The Sign of the Devil’s Cottage

The twisted tree stood in shadow against the pinks and oranges of the evening sky while the sun dipped behind the small cottage below. Young Osborn Fairchilde crept through the field towards the rickety home. He had already seen 12 winters pass but kept the curiosity of one much younger. Grasses crackled beneath his feet, and he slowed to avoid being heard. The air was cool as often happened between the seasons and a gentle fog tumbled along the path. He crouched behind some taller brush to study cottage. The windows blinked at him as a fire was lit within and the shadows from the roof reached out like fingertips across the ground. 

Young Mister Fairchilde snaked his head out around the brush to look closer. The sky was falling darker, and the moon began to dance off the branches of the twisted tree. He leaned further forward to see she who lived within. As he craned his neck, his balance failed and he tipped over, his knee catching a stray branch on the ground. He cried out in pain as a red streak appeared on his thigh. He cupped his hands quickly to his mouth to muffle his yelp. 

Perhaps she did not hear. He hoped. But the door yawned and opened revealing a small figure, hunched, and twisted herself. Osborn tucked himself back in to the shadow of the brush, pressing against his thigh as Nelda Younge turned her head from side to side and called for her cat. A sleek black creature answered the call and snaked around her legs several times. 

“Come now, Fortuna.” The old woman said. “There is warmth within, and I fear the weather is turning.” She clicked her tongue three times, and the cat rubbed its head against her leg and slithered inside. By now the sun had disappeared and the sky was dotted in stars and when her door closed again, Osborn Fairchilde headed home quickly, knowing his mother would be displeased with his being out beneath the night sky.  

His mother’s anger waned when she saw her son’s leg. “Good gracious, my child.” She exclaimed, “Your injury is not small.” She boiled some cloth and cleaned his wound. “How did you receive such a gash?” 

The child understood that were he to speak the truth that he should find himself on the receiving end of a lashing and spoke the first words that crept into his mind. “It was Nelda Younge and her cat. I was startled by them lurking in the fog.”  

“And she provided this wound?” His mother’s eyes burned. 

“They did.” He lied. “From a distance. She whispered to her cat and the gashes appeared.” Osborn peeked up at his mother. She was twisting and untwisting the cloth in her hand. 

“You need to rest, child.” She said quietly. “We shall speak further tomorrow.” 

When daylight reached through the windowpane and Osborn’s eyes flickered open, he was surprised to see his mother up and dressed. His leg pulsed but the bleeding had slowed, and it now just oozed periodically.  

“Dress and wash yourself, child.” His mother spoke as he rolled lazily over to one side. “We have visits to make.” 

Osborn furrowed his brow but followed his mother’s wishes.  

Their first stop was to the town’s healer who examined Osborn’s wounds carefully. 

“How did these come to be?” Harlan Hurste questioned him.  

Osborn opened his mouth to speak but his mother responded first. “It was the widow Younge and her cat.”  

Mr. Hurste again examined the leg. “These look not like the scratches of a cat.”  

Osborn looked to his mother.  

“Twas not the cat but rather some force of the mind that provided this injury.” She whispered. “She must be one of them.”  

Mr. Hurste rose and proceeded to his shelf, scanning the contents before removing a small tub. “That is a strong accusation, Mrs. Fairchilde.” He smeared some salve across his patient’s leg. “This should help with the pain.”  

Mrs. Fairchilde glared at the healer. “Do you accuse my son of lying?” 

“Certainly not.” Replied Hurste. “Best head to the church, though. Mr. Hille will have guidance in such matters.”  

Mrs. Fairchilde nodded, took her son by the hand, and headed in that direction. 

“The presence of a witch is very concerning.” Oswine Hille stroked his beard. “We have been blessed not to have the Devil’s touch amongst our women.” He was young for a member of the clergy and the town questioned his readiness. He looked at the young Fairchilde. “You say your wounds happened without her touch?” 

“Yessir.” This was not a lie, for she had not laid a hand upon him. 

“Then the Devil may be among us.” Hille spoke at last. “Be vigilant.”  

Mrs. Fairchilde nodded, and Osborn’s eyes fixed on the cross behind Mr. Hille as his mother dragged him out of the church.  

As they returned home, they happened up on Mrs. Goode. Mrs. Fairchilde could not contain herself as she spoke to her friend.  

“Gossip is of the Devil’s tongue.” Mrs. Goode reminded her sternly.  

“This is not gossip. I speak the truth.” Mrs. Fairchilde insisted. 

Mrs. Goode turned to Osborn. “Is what your mother speaks true?” 

Osborn’s eyes widened and he started up at Mrs. Goode. 

“Did she take his speech when she injured his leg?” Mrs. Goode asked.  

Osborn shrank behind his mother. 

“I suppose it is not gossip if young Osborn experienced this firsthand.” Mrs. Goode considered. “My calf has not been well. Perhaps she has cursed the creature.” 

Mrs. Wilkee and her husband appeared at the door shortly after their arrival home. They spoke in hushed tones. "We visited the widow Younge last month,” they whispered to Mrs. Fairchilde in the kitchen “she waved her finger when we asked her why she had not attended service that week. Our butter won’t come since.” 

Mr. Wilkee turned away from the child indicating something to Mrs. Fairchild that caused her eyes to widen and her cheeks to flush. 

“It is not the same.” He shook his head. “It functions poorly.” 

“She hath used her dark magic to affect him.” Mrs. Wilkee seemed genuinely afraid. 

Osborn did not understand their words but did understand that he felt odd and tired. He wandered to his bed, slipped into his nightclothes, and lay in bed.  

When he awoke, he found his brow wet and hot. His leg throbbed anew, and his breath unsteady. His body shook, despite the warmth emanating from him.  

“It is the Devil’s curse.” His mother proclaimed and she left to get Mr. Hille. 

They returned together and were joined by Mr. Hurste who carried a heavy bag with contents that clinked with each step. 

Misters Hille and Hurste approached the boy, brows bent in concern.  

Mr. Hille placed his hand on Osborn’s forehead, closed his eyes and began to pray. “...deliver us from evil...” 

Mr. Hurste examined the wound before digging through the bag and extracting several vials whose contents were mixed and placed on the wound.  

“The devil woman hath caused much damage.” Mr. Hille noted as he removed a bottle of holy water from his pocket. “Begone, evil spirits and the Lord protect this child.” He sprinkled the holy water on Osborn’s forehead. 

If gossip is the devil’s tongue, then the whole town was possessed as news of young Mister Fairchilde’s affliction spread.  

“She cursed her husband, as well.” The townswomen whispered. 

“Her cat sneaks out at night and spreads their charms to the cattle.” The men expressed.  

Many rushed to find the young clergyman. “The Devil is among us.” He preached. “There is no doubt that her spirit is turned away from the Lord.” The crowds around the church muttered their approval.  

“She has the mark on her hand!” Called out a voice. “I have seen it!’ 

“She hath not attended service this week!” Shouted another.  

The clergyman listened carefully before responding. “I will pay her a visit and check for the devil’s mark myself.” 

Several amongst the crowd followed as he proceeded to the cottage by the twisted tree. 

The widow Younge emerged from her cottage with her cat on her heels.  

“Mrs. Younge, I must see your hand.” Hille removed a cloth from his pocked, turning her hand several times. “Your hands bear the Devil’s mark.” He told her.  

“No, sir. They do not. They show only the signs of age.” She replied. 

“If these be not the mark of evil spirits, then speak the Lord’s Prayer.” 

The spectators in the distance craned their necks to hear the elderly widow speak.  

Nelda Younge could feel the eyes upon her. She removed her hand from the clergyman’s grip and rubbed her skin, washing her hands in the air. “Our father,” she began, her voice shaking. “Who art in heaven hallowed be...” She stopped as the onlookers’ stares bore through her.  

“Can you not finish?” Mr. Hille straightened his back. 

“I can, sir.” She whispered.  

“Continue.” He stared at her. “Continue if the Devil does not prevent you from doing so.” 

Her jaw trembled, “ha-hallowed by t-t-thy name...” She lowered her head.  

“The Devil has interfered! He has her soul!” Hille turned to the hidden crowd. He raised his hands to the heavens. “Guide us, oh Lord, as we purge the evil from this woman’s soul!” 

The crowd of onlookers approached slowly.  

“My calf is ill!” Shouted Mrs. Goode. 

“My butter won’t come!” Called out Mrs. Wilkee. 

A cacophony erupted with shouts of “my crops died!” and “the crows are behaving strangely!” overlapping cries of “woman’s heart is easily turned!” and “she prays to the dark one!” 

The mob descended upon Nelda Younge. “Run, my beautiful Fortuna! Flee!” She called to her cat and then they were upon the old woman, dragging and pulling her in every which way. The cat skittered off into the darkness.  

“We call to you, God, to protect us from this devil woman!” Mr. Hille called to the sky before turning his head down to his flock, who stirred violently with Mrs. Young in the center. “There is no sin in ridding the earth of one whose heart has been turned to the Devil.” He said calmly.  

The twisted tree stood in shadow against the pinks and oranges of the evening sky while the sun dipped behind the small cottage below. From its branches a figure swayed in the breeze, the bow creaking with each swing. Young Osborn Fairchilde, recovered from the Devil’s touch, crept through the field towards the body of Nelda Younge. Fortuna stood watch beneath the branch, her eyes glowed in the darkness.

“Witch.” He whispered before turning away and returning home.