It was a cool foggy evening in the colonial settlement. The wind howled and shrieked as the crows squawked their horrendous sound. Ministers screamed their warnings, spit flying out their mouths while they preached their sermons as the sun crept below the horizon. Church bells rang their ominous hymns, and the ruffians all fled the sanctified grounds. Once most of the families left, there was one family that remained a little longer than most. A pair of artisans with their devilish red-headed little girl. The girl’s name was Victoria, though most of the town called her a hellion. Young Victoria always hated those bells. Something about them rattled her the wrong way. Many of the townsfolk swore she was a devil, but her parents swore otherwise. Her mother in particular was critical of the townsfolk because of the latest public outcry against those outside of the church’s congregation. This was a unifying force between mother and daughter that the father was oblivious of. However, the father maintained and respected the mother’s defense of their daughter.
Yet on this mid-autumn night, when the pagans crawled out of their holes to proclaim the dead’s re-emergence on the mortal plane, Victoria would begin drawing in the floor of the family’s cabin. The mother would watch for hours as Victoria crawled on her hands and knees, etching several dark sigils into the floorboards. The family lived on the outer edge of the town, which was the halo of the self-proclaimed witches and warlocks that surrounded the central hub of religious men and women. Victoria felt at home amongst these men and women ever since she could walk, following their every move with infinite amazement. There was never a ritual cast that the red-haired girl was not privy to. Victoria held a deep, intrinsic connection to the dark arts. When the ministers baptized the girl, black ink dripped from Victoria’s infant body. The clergyman responsible for blessing Victoria couldn’t sleep for three days after the ink touched his hands. At that moment, the ministers sought to kill the infant outright, but the highest priest of the colony spoke in favor of the child.
So, thanks to the priest, Victoria lived amongst the townsfolk as the resident hellion. Most of the rituals Victoria beheld were simple ones such as summoning spells, minor transfigurations, and the occasion resurrections. Though her mental faculties were well beyond the tender years of six, Victoria’s body was not as accommodating. Every ritual line was warped and bent. The connections were frail and miniscule. Plus, her house was not connected to a single ley line. The witches often bemoaned the lack of power flowing through this town, often travelling quite far in search of more rituals for their coven. Only when Victoria was present did the witches amass enough energy to conduct their greatest invocations. So, the witches embarked on a mission, one of great importance for their cause, as they needed to find more power for their machinations. While Victoria stood above her tangled web of inscriptions, her mother noted the fiery determination in her daughter’s eyes. Her mother was quite amazed by this focus, yet she was disrupted by a rigorous knock on the front door.
“We aren’t expecting guests on this night. I wonder who that could be,” the mother whispered.
“My friends are here, mother. They want to help with my picture!”
The mother looked at Victoria as the little girl waddled her way to the wooden door. Black ink swirled all around the doorknob as Victoria pulled the door open. As the door opened, the sigils on the floor rippled and glowed an ethereal crimson. The witches gasped as their mouths hung wide open. The power they sought stood before their eyes, held within the tiny body of a six-year-old girl. Victoria smiled wide as the sigils grew brighter with each witch that entered the cabin. A half-dozen witches stood in the cabin’s main room, each one clutching their focus in their hands. Victoria’s mother stared at the witches, fear filling her eyes for the first time in their presence. Victoria gazed upon the coven with glee-filled eyes.
“Welcome friends! Would you like to help me with a ritual?” the child shouted.
One of the witches stepped forward, her robes more elaborate than the rest. The other witches stood still, a faint pallor creeping across their faces. On this night when the dead sought re-entry into the world of the living, the leader replied in a shrill voice, “Why yes dear. If you would like help with your ritual, we’d love to help you in our meeting place.”
Victoria knelt to the ground and drew the final line, connecting the last piece of the sigil. Crimson threads tore through the air, latching onto the leading witch’s limbs. Barbs erupted from the threads, carving into the leader’s flesh. Blood splattered across the ritual circle in little droplets while crimson rivers rush down into the center. Victoria’s mother ran screaming into the recesses of the cabin. The other witches all stood appalled as their leader stood within the ritual circle bound by her wrists. Victoria turned to face the other witches with a sadistic little smile, “Would any of you like to help me with my ritual?”
The rest of the witches ran for the door, pushing and shoving the others out of the way. The air reeked of desperation and despair as Victoria waved one of her hands toward the fleeing witches. More threads tore through the leader’s back as bloody rivulets held snatched the other witches up one by one. The cabin was filled with screams as each of the witches were dragged crying back to the ritual circle. Victoria herself hummed a whimsical tune as she waved her hands once more, twirling around in a circle.
“Young lady, what is the meaning of this barbarism? We came to help you with your ritual. What is the source of this madness?” the leader howled.
“This is how you help, dear captor. You wished to take me from mommy. I won’t let you take me from mommy,” Victoria replied.
The coven chanted in unison, their focuses emitting a soft hum of light as their spell took form. Victoria couldn’t tell if the spell was to save them or kill her, so she let the spell activate. A thin purple light tore open a gateway, spitting out ghouls and specters alike into the cabin. Each one plunged toward the red-haired girl. The witches cheered as the threads released them. They ran once again toward the door, bolting out of the wooden house. Victoria stared at the specters, laughing as they shuffled around the cabin. With a single hand motion, black ink ensnared the spirits one at a time, crushing them into fine powder. A rush washed over the child as she devoured the essence of the ghoul. Fragile pieces snapped into place as bridges between her former glory and her current shame took shape brick by brick. At this moment, Victoria knew what needed to be done. In a frantic flurry, she exorcised all the ghouls and drained the blood from the room. It would be enough for the first step. The girl knew she needed an army to pull off her grand plan. Hundreds of years of intellect and conquest fueled the child’s feverish visions as an ember of ambition burned. Yet the flame was meager and ravenous. This tithe would not serve her well enough. Victoria settled upon the witches as her main course. It would be simple to catch one of them alone. No one would bat an eye. It was at this moment, the mother saw her daughter as a witch for the first time. The father had returned to the cabin after Victoria “cleaned up the mess,” so her mother’s cries fell upon deaf ears without any proof. Thus, there began a decade-long wedge between mother and daughter. A conflict which ended with Victoria bound to a pyre; her mother cursing her child to the depths of Hell. Little did her mother know that Victoria was more than just a witch. Little did anyone in that town know what was in store for them when the girl walked out of the fire with inky soldiers marching from the flames at her side.
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