The Witch's Lair: Brews of Terror
The Witch's Lair: Brews of Terror
In the shadowed hills of Black Hollow, hidden behind thickets of thorn and ancient trees, stood the infamous Witch’s Lair. Locals whispered tales of the place—how smoke would rise from its chimney on moonless nights, how screams sometimes echoed from within. None dared venture close. None, except Marcus Delane, a skeptical journalist chasing his next big story.
Marcus didn’t believe in witches. To him, legends were exaggerated village gossip. But the reports of missing animals, strange symbols on trees, and villagers refusing to speak after sundown intrigued him. So, with only a flashlight, a notebook, and his phone, he followed the overgrown trail that led into the woods.
Hours passed, and the forest thickened. Finally, through the fog, he saw it: a crooked house made of stone and timber, leaning as if the earth had tried to swallow it. A dim green glow seeped from the windows.
“This has to be it,” Marcus whispered, approaching with cautious steps.
As he neared the door, a foul scent hit him—like rotting herbs and something metallic. He reached for the handle, but the door creaked open on its own.
“Curiosity is a dangerous hunger,” a voice croaked from inside.
Marcus stepped in, heart racing. The interior was dimly lit by candles floating midair. Bottles filled with glowing liquids lined the walls, and herbs hung from the ceiling. At the far end of the room stood a tall figure stirring a massive cauldron.
“You’re... the witch?” Marcus asked.
She turned slowly. Her eyes glinted like wet stone, and her skin was lined with age and dark ink markings. Her silver hair fell in thick braids.
“I am called Morwenna,” she said. “And you are not welcome.”
Marcus held up his hands. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m a journalist. I just want the truth.”
Morwenna tilted her head. “And what truth do you seek in a liar’s den?”
“Do you really make brews that... harm people? There are rumors of dark potions, vanishing animals, even curses.”
She let out a raspy chuckle. “I brew what is asked. Nothing more. The world fears what it does not understand.”
“Then help me understand,” Marcus urged. “Let me see how you do it. I’ll tell your story as it is.”
Morwenna studied him, then turned back to the cauldron. “Very well. But you must not interrupt. My brews are not for the faint of heart.”
Marcus nodded and took out his notebook. The cauldron bubbled with a sickly green liquid. Morwenna added a crushed black root, then dropped in what looked like a tiny animal skull. The liquid turned crimson, then black.
“This is a brew of terror,” she said softly. “Used only when someone has wronged another deeply. It lets them feel their worst fear... until their mind cracks.”
Marcus shivered. “Why would anyone want that?”
“Revenge. Desperation. Love turned sour,” she said. “People don’t come to witches for blessings. They come for power.”
She reached for a vial and poured the brew into it. The glass hissed as it touched the liquid. She handed it to Marcus.
“Hold it. Tell me what you feel.”
He hesitated, then took it. The vial felt cold and pulsed slightly in his hand, as if alive.
“I feel... dizzy,” he murmured. Shadows in the room seemed to shift, and he heard faint whispers in his ear.
“That’s the potion’s nature,” Morwenna said. “It feeds on fear.”
Marcus set the vial down, heart thudding. “Do you use this often?”
“Only when the forest asks,” she replied cryptically. “And when justice is beyond mortal courts.”
He looked around. “So the missing animals... were they for this?”
She nodded slowly. “Not every spell demands blood. But some brews do. Magic has a price.”
Suddenly, a crash came from outside. A loud voice shouted, “Burn the witch! She stole my son!”
Marcus ran to the window. A group of villagers, torches in hand, were marching toward the lair.
Morwenna didn’t move. “So the wheel turns again,” she said. “They blame what they fear.”
Marcus turned to her. “What will you do?”
She walked to a shelf and grabbed a bottle filled with swirling mist. “I will not harm them. But I will not be taken.”
She drank it in one gulp. Her form shimmered and faded into the shadows, vanishing completely.
The door burst open. The villagers rushed in, but the lair was empty save for Marcus, the bubbling cauldron, and shelves of brews.
“Where is she?” one man yelled. “You helped her escape!”
Marcus held up his hands. “I swear—I don’t know where she went!”
The villagers searched the lair but found nothing. With angry muttering, they finally left, leaving Marcus alone in the silence.
He looked at the cauldron, now cold. The floating candles had gone out. He turned to leave—but a note had appeared on the table in Morwenna’s handwriting:
“Truth has many flavors, Marcus. Some bitter, some sweet. You came for a story—now you carry a secret. Choose wisely what you tell.”
Marcus folded the note and walked back into the forest, heart heavy with all he had seen. The Witch’s Lair had given him more than a story—it had changed what he believed. Magic was real. And it brewed quietly in the shadows of Black Hollow.
Post a Comment