The Reawakening of a Witch

My name is Sarah Temple. I want you to know, as I write this down, that I never intended for any of this to happen. I never sought any of this. It was curiosity, and an innocent curiosity at that. I also want to preface everything by saying that I don’t consider myself a gullible individual, and nor do I think of myself as believing in anything remotely supernatural. I have always been an atheist, and the concept of witchcraft or magic, has always been, again to me, long since replaced by more learned science.

The fiction, however, of the occult has always been a fascination of mine. I love nothing more than reading a horror story or listening to a podcast where believers share their scary stories of their encounters with those who now dwell beyond the veil. The unexplained footsteps that cross the hall, objects seemingly moving of their own volition, or even a haunting apparition are a fascination of mine. There has always been, of course, a rational explanation for all of these. Tiredness, infra-sound, carbon monoxide, or a straight up flight of fancy, for example.

It is also pertinent to this story to say that I have also, always been interested in my family history. Following back through my ancestors to find out their past has also been a keen interest in mine. I have successfully traced my roots back into the early 1600s. It is discovering my early ancestors here that have forever changed my life.

I write this with doubts that you, the reader, will believe this story. But I must insist on the veracity of my tale. From the mundane to the more lurid detail. For further context, know that I am in my mid-forties, and a professor at a rather well-known and highly esteemed university here in England. I will not say of which I call my employer. I can, of course, paint for you the picture of centuries old brickwork, statues of old academics looking down upon the students as they follow the signs to keep off of the perfectly maintained grass courtyards. Old offices with mahogany tables where older, mostly white men, sit upon leather armchairs. Old English academia.

I am married to a wonderful husband, who was unconventional enough to take my surname, and is a couple of years my junior. Together we have one daughter. She is my pride and joy, although she insists on getting married young, at the mere age of 20. Of course she is old enough to do so, and is her own woman, but it feels that to marry at her age is foolish. At her age there is still so much life yet to live, so much experience yet to be had, that to commit herself to the one man for the rest of her life seems so restrictive.

These days, however, when I think upon my daughter my mind is taken elsewhere. I feel myself day dreaming of what lies beneath her clothes. Of her youthful naked body. Of those breasts that have yet to feel the sag of age. Of needing to taste between her legs, and making her body writhe with pleasure. Of imagining my husband, his manhood long and hard, sliding inside her. Of her tongue pleasing me, as the three of us make love.

I am sorry. These days I cannot control my desires. I can feel my own arousal so strong now. I type with one hand as my other slides down to touch my wetness.

This was not always me. As I alluded to, this began by finding my past. My own history has changed my present.

Half a year ago, I made contact with a collector of antiquities whilst following a lead on an ancestor of mine, named Elizabeth. Coincidentally, the name I also gave my daughter. She had married a man, named Charles some 20 years her junior, and at the age of 40 had given birth to a boy they had also named Charles. If I were to tell you my husband’s name was Charles, I am sure you would just shrug your shoulders and see no significance in the coincidence. As, of course, neither did I.

This collector, a wonderful old gentleman by the name of Geoffrey, had a box that had come into his possession amongst a wider collection of artifacts from the Witchfinders of the 1600s. Of note to me, is that it bore my ancestors name: Elizabeth Temple. I am fortunate to be of such position that the amount that this collector asked of me to pay was well within my means.

I was only expecting this to be a curious keepsake, a momento of time long ago. I was not expecting there to be what I found hidden within a secret compartment in the lid. The wooden box was old, and sadly not as pristine as I was led to believe by the collector. The lighting in the photos Geoffrey had sent to me had led me to have a false impression of what it was really like. It was a dull brown, almost black in parts. The hinges had been restored by Geoffrey, but were still stiff to open. I handled the thing with latex gloves on my hands, careful not to let the oil from my fingers harm it in anyway. It was, after all, an antique.

Due to its disappointingly poor condition, I made the decision to clean it myself. Working carefully away with nothing more than a cotton-bud and a very light detergent I began the slow process. It was during this that I discovered the hidden and surprisingly still working mechanism hidden in the carved styled decoration of the outside of the box, and led me to find the old letter that would change everything.

I was excited to open it to find a letter from hundreds of years ago. How it had not decayed into dust, I did not know. It was titled, the Confession of Witchfinder Charles Temple Stalworth. My first thought was, naturally, that this was the writings of my ancestor Elizabeth Temple’s son Charles, or maybe even her husband. I was wrong of course. For Charles Temple Stalworth was Elizabeth’s father. The letter will, as I shall shortly disclose, make that clear. At this stage, you will understand that there are now three generations with the name Charles. Elizabeth’s father, her husband, and her son.

When I read this letter the first time, I went from fascination at such a find, to horror at its content, and then, to my eternal shame, such arousal that I still remember my fevered fingers playing with myself until I climaxed, gasping whilst flushed at the debauchery within. I will include now the content of the letter, of which i have taken the liberty to bring further up to date to ease the understanding:

—

The Confession of Witchfinder Charles Temple Stalworth

This is my final letter, for which I confess all of my sins to you. The gallows await, and I can only hope that in putting my numerous discretions to paper, that I shall forestall the almighty judgement and be spared the fires of eternal damnation.

I have always been a pious man, and I have taken my duties as a witchfinder with a stone-faced determination. I have personally found and given justice to 19 witches across Oxfordshire, and helped deliver deserved peace to many a disturbed village.

My downfall began when it was that I returned home last year after nine months abroad, I did hear from Edward Liston, the son of the blacksmith, that he believed my own wife to be a witch. My first confession is that it was, as I was accused and tried for, I who murdered the poor boy. After it was that I fell into sin, it became apparent that I needed to silence him to prevent what he knew from being spread around. I caved his skull in, and buried him out in the woods outside the town where he was later found. This is all in the records in the courts, but if I must confess I must confess to all.

I had not been home for more than an hour, before Edward had spoken to me in confidentiality. Reporting to me my wife, Sarah, and my daughter, Elizabeth, were witches. The evidence was that he had seen them both walk into the woods together, and that evening, a neighbour had fallen ill. Further, he swore that he had seen Elizabeth consortium with a familiar, a black cat.

Evidence I had heard of before, in my duties as a witchfinder. It concerned me, and I promised the boy I would look into it. I paid him for his sworn silence, and continued home.

I was concerned at how odd I found my home. In returning to the master bedroom, I found myself oddly of the feeling that it had been unused for some time. There was a closeness of my wife and daughter that felt peculiar. I saw once them holding hands in a way that felt too intimate.

The two of them were so alike. Both dark haired and beautiful. My daughter had turned 20 in my absence, becoming a striking young woman, and now carried herself with a confidence that was not there when I had left.

My duties off course had taught me what to look for, and I did suspect my darling Sarah firstly. She exhibited signs that you did notice after experience in such things. An unnatural willingness to talk back, to assert dominance over a man, and to do so in bed as well. The first time we had slept together as husband and a wife after my return I had been surprised at how she had taken the lead. Straddling me as if I were a stallion she wished to tame.

I felt it still was necessary to observe my Sarah further, before I told anyone of my suspicion. My reputation would be tarnished should anyone even suggest that my own wife was consortium with the devil himself. When naked alone, I looked for the devil’s marks. The small contusions upon the skin that showed the contract with Lucifer. Even when I had observed them, I did not believe what I found. Nor did I act when I found the decapitated head of our neighbours Cockerel buried in a shallow grave in our flower bed the day after the old man had fallen sick. I just could not believe it. I beg for forgiveness for not acting upon these tinding. But it was love. Love can make a fool of any man.

I awoke in the early hours to find my bed empty. My Sarah was not there. Something held my tongue, and I did not call out. Instead I crept silently from our marital bed, and out into the hall. It was dark, and I did not light a candle for there was a light emanating from Elizabeth’s door. Still I did not speak, instead I felt myself drawn towards it by some unknown, and now I believe, malevolent force.