𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

𝟏𝟑. 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝

𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

"What are you talking about? You're you."

"Ziggy–" you sucked in a sharp breath and placed both of your hands on her shoulders. What were you supposed to say? 'Hi, my name is (Y/N) O'Connor. Or at least it used to be. I'm a seventeen-year-old convicted witch from the Puritan settlement of Union!' just didn't seem appropriate. Besides, you were so much more than that now. "Zig, it just is, okay? I'll explain it better in the morning."

Your attempt to brush off your own confession didn't fly over Ziggy's head quite like you wanted it to. She narrowed her eyes, glancing back and forth between you and the assortment of bones below you. You could almost see the cogs whirring behind her eyes as they widened in realization. "You're the witch."

"No, I'm not the witch!" you hissed, red hot frustration slowly creeping up into your voice. "There is no witch! They framed me—her. The other (Y/N). Sarah Fier was innocent and so was—so am I."

Ziggy gaped up at you, confused and frightened. But explanations could wait until the sun rose in a few hours and you were miles and miles from camp. Swatting her on the shoulder, you gestured for her to climb out of the hole. "Please, I promise it will all make sense soon. Just help me out of here."

Thankfully, she wasn't so suspicious of you that she would leave you down in that grave to die. As soon as she scrambled to her feet, she turned and reached down to give you a hand as you climbed out of that dark pit. "This is crazy," she grumbled, putting all of her strength into hauling you over the side of the grave. "This is so fucking crazy."

"Tell me about it," you laughed—laughed, because you were nearing the point where all of this was somehow hysterical to you. All those years, all those missing pieces that you somehow convinced yourself weren't actually missing. All of it had been buried six feet under your feet this whole time.

As you rose to your feet, you flexed your sore hand. Invisible shackles flashed before your eyes and you felt the urge to rub your wrists raw just to remind yourself that you were no longer in the devil's lair, buried deep under Union at the heart of a demonic spiderweb of tunnels.

"(Y/N)! Behind you!" Ziggy gasped, snapping you clean out of that place. Horror was flickering clear across her eyes as she stared straight ahead over your shoulder.

On the edge of the treeline, Tommy's axe tore through the shadows like they were nothing but tissue paper. The blade somehow managed to glisten despite ever last inch of metal being slathered with gore. His labored breaths shook his silhouette as he took powerful strides in your direction.

"Thomas," you whispered, the name rolling off of your tongue in a dialect you had never used before. Since when were you Irish?

Cupping a hand over your lips didn't quell the confusion, but one thing was impossibly clear; This was not Thomas Slater. This was not the boy who watched over you while you napped in the sunny Union meadows. This couldn't have been the same Thomas who warned you not to wander into the forests alone after dark even though he did the very same thing almost every evening. No, this was the very monster your Tommy warned you restlessly about. The devil had taken his shape just to mock you.

"Go, Ziggy!" you barked, shoving her away by the shoulder. She took off running and you tagged close behind, thanking God for the pure adrenaline that was coursing through your veins and numbing the pain that would have otherwise rendered you unable to stand.

Tommy's roar of anguish echoed across the field, growing louder as he descended upon the both of you. Despite every fibre of your being screaming for you to keep your eyes forward, you couldn't help but throw quick glances over your shoulder as your attacker neared. His gaping black eyes blazed in the semi-dark. Blood caked his skin so thick in some places that his sweat ran in red rivers down his face.