The Witch's House

Trigger Warning: Off-screen violence, blood

While the search orders in his pocket allowed him unrestricted access to the old forest house, they did nothing to stop him from feeling like an intruder. He couldn’t bring himself to see the building not as the home of the local apothecary, but as that of a witch. There was no malice in the smell of fresh sweetbread and hanging herbs, or in the calming crackle of the fire in the hearth. Nevertheless, he was compelled to do his job and follow the law or be stripped of his title as constable.

The orders in his pocket told him to search for ‘any illegal magic items or related paraphernalia,’ whatever that meant. Magic was a rare crime, requiring far too much time and discipline to make it worth the risk. It was even rarer in the small town he looked after. He admitted he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but the clergyman had told him that- “You’ll know it when you see it.” He was sure there would be nothing for him to find. The apothecary was a sweet young woman, too concerned with the well-being of others to consider committing such a deliberate and evil crime. The sight of her being dragged from her home by his colleagues felt wrong, even after hearing the witness’s story.

He passed through the kitchen and living area, finding nothing of interest. The study was a remarkable sight for a scholar, looking warm yet not so comfortable as to risk one’s focus. The bookshelf was full of her medical texts, several open to relevant pages on the desk. He scanned each book’s title carefully, making sure they were all innocent reference books and medical theory and not something more nefarious. He recalled her saying she dreamed of being a doctor someday. The open books, turned to pages on surgical techniques, seemed to prove his point.

A stain on the floor outside the study caught his attention. Little drops formed a trail to a door on the other side of the room. Inside was a workshop, covered in tools to make her medicines and shelves covered in jars and boxes. On the workbench sat a collection of herbs and solutions being prepared for use. It was the typical workspace for an apothecary, except for the drops on the floor leading to a bloody mess in the middle of the room. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He knew what happened here and yet the sight of it still caught him off guard. Towels and rags covered in blood were left on the floor next to a stray open book on how to stitch wounds.

He couldn’t believe he had just talked to the kid that left such a mess. He seemed perfectly fine just hours after the incident supposedly happened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he had said, unable to look him in the eye. “I didn’t see any magic. I didn’t see anything.” He was just a kid, barely into his teenage years and filled with the usual big-headed attitude commonly found among those his age.

“Your father told us you were injured in an animal attack. You seem fine to me,” he replied.

“The doctor said he couldn’t help me. So we asked her, instead. She’s going to be a doctor, too, you know? We asked her and she fixed me, ain’t her fault she’s already better than he is.”

“We were also told she fixed you with magic. Is that what happened?”

“I didn’t see any magic. What does it matter, anyway? Even if she did-- which she didn’t-- she did it to save my life. Is that such a bad thing? Or should she have just let me die?”

He didn’t know how to respond then. As a constable, he believed it was wrong. Magic was a wild thing, not deserving a place in a society such as theirs. But how could he have told the kid he should have died? If the blood at the scene really did belong to the boy, whatever happened to him wasn’t a natural sort of healing. Yet, there was nothing in the mess of a workshop to suggest anything else out of the ordinary, just remnants of a first aid kit and leftover medicines she made herself. He left the scene behind with the belief that the accusations were true and yet, thankfully, no way to prove it.

He closed the door to the workshop and put the scene out of his mind, heading into the bedroom. Her bed was unmade, the blankets thrown back from when she woke up that morning. He imagined how she must have felt then, ignorant of the risk she would take and how it would result in her arrest before the sun even set. He checked under her pillows, in her wardrobe, and in the storage box she kept under her bed. His heart sank as he opened the drawer in her bedside table, reached in, and pulled out a small charm on a necklace chain.

A small polished quartz rock was inscribed with strange carvings he didn’t recognize. A reddish light glowed faintly inside the rock and a gentle heat warmed his fingers. “You’ll know it when you see it,” the clergyman had told him, and he was right. He had never seen anything like it, but there was no way it wasn’t magical. The law was clear: there was no tolerance for such things. He held it tightly in a clenched fist and shoved his hand in his pocket.

He quickly made his way to the back door where he had come in. Outside, another constable waited with the apothecary’s young sister, the only other resident of the house. She sat on the ground and looked up at him with tears on her cheeks and eyes like daggers.

The other constable leaned against a rock, arms folded and foot tapping impatiently. “Well? Did you find anything?”

He rubbed the stone between his fingers in his pocket, hoping it’s warmth would calm his nerves. “Nope. I didn’t find a thing.”