Wicked

“I hear them howling on cold autumn nights when the moon is full,” said the barkeep.

“I don’t believe much in children’s fairytales. They don’t hold up under close examination,” I replied.

“You’re a bigger fool than old Ichabod Crane,” barked the barkeep. “We all know how he met his end.”

“It remains to be proven that Mr. Crane was anything other than a frightful fool. He ran off when the townsmen played a prank on him,” I muttered, then finished my ale.

“Suit yourself, it’s your hide they’ll be after,” said the Keep as he turned and walked away.

My employer had sent me to this forsaken village. They wanted to verify if the rumors about the screaming tree were true. I assumed it would be a case of jiggery-pokery similar to the rest of my cases.

“Thank you for the information. Here is a sixpence for your troubles,” I said to the Keep. I walked out into the cool autumn air.

I decided to continue my journey to the Bates farm. Nancy Bates was recently transmogrified into a living statue there.

The locals blame a Hölz Hexe or Wood Witch. Most likely, the poor girl fell under the influence of some local trickster. This trickster was looking to make a few silver coins from the event.

When I arrived at the farm, the house was dark. “Strange, they assured me they would be here this evening,” I mutter.

Looking around the farm under the full moon, I noticed tracks leading away towards a nearby wood. Against better judgment, I disregarded the threat of highwaymen and followed the marks.

Once I cleared a nearby ridge, I froze in sheer terror. At the bottom of the ridge stood a misshapen tree. Grotesque faces contorted as if screaming out in agony covered its trunk. From its bare branches hung carved pumpkins that emitted an eerie glow.

“Lord in heaven, what manner of evil is this?” I cried out as I approached the tree.

Off to the side of the tree covered in ivy were the decapitated bodies of the Bates family, upon closer inspection of the pumpkins. I realized that they were, in fact, the transformed skulls of the victims lying nearby.

I had seen enough. I retraced my steps to the Bates farm. There, I was met by Nancy Bates. She was no longer under the influence of the spell.

“You must be Mr. Hawthorn. Have you seen my family?” asked the girl.

I explained the situation to Nancy, who succumbed to her grief. I carried smelling salts for such an occasion and revived the girl.

“We must get you back to the inn where you’ll be safe and I can alert the authorities,” I said.

The barkeep was understanding and did not rub salt into my bruised ego for disbelieving him. I contacted the sheriff, and he and a few men headed out to the Bates farm.

Later, the sheriff returned with only a sack of bloody garments and a look of bewilderment on his face.

“We found these right where you said, but no bodies could be located. The tree was covered in pumpkins, but there was nothing unusual about them,” said the sheriff.

Tom Riggle produced one of the pumpkins for my inspection. “It seems to have changed from its earlier appearance,” I told the group.

The following morning, the entire area was searched. The Bates members were never found. Nancy Bates went to live with her aunt in Devon, and the case remains unsolved.

One last note about the young girl’s state of transmogrification should be mentioned. While she was under the trickster’s spell, she told me that she could still see and hear. I asked if anything strange had happened before her family’s disappearance.

“There was one thing, Mr. Hawthorn, that struck me as odd. I kept seeing a large black cat enter the house by walking backward. We have no cat, and neither do our neighbors,” said the girl.

I have heard of dark witches who appear as black cats, but I am unaware of them walking backward.

I plan to return to the Bates farm in the future. For now, my employer is sending me off to Scotland in search of a man-beast. I hope they have good ale there. I’ll need a pint or two before this is all over.

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