestor. Somehow both were linked. Fear was needed to bring her to Hollow. And fear would allow Rayne the ability to transfer souls. But more so, fear was the reason Hollow was acting. Why? What did he have to gain? Rayne couldn't fathom it with the little information she had at hand. But she knew one thing. She had to stop him.


* * *


Rayne was afraid. She knew she had to be to face Hollow, but at first it wouldn't come. She had fought and killed the Harvester. She knew she could act in her dreams. She knew she could win. And thus fear was now an unknown... until she put her daughter to bed.

Emily, whom she had nicknamed Oogie, had been playing with an old pumpkin toy from The Nightmare Before Christmas, one of her favorite movies. She lifted up the toy and said:

"Mama, this is the Hollow man. I dreamt about him last night."

Rayne's breath caught in her throat, "No, Oogie, that's Jack Skellington."

"No mama, he told me his real name. Jackson Hollow."

Now Rayne knew fear. She had been right, the bastard was reaching through time to get to her and to her daughter. The only problem now was that she was too afraid to sleep.

Rayne opened her hand. A row of little blue pills lay nestled there. They would ensure her sleep.

The cat screamed suddenly and took off like its tail had been crushed under the rocker. Rayne looked to the clock. 10:59 pulsed to 11:00. It was time. He was here.

Rayne took the pills and eased back into her bed. Willing her body to sleep. Meditating and calming herself for the coming confrontation. In minutes she was asleep.

The cat slunk in once more on tip toes, its tail puffed up to twice its original size. It hissed at the head of the bed. Tried to stand its ground. But to no avail. It ran again. But this time to Emily's room, where it perched protectively on the headboard, eyes glowing with an inner-fire. It too was ready for its last stand. Ready to do its part.


* * *


12:01

The dream was the same.

Her heart hammered wildly as she ran. Once again she was on the forest path. She looked behind her. Little dots of red flame followed, bobbing and weaving through the forest. The air was fresh and invigorating, filling her lungs with cold winter's air. The moon above looked down as an impartial observer. The clouds yet to gather and give it its skull-yellow hue. Occasional cries would rise up from the jackals chasing her, "Burn her!" Rayne ran on.

Though Rayne had trained herself to run, her namesake had not. The body was tiring. But not Rayne's will. She ran. The skirt she wore made it difficult, the shoes almost impossible, but there was no give in her. She would see this through. She would stop Jackson Hollow's eve of triumph. There would be no “going gentle into this good night.”

The root was waiting. Where it always waited. And, as always, it latched on to her shoes and pulled her to the ground. Her head smucked into the tree's ancient trunk and once again Rayne reached up to touch her now swelling brow. The pain was real. She pulled herself to her feet, her courage driving her forward, propelling her exhausted body down the track. If only she could run far enough, run fast enough, she could escape.

Through the throbbing in her skull Rayne began to make out a different sound. Similar, but different. She remembered a time long ago. A time when she cared for both a two horses on her grandma’s farm. It was the sound of hooves she heard. Coming at break-neck speed. Intuitively she knew they came for her.

Cloppity-clop. Cloppity-clop. Cloppity-clop. Cloppity-clop... it came. He came. Hollow. He was coming for her.

Rayne gathered her skirt immodestly and ran. But one might as well try to outrun the wind. For it was on her. Its shoulder slammed into her, knocking her off the trail and to the ground. Fresh cuts and bruises immediately surfaced, yet, though weakened, Rayne pulled herself to her knees.

Her tormenter, Jackson Hollow, stepped gingerly down from the saddle a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. She looked up at him, silhouetted by the moon, skull-yellow and menacing. Then he laughed. Chilling and evil. No humor in his eyes. Just cold, calculating evil.

"Oh, Miss Rayne, thank you for the chase. It makes this moment so much better when you struggle. Oh, yes, we've been here before. And we will again. You are mine. You always have been. And each time your soul returns I will be waiting. But now I have learned that it is possible to take any aligned to your soul. Your friends, your lover, your child..."

Rayne surged to her feet, arms flailing, "I'll kill you first."
Laughter. Cold and evil. "You'll do nothing of the sort, silly girl. You are mine. Body and soul. When you die I'll drink in your essence and live on as long as there are those close to you and when they are gone... you will return. To try again. But you always fail. Have I thanked you? I will. Another life perhaps." His laughter echoed again, eerily mixing with the wind.

The torches, held by seemingly inanimate statues now ringed her prostrate form. Faces twisted in hate looked on, each one a mask in mob mentality. She was a witch and she would burn. Each onlooker ached to watch. For in watching each would somehow validate his or her own life... for he or she was alive, another had sacrificed herself for the sake of the herd. The sacrifice was obvious. It would be her ancestor. It would be Rayne. It was she.

Something in the mob reminded her of something. Something she learned in psychology. Mob mentality relied on a leader using or acting on innate fears. "Fear is powerful, with it almost anything can happen." Fear. That was how he controlled the mob. Using their fears against them. He made them afraid.
Afraid of her.

Rough hands grabbed hold of her arms and pulled her to her feet. A voice whispered in her ear, "The fire will take you and you will scream for me. Maybe when I'm done with you I'll visit your daughter."

Rayne screamed out and let her imagination take hold, "With these words I curse each of you. Those who choose not to lend a hand will suffer the torment of a thousand hells. Even then I will not be finished. Your children's children will curse your names. For I will live on. And I will return."

Hollow was wrestling with her now, "Quiet you! Don't listen to her she cannot harm you."

"Who would you believe? A newly arrived Magistrate from England. One of the King's men? Or one you all know is a witch? I can leave whenever I want. I am only here because I need some new souls to aid me in summoning demons! For each one of you that goes against God's will and kills another I will have your soul. And those of your loved ones!"

Hollow slapped her hard knocking her to the ground. She lay there, surrounded by stunned onlookers. She looked up at one, the baker, Joseph. "Pick me up, fool!" Rayne ordered him. He did. "Untie me too and I may let you breathe a while longer." He did.

"What are you doing?!" Hollow screamed. "Don't listen to her, she's a witch!"

"You heard him! I am a witch! And you all know what I'm capable of if angered." Rayne turned slowly to each onlooker, her eyes locking on each in turn until the person turned away in fear. "I have marked you all. Have I thanked you? Now everyone here is mine, body and soul. To keep your eternal souls I suggest you disappear. Leave now, and remember to take this one with you," Rayne motioned to Hollow. "You might want to make sure he... disappears in an unfortunate riding accident. Otherwise he might call the constable and arrest the lot of you. So choose. Jail or freedom? Your eternity in an afterlife or food for my petsssss," hissed Rayne.

Hollow stood dumbfounded. He had lost control.

Rayne smiled wickedly, "You are all mine. Take him and end his miserable life in the bog."

Hollow tried to struggle but there were too many. He screamed once and was quickly silenced with a blow to the head at Rayne's urging. The torches faded deeper into the forest, Hollow's body dragged more than carried.

Rayne felt a tugging at her sleeve. But she was alone. The tugging was inside. Her ancestor was ready to come out now. Rayne felt herself drifting deeper into her subconscious. She whispered a good bye and heard in response, "Thank you."


* * *


Rayne woke.

12:01.

She was home.

Quickly she got up, still groggy from sleep, and went to her daughter's room. She was there. An angel sleeping, thumb in mouth, peacefully, the cat wrapped close.

Her cat looked up, "Meop?" it asked.
"Yes, kitty, she's safe. Good girls."
The cat began to purr. Rayne smiled and walked sleepily back to her room, the full moon highlighting her way. Each step lit by its peaceful opalescent glow.

It's fun!

Where else can we go to create the world as we want to see it?

Our dreams?

Sure... but if you're anything like me and keep notepads by your bed or voice recorders... the result the next morning reads more as a shopping list or sounds like the sleep addled ramblings of a man who drank too much whisky and affects an Irish accent as a result. And not well.

But in writing... that is where dreams are truly made. Not just for ourselves, but for our readers.

Which means... to be a writer... is to be social.

Which is weird.

For us.

The majority or us are quite happy living in our dreams. We like being antisocial, unless the anthropomorphism of our dogs and cats counts as being social. Our characters live in our heads and we live there with them. It's like The Sims in the majority of our heads. And that's not a bad thing.

But... we have to be social.

We put ourselves out there with every word. We share those words with others. We hope with a fervor that we will be accepted. Loved. Admired. We write for ourselves. But ultimately... we write to belong. To be a part of a larger group.

To be a writer is to be vulnerable. And that's scary. Especially for people who dream better by day than by night.

But that is our strength. We see the world as it should be. We know what it is to feel. We know how to empathize. So... to be a writer... is to be a conscience for society or just a best friend to someone who really needs a friend... as she reads her book by herself in a park... afraid to go home while her parents fight. We're there for her... offering dreams by day.