Page 81 of The Witch’s Orchard

“Well, it’s a ravine, ain’t it? And what’s a ravine but a big ditch carved out by water? Anyway, that stone circle down there’s probably cursed. That’s what the stories say.”

“You mean about the witch and the crows?”

“That’s right. She killed her very own daughters.”

“What?”

“Yeah. The old witch. She killed her own daughters because they could sing prettier than her. She turned them into songbirds and then she ate them and took their voices and their youth.”

“What?”

“You know, I could tell you where I got this hearing aid.”

I narrow my eyes at him, and he laughs. It’s a rolling cackle, wet and self-satisfied.

When he’s done, I ask, “So what happened? This isn’t the version of the story that I heard.”

He gives me a look like he’s about to take pity on me since I’m the village idiot and then graciously proceeds with the story.

“The witch had two daughters who were prettier than her and could sing better than her. She climbed up on this powerful big horse she had and rode to the stone circle and asked the Devil for power over them and every year he gave it to her. But, eventually, he turned his eyes on the daughters. Gave them power instead.”

He looks down at the open palms of his hands, rough and ragged, and continues.

“Oh, powerful jealous she got. So jealous she couldn’t hardly stand it. So, one night, she killed and ate them up and in so doing took all theirgifts. Now she had their youth and their beauty and their singing voices. She married a woodcutter who was deep in love with her, but one night, when he raised the candle up to look at his beautiful wife, he saw her for what she was.”

“Okay.”

“Well, I guess she was pretty dang ugly. He came after her with an ax, but she turned herself into a crow and flew away. And he hunted her down. He hunted all the crows down until he found her in that stone circle. And that’s where he killed her. And she turned back into an old witch and her blood soaked the stones and the Devil drank it up and that’s why they make that echoing sound. That’s the Devil laughing.”

“Because… of blood?”

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. He opens the big box in the back of his pickup and stows his tool kit, then slams it shut. “Magic blood.”

I watch him get in the truck and drive off and I stand there thinking about stories. The way mythology twists around on itself and throws out new branches every now and then. How the key ingredients are the same in both stories.A witch. Two daughters.

My phone rings, and I answer.

“Hey, AJ,” I say.

“Hey, I wanted to let you know I opened up Dwight and Elaine Hoyle’s house. An investigation hasn’t officially been opened just yet, but I need to check the premises for risks of another explosion.”

“Find anything?”

“Nothing nefarious. There’s a bunch of soap-making stuff laying around. Aside from that, looks like they did most of their science experiments in the old factory,” he says. “Also, no sign of Jessica or Molly. It was a long shot, but…”

“It’s better to check,” I say. “But nothing?”

“No. And this place is pretty small. Two bedrooms, one bath. There’s a crawl space but no basement. No attic. Anyway, I’ve only been here about half an hour and I’ve got to head back out. There’s a bunch of goats loose out on Cooper’s Cross.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“I feel like when I watch those suspenseful TV cop shows, they usually omit the nail-biting goatherd scenes.”

“The life of a public servant is a never-ending roller coaster. I did want to let you know one thing before I leave.”

“What’s that?”

“Like I said, I haven’t been here long, but I did do a quick sweep. From what I understand, neither of them worked. Dwight took disability from a forklift operating injury about six years back and Elaine had the occasional side hustle—”