The Trans-Allegheny Heretic [Short Story]
Where my witches at?
Happy Halloween, my sweet treats-grabbers!
Widely regarded as the “the first story in Sampler Box,” “The Trans-Allegheny Heretic” was written in 2018 for my college senior seminar final, the other one being “There Are Ghouls Just Past Your Eyes.” (I can’t remember why I wrote two.)
Here’s a slightly updated version of the story.
The Trans-Allegheny Heretic
by Erica Kitch
She had always watched the river from a cage, its endless flow from the small, upstairs window of her family’s home to the new vantage point of the arched windows in her husband’s living room providing creature comfort.
Before her eyes, it was transmuted into something resembling freedom, made it into something that could wash off all she had experienced, clean her wounds, rinse the blood from her hair, and fill her lungs with purity.
Odilia wondered how the water would look running red, sticky, thick. She often thought about the amount of blood it would take to dye the river completely red. Was there enough in the human body? How could it be extracted? How much pain would it entail?
Admittedly, Odilia was not a morbid person—not publicly—but as of late, she was increasingly consumed with dark thoughts. Her recent marriage had affected her mood greatly, and not for the better.
Odilia Attwater was of the Virginia Attwaters—the Trans-Allegheny Virginia Attwaters, to be exact. Her family was of modest influence in the area but finding a husband for her had been difficult because, according to her father, she was difficult. Odilia wasn't fond of attending church thrice weekly, joining in prayer, reading the Bible, or going to social events thrown by affluent locals. That made her “difficult” in the eyes of her parents. Her interest in writing and predisposition to being left alone with her thoughts made her undesirable to the average upstanding men her father had brought home to her. They had scoffed and sneered at her self-absorption and told her father no man would ever want her.
Fortunately for Mr. and Mrs. Attwater and unfortunately for Odilia, a man named Leopold Barnett came knocking at their front door. Mr. Barnett had a modest fortune, a mansion positioned in the mountains with the seclusion Odilia desired, and a stern face that couldn't be described as anything other than ugly. He offered his hand to Odilia and promised the Attwaters that he would knock the difficulty straight out of her.
They were married within the month.
And so here Odilia Barnett sat in the parlor, face powdered heavily to hide the bruising, waiting on her husband to take her to another social gathering.
Leopold soon descended the staircase, buttoning his frock coat and grumbling to himself about something Odilia was sure she didn't care about.
He came to stand by her chair, barely glancing at her as he adjusted his high topper. “Well, come on, then. Get up.”
Odilia did as she was told and followed him meekly, the inside of her body burning with incredible hatred.
They arrived at the Hodsons' home, a couple she was unable to pick out from among the others. Leopold left her side immediately to have a cigar with group of similarly dressed men, leaving her to merge with the group of other abandoned wives.
Odilia entered as the ladies talked idly about the current state of the country. The tensions between the northern and southern states were threatening to turn violent any day now, but she couldn't find it in her to care. Let everyone kill one another, she thought. Why the delay?
Their discussion was shallow—a series of opinions repeated back and forth to each other in slightly different ways.
“Heretics, that's what they are,” said the woman with dark hair and tiny nose. “All of those northerners saying we're the ones that haft to change our economy,” she continued, ignoring that their section of Virginia had been considering breaking off from the rest of the state for many years.
“A whole bunch of heretics,” agreed the brunette with a mole beneath her lip.
“That's not what the word means,” said Odilia, unable to resist the correction. “I bet you anything that most Northerners are Christians just like you.”
The dark haired woman shook her head. “Good Christians wouldn't try to make our lives more difficult.”
Odilia smiled. “Oh yes. Wouldn't want to break our necks trying to dress ourselves, would we?”
Somehow the word had gotten around to Leopold that Odilia was trying to pick a fight with the other ladies in attendance, which made the journey back home uncomfortably quiet and tense.
Leopold immediately struck her across the cheek as they entered the door. Odilia fell to her knees due to the sheer force of it and felt her head spin. For a moment, she imagined it twisting off and rolling across their oak floors.
“You know what that's for,” he said, leaving her to collect herself.
Odilia glared at him once his back was turned and wished desperately her stare would kill him where he stood. The maids politely ignored her, not wanting to hurt her pride further.
Staggering, she rose to her feet and moved over to the front window, peering at the river beyond her reach. The moonlight made the water glow with new life, white ripples glittering in cadence. Odilia watched jealously, wishing she could be like the water.
As she numbly reflected on her circumstances, she caught a glance of a black shadow figure standing next to the river—but it was gone in a blink.
One day when she was searching Leopold's extensive but horribly dusty library, a book caught her eye. The spine was broken, and the pages were yellowed and ancient, but something about the dirty little book had spoken to her. The cover was simple and bare and bore the title: THE TRIALL OF VVITCH-CRAFT SHEWING THE TRVE AND RIGHT METHODE OF THE DISCOUERY: WITH A CONFUTATION OF ERRONEOUS WAYES.
A cursory glance at the contents made it clear the book was written centuries before her time. It was handwritten in early modern English and spoke of ways to discern whether or not someone was a practicing witch.
The existence of the book excited Odilia; it would become the diary she was banned from possessing. Its contents would be of no interest to her moralistic husband, and the handwriting looked easy enough to imitate.
She wrote while her husband was away. She hid her anger between the sharp letters on the pages with her own sharp letters and jagged words. Before he returned at five on-the-dot, Odilia would hide the book in its original place in the library on a shelf above her head. It was too risky to hide in their bedroom: Leopold's searches left nothing undiscovered.
There were peaceful days in the Barnett home. There were so few of them that the quiet kept Odilia on edge and silent.
It was on one peculiarly peaceful day Odilia found herself wondering where her voice had gone. She was quieter than she had ever been and never said more than needed to be said. It had been a long time since an original thought made it to her tongue, let alone past her lips.
Odilia's “difficult personality” had been corrected by Leopold, just as he had promised to her parents once he whisked her away to lock her up. The constant beatings had knocked the ferocity from her body and left it to seep into the ground. Her reflection was equal part ghastly and ghostly. Gone was the color in her cheeks and what little vibrancy in the brown of her eyes. Her hair was going prematurely gray.
Odilia stared into her vanity mirror, secret diary open but untouched in front of her. The face in the mirror was someone heading for the gallows, which was exactly what she was heading towards. She closed the book and went to stash it away, wondering if she would ever write again.
That night, Odilia slipped away from her husband's bedroom, leaving behind a pathetic but ultimately fearsome lump who was snoring loud enough to wake the neighbors they didn't have. She didn't bother to dress herself before stepping out into the cold autumn night.
The air chilled her immediately and clung to her nightgown with its icy-sharp claws. She walked down to the river she had admired from afar for so long, leaves crunching beneath her bare feet.
It wasn't long before she was standing at the edge of the river feeling a thirst she had never experienced before. Her throat ran dry as she watched the water flow past her. A wind pushed against her and lifted her gown as she stood steady, toes digging into her dirt on the bank.
Odilia sighed. “Can I do it?” she asked herself, surprised by how hoarse her voice had become. “Can I…really do it?”
“Do what, dearest?”
A man dressed in a black cloak was standing next to her. His voice made her jump slightly as she hadn't heard him arrive or even sensed him beside her. The mystery man was unnaturally still and towered over her with his dark silhouette. His skin was as pale as the moonlight he stood under, eyes shiny and dark. A black bolero hat rested atop a bed of black hair reaching his shoulders. He looked rugged and roguish but had a square and clean-shaven jaw that made her heart flutter and twinge.
“Say...” he said, “...what are you planning to do in this river?”
Odilia's voice felt stuck in her throat. “Quench—quench my thirst.”
“And what kind of thirst is it?” the man asked, voice smooth and deep.
“A...particular kind of thirst.” Her eyes turned back to the river. “It's not easily satisfied.”
The man placed a gentle, firm hand on her shoulder. “You know it's not that easy, then? To end your life? That you can't just lie down in the river and let the water fill your throat and lungs until you can no longer breathe? Until you suffocate? Until you choke? Until you spend your last seconds of consciousness regretting the choice you've made?”
Odilia turned her head back to him, trembling, with her eyes blown wide. “How...how did you know that?”
“It's what drew me here,” said the man, squeezing her shoulder lightly. “Your apathy. Your darkness.”
“Who are you?”
“Who am I?” The man laughed and walked around behind her, putting both hands on her shoulders. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I'm the Devil.”
She laughed shakily. “And who would believe that?”
“You do.”
Odilia had never been one to believe in myths, folklore, or religion. Even when she wanted escape from the wretched reality her life had become, she never relied on childhood fairy tales. It wasn't in her nature to find such silly coping mechanisms.
And yet, she believed him. She believed the mystery man hovering over her because all her instincts told her it was true.
She steeled herself.
“What do you want from me?” Odilia asked, the shakiness leaving her.
“I want to offer you a chance,” said the Devil-man, “a delectable chance at new blood. A new life, a new family.”
“A new life?”
“It's what you truly thirst for. It's what you crave more than anything.”
She was unsure of what to say.
“What is it about this life that forces you to seek death? What old blood do you want to abjure?”
Odilia closed her eyes. Something was flooding her from the inside and threatening to spill. She took a breath. “My family,” she said. “That's the old blood I want to abandon, just like how they abandoned me. They waived all rights to my life once they handed me over to that...that man.”
“Tell me more,” said the Devil-man, fingers pressing softly into her shoulders.
“They gave me away to a man that could tear me down and rip out that part of me.”
“And did he?”
She remained quiet.
“Did he rip that part of you out completely?”
“Oh,” said Odilia, something darker growing inside her, “he tried.”
The man in black released her and took her hand gently, turning her to face him. The moonlight hit the back of his head, creating a halo around his head as the shadow concealed his face. Odilia swallowed hard, transfixed.
“Odilia,” said the Devil-man, “be mine.”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know my name?”
He smiled and lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a small kiss on her knuckles. “I know everything about you, dearest. I've felt your suffering, I've felt your passion. It's what has drawn me to you.”
She shivered and swallowed hard. “And what do you want from me?”
“Your dedication, that's all,” he said, releasing her hand. “Dance with me, on every full moon, and that new blood will be yours.”
Odilia's mind raced with the possibilities of a different life, a second chance. To have her misery wiped away, to exist anew...that was all she wanted.
The man in black scared her, but for as much as he scared her, she felt drawn to him, and that was okay with her. She allowed herself to be seduced by this dark man and his succulent offer.
He held out a hand before her, and with little hesitation she took it and was swept into a slow dance that made her chest swell with excitement.
Odilia leered at her sleeping husband, curling her lips in disgust at him. Her new life, her new blood, couldn't come soon enough. She would be free of him soon, she told herself, soon.
Quickly, the full moon dances became the highlight of each month, a chance to be free of worry, to lean on someone else for once—someone she felt she could trust. The bruises didn't hurt when she danced with the Devil-man, and her daily life seemed to melt away into a distant nightmare. For months she engaged in this ritual, wondering each time when that new life would be offered to her. Odilia could withstand the abuse as long as she had something to keep her going.
But life became harder when her menses ceased, and the morning sickness arrived.
Ever since the doctor broke the news that she was carrying a child, Leopold had been careful not to strike her, instead opting for an alternating saccharine kindness that sickened her to her core and harsh mental abuse that made her silently cast curses on him and his seed.
And still she continued to dance with the Devil-man, fingers laced with his, his cold hand softly holding her waist.
One full moon when she was still shallowly into her pregnancy, Odilia drew closer to the Devil-man during their dance, her white nightgown barely brushing against his cloak.
“I don't want it,” she said, eyes trying to find his beneath the brim of his hat. “Not when it makes him this happy. And if I were it, I wouldn't want to be born to parents like us. I didn't want to be born to my own parents.”
“You don't have to justify it to me.” The man in black continued to lead her. “And you don't have to keep it.”
Odilia planted her feet firmly, halting the dance. “I don't have a way. I—I mean I've tried, but I don't know what the right concoction is. I've heard of Madame Restell. I've seen her ads, but New York is so far away and information like that simply doesn't make it through the mountains.”
“What is that you want from me?” asked the Devil-man.
Odilia touched her midsection. Her stomach had an insignificant bulge at this point; it was the only part of her body Leopold had ever touched gently, and it made her ill to see his eyes soft and almost kind.
She looked back up at him, eyes hard. “You know what I need from you. And I know you know how to give it to me.”
His eyes emerged from the shadow, unblinking and wide. He watched her for a long moment, but Odilia did not waver under his gaze. Slowly, a smile stretched across his face. “I can give you a list of ingredients you'll need.”
The next morning, Odilia waited for her husband to leave for work, sitting in the parlor quietly working on a needlepoint project she hadn't touched in months. Once he was gone, she called over one of the maids and handed her the short list of ingredients she needed and money she had stashed away.
“Be discreet. My husband can't know about this,” she told the girl, holding her arm tight. “Please.”
The maid nodded and headed out immediately.
The hours in between sending the maid shopping and her arrival were the longest Odilia had ever experienced. She was nervous, though not over her plan. Leopold's wrath no longer scared her—not when escaping him was now an option. The nerves turning her stomach lied in the waiting.
It was three hours later when the maid arrived with a small bag and change. The girl handed both to Odilia, but Odilia pushed the money back into her hand. “You keep that.”
She thanked her meekly, but Odilia noticed an odd expression on her face as she left.
Did she know what the ingredients were for? Odilia hoped she didn't, but if she did, she hoped that the money would keep her from saying anything to Leopold. She wanted to be the one to break the news to him.
Odilia locked herself in the bath-room with the bag of ingredients, a cup of water, and a pestle and mortar. As she ground the ingredients together, the smell of opium became thick and filled the room. She became more and more excited as her efforts came to fruition. The resulting mixture was unappealing and chunky but, to her, was perfect. Odilia hesitated for a moment before lifting the mortar to her mouth and swallowing it all .
She choked slightly and twisted her face in disgust before gulping down the cup of water. Odilia sighed once it was empty and rinsed the mortar.
Now, she waited.
The concoction made her feel ill almost immediately. She wanted to vomit desperately, but she knew her work would all be for naught if she did. Instead, she sat in the parlor and picked up her needlepoint, trying to ignore the nausea. She was sweating profusely, and her mouth was running dry. She asked a maid for some tea and something to calm her stomach.
The maid gave her the same odd look as the other one had but nonetheless brought a strong herbal tea and a plate of crackers. Odilia tried the tea but found herself reminded of the taste of the concoction and nearly lost her composure. The crackers helped settle her stomach, though not enough.
She decided to focus on breathing and the needlepoint instead, sucking in large gulps of air and exhaling slowly as she attempt to steady her tremulous fingers.
Odilia remained there in her chair, still as she could be, for hours until the urge to relieve herself was too great. She went to the water closet and pulled up her skirts. As she exposed her stockings, she noticed that there was a great deal of blood staining them. Odilia pulled her skirts higher and found that her garters were stained as well. She quickly removed her pantalettes and inspected herself carefully.
The amount of blood coming from her was alarming, but it was a sign that the concoction was working. Odilia sat on the flushing toilet and held her cramping stomach for a couple of hours until she no longer felt nauseous. The bleeding hadn't subsided yet, but that was all well and good for her. Her husband would be home soon.
As the light from the sunset shined through the windows of the parlor, Odilia placed herself on their beige sofa and waited. She had left her bloody pantalettes, stockings, and garters in the water-closet and sat with her dressed pulled up in the back, legs pulled up beside her.
Leopold arrived within half an hour's time looking particularly refreshed. “There you are,” he said with a softness in his voice that made Odilia want to gouge his eyes out with her thumbs.
“Here I am,” she said, stone-faced.
He looked taken aback by her haggard appearance. She knew from a glance at her reflection that she was paler than usual, green tint, and covered with a fine sheen of sweat.
“What's wrong?” he asked, sudden panic in his face. “Is it the baby?”
Odilia nodded solemnly. “It's the baby.”
“What's wrong with it? What's wrong with you?”
She stared into his eyes and discovered actual fear residing within. It was a delicious expression and only fueled her further. “I'm losing the baby. See?” She lifted her dress nonchalantly, giving him a view of her oozing red genitals.
Leopold dropped to his knees in front of her, grabbing her hand. “H—how did this happen? Did you take a spill? Did the maids give you something they shouldn't have? Darling, what happened?”
Odilia continued to lap up the fear and desperation in his face. She couldn't resist the small smile that emerged as she said, “I aborted it. Made a concoction to do so.”
Leopold's expression changed from fear to despair. He was quiet for a long moment before he mumbled out, “Why?”
Odilia straightened, dropping her dress. The smile fell from her face. “Look at me.”
He looked up at her, hopelessly lost.
She grabbed him by the chin roughly, forcing him to hold her gaze. “If it was a boy, it would've grown up watching his father beat his mother senseless and would learn to think it was okay. He would turn into you, and the world doesn't need another you,” she spit. “And if it was a girl?” She laughed humorlessly. “She would have to become me. Grow quiet and submissive in male company, sew herself inward so as not to offend, and lose her will to live knowing that there's no quiet, gentle epilogue to her story.”
“I...I can have you arrested for this.”
“You won't arrest me. It would look bad for you.” Odilia tilted her head, eyes widening. “Imagine! A married woman aborting her own child? What kind of marriage does she have that she would do that to the father of that child? You must keep up appearances, dear.”
At that Leopold surged to his feet, ripping her hand from his face. He loomed over her, trying to intimidate with his full frame, and grabbed her throat. He pulled her roughly from the sofa, and she staggered to her feet. On the sofa was a dark red spot where Odilia had been sitting.
This seemed to enrage Leopold further. With a growl, he reared his fist back and punched her square in the nose.
The shock of it knocked Odilia, already weak from the hemorrhaging, to the floor. She sat there with her head bowed. Her nose stung and felt wet, but she made no move to cradle it. Instead, she slowly rose to her feet, strands of hair falling loose, and turned her gaze onto her husband. Her eyes were wide and wild, brows slightly furrowed, and blood dripped from her nose steadily, touching her lips and staining them dark. She continued to stare up at him, unperturbed by the blood and pain.
Odilia's voice was steady and deep as she spoke. “I've thought about drowning myself in that river and washing myself clean of this awful existence I've been forced into. So many times, I thought about this. But I won't. I would kill myself, but you don't deserve the luxury of being free of me.”
Leopold grabbed the front of her dress and pulled her close to him, glaring down at her with all the hatred he held for her. “Don't think I'll let you get away with this.”
A slow, toothy grin spread across her face. “I'm not scared of you.”
He let go of her, shoving her back down before whipping around to head upstairs.
“The next time you turn your back to me,” said Odilia, not looking at him, “I'll kill you.”
There was a waning gibbous moon that night, and no meeting with the Devil-man, but Odilia still rose from the spare bed she now occupied and walked into the cold outside air.
She waded in the river carefully, the icy water burning her skin. The water covered her to her waist and threatened to knock her over. Still, she remained like a stone and watched as the water around her turned red, the color spreading and blooming around her. It was almost as if she was standing in a field of poppies.
“It's gone, it's gone,” she said, closing her eyes and sighing. There was nothing to hold her back now.
The next month crawled on at a painfully slow pace. Less than two weeks after Odilia had induced the miscarriage, the tissue of what remained dropped out of her during a trip to the water closet. The bleeding was steadier from that moment on and continued well into the following weeks. During that time, Leopold alternated between not speaking to her or even acknowledging her to screaming at her until he was red in the face, breaking furniture, and striking her until her face was sufficiently bruised. All the while, she noticed that the gray in her hair was even more prominent that before, but the life in her eyes hadn't disappeared. His rage was proof of her victory, and she enjoyed every second he suffered.
When the next full moon arrived, Odilia was overjoyed to see the Devil-man waiting for her by the river. A strange feeling deep in her gut told her that tonight was the night.
“Are you ready?” he asked, offering a hand to her.
Breathless, Odilia slipped her palm into his and was swept up in a dance that had become so familiar to her over that year.
“Are you giving it to me? The new blood?”
The Devil-man twirled her around and pulled her flush against him. Cold emanated from his body, even colder than the night air. “You've already sacrificed so much blood,” he said, “you deserve fresh.”
“Yes,” she said, “I do.”
“Tell me, Odilia, that you want this.”
“I want this,” she said firmly, “I want this.”
The air grew still as the man in black held her fast. “A kiss seals our deal.”
Odilia stared into his bright, burning eyes for the barest of seconds before closing her own. All her worries, fears, doubts, insecurities, everything melted away as his cold lips touched hers. It was still, noninvasive, but intimate. A warmth fell over her skin as they kissed; the cold's bite no longer touched her skin.
The Devil-man pulled away from her gently, and Odilia immediately felt different. Her body felt whole and no longer bruised and traumatized. She felt new. She softly touched her body, amazed at how smooth her flesh had become.
“What am I?” she asked in awe as she inspected her hands.
“You're a witch,” said the Devil-man. “Not the first of your kind and not the last. You have sisters now, and they're eager to meet you, Amaryllis.”
Odilia looked back up at him. “Amaryllis?”
“Amaryllis,” repeated the man in black. “Your new name. Your name belongs to me now. You are not Odilia Attwater anymore.”
“Amaryllis…” she said to herself, seeing how the word felt on her tongue.
The Devil-man gestured towards the other side of the river. “Look, there.”
On the other side, half a dozen naked women were emerging from the tree lines, each glimmering in the moonlight, supernatural.
“My sisters?” Odilia felt an excitement bubble in her chest, but a heavy weight seemed to fall over her almost immediately. She glanced at the house that loomed over them all, and something dark inside her sparked. “I...I can't go to them yet,” she said, turning back to the man in black. “I need to do something first.”
The night was still young when Odilia ran back to the Barnett home, casting a longing glance towards the women in the trees before heading inside.
The first thing she decided to do was sneak into the servants' room. She gently awoke each of them and told them that they were fired and were to leave immediately. They were confused and looked at her almost fearfully but packed nonetheless. Perhaps the urgency in her voice had scared them.
Odilia sent them out into the night with all the money she could find and allowed them to take Leopold's carriage. She watched from the doorway as the dimly lit carriage rolled into the darkness before she slipped back inside.
More assured in her purpose, Odilia went to the spare bedroom she had been residing in. She pulled a thin scarf from the armoire and tore it in two. As she went on, she caught a glance of herself in the mirror, and it was as if a stranger was looking back. Odilia's brown and gray hair was now a vivid red, and her skin was impossibly smooth. She was positively spectral, frightening, and beautiful all at once. She pulled the scarf pieces taut in her hands and locked her jaw before leaving her reflection behind.
Odilia entered her husband's bedroom, a space she loathed occupied by the one person she hated more than anyone else in existence. There Leopold slept, snoring loudly and soundly, unaware of her presence. She took one hand gently and tied it to the bedpost above him with one piece of the scarf. With the other, she tied one foot the bedpost at the end of the bed.
Odilia glanced over to her vanity and spotted Leopold's cigars and book of matches. She smiled to herself and took the matchbook.
She hovered over her sleeping husband, watching him intently, taking in every detail of being and allowing her malice for him to burn her from the inside. Odilia raised a hand high and slapped him across the face.
Leopold woke with a start and would have bolted straight up if not for the scarves binding him.
“Who is that? What are you—Odilia?” He seemed shocked at her appearance. “You're not Odilia.”
Odilia grinned at him. “You could say that. I'm not your wife anymore.”
“What's wrong with you?” he questioned, a look of horror on his face. He struggled against the binds, but his weight was holding him back.
“What's wrong with me?” She laughed. “There's nothing wrong with me! Not now, not anymore. And do you know why?”
He remained silent.
“Because you. Can't. Touch. Me.” Odilia tapped his nose lightly with a giggle, and Leopold lurched once again, swinging an arm towards her that couldn't quite reach. “And that's the best feeling I've ever experienced.”
Leopold narrowed his eyes. “What are you planning?”
Odilia shrugged. “To get rid of you, I guess. That's all I want.”
His face grew pale as he realized she was serious. “Why...why are you doing this to me? I took you in when no one would have you! I gave you everything you'd ever need and wealth on top of it!”
Odilia clicked her tongue. “Oh, dear. You're making the case against you even stronger.” She opened the matchbox and carefully browsed the contents, looking for the right one. “No one would have me because I was so difficult. My father would say, 'oh Odilia, you're so difficult. You don't read your verses, and you speak when you're not supposed to! What am I ever going to do with you?' And he figured out what to do with me. He gave me to you.” She gave him a sharp look before returning to the matches. “And that's when I realized that he didn't love me. Neither did my mother. I couldn't understand how they could give their only child away to such an awful man and never write, never stop in to see how I'm doing. I was a burden, I suppose.”
She selected a match and carefully lifted it from the box. “And that's okay. I'm not a burden to myself, and I'm the only one that matters anyway. They can burn in Hell, and they will.” She closed the matchbox with a snap and smiled at the helpless man. “And so will you.”
Realization dawned upon him, and suddenly Leopold was pleading with her. “Please...I'll do whatever you want...please! I'm so sorry for how I've treated you, I—I'd do anything to make it right.”
“I don't think you're being sincere,” said Odilia. “You don't sound sincere to me.”
“Please, have mercy—”
“Why?” she asked, tilting her head, eyes widening. “You never showed me any.”
Odilia struck the match and held it close to her face, the flame casting a sinister light upon her.
Leopold wriggled in the bed, panic setting in. “God, help me!”
“There is no God,” snarled Odilia, “there's only me.”
She tossed the match on the bed sheets and watched as they ignited immediately, the fire spreading up Leopold's body and catching his night clothes on fire. He screamed as the fire climbed over him, boiling and burning his skin to a crispy black. The shrill cries of pain and horror filled her with an indescribable joy that she had never felt before.
The flames licked at the curtains as Odilia stood in the middle of the room, watching her old life collapse before her. The screams had halted, and there was Leopold, a burnt corpse still being cooked.
Odilia walked out of the room as the fire continued to spread, unaffected by the heat and smoke. The fire followed her through the mansion, nipping at her heels but never burning her. Her nightgown caught fire as she glided down the stairs, and with one hand, she swiftly tore it away, leaving her body bare.
She walked out of the burning home, stoic but elated. She walked towards freedom, away from her old life and the blood she had shed for it. She walked to the edge of the river and raised a hand in greeting to her new sisters and a different life, fresh and without blemish.
The women in the woods came to her, walking over the river without touching the water.
Amaryllis, hair like blood running fresh from a wound, eyes as black as the sky, ash-covered and smiling, entered the fray of women and began to dance.