A Killer Witch. A Colonial town is stalked by a monster. (standard:mystery, 5184 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 21 2020	Views/Reads: 1187/852	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Something or someone is killing residents of 18th century Johnstown, Pa. His family wiped out, Peter Clampett sets out to find a serial killer, witch or human.

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The town employed no constable or police force. In fact there was no
dedicated police force anywhere in the colonies. Town elders and 
concerned citizens took care of such matters themselves. In cases like 
the recent native uprising, where Reverend Adams had been killed, they 
would send for British troops. As far as Jeb was concerned, the less 
they had to do with the Lobsterbacks, the better he liked it. 

Of course they were British citizens, and had no trouble with the Old
Country people. It was only with the troops themselves. They would try 
to lord it over the colonists, stealing goods and services with only 
empty promises to pay. 

The last time a military troop came through town, Jeb had been forced to
sell them a half-dozen pairs of shoes. He never did get paid, receiving 
only handwritten paper he couldn't read. When he finally made it to 
Boston, six months later, to purchase supplies, he found the chits he'd 
been given were only good for three months. How the hell could he 
afford going all that way to cash in papers for the price of a 
half-dozen pair of shoes? he thought. 

When he saw activity around Peter Clampett's house, he was curious.
Seeing three people carrying a body out, he knew something was very 
wrong. 

Such an act was unheard of. The word was that it was a woman that did
it. That the child spoke of a witch. But a witch couldn't rape, could 
it? Jeb didn't know all that much about them, but didn't think so. 
Weren't they at least part-women? In any case, he hadn't seen any women 
walking around alone that night. But then, he'd been busy repairing 
shoes. 

When Jeb came in to open his shop the next morning, he made his
customary pot of tea and started work. Reverend Fletcher, his best 
friend, was late. By the time the Reverend arrived, hurrying to close 
the front door, the tea had already simmered down to almost the 
consistency of molasses while sitting in a corner of the hearth near 
the fire. 

“How's the child?” Jeb asked as Fletcher poured himself a cup, then
added hot water from another jug. “And you better watch that stuff, 
it's pretty strong.” 

“Not very well this morning. I think it's only now starting to sink into
her,” Fletcher told him. “She had her mother killed in front of her, 
then the monster started in on her. I can only pray she outgrows it. 
It's the Lord's will. Though, I admit, I don't see the sense of it; 
such a young girl.” Sighing, he reached into his pocket, bringing out 
an empty hand. “Now my watch is gone. I had it last night when I went 
to bed. Come to think of it, I've lost quite a few things recently. 
Maybe I should start locking my door? I want to set an example for the 
others, that the Lord protects this town. I can't do it if a thief 
keeps stealing from me.” 

“Times are changing, Jeff. More people, more leisure, more stealing,”
Jeb informed him. “If Peter and Samantha need a place to stay for a 
while, I have a warm supply room. I talked to Sally last night. She'd 
be glad to have them.” 

“I'll bring it up to Peter. He might not want to use his cabin for
awhile, and I wouldn't blame him.” 

*** 

Reverend Fletcher returned to the large brick and plank building that
housed his local church. He only serviced about a hundred parishioners, 
the number being somewhat limited by distance. In inclement weather, 
people tended to walk to the nearest -- not necessarily their favorite 
-- house of worship. 

The town actually consisted of a composite of several smaller ones, each
with its own church and business districts. They had been originally 
formed around the first three successful settlers in the area, later 
being joined as the towns extended. 

Most residents walked, since there were few horses available -- most of
them owned by the wealthier farmers and business people. 

*** 

The reverend found young Samantha lying on a cot at the rear of the
church, talking to the Jefferson girl -- about the same age. Mrs. 
Jefferson and his assistant minister, an older man named Norman Fry, 
were working on the church's expense books. Probably on next month's 
supplies, Fletcher figured. 

Peter Clampett sat slumped over on a chair in the corner, appearing half
asleep with his head hanging downward. He jerked upright at Fletcher's 
entrance. Cold air coming in the door must have revived him, Fletcher 
thought. 

“Did you find out anything, Reverend?” Peter asked in a small shaky
voice. He had recovered enough to calm down, holding in his grief.  
Though not often of that horrific variety, death was common on the 
frontier, native attacks being a constant threat. 

“Only what we've already heard. The latest could be gossip, so it's not
necessarily true. While on the way back from his outhouse, Joshua 
Albrill thought he saw a woman dressed in black lurking around the 
buildings. In a hurry to get warm, he didn't pay much attention. No one 
else noticed anything unusual. 

"It was probably a man, but since no male juices were found on your
wife's privates it could have been a woman. There are ways women 
pleasure each other....” 

“The hell there are! My wife is ... was a God fearing woman. She would
never do that.” He found himself on his feet facing the preacher. 

“I didn't say she did, or she was,” Fletcher said, backing up a pace,
hands up in supplication, “I was only pointing out that a woman could 
have done it. Or a demon, for that matter.” 

They stood silent, thinking about the last statement. Everyone knew
there were such things. Nobody had seen them, but all knew for a fact 
demons existed. 

“Or even a witch, Jeff.” Fry looked up from his account book. “There
have been sightings recently, only two villages south of here. The poor 
child said it was a very ugly woman. If the killer was from around here 
Samantha would probably have seen her before and be able to identify 
the witch.” 

“pro'ly a man, Norm,” Jeff Fletcher replied. 

“Not a woman, never,” from Peter, still angry from the mere suggestion. 

“Oh, another thing, Peter,” the Reverend Fletcher told him, “Jeb said he
would like for you to stay with him, you and Samantha, until you feel 
better.” Fletcher looked over at Peter, who had returned to his seat, 
“If you want, I can send someone to tell him to expect you in a little 
while?” 

“Maybe I should, for Samantha's sake? She's afraid to go back to the
house,” Peter reflected. “Can you arrange it? And see she gets over to 
Jeb's? I want to try to find out who did this vile act and ... and 
clean the house.” 

“I'll see to it,” Reverend Fry said with a gentle voice. 

Peter left for his home to study the scene and clean the blood as much
as he could before it became too dry to wipe up. As sad as he found 
himself, he knew life had to go on. After he left, Mrs. Jefferson and 
Reverend Fry took Samantha over to Jeb's home in the rear of his shop. 

*** 

Peter found no footprints, none identifiable at least. The area, both in
and outside his home, had been trampled by half the town long before 
he'd even gotten back the night before, mud from the street mixed with 
copious blood. His door had been left open, so he decided to start a 
fire in the hearth before he did anything else. At least the cold had 
frozen the blood pretty well. If he hurried, he could scrape most of it 
off and maybe wipe the rest when it melted a bit. 

The hardest part was knowing it was Abigail's. He could only hurry to
get it over with before the task broke him down again. It was all that 
remained of her, the last he would ever see except in his mind ... his 
memories. 

He had never gotten around to having a portrait done. It would have cost
money. Now, he regretted the decision. He promised himself to get one 
of himself and Samantha as soon as possible. He didn't know any 
artists, personally, so it couldn't include Abby from the painter's 
memory. 

Drying unbidden tears, he set resolutely to work, scraping frozen blood
free from the floor and furniture until the room heated up and he could 
scrub it off instead. He kept an eye out for anything unusual in the 
cabin, or anything missing. He didn't notice either, nothing except 
furniture knocked over during a struggle ... and a strange object lying 
under the spinning wheel. 

It was a piece of intestine looking like it was from a pig or calf.
Peter was a handyman type, not much of a farmer, but had helped on more 
than a few butchering chores. Not enough to recognize which animal, 
though. And for all he knew, it might have been something Abigail 
brought home. 

One end was tied together with thread and it contained a white
substance, which seemed strange. What could Abigail have used it for? 
Maybe his wife had been learning to stuff sausages or something? In 
that case, there should be a lot more of the damned things around. 
Nobody stuffed ONE six-inch sausage. You did it by the dozens. He would 
ask Jim the butcher about it. Maybe the killer dropped the thing? he 
thought. Maybe the killer recently butchered some animal? If so, he 
might be able to find out who been slaughtering lately? 

The cleaning took Peter the rest of the day. He hated to leave the fire
to go out by itself so he watered it down a bit, then damped it with a 
cracked pewter bowl saved for that purpose. That should at least keep 
the cabin above freezing, he thought. 

As the room cooled again, he sat in a homemade wooden chair, looking
around at familiar items and thinking of his wife. In the silence, 
tears flowed freely and Peter thought of what he could do to find the 
killer. He could always call the British troops in, but they wouldn't 
do anything. The bastard would probably be long gone by then, someone 
traveling through town. Peter had an idea, wondering whether Fletcher 
had found any strangers walking around, or if anyone had heard of 
recent travelers? He would ask them. 

Jumping up and going back to the church, Peter asked not only Fletcher
but everyone he could find. His next stops were at a few of his 
immediate neighbors. Mr. Parker, on the left, wasn't home. He found 
Mrs. Trent, across the street, chopping firewood out back. After 
commiserations, he questioned her. 

“My Harry told me he saw a large woman walking around behind our house.
When he greeted her, she saw him and hurried around the side, as if she 
had been surprised or something, Harry said. Since nothing was missing, 
he almost forgot about it -- until he heard about poor Abby.” 

Mr. Jacobs, on the right of Peter's house, said something about a woman.
He didn't notice her size or anything. Wearing black didn't mean 
anything, since it was a favorite color around there. 

“I really didn't pay any attention, Peter. I was working on my tool
shed, the flash of black just caught my attention was all. I looked 
over, then went back to work.” John Jacobs then offered, “If you want, 
I'll keep an eye on your property? I can keep the fire going a little 
bit, enough to keep things from freezing at night?” 

“I'd appreciate it, John. Like I said, I'll be staying at the
shoemaker's for a while, me and Samantha. I can't face going home right 
now, sleeping in that bed alone without Abby.” He turned away and left, 
not trusting himself to hold together. 

As Peter walked away, John Jacobs frowned, seemingly lost deep in
thought. 

His next stop was at the butcher's. He remembered to take the somewhat
strange piece of gut with him. Mr. Tupper would know what kind of 
animal it came from. Peter knew Jim Tupper well, having helped the man 
at several butchering sessions in the past. 

“Hey, Peter, sorry to hear the bad news. You want to buy something?” Jim
was cutting on an unidentified piece of animal lying on a cutting 
block. A huge knife flashed in the reflected glare of the fireplace. 

Peter idly wondered how easy it would be to cut a person apart. Probably
no harder than Jim was working right then. He had to shudder at the 
thought. 

“Hello, Jim.” Peter stood near the fire, all that walking around outside
had chilled him -- with a lot more cold walking to come. “I wanted to 
know if you saw an ugly woman dressed in black, or anything else 
strange last night?” 

“No. Like I told the Reverend Fry. I didn't see anything at all. I had
an entire beef to cut up. This is the last of it, and I was busy most 
of the night. Didn't go out for anything but the toilet.” 

They talked a few minutes. As Peter started out, he remembered the
intestine in his pocket. He pulled it out and laid it on the worktable. 


“Hey, get that damned thing off there.” Jim swept it off onto the floor
with the side of his hand, then wiped his fingers with a clean towel. 
“You should know better.” 

“What's wrong? I only wanted to know what it came from?” Peter was
shocked at Jim's violent reaction. 

“You mean recently, or originally?” Jim laughed, sensing that Peter
really didn't know what they were talking about. “Originally, it 
belonged in a sheep's stomach. Recently it was in some woman. I have a 
couple at home. Hey! I'm a bachelor. You put it over your member, the 
thing in your trousers, before making love. Don't tell the preacher or 
he might kick me out of church, but it keeps the woman from having a 
baby.” 

It took Peter a few seconds to catch on, looking at the intestine on the
floor, then back at Jim, a blush eventually coming to his wind-browned 
face. He'd never used them with other women, or his wife for that 
matter, but had heard there were such things. 

Trusting his wife completely, Peter realized that it must have come from
the killer. At least it proved it wasn't a woman that did it. Thanking 
Jim, he picked the thing up again, that time more gingerly, and 
returned it to his pocket. Now for his last questioning for the day, he 
thought, the nearest farmers. 

Both the Simpsons were home on their land, about a half-mile past the
end of Peter's street. The street turned into a country trail by that 
point, wide enough for few carriages and fit for only horse or oxen. 
The Simpsons farmed one side of the dirt road just past the town 
limits, the Turners had the other. 

“Didn't see nothing,” Jake Simpson told him. “Don't pay no attention to
people walking by. I got too much work to do and don't let my kids pay 
no attention neither.” 

Jake was known to be a very serious individual. He had also been a
militia officer in not one, but two campaigns against the natives. He 
would as soon shoot one of them as look at the bastard. Jake wasn't 
very sociable and kept to his own family. 

Across the street and a hundred yards distant stood a rough-cut-plank
and brick house belonging to Sam Turner, the wealthiest man in the 
territory. Affable Sam hired over a dozen people to help him during 
planting and harvesting seasons, keeping several of them the year 
around. Sam was unmarried and the direct opposite of Jake. 

The well-to-do owner did little farm work himself, preferring to work on
his still, the source of much of his wealth. After dark, which it was 
by that time, you could normally find Sam with his cronies, all 
taste-testing his product. His hired help would probably be doing the 
same in a smaller cabin out by one of the three barns. 

“Peter Clampett! Come on in. I got some new stuff. You'll like it.” He
ushered Peter into another section of the five-room cabin. “Sorry about 
Abb ... your wife. I heard this morning. If you need anything, you let 
me know, you hear? We been neighbors a long way back.” He grinned. 
“Make yourself at home. You know John, James, Joey, and another Peter, 
your namesake?” 

After introductions, and more condolences, Peter poured himself a drink
in a clay mug. He then asked them all what they had seen the night 
before. He wasn't at all surprised to find it was nothing. In the cold 
weather, they would have all been in this cabin, drinking, the night 
before. 

Peter realized he'd subconsciously been saving this place for last,
anticipating the drink. He sat back and listened to laughter and 
absorbed a friendly atmosphere. That and alcohol helped soothe his 
soul. 

After a spate of conversation, Peter was pretty much ignored as Sam told
tales of mayhem and killing to his audience. Peter easily blocked his 
neighbor's voice, immersing himself in pleasant memories of sunny days 
and gentle nights with his wife. Alcohol and exhaustion can be a great 
smoother of emotions – especially on a cold dreary night. Drink enough 
and you no longer care about anything, even lose yourself in the past. 
Pleasant company, warmth and drink after drink of home-brew helped hide 
recent memories. 

Peter finally had to pry himself away, say goodbye to his host, and
return to town and the shoe shop. He knew that they, deep in their own 
familiar presence, hardly missed his. 

*** 

A week later another woman, Alma Jeffers, was killed in the same manner.
Much of her face, including nose and ears, were cut off. A passerby saw 
a woman walking by him on the road just before it happened. The witness 
didn't recognize the person. He had taken one glance at a particularly 
ugly face and looked away. 

Alma had been a member of Peter and Fletcher's church. It hit the
reverend especially hard, knowing her well. A reclusive lady, Alma had 
lived alone, making a meager living as a seamstress for her neighbors. 

Village women, merely apprehensive before, became terrified to walk, or
to even be alone. They were never seen in less than threes, and you 
could bet none of them slept alone. Men patrolled the streets at night, 
watching for strangers, especially ugly ones. They carried any weapons 
they could get their hands on. The few strangers that did come into 
town were carefully watched and escorted, never left out of sight. 

Large single men like Sam Turner -- not very religious and constantly
horny -- were in great demand by the single women. Men stayed home at 
night with their wives and never, ever, left those mates alone. Packs 
of older children ranged far and wide, looking for suspicious 
outsiders. 

*** 

“Nice night tonight, clear but cold,” Jeb commented. He and Peter were
patrolling the streets. “At least the snow stopped, and most of the 
wind.” They were standing in shelter formed by two cabins, built side 
by side. The buildings were new, made of lumber from a sawmill started 
a few years before. 

The newer-style homes were not as warm as a log cabin, at least one well
plastered. Peter planned to tighten his walls with fresh moss and 
mortar, but never seemed to get around to it. In the summer they didn't 
need it, and he'd a lot of work to do in the winter. Peter and other 
young men were hired to shovel streets. He often thought about a thin 
wood paneling inside to help keep out the wind. 

“Hey, look over there?” Peter's wandering eye had caught a movement
across from them. He knew the street, but not anyone who lived on it. 
It was near the town limits, with nothing but a stone quarry on the 
other side. 

They stood looking for a few minutes, finally being rewarded by the
shifting of dark shadows near a house. A woman dressed in black stepped 
out from behind a tree, walking quickly away from them and toward the 
quarry. 

"Hey. Stop!" Peter yelled. The dark-clad figure never looked back, only
hurried faster. 

Hefting wooden clubs, the two men started after her. She must have heard
or sensed them, although they made little noise in the snow-covered 
street. After looking back, she quickened her pace. So did they, and 
soon the three were running full out, leaving the town behind. The 
woman, witch, or demon ran into a wooded space at the edge of town and 
was out of sight. Just then the wind chose to pick up in intensity. 

Peter and Jeb, breathing hard and faltering, followed a lessening trail
in the snow. Jeb, out of shape, had to be helped up twice when he fell, 
tripping over buried objects such as stones and roots. 

The stiff wind covered most of her tracks but a few were still visible
on the leeward side of trees. Also, their quarry had knocked fresh snow 
off branches. They could see where the displaced snow had scraped 
fresh, angular, paths when it fell. 

The trail was faint and they had to hurry before the wind covered it
completely. Running hard and keeping a sharp eye, they followed what 
might be a killer. As they ran into the quarry, the easier it became to 
stay on course. High natural stone walls broke the wind, keeping the 
prints fresher. 

There were several shacks, no smoke from the chimneys. The two men
circled each, noting snow piled in front of all the doors, undisturbed. 
The quarry people stopped work when the ground froze. 

The chase ended at a doorway, a scrap-wood and plank door set deep
inside the mouth of a cave. They could see where snow had been recently 
scraped back by the opening entranceway. 

"Uh, wait a minute, Peter. Please," Jeb begged, leaning against the side
of the cave, out of the wind, "I have to catch my breath." 

Although Peter was ready to jerk the door off its leather hinges, he
realized two of them might be needed inside. Snorting like a rabid 
bull, he waited for his companion. With Jeb's coarse breathing, Peter 
couldn't hear any sounds but felt the woman or whatever must be trapped 
inside. 

Finally, Jeb stood straight, jerked the door open himself, and the two
men entered. 

They found themselves in a cold and damp corridor. It led to the cave
proper, set up as a makeshift living quarters. A bed occupied one 
corner of a roughly twelve-by-ten-foot enclosure. 

A roughly-hewn cabinet, open with clothing thrown around inside, sat in
another corner. Against the far wall sat a clay pot made by natives, 
complete with lid, while an equally large metal pot stood beside it. A 
fire burned slowly in a depression of the stone floor, smoke being 
pulled out somehow. The cave was chilly, but far above freezing. 

A bulky figure with long scraggly hair squatted, back toward them, in
front of the clay pot, holding a wooden lid up with one hand, its 
attention on the contents. 

As they watched, she pulled something out . She'd obviously not heard
them enter. In her hand, she held a white object that looked like a 
hand, child-size. She dropped it in again and turned around in alarm. 

“Now!” Jeb yelled, causing the figure to freeze in shock. 

The two men jumped the witch, bringing her to the ground. During the
ensuing struggle, they saw her more clearly. It was the ugliest face 
either had ever seen, completely unrecognizable, with dead white skin 
and a floppy disjointed nose. 

“Hold her tight, Peter.” Jeb panted in exertion, looking around. He saw
a pile of half-inch hemp rope lying on top of the cabinet. 

While Peter held the witch down, Jeb sat on its head and tied her hands
and feet. By the time they finished, both were silently retching from a 
vile, inhuman odor hovering around the pottery. 

The two picked the witch up and sat her on the bed. While they did so
the mask, which was what it was -- a mask made from treated skin peeled 
from a human face -- came off. They had found their killer. Not only 
that but they recognized him. 

*** 

The table in back of the church meeting room was half-covered with
clothing and personal articles, most belonging to Reverend Fletcher. 
The reverend was sitting at the table, his face a mixture of shock and 
surprise. 

“I never would have guessed ... not in a million years.” Elder Jamison
shook his head, looking at the prisoner. 

Assistant Reverend Fry sat, dejectedly, at the other end of the table.
Nobody had bothered to untie his hands. 

“So, that's what happened. Fry admitted it to us back at the cave.” Jeb
looked at the prisoner with disgust. “He killed Reverend Adams, making 
it look like the natives did it because he expected to advance to the 
good reverend's job. The church sent for a replacement instead, 
Reverend Fletcher, a much younger man. 

“Knowing that if he did it again he would be suspect, and that Fletcher
was likely to outlive him, Fry came up with another way to get the job. 
He enjoyed killing Adams. Thinking he might as well have more fun, he 
turned to killing women and children.” 

Reverend Fry looked up, nodding with tears in his eyes. He tried to wipe
them on his shoulder, with no success -- hands tied behind himself. 

“Can you untie me. Please? I can't go anywhere?” he begged. The others
only glared back. Fry found no sympathy in that room. 

“Fry planted the items he stole from Reverend Fletcher in the cave.
Later he would have pretended to find them and the cooked body parts. 
It would be all the proof needed to hang Fletcher.” Peter continued, 
finishing with, “Fletcher's personal items, like the watch and Fry's 
grisly trophies.” Peter looked like he was going to attack the 
prisoner, forcing Jeb to stand in his way. 

“Fry would have been a hero,” Jeb said, raising his arms to protect Fry,
“certain to get the top preaching position.” 

“I only want one thing, elder.” Peter glared at the killer of his wife
and rapist of his child. “Please, please, let me do the hanging. I'll 
make damn sure he dies slowly.” Peter turned and stormed out of the 
room, trying to hide moisture forming in his eyes. 

The End.


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