Witch Island (7 page)

Getting closer to the island, he did remember the last incident, the drowning of that Ryan kid.
The little punk
, George thought.
Who the hell went swimming while they were wasted out of their minds?
Some of the locals, families that had lived in the area for generations, especially Mary Hostetler, blamed the kid’s death on the island, on the witch, Margaret Rivers.
Bullshit. Damn kid drowned because he got tired and was too drunk to realize it.

And then there were those other accidents, the ones before the Ryan kid drowned, but those were over twenty years ago. A few rowboats had sunk to the bottom of the lake, drunk assholes claiming the trees and vines had reached out and attacked them.
More bullshit
, George thought.
Just a bunch of stupid hippies that had smoked too much dope or taken too much acid
.

But all in all, the rumor of Witch Island was a good thing, at least, for him. He worried a little about the kids of today, for they weren’t afraid to go there, but the older folks, including the sheriff, were fearful. However, no one wanted to go to the island. There was nothing there, which was why it was the perfect place for him to grow his pot plants.

George used to grow the infamous five-leaf plants in his backyard, the property fenced in and out of sight. But then Jack Peabody’s farm, only a few miles away, was raided—the man’s pot field burned to the ground—and George grew worried the authorities would see his crop from their helicopters, just in case they were checking the area for other growers. George didn’t have a field of pot plants like Jack, but he wasn’t taking any chances. And since Jack’s farm’s demise, the local need had grown, giving George the idea to cultivate more and sell to the locals. If his crop was ever found on the island, and he was questioned, he’d say he knew nothing about it. The island wasn’t his property, after all.

And what a wonderfully great idea it had been to cultivate the plants on the island. Along with the other flora, his pot plants were growing like crazy. George was a woodsman, had hiked—and loved doing so—in the area for years, but he’d never seen flora with such vivid colors, and so healthy, as he did on the island, well, most of the island.

There was one area, a clearing, somewhere in the middle, where a rusty old iron pole stood erect in the ground. Not a single weed sprouted from the hard, dried-out soil, the dirt appearing as if it had been scorched a long time ago and never recovered. Some superstitious idiots must’ve found the pole back during the time when people thought witches were real, and came up with the story of the witch and how she had been burned alive there.

Though, George guessed it was possible that a woman had been killed on the island, but it definitely would have had to have been during the 1800s, maybe the early 1900s. Back then, people were ignorant and even more irrational, and probably did think witches were real.

But evil spirits? Back from the dead to roam the land and take vengeance on the living?
No siree
, George thought.
That was for those twisted horror writers and movie makers
.

George’s boat ran aground. He stepped out, his fly-fishing pants keeping him dry, and pulled the craft ashore, hiding it behind some trees. He picked up his machete, then grabbed his backpack, which contained a bundle of thirty-gallon garbage bags and bottles of water, and headed down the barely visible path.

About twenty feet inland, he thought the trail would be obvious, but it had almost completely grown in since his last visit, which was only a week ago. He hacked and slashed again, not going too crazy, knowing it would grow back by the time he returned for the next harvest. He quickly built up a sweat, his body feeling weighed down.

Damn it, he wasn’t cut out for this type of work anymore. There was a time when he could’ve leveled the whole island, but now he was a tired, achy old man. A partner was looking real good right about now. Maybe he’d call his nephew, Kyle, over in Cornwall. The guy was a loser and a drunk, but family nonetheless, and George always had a soft spot for him. Why, he didn’t know.

He stopped, took out his hanky from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow, then continued onward, making sure to drink every so often from one of the bottles of the water in his backpack.

When George reached his crop, he hardly recognized the area. The clearing was overgrown with weeds and tall grasses. He had completely cleared the place the last time he was here, chopping the weeds down to the earth, even pulling the larger ones from it. That shit would rob his pot plants of nutrients, and he wanted his stuff to be premium quality, but to his pleasant surprise, his five-leaf beauties had grown into monsters. He’d never seen pot plants so large. Each leaf had to be at least two feet long.

“Hot damn,” he said, grinning.

George slid the backpack off and looked inside. He was going to need more garbage bags, and some help. There was just too much weed. Maybe he could hire some border-jumper from Newburgh; they were always hanging out on the corners looking for work. Plenty of people used them, including his friend, Bob Jacobs, who owned a roofing business, and whose business would’ve gone under if it wasn’t for the cheaper labor.

But cultivating pot wasn’t quite legal. George shook his head. He’d definitely have to call his nephew. He couldn’t risk some stranger knowing where his crop was located. He wasn’t sure he could trust anyone, even family, but now he’d have to.

He’d take care of that tomorrow. For now, he was harvesting what he could. School was over and the demand would be up. Kids would head to Newburgh for their weed, so he had to get these plants down and into his bags, then dry them out in his barn.

Raising the machete, he began cutting down the plants. About five minutes into his work, he paused, feeling as if eyes were upon him. He looked around, listening for movement, but heard and saw no one.

“Someone there?” he asked. “If there is, I’ve got plenty of shit here for both of us.” He stood completely still, fighting the need to itch his face as sweat trickled between his eyes.

Finally, he laughed. There was no one there with him. He would’ve heard the rustling of branches, their footfalls. He was just nervous. Sure, he was safe where he was, but he still had to haul the shit back to his home. Until he had the stuff in his barn, he guessed being a little nervous was natural, good in fact.

He’d checked the path and surrounding weeds for soda cans and wrappers. Checked the ground for footprints. Saw that the grasses were up and swaying, not crushed or broken. He’d found no sign that anyone had been on the island.

George returned to slashing the plants. He worked for an hour, taking breaks to rest, drink water and even pour some over his head. The sun was working hard today, shining in all its glory, making the pores along George’s skin yawn wide to release the salt-laden liquid within him. But George, even in his 60s, was an outdoorsman, rugged and ready to do whatever needed doing, in all kinds of weather.

Staring at the few remaining plants left standing, George reached for the machete, having leaned it against a tree during his last break, and wound up running his palm along the blade. He cried out, feeling the blade’s bite, and jerked his hand back. He saw the gash and the blood seeping from it.

“Damn it all to hell,” he said, whipping his hand up and down as the sting really set in. Specks of red splattered his boots and the ground around him.
That’s what you get for keeping the blade so sharp,
he thought. Not only did he not need this, but he’d sliced open his right hand, his cutting hand. There was a first aid kit back at the boat. Someone might say he was overly prepared, but after the fishing fiasco—his friend slicing off the tip of a finger while gutting a fresh catch—he always kept a kit on the boat.

The red was really flowing now. He would clean his hand, wrap it, then come back, stuff a few bags and return another day for the rest. He had plenty for now. George sheathed the machete and started back toward the boat, leaving a small but noticeable trail of blood behind.

She had felt the man’s presence as soon as he stepped onto the island, her island. He was one of
them
, a descendant of those who had sentenced her to death. Anger flashed across her field of vision. She wanted to lash out, to kill him, but she was too weak. It had been so long since she had last fed, five years and counting.

Since her death, she had been aware of existing. She was not one thing, but a part of everything, her surroundings, of nature. The Good Mother had seen to it that she remained on the human plain of existence. Revenge was not easily had, as she came to learn, and over time, her anger faded as she took up residence with the plants, insects and animals of the island. She came to love the frogs’ slimy bodies, the snakes’ cool scales as they slithered to and fro, the turtles as they bathed in the sun, the insects as they built homes or crawled along the forest floor. She loved them all.

Like the animals, the trees, plants, vines and shrubs were full of life, but a different kind. They just were, accepting their part in the world, neither happy nor sad, but neutral, growing and supplying nature with what nature needed.

Margaret Rivers was a part of it all, aiding in the island’s growth and existence, helping where she could, recycling the dead, ensuring what the Good Mother had given her.

Human contact, the boaters, trespassers, were what kept her human side alive, the need for vengeance remembered. She wondered during these times if the Good Mother had granted her stay in order to calm her spirit, give her rest so she could move on, but then the humans would come and Margaret’s memories of the past, of her and her husband’s murders, came to life again.

Life was pain. And the island, for all its glory, knew pain too. A frog born without a leg had a hard time surviving. A turtle with a soft shell didn’t last long. When a hawk pierced a snake’s body, the reptile knew agony. Pollutants from the water, from man-made fuels, excreted from their machines, made animals and plants sick. Garbage and waste—all of them dark, evil substances that penetrated her body, the island, tainting the Good Mother’s soil, going against everything that was natural.

Now, this man, this putrid, selfish creature was back. He’d been here before, and she hated him. She wanted to make him suffer, wanted to kill him slowly, but she was too weak. He had planted foreign seeds in her. They were natural, part of nature. Margaret was pleased, thinking maybe she had misjudged the man, his spirit on a path of redemption for what his ancestors had done, but then he returned to the island and destroyed what he gave her. He was another taker, another putrid human out to hurt and maim.

Margaret wanted his blood, could taste it on her tongue—if she’d had one. Her anger boiled at its height as the man continued his destruction of her island. She needed to stop him, to kill, to avenge her husband’s murder, her murder. She had nurtured what the man planted, took care of them, made them grow big and strong. She had never known such a plant, and was overjoyed to have become acquainted with it.

Rage fractured her, as it had throughout the years, and she called out to the spirits, to the Good Mother, begging for vengeance. She feared her call would go unanswered, as it had many times, but then the trespasser bled and the blood was absorbed into her.

She swelled with exaltation. The man’s blood had brought the past rushing back, the memories like a fresh experience from only moments ago. The witch seethed. The blood was as glorious as it was sour, rotten, but she lapped it up, sucking into the earth, into the flora. Energy flowed through her, the sensation of being awakened, but it wasn’t enough. She needed the man to burst open, she needed all his blood, unless…

She waited, feeling the man run, his footfalls pounding against the earth. She heard his heart beating faster, his breathing speed up. He was moving, running, heading toward the sacred place, her place.

Finally, the man stepped onto the hallowed ground, the place of her demise. His blood was even more invigorating here, potent, giving her more power. She was able to absorb more of it, and directly into her bones.

She screamed, feeling a modicum of her strength return, knowing vengeance would soon be hers.

George opened the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and poured it over the cut. The stinging sensation increased, but was welcomed. The white bubbles formed, killing the germs. He’d recently heard that using hydrogen peroxide killed healthy cells too.
Hogwash
, he thought. People had been using the stuff for years, and it was better to kill germs than to succumb to infection. If a few healthy cells died, he had plenty more to take their place.

After rinsing off his hand a few times, he bandaged it with gauze, using two metal clips to keep the cloth from unwrapping and falling off. It was good enough for now. He’d do a more thorough job when he arrived home. Now, he had a job to finish.

George headed back to the crop. He opened a garbage bag and began stuffing it with plants when something slid around his left ankle. Flinching, he looked down and saw that one of the vines from the forest had coiled around him.

What the hell?

He withdrew the machete from its sheath on his belt, figuring he’d cut himself free, when a vine from another part of the woods shot forth and snaked itself around his wrist.

George’s eyes widened in disbelief.

He heard a rustling noise from behind, and turned to look. Another vine came from the woods, this one creeping along the ground, shoving aside dead leaves and twigs. It reached his left ankle and encircled it, tightening. George was too dumbfounded to move, his brain freezing up on him. He looked at the bag of weed, wondering if the plants had somehow gotten him high. Maybe when he had cut himself, whatever was on the machete’s blade had seeped into his bloodstream, causing him to trip as if he were on acid.