The night was as dark as Matthew’s intentions. He slithered his skinny frame out of bed, crept on the balls of his bony feet through the kitchen and towards the front door. His white, haunting smock loosely hung off his back, dry red stains blotched the back of the white fabric; cuts made by his mother’s cane. The door creaked as he left the warmth. Immediately, the ice-cold air penetrated through him. Leaves and twigs crunched under his bare feet as he reached back in for the dim lamp on the window ledge, taking one last look behind him, at his past. His visible breath momentarily warmed his red eyes; sore and crusted in the thin, lifeless air. Twigs and small stones scratched the skin on the ashen soles of his feet, wetted by the dew; though he didn’t feel it, his purpose numbed him.

He stepped onto the dry mud road – a winding path of cracked earth and sharp, sporadic stones. He held out the candle in front of him to use as a guide. The rustle of animals in the nearby wood didn’t faze him one bit. He was fearless, God was on his side. His breathing was slow and controlled as he crept towards his target. The deep, glaring woods watched him edge nearer. He stopped and looked at the pathetic building, blemished by Satan himself. Matthew ground his teeth just thinking about it. The mud around the house wasn’t as dry as the dewy ground he stood on. No, their land was sodden. The house sorrowfully slanted in the sludge. Matthew’s head dropped at the sight of the building and its inhabitants. It bereaved him. Matthew replayed his father’s words into the arctic air, ‘Rid this town of evil. Rid this town of evil. In the name of the Lord, rid this town of evil’.

The relentless cracking of twigs under his feet had pierced his pasty skin. He lifted his feet and rubbed the mixture of blood, mud and small stones into his fingers, investigating a coarse, gooey liquid. He was interrupted by a subtle sound coming from the woods, noting the ancient eyes of the trees watching him. He foraged for logs but made sure to keep one eye on his home, a stone’s throw away.

He dropped a handful on the floor and took the two thickest planks, then crept to the front door. As silent as the wintry sky, he lodged the log under the rusting, rickety latch, jamming it. He sneaked to the back door to do the same. He peered inside for movement, but all was too dark. On his return, he clutched another log with his bony blood-stained hands. Kneeling by the tallow-fuelled candle, he ripped off some of his sleeve and wrapped it around the log. He dipped it in the dim light, and it instantly caught alight. As the fire grew into an impressive torch, he stood and stared at his unaware target.

‘But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice the dark arts, the idolaters and all liars – they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulphur. This is the second death.’ He took a step forward. ‘Lord, forgive me; I am your humble servant carrying out your wishes.’ He launched the fiery log onto the crumbling, thatched roof and the flames hungrily engulfed anything within its reach. As quickly as he could, he knelt, ripped another piece from his smock, wrapped it around the log, lit it, then threw it on the roof. He repeated his actions over and over: rip, wrap, light, throw. He threw some up onto the roof, some through the windows. Then, when his smock was in pieces, scattered all over the house, he stopped and watched, embracing the view.

The screaming commenced. At first, it was screams of shock, then panic, then desperation. The door rattled as the witches inside tried to break free, but the wedged log stood firm. Matthew could see, through the small cracks in the front door, bodies frantically racing around the house. He just stared, half naked, with his blood smothering his bony hands. They kept screaming for help, begging for mercy as he excitedly pushed the red liquid through his thumbs and fingers. They were beyond mercy. The pitiless had become the pitiful. One of the women put her eye up to a crack in the door and saw Matthew standing, staring. She screamed to him for help as the flames aimed for the moon. He smiled. Just smiled. Her stinging throat helplessly yelped as the roof caved in, becoming engulfed in a fiery chasm. Matthew waved a bloody hand at her as he broadened his grin. He was the happiest he’d ever been. He was carrying out God's work.

He spread his arms to feel the cleansing, comforting heat on his chalk, dry skin. Flames flickered in his black, possessed eyes. One of the women powerlessly watched him through terrified tears. Fire engrossed her as smoke swallowed her desperate body. Matthew saw the skin around her eyes boil as the flames absorbed her.

Though distant shouting brought him back to reality. Matthew knew people would come when the fire and the screaming started. He saw his father sprint towards him, scanning the blaze, shouting his name. Matthew dropped his arms and grew cold; he was human again. Those frantic, fried eyes had disappeared from the door. The screaming had ceased.

‘What happened?’ His breathless father shouted over the crackling wood.

‘It’s over, Father. I have served my duty. I have cleansed the evil, now I will be cured. We can live happily again.’

‘What?’

‘Are you proud of me?’ He gazed up at his hero.

‘What is this?’ Jane, Matthew's mother, caught up soon after. James kept looking at his son. Matthew didn’t even notice his mother’s presence.

‘Go home, woman,’ James shouted.

‘But the house. We should get help...’

‘I said be gone!’ She left, shocked at James’ sternness. There was no turning back. Her weathered hand covered her trembling mouth as she backed away.

‘Matthew, what have you done? What have you done?’ She was too shocked to cry.

‘What could have possibly led you to do this, boy?’ James grabbed his son by the arms. Matthew was confused.

‘You, Father.’

‘Me? I never told…’ Suddenly James realised. All those words, all those messages in church. He was the guilty one. Not Matthew. How could he be angry at something he was responsible for? He had to rethink a way out of this. ‘Son, fear not, I’ll think of something. You cannot be caught for this. You will recieve the death penalty.’

‘But I was helping. I will be a hero. You said so yourself.’ Matthew couldn’t comprehend what his father was implying.

‘Some people won’t understand. They won’t see what you’ve done as an act of God.’

‘Then what shall I do?’ James held Matthew by each arm and squeezed.

‘Run. Run back to the house. Stay there until I come back. I will calm the foray.’

‘And the witches?’ James was still unable to lie about his true feelings. He turned back to the fiery rubble.

‘They are where they belong.’ His father looked to the end of the path. The crowd were coming. ‘Go!’

Matthew ran and ran through the field. The twigs cut deeper with every trot. The breeze bit through his skin. Everything was real now. He turned back to look at the fire. The house was unrecognisable. His father stood by the flames with his head in his hands as the locals flocked towards the fiery beacon. Matthew scurried back to the house.

Matthew’s blood left a trail past his crying mother and straight into bed. He pulled the white covers over him and caught his breath. He watched his stinging, bloody feet soak through the sheets. As he glanced out of the window at the distant fiery ball he had created, he knew he was in trouble, but took comfort knowing God would save him. God would now take the Devil out of him.

THE END

#villain #witchfindergeneral #MatthewHopkins #childkiller #horror #historicalfiction

I turned up not knowing who or what to expect, but was sure of one thing, win four matches of darts and the trophy was mine. With two previous maximum scores achieved in my 438 appearances, this was my tournament, this was my night. I sipped my cider then turned to my lovely ladies, Estelle, Chanelle and Belle, each one as identical as the next; 100% tungsten and ready to soar into the sacred treble twenty. They had cost nearly $20 and I would have paid more. I weighed up my opponent. He gave me a friendly smile, I almost laughed, he didn’t think I was that stupid did he? I knew what he was trying to do, even when he was buying me a drink, he was trying to get in my head, reverse psychology, a fake friendship, a frenemy. I wasn’t going to get sucked into his mind games and so refused to smile back, even if it was my dad. I stared at him, cider to my lips and took a final look around before blocking out everything except the target. There was an audience of six, not including the local drunk, at the bar, watching reruns of Married At First Sight. This was considered a good turn-out, and I couldn’t let them down. I turned to the board. Game on. I threw my first darts. Estelle split the air, then Chanelle soared through the wind, and finally Belle gracefully landed in the board. “Seven” called the umpire. Damn it. It was the enemy’s go and he scored 100. It cut deep.

As the match wore on, my darts had improved. It was probably something to do with the fact that I was getting increasingly pissed. I always played better when I was drunk, it relaxed the arm. However, there was a fine line between in-the-zone drunk and on-the-floor drunk, and I usually accomplished the latter, therefore never reaching the final, even if I had wanted to.

After the hustle and tussle of dart-throwing, stare outs and beer drinking, we had come to the final game. Whoever won would go through to the next round, otherwise known as round two. I threw first, Estelle and Chanelle let me down with low scores, but my wondrous Belle saved me at the last dart. The enemy had his turn, it was level pegging. All I needed was a double 16 to take my winning streak of one game a step closer to the prize. I kissed my trusty Belle, my lucky dart of the night. I lined her up. I felt like I had the power, the power of He-Man. I was Mr Ali, I was Mr Bradman, I was Mr Laver. I was Mr Schwarzenegger. I held my breath and threw my dart. The crowd gulped. I had missed. I was Mr Bean. But alas, with two more darts in-hand, victory could be salvaged from the jaws of defeat. I went through the motions again. I kissed Estelle for luck, though it didn’t work as she flew wide...of the board. It was all down to Chanelle. I pressed my fingers against her tungsten shaft, before whispering a little prayer into her non-existent ear. I threw. I heard gasps and then cheers from the crowd as Chanelle pounded into the board. I had missed my target, I had lost. My enemy’s lover, who was also my mother, ran to him in cheery celebration as I looked down at my cider, my only friend. I bent down to take in my defeat and felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up. It was the fourth woman in my life - after my tungsten babes - my wife of seven years and involuntarily my biggest fan. I looked up at her kind, smiling face. I hoped she was going to say something profound, something to get me through yet another disastrous first-round defeat. Finally, among the cheers in the background, my wife stood there, with an empty glass, and whispered, "it’s your round, and don’t forget to get your dad one too."

#writing #prose #amwriting #shortstory #shortstorycompetition #writer #comedywriting