The Year of the Witching

by Alexis Henderson

“People do foolish, reckless things when they’re desperate to find ways to escape themselves.” He sighed and hung his head. “As ugly as it is, sometimes the truth is nothing more than that.”

Immanuelle heard stories of grown men clawing their eyes from their sockets, chaste women of the faith who stripped off their clothes and fled, naked, into the Darkwood, screaming as they went.

“Cut her. Save the child. It’s the Father’s will.”

This is the scariest part so far

“Leah didn’t sin,” said Immanuelle. “We took what we wanted from her, ripped it from her belly, and then we watched her die.”

Something settled deep within Immanuelle. It took her a moment to recognize the feeling. It wasn’t the flames of anger stoked, or the cold throes of grief. No, this was something grim and quiet . . . something sinister. Wrath.

This was the great shame of Bethel: complacency and complicity that were responsible for the deaths of generations of girls. It was the sickness that placed the pride of men before the innocents they were sworn to protect. It was a structure that exploited the weakest among them for the benefit of those born to power.

“Perhaps that’s what the Prophet should have named this wretched year. It’s more fitting, don’t you think? The Year of the Witching.”

“Good people don’t bow their heads and bite their tongues while other good people suffer. Good people are not complicit.”