Page 26 of Witch (Gray Wolf Security #24)

Hopkins was dying. He knew it but couldn’t bring himself to admit it. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t happen to him. A witch must have cursed him.

He was a man known as a witch-hunter, who roamed the small, isolated villages, driven by a fervent belief in the existence of witchcraft.

He was a tall, imposing figure, often clad in dark, austere clothing that matched the somber nature of his mission. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the faces of the villagers, searching for any sign of the supernatural.

As a witch-hunter, he was relentless in his pursuit, convinced that the devil's work was afoot in these quiet communities.

He would gather the villagers, speaking with a voice that carried both authority and fear.

He recounted tales of dark magic and malevolent spirits, weaving a narrative that left the villagers in a state of dread.

With a fervor that bordered on fanaticism, he accused women of witchcraft, often targeting those who were disregarded or misunderstood.

He would present his case to the local authorities, arguing that these women were in league with the devil and posed a grave threat to the community.

His arguments were persuasive, laced with a mix of superstition and supposed evidence of witchcraft.

To extract the truth, he demanded the use of torture or trial by ordeal.

He believed that only through pain and suffering could the true nature of these women be revealed.

His methods were brutal, involving devices designed to inflict maximum agony.

He saw this as a necessary evil, a means to cleanse the village of its dark influences.

The witch-hunter's presence cast a long shadow over the villages he visited. His accusations and methods sowed fear and suspicion, tearing apart the fabric of these tight-knit communities. Yet, in his mind, he was a righteous warrior, fighting a battle against the forces of darkness.

He’d had little luck in getting others to take up his cause. They weren’t witches, they were misunderstood, was what he heard. The ignorance of those around him astounded him.

“Sir, you must rest,” said the young man he paid to care for him.

“I can’t rest until they are all gone,” he said, falling into a coughing fit. This time, his handkerchief was laced with blood. “They’ve cursed me. They’ve all cursed me.”

“Sir, no one has been here except me,” said the young man, almost fearful to admit that. It wouldn’t be beyond his master to point the finger at him for all his ailments.

“Georgie, you must do something for me. In my bible, there on the desk, there is a letter written to my family and one to my future family members. Mail the first one to my wife immediately. By the time she receives it, I will be dead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The second, the second is most important, Georgie. There is a map. Follow the map and collect all of my tools from the small cottage. Store them in crates and have them sent to my cousin in Boston.”

“America, sir?”

“Yes. In America. He has agreed to store them until my sons can take up this cause. You must send everything!” He began coughing again, and Georgie knew that his master was dying. As the night went on, he became worse and worse, his breathing so labored, he was choking on his blood and spittle.

Hopkins didn’t believe in doctors, and he didn’t believe in those who were considered healers. Instead, he endured alone, with nothing to relieve his discomfort.

When Georgie woke in the morning, he knew his master was dead. Determined to comply with his wishes, he walked into the village, mailing the letter to his wife. He then followed the map, walking nearly seventy miles to the cottage in the woods.

As he opened the door, he was overwhelmed with the stench of old blood, feces, and urine.

“What is this place?” he murmured. Lighting the lantern on the table, he sat back down and gasped at what he saw. Horrible instruments coated in the blood of his victims. Pieces of clothing, hair, and even bones were strewn about the small cottage.

Along one wall, wooden crates waited to be filled. Georgie stepped outside, sitting on the small stool. He wept for all the victims of his master’s cruelty, arguing with himself about what to do.

In the end, he couldn’t refuse a dead man’s wishes. Besides, if he sent these horrible instruments to America, perhaps they’d never be seen again. It took him three days to pack everything in the crates and another four days to load them into a borrowed wagon and take them to the nearest port.

He paid the ship’s captain the fee, handing over the crates. Georgie was happy to have them out of his hands. With any luck, a storm would hit the ship and sink the crates to the bottom of the sea.

It was not to be.

Marcus jerked awake, the darkness outside telling him it was once again too early to rise. He looked at his cell phone, realizing that it was only four in the morning.

His ancestor was sending a message through his dreams. He was telling him to proceed and proceed he would. With a few more hours of sleep, he was ready to wake and attack the day.

Seated beside the window, he had a perfect view of the parking lot of the General Store. He had to admit they’d been more than generous and kind to him. They didn’t ask for upfront payment, they allowed him to have an account at the store, and they didn’t bother him at all.

Stupid redneck hillbillies. That’s what he thought of them.

He’d leave this place, his bill, and everything behind once he fulfilled this final act.

With his hot coffee in front of him, he stared at the fresh beignets the store had offered him.

He didn’t want to refuse, but he’d been shitting like a goose for almost forty-eight hours.

The coffee was one thing, but putting anything into his stomach seemed suicidal at this point.

By noon, he was starting to really get hungry and stepped outside, walking to the store.

“Oh, Mr. Hopkins, nice to see you,” said Beau Couvillion. “My brothers said you weren’t feelin’ well.”

“I’m fine now,” he said, not looking at the man. “Could I possibly get one of those wonderful roast beef sandwiches you make?”

“Of course,” he nodded. “Ain’t nothin’ better than a good roast beef po’boy. Gotta have a side of the au jus and some potato salad.” He kept talking, and Hopkins just nodded, walking around and looking at all the interesting items for sale.

When he’d first arrived, he noticed there were paintings, jewelry, ceramics, pottery, and all varieties of pickled and canned foods. There were jams and jellies, okra and pickles, beets and beans. If he were starving, this would be the place to get lost in.

On the counters were more varieties of jerky than he’d ever seen in his life. Deer, beef, chicken, duck, even fish jerky. Behind the counter were jars and jars of old-fashioned candies.

Yes, sir. This would be a good place to be lost.

“Here you go,” said the hillbilly.

“Thank you. Please put it on my bill.”

“Ain’t no problem at all,” he smiled. Beau and his brother, Bridges, watched the man walk across the parking lot, smirking.

“Give ‘em a call, Bridge. Let ‘em know he’ll have a full belly and be ready for the next adventure.”