Witch by Tim O'Rourke Read Free Book Online

adjacent field. The ground was sodden through with rain, and pools of mud oozed from beneath my boots. It was cold, damp, and clammy, which made it hard to breathe as I ran across the field, just wanting to be away from those dead people – the people I had killed. I could hear the sound of crows squawking behind me. Glancing back over my shoulder, I could see four black shapes cutting their way across the field at speed towards me. Their jerking, twitchy movements did nothing to slow them down. I turned, drawing a deep lungful of cold air. There was a crop of trees ahead of me. I set off towards them, hoping I could hide amongst the twisted, black trunks.
    With a stitch starting to gnaw away at my side, I reached the treeline and looked back across the field. The old man and the other three were just feet away from me now.
    How had they gotten across the field so fast?
    The wind snagged at their black clothing, making it ripple like black feathers around them. The squawking came again – high-pitched and ear-splitting.
    Witch! The old man cackled as if gargling on a throat full of blood.
    I turned and headed amongst the trees. The sound of my laboured breathing and pounding heart was almost deafening. Which way? Which way should I run? I screamed inside, feeling disorientated and lost. The trees seemed to crowd in all around me. The gaps between each gnarled trunk seeming to get ever smaller with each passing second.
    The sound of squawking and the fluttering of wings – clothes – came from above me. I looked up, speckled grey daylight glinting through the canopy of leaves above me. The branches of the trees entwined like broken fingers twisting around each other, cutting out what little daylight there was, throwing me into darkness. I stumbled backwards on hearing the sound of those people coming closer as they made their way towards me in the dark. I was falling backwards into a hole. I threw my arms out, desperate to break my fall. My fingertips scratched against damp stone on either side of me. Into the darkness I fell, a dim circle of grey light growing smaller and smaller above me. I hit something hard, forcing the air from my lungs.
    Gasping for breath, I lay at the bottom of a deep well. It stank of decay – meat that had turned bad. My hair hung over my eyes and across my face.
    “Help me!” I called upwards, my voice echoing back off the circular walls.
    There was a face peering down into the well at me. It was white, like a full moon set against a dead black night.
    “Help me!” I cried, reaching up at the face. “Please, help me!”
    “Sydney!” the face called down into the well. “Sydney!”
    It was my father’s voice.
    “Daddy!” I screamed, feeling relieved to hear his voice. He had come to save me. He had come to lift me out of the hole I now found myself in.
    “Sydney!” he called, his voice sounding as if it were coming from miles away. “Sydney, open the door!”
    “Door? What door?” I sobbed. “There isn’t a door...”
    “Open up, Sydney!” his voice came again, but this time louder. Closer.
    “Daddy...” I sta rted to sob, just wanting him to lift me from the hole. I could feel hot tears on my cheeks.
    There was a banging sound, and I turned around and sat up...in my bed. My hair was plastered in damp streaks to my forehead and cheeks. My mouth felt dry, throat raw.
    “Sydney!” I could hear my father’s voice. “Sydney – are you in there?”
    I looked about my bedroom, my head aching, heart racing. The sound of banging came again.
    “Sydney!” my father called again from the other side of my front door.
    With my tongue feeling like a thick length of carpet, I croaked, “Okay, I’m coming!”
    I doubted he heard me, because no sooner had the words left my mouth, he was banging on the front door again. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I got up, took a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms from my wardrobe, and quickly threw them on. A thin splinter of daylight cut