They were all gathered for the anniversary of a dubiously joyous day. Twenty years ago, the ten of them had gotten out. (Ten of over a hundred, her mind refused to let her forget.) Those of them that had survived each had a contribution to dedicate to the friends they had lost. Hers was flowers, because she lived closest. Others brought candies, toys, books, anything to placate the spirits of the deceased, who disturbed the nearby village when distressed.
It didn't really matter to the village, as it was dying now without the adults the one hundred-plus children would have been, had they grown to adulthood, even the survivors refusing to live in town. But it mattered to them that these child spirits were content. Their annual ritual would most likely be passed down to their children.
Once the spirits were placated, the adults gathered around the wreckage of what had been the witch's home, climbing down into the remains of her basement, the house having been destroyed by angry parents, now well into middle age. In the center of the hole, over the fallen beam and right beside a patch of non-sequiteur wild lilac, there was the mound of dirt covering the hole they had thrown the witch's bones into.
The fire had killed the witch as thoroughly as any human woman, but it hadn't stopped them from returning every year to do their private ritual. She uncapped the bottle of water she hadn't brought to drink and looked around the rough circle at the sound of four other bottles being uncapped. Evenly separating those with water were those with large containers of salt. She gave a little nod and they poured as one, the water darkening the rich soil, even as salt mixed with it.
After the first few years of throwing salt on the old grave, they had eventually come up with this, so that nothing would ever grow in this spot, where blackened bones had been gathered to soothe the minds of children surviving the witch's gruesome attentions. If no one else knew what had transpired here, the ruined soil in this spot would bear testament.
They ran out of water before they ran out of salt, and none of them minded. They would return home to their husbands, wives, children, and try to forget what they had seen for another year.
It didn't really matter to the village, as it was dying now without the adults the one hundred-plus children would have been, had they grown to adulthood, even the survivors refusing to live in town. But it mattered to them that these child spirits were content. Their annual ritual would most likely be passed down to their children.
Once the spirits were placated, the adults gathered around the wreckage of what had been the witch's home, climbing down into the remains of her basement, the house having been destroyed by angry parents, now well into middle age. In the center of the hole, over the fallen beam and right beside a patch of non-sequiteur wild lilac, there was the mound of dirt covering the hole they had thrown the witch's bones into.
The fire had killed the witch as thoroughly as any human woman, but it hadn't stopped them from returning every year to do their private ritual. She uncapped the bottle of water she hadn't brought to drink and looked around the rough circle at the sound of four other bottles being uncapped. Evenly separating those with water were those with large containers of salt. She gave a little nod and they poured as one, the water darkening the rich soil, even as salt mixed with it.
After the first few years of throwing salt on the old grave, they had eventually come up with this, so that nothing would ever grow in this spot, where blackened bones had been gathered to soothe the minds of children surviving the witch's gruesome attentions. If no one else knew what had transpired here, the ruined soil in this spot would bear testament.
They ran out of water before they ran out of salt, and none of them minded. They would return home to their husbands, wives, children, and try to forget what they had seen for another year.
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