part0051

He was at her door. It was time. It was finally time. It had to be. No instruction had come after the clock had struck the minute before twelve, so this meant he had his instructions.

He’d spent one year inside his chains when they suddenly withered to a gust of ash. And then he dressed in the garments they’d left for him and walked out of the woods to town. To her. His feet knew just where to take him.

He’d waited out the past year in extreme suffering. He’d done nothing but wait and suffer. The witches spoke to him the morning they’d magicked him away from where he’d slept with her in his arms. They did this moments after he’d awoken, after he’d woken still with a face, a neck, with a mouth that had done wickedly beautiful things to her body, a mouth that could say her beautiful name.

The witches chained him and surrounded the circle where they contained him with magic to keep him there while one by one, they arrived and five of them spoke to him, reasoned with him, gave him the news that it would be one more year before they could complete the spell that had been cast by the ambitious young witch who couldn’t arrive in time to keep the gate shut, but who had cast a remote spell to save the life of whoever entered.

They explained what he’d been doing for over two hundred years, though that wasn’t entirely necessary, as the memories had been coming, like razor blades dipped in acid being scored across his skin. He’d gained awareness of being around for some time, without a head, yet filled with hate.

They explained why he’d been what he’d been for all these years.

They explained all they and their ancestors had done to try to keep him from causing pain, that their efforts to simply send him to a place where his soul could rest had been fruitless, but that Isabella Krane appeared to be the answer.

They explained what could happen next if their calculations were accurate and despite his awareness and in spite of his horror at the realizations of what he’d done, not only to Isabella that night, but what he’d done after his death, they kept him chained for fear he’d revert to what he’d been. The witch’s spell may have only kept it at bay temporarily. His built-up hunger for Isabella, if not handled carefully, could be something too dark, too difficult to tame.

But, it wasn’t witchcraft that made Isabella Krane the person who entered.

Holden Holloway did not know what it was that made Isabella Krane, a descendent of Archibald Krane (his arch nemesis and murderer) enter the hunting grounds. The witches spoke of fate, of the fact that sometimes things were inexplicable. He wanted to believe. He wanted to believe that his imprisonment would be worthwhile.

He had to wait in that circle for one year, until the witches could attempt the final spell at the site where the tree had fallen, and hope that their magic was enough. They spoke of advanced equations to calculate spells, of having to decode the original spell to determine which loopholes might work to move forward.

Their calculations were accurate, because here he was.

Prior to the release of the chains, which he was waiting for, he knew the alternative was to continue to be trapped in their circle, possibly indefinitely.

Things were in place. Restitution had been paid, set aside long ago, sought out from (Sergeant, who later became major) Major Krane, by the witch who made Holden a promise before his untimely death. He would be able to provide for his Isabella. He would make up for their beginning. He would find a way to erase her pain, the pain he knew he had inflicted.

The fortune-teller had promised, the witches explained, and because of her firm promise, she had bound herself to that promise, which had kept Holden in limbo for two hundred plus years. The limbo was bathed in rage. The limbo, a place of blackness and desperation. The limbo contained carnage.

Holden was assured it was not his fault. Notations in the coven’s ledger written by the fortune teller, or more accurately, the witch, stated all the many lengths the woman had gone to in order to make things right.

Now that things were going to be right, her soul could finally rest.

He didn’t want to dwell, had been advised not to dwell, but it relentlessly tore away at him for the past year. The memories of the things his body had done. The things he was responsible for, despite the lack of a brain, of logic, of intent.

He’d been an empty husk. Or, nearly empty. Perhaps empty of all things other than hate.

The consciousness that came to him in the hours the night he met her was painful. It was all floating toward his consciousness throughout the night, from the moment she touched the face he suddenly had, maybe from the moment he laid eyes on her. He had memories of his stallion whispering to him when he’s spotted her on the path. That stallion told him things, directed his actions, and he couldn’t recall them at this time. Perhaps that was because it was the beginning of his swim toward consciousness. Perhaps it was for the best that some of those memories were murky.

He did remember how good she felt, how right, how absolutely perfect. He remembered her magical touch, the pure wonder she’d displayed as she touched his face, the concern for his plight. That touch? It would be his again, beginning tonight and forevermore.

He didn’t know why they could never speak of the evil, of the past two hundred years, of the things he’d done to claim her that night, but he didn’t care as long as he could spend the next fifty to eighty years with her as his. The witches told of prices that had to be paid for their magic, and locking away the details on the matter was a price he was willing to pay.

The doorknob glowed when his fingers touched it. A key appeared in the lock. Temporary magic. He would not have magic after this night. After this night, he would be a mere mortal. He owned this building, though. And other property besides. Now living, as he was when he died, as a twenty-eight-year-old man.

Holden Holloway, farmer.

He would purchase the land surrounding the former tulip tree, the place where the magic had been planted. This was the land that held that cabin where their child was conceived.

The deal for the sale of this land was told to him to be already in-motion, through Holloway Holdings, the company that was set up for him. He would raise cattle and grow fruits and vegetables, just as he’d done before enlisting, before his untimely death. Isabella could help. Or she could continue to teach, if she wished. He would build them a new home. He would give her the child they had to give up.

He had the knowledge of her pain around all of that, while in chains, feeling her emotion, via a link one of the witches had set up between them. A gift? A curse? Both.

But, that child’s spirit was not gone. It was merely in limbo as was Holden’s, protected by those witches. Their son would be mortal, safe, built perhaps from an insatiable and unhinged hunger, but he would be nurtured by the two of them, together, into someone worthy of the woman who would bear him.

He unlocked the door and watched the glow of the knob fade. He pocketed the key. His clothing felt strange. The witches called the trousers denim. Jeans. His coat was made of a black animal hide and felt familiar, as did the boots he wore. He had a large satchel in his hand that the witches had left, containing more clothing and government identification as well as the strange cards that they’d explained to him as giving him access to his wealth. A lot had been explained. How easy or difficult it would be to put into practice was something that remained a mystery. Perhaps Isabella could help. The witches assured him she would.

All Holden knew was that he had to get to her. He had to get to her and find a way to convince her that she was his without discussing any of the past. It was a rule. He did not know why it was a rule, but with all he’d learned, all he’d remembered while in those chains, he would not trifle with the witches’ rules.

He climbed a narrow staircase and found another door. He turned the knob and opened it into a large space filled with flower drawings on the walls, with polished gleaming wood floors, with a stove that wasn’t on, yet the space was warm.

The stove was painted shiny orange and covered in autumn-themed trinkets. A small round table with white chairs had fabric cushions covered in pinecones and acorns. The table had a peculiar horn-shaped woven basket in the center with painted replicas of fruit, corn, pinecones, and sunflowers that did not look remotely real.

There was cozy furniture arranged around the stove covered in cushions. There was a fluffed rug made of some material he’d never seen but resembled a fat fluffy cat he’d had as a child. He gazed at it with an arched brow. He put the satchel in his grip down beside the upholstered bench that faced the orange stove. The room had electronics on the wall. The witches had told him about television, radio, and computers, kitchen appliances that cooked food without the need to build a fire, that kept food cold to preserve it. They’d shown him many such things, regularly leaving films to play for him on those square panes, to teach him about the present day. He preferred that they left music playing. He found it more soothing. Not all of it. Some of it seemed to be just grating noise that pained his ears.

He heard a sound from another room. This room had several doors and a short hallway with more doors in it. The space also had many windows that would illuminate the space well during the day. Now, the rain simply trailed down the glass as it poured down outside, with a relentless rhythm.

In front of the long, upholstered bench was a short table. It was round, made of dark glass and shiny metal. In the center of it sat a pumpkin. He knew the pumpkin’s significance.

The youngest of the witches, called Erica, had told him earlier that his Isabella had taken it home, that it was born from that night.

He put his hand on it and felt something soothing move through him. This would be alright. Everything would be alight. It had to be. He would make it be.

He took a deep breath. Underneath the pumpkin sat a book with a white cover and a painting of a man with no head atop a black horse. The man held a pumpkin in his grip.

He opened it and read it, despite the dimness. He read the entire thing.

There was more noise in some room off that short hallway, and one of the doorknobs slowly turned.

There she was, his beautiful girl.

She looked strange. She glanced at the book in his grip and then at his face.

He placed the book on the table.

Her long golden hair was damp. Her nose was black at the tip and lines had been drawn on her cheeks, three of them, fanning out from points on either side of her nose. She held a stack of clothing or linens, perhaps. She blinked at him in horror, losing the color in her cheeks. The stack of fabric fell to the floor and she plastered herself against the door, hands clawing at the wood.

She wore strange black tight clothing, much like the odd garments she’d worn under her dress that night. No shoes.

She was staring at him in horror.

They were locked by eyes for moments before her lips parted to speak.

“Don’t,” he said, raising his hand. She stared at his palm and a swallow worked down her throat in a way that appeared painful. And the notion of her pain tore at his innards. He loathed the thought. e sa

At some point during the night they met, he became aware. He transformed from empty husk to a vague sense of clawing awareness. Those memories had both soothed and plagued him the past year. He had no idea how she would receive him this night, but the fear on her face caused him physical pain.

He moved to her and she shrank back against the door as much as she could. She fumbled with the knob to open it and went falling backwards as it opened, clearly not thinking straight, that her opening it coupled with her weight against the door would cause her to fall.