There's Got To Be A Morning After... Halloween.

The trick'r'treaters have come and gone. Toilet paper hangs in ghostly ribbons from the branches of the old oak tree. You sit in your lounge with a large bowl of left-over candy in your lap and wish Halloween could last forever. As you sip that large cup of coffee and munch those mini-chocolate bars, why not spend a few minutes with "The Witch Finder" as a way to close -out the season? Confession: I finally got around to watching "The Witchfinder General" with the always magnificent Vincent Price, who was a major inspiration for this short story.

THE WITCH FINDER

He awoke in the hayloft with a spider dangling above his head slowly gliding down its silken thread toward him. The sun had not yet risen but he could hear the cows lowing outside, signalling that it was time for their morning milking and for his day to begin. He brushed the spider away and sat up, stretched out his arms, then looked at his hands, their backs covered in cuts, the palms and fingers calloused with the joints swollen from hard labour in the fields. A black cat leapt down from the rafters with a mouse caught in its mouth. The mouse tried to wriggle free but the cat answered by driving its fangs deeper into its soft flesh. The cat eyed the man with the bored look of a well-fed predator, its large yellow eyes a testament to the truth that there is no escape for those who fall under its shadow. The man rose, tired and aching, and wiped the sleep from his eyes. There was much to do for his life of toil would be long.

Rain fell on the village of Hester sending streams of fouled water down its grimy streets and into the blackness of the Heperon River. Despite the bad weather, a few sullen villagers had gathered on the Blackburn bridge to observe the witch's trial. A thin veil of moss clung to the cobblestones where the witch lay as tendrils of fog snaked across the river below.

The legs of the accused were bound by a coarse rope, her ankles cinched like livestock, her hands secured by a thin leather strap that cut deeply into the flesh of her wrists. The witch wore no gag so she might confess her sins during her final moments. A tall gaunt man, draped in a raven’s cloak and wearing a buckled hat, peered down his nose at the witch who lay prostrate at his feet.

“Have you nothing to say before you are tested?” asked the Witch Finder. “Not even a single word to save your immortal soul?”

The grey-haired woman looked up at him as if she were about to speak then curled her lips into a snarl so wicked that the Witch Finder averted his gaze for fear of being spellbound. With a nod to the Chief Magistrate, two stout men came forward and dragged the bound woman to the edge of the bridge. She did not resist as they hefted her up and threw her over the parapet.

The Witch Finder peered over the precipice as the accused plummeted down to the river’s inky waters. The malevolent smile never left her lips as she slipped beneath the surface and sank like a stone.

“She did not float,” stated one of the stout men.

“Her sins weighed too heavily upon her and they took her straight to hell,” said the Witch Finder with satisfied condemnation.

With the spectacle over, the villagers turned away and headed back to their middling toils. As they departed, a scrawny black cat with matted and spiked fur skittered across the parapet, its gaze settling on the river below before shifting back to meet the Witch Finder's eyes. The tall man hissed at the cat causing it to flee down the parapet and back into the obscurity of fog and shadow.

The air was thick with the mingling scents of smoke, strong ale, and roasted meat as the Witch Finder entered the Hog’s Tail Inn. Conversations around the rough-hewn tables fell silent as he made his way to his reserved seat by the fire. It was clear that the villagers feared him. Some had lost family members to the hunts, in fact, many had. It was a time of great evil and the Devil took many forms.

He took his seat by the fireplace and surveyed the room. There were a handful of merchants he recognised from his travels; some even ventured a respectful nod to him. A table of woodcutters sat across the room, their axes laid against the wall, flagons in their hands. Townspeople come from the trial cast nervous glances at him about before returning to their bowls. Serving them all was a comely maiden with long flaxen hair, perhaps 13 or 14 years of age, but quite pleasing to his eye.

“Meooow.”

The Witch Finder looked down to see a large black cat at his feet. The cat looked up at him with wide yellow eyes and yowled at him again, “Meooow.”

He kicked at the beast but it dodged his boot and darted across the room to the skirts of the young maiden. She gathered it up to her ample bosom and held it there as one would a frightened child.

“Pay her no mind, Sir” said the Inn Keeper making his way to the Witch Finder’s table, “Tabi’s a good little mouser but she’s always getting underfoot.”

The Witch Finder remembered the Inn Keeper from his previous visits to the village. He was a portly old fool who rambled on as if his thoughts flew from his head faster than his tongue could restrain them.

“It is said that a black cat carries a bad portent, Inn Keeper. They are often the servants of warlocks and witches. I would not go so far as to condemn them without proof but they are troublesome creatures and best kept out-of-doors, especially in an eating establishment.”

“Oh, right you are, Sir,” offered the Inn Keeper, “but my daughter loves her so, and Tabi’s a good little mouser. Besides, there ain’t no witches here, thanks to such Godly men as yourself.”

“Still, the feline connection to witchery is well documented.”

The Inn Keeper fidgeted with the dirty towel at his waist before blurting out, “To suffer a witch is a curse upon us all, and we are honoured to have you at our table, Sir. The great Witch Finder himself, here in the Hog’s Tail Inn. What a blessed day for all.”

“Indeed,” said the Witch Finder eyeing the portly man and noting the nervous manner in which he rubbed his hands together as he spoke.

“Do you have a hunger, Sir? We have a lovely rabbit stew freshly prepared by my youngest, a girl whose talents in the kitchen matches her own late mother’s. Her rabbit stew does not disappoint.”

“Is that your daughter over there?” asked the Witch Finder pointing at the comely girl still stroking the black cat.

“Aye, Sir. That is Rebecca. A harder working girl you’ll never find. She says her prayers every morning, noon, and night too, and she never misses a church service. She has nary a cross word for any man, woman, child, or beast.”

“She is of marrying age then?”

“Oh no, Sir, she is far too young yet.”

“Too young? One need only look at her and see the broadness of hip and fullness of bosom. She is ripe in her womanhood and ready for a goodly husband and suckling child.”

“Oh no, Sir, she has a few years before all that. And with her mother gone from us - God bless her soul - I don’t know what I’d do without my sweet little Rebecca, ” said the Inn Keeper placing himself between the Witch Finder and his line-of-sight to the girl. “The stew then, Sir? Would you have me bring you a nice big bowl along with some hearty rye? There is no charge for you, of course, in appreciation of the many blessings you bring to Hester and to my humble establishment.”

The Witch Finder leaned over so that he might see past the fat old fool and cast his eyes again upon the man’s daughter who was indeed a blossoming flower among the brambles of this dour village.

“Very well, I shall have the stew but have your daughter bring it to me.”

“Surely, she is too busy, Sir. I’ll fetch it myself. It won’t be any bother.”

“I said, send the girl! She has nothing to fear from me nor do you,” and everything to gain, thought the Witch Finder.

The stew was delicious but the girl promised far better nourishment. She was a fresh and healthy vision of womanhood, and looked to be of much sturdier stock than his narrow-hipped, sprig of a former wife. A woman so frail that she died in childbirth and took his newborn son to purgatory with her. His eyes lingered on the girl’s delicate and quivering lips as she served his meal, and noted the broadness of her backside with rising pleasure as she scurried away. The Inn Keeper’s daughter would suit him well. She was frightened of him too. All the better.

He would be husband to her, not friend or confidant. She need only submit to his will and perform her wifely duties. Her father might try to stand in his way but a few words to the Chief Magistrate would set him right. In time, the Inn Keeper would find that a Witch Finder made for a far better son-in-law than an occasional customer. Obligations at the neighbouring village of Stromburg called him away at present, but once his work was settled there, he would return to Hester and collect his new bride.

After his meal and a pipe, it was time to depart. Witchery was suspected in Stromburg and he wished to make it there before nightfall. He gathered his cloak and buckled hat and headed for the door. The Inn Keeper gave him a feeble bow as he passed but the man’s daughter was nowhere to be seen.

Exiting the Hog’s Tail Inn, he noticed the girl’s black cat resting on a barrel next to the hitching post. He looked around hoping to catch sight of the girl herself but he was alone save for the cat and a few hitched horses. As he neared the bothersome beast, he imagined giving it the back of his hand and sending it sprawling from its perch. The idea amused him so much that he made ready, but just as he was about to land his blow, the animal reared back and swatted him. Four thin lines of blood appeared across the back of his hand, and before he could retaliate, the cat leapt away.

The Witch Finder heard laughter behind him and turned to see the Inn Keeper’s daughter standing in the doorway, the black cat peeking out from beneath her skirts. He meant to raise his voice to chastise her umbrage, but for some reason the admonishments held tight in his throat. She was the same buxom girl he had noticed earlier yet her stance was now more defiant, her trembling lip was replaced with a teasing sneer. His mind turned to the drowning witch, and for a moment, he saw the girl’s flaxen hair turn grey and her smile curl into a snarl.

Was he seeing the face of the girl or that of the drowned witch?

He closed his eyes to clear is head, and when he opened them, he saw that the door was closed and there was no cat, nor girl, nor witch’s face before him.

Did he actually see her or were his thoughts confused by his want of her? Lust was one of the Devil’s favourite tricks, and as a man, he was not above temptation. There was witchery all across the land - no one knew this better than him - and he must guard himself against it. He rubbed the back of his hand then brought it to his mouth tasting the warm saltiness of his blood. He would steal himself against Satan’s tricks and plan for the day when he could teach the girl to respect and fear him. Drowning her cat in the same river where the dead witch lay would be a good start to their marriage.

The Witch Finder turned from the Hog’s Tail Inn and mounted his horse. He was needed in Stromburg and it had no river. Tonight, a witch would burn and he would relish her screams.

The road from Hester to Stromburg was considered safe by day but less so at night when thieves often lay wait in the shadows. Riding at pace, he could reach Stromburg before sunset, call upon the village priest, and then commence with the Trial of Malificium. It was said that a local widow had soured the milk of her neighbour’s cows in demand for a favourable property line dispute. He had seen this manner of devilment before. A woman without the firm hand of a husband was easily taken by the Devil. This witchery seemed a simple matter and one easily resolved by the purity of fire. With no witch, there could be no property dispute. The offended neighbour might even provide him with a fine gratuity for his service, if not, he would demand it.

The Witch Finder rode on as heavy clouds gathered above. The brightness of the day grew dim but he did not smell rain nor anticipate the coming of a storm. The road was dry and he was certain that he could reach Stromburg before the shadows of night. With any luck, he could settle his business quickly, and then on the morrow, return to Hester and take possession of the Inn Keeper’s daughter.

The solitude of the road gave him time to dwell on the girl, both the ripeness of her womanly body, and the vision of her haughty smile as the black cat danced around her skirts. He had been confused by the lingering visage of the drowned witch, but no more. As the serpent had tempted Eve, so had the Devil placed the face of the witch in his mind due to the girl’s lustful enticements. Chastisement through a goodly marriage was the pathway to the girl’s salvation. He would be her master and godly husband, and no manner of devilment or witchery would forestall his Christian duty to her, and her womanly duty to him.

He was yet five miles from Stromburg when he noticed something on the road before him. At first, he thought it was a badger or perhaps a dead raven fallen from the trees, but as he drew nearer, he realized that it was yet another black cat. He felt the throbbing in his hand return and thought back to the Hog’s Tail Inn.

Surely, it cannot be the same cat? Of course not, you fool. He was miles from Hester and the woods were full of these feral beasts.

The cat arched its back and yowled at him as he approached. A sudden fury filled the Witch Finder and he snapped the reins down hard across his horse’s back hoping to overtake and trample the infernal cat. Instead, his horse reared back and threw him. The Witch Finder found himself on the ground watching his horse gallop down the road and then disappear around the next bend.

He gathered himself up slowly and was relieved to find that only his pride was injured. His buckled hat lay a few feet off the road caught in some bramble bushes. He walked over and snatched it from the brambles, gave it a rough dusting, then placed it back upon his head. He knew that the horse would not go far before stopping to feed. He would likely find his mount beyond the next turn and then he could continue on to Stromburg.

He took a few steps forward and then he heard it.

Yeoowl!

It was the damned cat again! He took a few more steps and then heard it even louder.

Yeoowl!

This time he saw the cat emerge from the woods.

“Cursed Animal”, he shouted, “Be gone!”

Instead of following his command, the cat trotted out to the road and plopped down before him. It rolled and stretched while whipping its tail back and forth in playful mockery.

The Witch Hunter reached down for a rock but by the time he raised his arm to hurl it, the cat was gone. In frustration, he threw the rock into the forest then continued on to find his horse.

He did not have to go far for around the next bend stood his mount exactly as he had predicted - standing to the side of the road feeding on a patch of long grass. The horse looked up at him with dull recognition then went back to tearing away at the long sheaves of fresh fodder. He approached the horse with caution, but just as he came within reach of the reins, it bolted off into the woods.

The Witch Finder held his tongue for to let a curse fall from his lips was to sin against God. Bothersome as it was, he knew that he need only follow the dumb beast’s trail and he would soon be on his way.

The light had grown soft and golden as he made his way through the trees, and it was not long before he came to a small glen where he found his horse eating clover alongside a speckled pony, a pony he vaguely remembered as being hitched outside of the Hog’s Tail Inn. The pair of horses looked up at him as he approached but they were not alone. Stepping out from behind the pony was the Inn Keeper’s daughter. She took several timid steps toward him, her hands obediently clasped together in front of her. The looseness of the strings upon her bodice gave evidence of her ample bosom, and thoughts of gathering his horse and heading off to Stromburg gave way to other possibilities.

Before he could question the girl, she spoke to him in a hesitant and frightened manner, “My father sent me to find you, Witch Finder. I am to seek your forgiveness and beg your favour.”

The Witch Finder could not help but stare at the loosened strings atop her bodice and the expansion of bosom with each breath she drew. He could almost hear her tender heart pounding like that of a scared rabbit fallen under the shadow of the approaching hawk.

“And how did you find yourself here?”

She bit on her lower lip, and then, as if to answer, she pulled at the bodice strings until her dress fell away exposing her ripe and opulent breasts.

She looked at him with great fear and apprehension but his eyes could do nothing more than feast on the young flesh before him. He raised his voice and commanded her, “Get down on all fours with your backside to me. Do it now, girl!”

She did as she was told as he tore away at his breeches and fell upon her. He pushed up her skirts and mounted her roughly, pleased to hear her cry out in pain as he took her. The horses watched with dull looks as he pleasured himself against the girl.

His rooting became frenzied as her cries went from pain to an almost animal like yowling. Suddenly, a tightness seized his manhood with such a force that he could not help but cry out. The girl’s hiked up skirts gave way to transmutation. No flaxen haired maiden gripped and pulled at him. The thing crushing his manhood was large and black and covered in matted fur. It rammed against him with a savage need then released his shaft and sent him sprawling backward in shock and pain. He scrambled to hike up his breeches and escape this horror but the demon whipped around and showed him its face, eyes yellow and gleaming with fire. The Witch Finder raised an arm to protect himself from this horrible vision then felt a terrible rending of flesh down the side of his arm.

Blood!

The giant black cat drew back its claws and looked at him with hatred. It swiped at him again and he felt its razors tear through his shirt and across his chest. He howled at the pain and scrambled backwards trying desperately to place himself out of its reach, but it pounced on him again, claws ripping and tearing across his arms, thighs, and legs. He struggled to get his hands around its throat to throttle it into submission but the animal went into a fury at this touch, thrashing and rending away pieces of garment and scraps of his flesh. All he knew was that he could not release his grip from around the animal’s throat for to do so would be his death. Blind terror overcame him as he strangled the big cat. He and the beast tumbled across the glen in a violent embrace of blood, fear, and death.

He awoke naked and in pain. Hundreds of scratches had left him feverish with thin lines of blood drawn out in arcane patterns all across his body. His breeches lay shredded around his ankles and the beast lay crumpled beside him, its neck twisted and broken. It was no longer the size of a man but merely that of an ordinary house cat. There was no maiden or pony to be seen, only his own horse munching away on the clover not far from where he lay. The sun drew low in the sky and he saw the beginnings of an orange moon rising above the tree tops.

A chilling blanket of shade rolled across the glen and raised goosebumps on his naked and injured flesh. He wondered if he should try and make camp, nurse his wounds, then try and ride to Stromburg in the morning but a voice inside his head dismissed the idea. It was better to continue his journey under the coming moonlight than to spend the dark hours alone in a forest where the Devil held such great sway.

He shivered and looked to the rise of the orange moon. It hung large and round in the night sky and would no doubt provide enough light to navigate his way. Once there, he could seek treatment for his wounds - deal with the Stromburg witch - who may well be part of this conspiracy against him - and with God’s protection and blessing, he would return to Hester and claim the Inn Keeper’s daughter.

A flock of silhouettes crossed the face of the moon. They grew larger as he watched but he had no time to contemplate the migration of bats or birds. He pulled up his shorn and ragged breeches and did a quick search for his buckled hat but could not find it. Dark shadows passed over the glen, and he heard what he thought were the flapping of wings.

Could they be Geese? Or Owls?

He stopped and searched the night sky. Several shapes passed overhead and then to the left. Three more passed over him and then turned to the right. Beneath the moon’s revealing glow, their silhouettes became clear; they were women on broomsticks and they were encircling the glen.

Witches! This could not be, and yet it was!

He heard the cackling of shrill voices and the flapping of their garments against the wind. He broke into a stumbled run to his horse as one of the night riders broke free and dove toward him.

The forest grew dark before him as his horse disappeared into the thickening shadows. A jagged finger of ice sliced down his spine along with a massive blow that knocked him off his feet. Something tore at his ankle. He was dragged across the ground, and then he was upside down watching the glen disappear as he rose ever higher into the sky.

His brain tried to make sense of his position but it could not. The treetops were so close that he could reach out and touch them, and the wind whipped around his bruised body like a lash. Blood rushed to his head pounding out a deafening cadence into his ears. He tried to lift his head to see who, or what, held him but all he could see was his ankle caught fast in a clawed hand. Taloned fingernails pierced his flesh and anchored deep into the bones. He heard the yowling of a cat, and there, perched upon the bristled end of the broom were two yellow eyes glowering at him, the feline shape cut large against the orange moon. The rider looked down at him and laughed, its malevolent eyes sharing the same yellow glow as the cat’s. It was the face he had seen slip beneath the water that morning, the face of the girl at the Inn laughing at him, and the face of the cat writhing beneath him in unholy union. He closed his eyes tight and began to pray, his tears flying away into the windswept night.

The world spun around him as the witch made her mad descent. Below him, were many bonfires, each surrounded by naked women dancing in circles around the towering flames. His stomach heaved as they dropped closer to the witches’ encampment. Searing heat from the fires leapt up and scorched his hair and eyebrows. The witch released her iron grip on him and he plummeted down into their accursed rituals.

The Witch Finder found himself bound to a stake before a roaring bonfire. In rabid fear, he watched the dancing women, their sweaty nakedness undulating before him, chanting to the lick and snap of the flames. They moaned in ecstasy as they danced, their flagrant desires mocking his bound impotence. He struggled against the ropes that held him tight but it was no use; he was caught and at their mercy.

“Fear not, Witch Finder,” called out a sneering voice from among the dancers, “You shall be free of this night soon enough.”

A woman slipped through the ring of naked bodies and walked toward him. She was dressed in a hooded robe as dark as a moonless night. At her side was a black cat that whipped its tail back and forth with anger and anticipation. The woman stopped directly in front of him and threw back her hood. As he knew it would be, it was the drowned witch, but then it was the young maiden, and then it was the face of the monstrous cat, and then it was noting two yellow eyes blazing like a thousand bonfires.

“Dear God, this cannot be!” cried the Witch Finder. “Most Holy Father, deliver me from this evil!”

“Beg not the Horned God when you stand before the power of the Goddess!” exclaimed the Witch, "I said you shall be released soon, and you shall. Would that I could watch your flesh blister and broil in the fires you so richly deserve, but that is not your fate.”

“I served as God’s right hand, and nothing more. ‘Suffer not a witch to live among you’, He said. I am His servant and profess His tenets.”

“No god, be they old or new, ever spoke such words - those are the lies told by wicked men! You followed your own depravity for personal gain. Do not deny it! And now, it is you who shall face my judgement!”

The witch waved her arm in a great circle conjuring up a ring of crackling blue fire. She fed the flames with chants from an ancient tongue, coaxing words against fire until they melded into a brilliant ring of burning radiance. Suddenly, she drew her hands together in a loud clap and cast the ring of fire upon him.

The arcane symbols the cat had carved across his body caught the fire and sent it burning into his skin. Down it went through his muscles, organs, and bones as a hellscape of witches danced around him, their chants growing more fevered as their bodies convulsed wildly against each other. A brush of leathered lips fell against his ear, and with a single word from the old witch, all of the chaos around him vanished. Gone were the bonfires and the coven of naked women. Nothing remained but the grey-haired crone with her yellow eyes floating against a sea of endless night. She laughed at his fear and raised her hands again, whipping the darkness back into a raging maelstrom, and then into a fiery inferno. His skin blistered and popped at the intense heat, and inside the flames he saw dozens of shapes taking form.

“These are the innocent women who you condemned and murdered. Each, in turn, shall lay their burden upon you!”

He could not escape those he had beaten, burned, drowned, and tortured. One by one, they came to him, some screaming, some crying, others begging for his mercy. Each victim’s torment became his own. He felt their pain bind itself around his heart like a twisting knot. The weight of all their tragedies tore into his flesh like fishhooks pulling him deeper and deeper into their eternal anguish.

At long last, the witch’s voice came to him like a Judas kiss, “For all of your wicked life, you have hunted witches, knowing that the women you condemned were innocent. But on this night of All Hallow's Eve - for the first and last time - you have met a witch true. I lay this hex upon you, Foul Bane! Your days will be long and your toils as bitter as the judgements that fell from you lips.”

The preparation of the new field was difficult as the abundance of stones slowed his progress to a crawl. Each time he struck a new stone, he would have to stop, dig it out, then carry it across the field and add it to the stack of its brethren. Having added yet another heavy stone to the pile, he returned to the plough and took hold of its handles to continue his work. He gave the ox a slight switch, and they proceeded but a few feet before striking another stone that caused the old beast to release a bellowing fart that bathed him in a foul sulphuric stench.

In the distance, a young woman emerged from the back door of a handsome cottage. She was round with child and carried a wooden plate. She made her way slowly to a fence by the edge of the field then motioned him to come to her. At her command, he let loose of the handles and obeyed.

His meal was sitting on the fence post. On most days, she would have already departed but today she waited for him. He approached her cautiously and averted his eyes. Upon the battered plate was a hunk of bread, moulded about the edges, and a piece of hardened cheese not fit for a starving rat.

He raised his hand slightly and waited for her acknowledgement.

“You may speak,” she said.

He ventured a glance at her but was met with such a disapproving glower that he returned his eyes to the ground as if burned by a white-hot flame.

“Is there… no water?” he asked, the rasp obvious in his throat.

She did not answer.

He nodded his acceptance then awaited her further commands.

“I am going to the Inn for the birth of my child. Father has summoned the midwives and we shall return when all is well.”

He nodded his acceptance.

“You shall follow my good husband’s instructions as if they were my own. Speak to no one beyond my husband and then only when spoken to. You shall not leave the farm and you will do your chores every day. Do you understand?”

He nodded again but kept his eyes rooted on his worn-out boots.

The young woman turned her back on him and began walking to the cottage, careful in step in accordance to her condition.

In parting, she added, “You may drink from the trough whenever you thirst but see that it remains full and that the animals are well watered and cared after.”

His eyes followed her and he longed to touch the long flaxen hair that fell so beautifully down her back. Framed in the cottage door was a shirtless young man, a wood-cutter turned husband, and soon-to-be father. He welcomed his lovely young wife with a gentle kiss before they both disappeared inside the warm cottage.

The man reached out for his plate just as a big black cat leapt onto the fence. The cat looked at him with its deep yellow eyes and purred loudly. The man tentatively moved his hand toward the bread, but as he did, the cat’s purr turned into a low growl. A paw came up and the cat extended its claws as a warning. The man dropped his hand in resignation and turned back toward the ox and plough. The cat watched as the man trudged slowly across the field and back to his work. It flicked its tail, and then swatted the Witch Finder's plate off of the fence post and down to the damp earth below.

###

c. Anthony Roberts 2025