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 Today's reading recommendation

Sister Witch by David W. Thompson

ON AMAZON

Moll Dyer prays she can leave her troubles behind when she immigrates to the new world, but a paranormal threat grows, and soon follows her across the ocean to Maryland.Colonial life in the Old Line state was tough on both man and woman. Hunger, disease, Indian attacks, and drought tested the resolve of the settlers daily, but troubles for the Dyers included the threat of a succubus on a mission! Will the demonic call initiated by her family prove too much to resist as she labors to rebuild her life in a distant land?The legend of Moll Dyer originated in earliest colonial Maryland. Despite 300 years of civilization, and scientific reason, Moll's name is still often heard there, especially around campfires late at night, or as a warning to misbehaving little people. Her spirit is often seen as a wisp of unnatural fog in the swampy woodlands near her homestead, with her half wolf companion at her side. This is her story.

Chapter One

My name is Mary Dyer, or Moll to my family and friends. If you are either, you are among the few. It is for my child’s sake alone that I press my quill to paper. I am not proficient in the keeping of secrets, unlike my family, and as my disgrace is the foundation of my woes, I shall confess all for the integrity of my account. My child will know I was truthful in all things, save one.

For five generations, our family called Kinsale in County Cork, Ireland home. Kinsale is a sleepy little fishing village on the River Bandon. For the years I lived there, it was a safe, quiet, familiar place. The men fished the channel, built fishing vessels, and farmed the land.

The womenfolk cared for their families, prepared meals, mended clothes, and, of course, kept the ever-present peat fires burning. Mother loved the smell of a peat fire, saying it reminded her of leaves burning in the autumn of the year. I found the scent to be sticky sweet, like rotten apples. 

I had thought all was well until one day (I am ashamed to say), I learned of our plight while eavesdropping on my parents after the bantlings were abed, and my breath caught in my chest!

“The work here is gone, Cathleen, and our savings are all but spent. There’s money to be made on the Isle of Wight, shipbuilding and working the docks. There’s nothing holding us here now.”

“Are we starting this again, Killian? This is our home! Are you not happy here?” Mother asked.

“Happy? I’m as happy as a pig in shit living on scraps! It is my duty as a man to provide for my family! I won’t be depending on any man’s charity! Every day, there’s more and more debt we cannot pay. Indeed, I’m so happy I could dance!” I heard the patter of his shoes dancing to an imaginary tune, and stifled a giggle.

“You needn’t curse, or play the fool. There is no lack of food for our table, and the peat fires keep us warm at night.” Mother said.

“That’s not enough, Cathleen! The Dyers thrived here before the Battle of Kinsale. I swore to my father I’d reclaim our family’s glory. It’s what you deserve, what our children deserve.”

“I know the story, we’ve all heard it often enough, but you, of all people? You would raise our family among them? You think anything good waits for us among the English?” Mother asked.

“To hell with the English bastards! This is about our family’s future. Building their ships is where the money is. I’ll go alone if need be to deliver this family. I should be able to return in two or three years with bags full of coin!” 

“No, Killian. My place is with you, as is your family’s,” she answered. “We will follow where you lead, husband.”

My mother’s swift submissiveness perturbed me, and I snuck back to my bed, unable to swallow the lump in my throat. Mother was right, but she lacked the pluck to argue with my father. We were happy here. Our family called this place home for time immemorial, and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving all I knew. Little of life outside of our village reached us, yet I knew Kinsale to be as fine a land as existed in all of creation. I yearned to see other places, know other lands, but as a visitor, not a permanent resident! Two to three years, my father said!

There were few in our village I called friends, but their families' history was entwined with ours for many generations. Their presence in our lives would be missed, but I dreaded being away from the land and the River Bandon.

My little brothers and sisters deserved a better life, it was true. Wealth to ensure their future happiness, a life without want. I suspected if my half-sister Anna had married a lord instead of a farrier, or if she’d settled in County Cork in lieu of Killarney, we’d not be leaving for a foreign land!

If I was ever addle-headed enough to have children, I’d never be so selfish as to force my dreams upon them! Sacrifices had to be made by all, and Da’ booked our voyage within a fortnight.

The village of Westcowes, on the Isle of Wight, appeared damp, and dirty from the windows of our small cottage. The river Medina was a swollen slothful moat. The small roads were formed of shoe-sucking mud, and brown was the predominant color of the town. Mother and I cleaned the floors twice daily, and still, we felt the constant grit of the land under our feet. We knew no one and were not allowed outside alone in the rowdy English harbor town, so we seldom felt the sun on our faces. I wanted to stretch my legs and run, experience this new place, but I was a trapped wild hare, forced to wait for the hungry trapper to come end my life. Westcowes was our home now.

Despite my father’s grand hopes, England did not prove to be our financial salvation. Every evening, he returned to our tiny cottage with the news that another job fell through. From his whispered conversations with Mother, I knew we were at the end of our meager reserves. So, my spirits soared the day he finally announced the news of finding work on the docks. It was not building ships, but it was good money just the same.

Our family was Catholic, pariahs on English soil. It was providential that our church was a short walk away. Sundays were gay outings and presented us with a rare occasion to be outside as a family. I sucked in the air on these jaunts, not that it was sweet and clean like home, but because it was free and unencumbered.

One such day, I tried to be attentive to Father O’Hearn’s sermon on the virtues of the missionary service to the New World, and how parents should encourage a renewed calling to the priesthood. The dear man was a fine Christian, I’m sure, but a speaker he was not, and I was unaware of any such callings for a sixteen-year-old girl.

My attention drifted until I felt my mother’s elbow dig into my side. I glanced about to see if there were any witnesses to my lack of devotion, and I spotted the fancy boy James Rogers. Unlike most boys his age, he dressed impeccably with never a hair out of place. I confess his dark, good looks drew my notice, but his blatant and hungry stare made my cheeks flush! Why was he even here? From what I knew of his family, they were fervent in their Church of England beliefs. Was he spying on us, on me?

I dropped my eyes to the floor and folded my hands in prayer. The seam my mother repaired flashed at me from the bodice of my dress; why didn’t I wear another? The thickness of the air left my hair in a mess of kinks, and I felt the fresh pimple rising from my forehead like a flagpole! Why couldn’t I be more like Anna? I sent a furtive glance back to his pew. James’ shirt was soaked through, and I giggled. He probably thought he was hell bound for attending church services among the Papists. My mother rewarded my frivolity with another elbow in the side and scolded me as we filed from the church.

“Daydreaming and giggling in church? That is no way for a decent woman to behave, Moll!” she whispered, pinching my ear. “What will people think of you and our family?”

I stalked away. I was the oldest now with Anna gone, but she spoke to me as if to a child. I entertained no cares about these strangers’ thoughts. My eternal judgment was not their sword to wield!

The congregation milled about and engaged in various conversations about the weather, politics, and shipbuilding. Mr. Cabot extolled the profits to be made in America, if one was brave enough, but I was not in the mood to listen, even about such grand adventures.

I wandered in ever larger circles around the church property. I stopped in front of the apothecary and stood tapping my foot, waiting for my parents to note my impatience.

“Hello Moll.” I heard from behind me. “Sleepy were you?”

“No James, I slept quite well last evening, thank you very much.”

“The moon didn’t keep you awake then?” James laughed.

“What do you - “

“I saw you last night, and you weren’t sleeping. The moon was full, and there was no mistaking you!”

My mouth dropped open like a carp’s, and I stuttered nonsense like an idiot child.

“What? The full moon…?” 

“What would your dear father say if he knew of your wandering the village in the dark of the night, with thieves and scoundrels about? I don’t believe he’d be pleased, not at all.”

“Nor do I, and I’d ask you not to be running your mouth, but do as you will.”

“Moll, you know you’ve captured my poor heart. Say you’ll be my girl, and not a word will pass my lips.” James’ smile looked like a court jester’s.

“Your girl is it? When just last week you asked Darcy Quinn about the “skinny red-headed Papish girl”? You didn’t even know my name. Now I’ve captured your heart, have I? Indeed!”   

“Ah, your laugh! So endearing, as sweet as a sparrow’s trill! Why else would I ask about you then? Surely your beauty captivated me?”

“James, many things I am unsure of, but my beauty, or lack thereof, is not one.” A sudden heat washed over my face. What game did he play with me? It was cruel of him to mock me so, but maybe…could his compliments be sincere? I thought not; years of young women whispering about my too-white skin and my red kinks of hair did little to reassure me, but could it be true? James did not hurt the eyes. If he was only Irish, my father might even be pleased for me to be courting with such a fine young man.

“Moll, but I am speaking truth!”

“Well now, my poor captivated James, perhaps you will pay our family a visit sometime then?”

 “I would like nothing better, but maybe until we get to know each other better, you might favor me with your company on one of your moonlight walks? I would act as your protector, your knight in shining armor perhaps?”

“Moll!” My mother yelled.

I knew it was wrong, and part of me tried to snatch back the words even as my flapping tongue set them free. “My walks usually end around eleven, by the old oak tree where the fishermen clean their catch. Perhaps I will see you there.” 

ON AMAZON 

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.