The Silver Witch

‘What are you talking about? We’ve been waiting to raise the find for weeks.’


‘But the grave … the body … Molly was right. It was held down for a reason. You’re letting it go, don’t you see?’

‘Get out of the way. We need to get this stone into the trailer.’

Dylan calls down from the lip of the hole. ‘Tilda, come away…’

‘No! I can see her. This is what she wants. She’s angry and she’s wicked and once she’s set free who knows what she’ll try to do!’

Lucas is incredulous. ‘Have you been drinking, or are you just barking mad?’

‘Hey!’ Dylan jumps down into the trench. ‘Don’t talk to her like that.’

Lucas narrows his eyes, looking from Dylan to Tilda and back again. ‘Why don’t you take your girlfriend home,’ he hisses at him. ‘I don’t need hysterical women messing up months of work…’

Dylan scowls at him. ‘Why don’t you stop being such a pain in the arse?’

As the two argue, Tilda notices the witch’s form circling above them, around the three lights, faster and faster, until it is a blur of speed and dark energy. One of the floodlights begins to wobble and threaten to tip forward.

‘For God’s sake, put the stone back where it was!’ Tilda yells, but nobody takes any notice. She knows she must act, must do something. Swallowing panic, she scrambles back out of the trench and stands beneath the nearest light. She stares up into its beams the best she can, forcing herself to keep her eyes open. She breathes deeply, then faster, imagining she is running, imagining she is trying to send all her strength powering through her body, the heat and force of her own energy feeding her mind. Feeding whatever it is inside her that allows her to influence things in the way she believes she can. Her eyes start to water and sting, her mind fills with the beating of her own heart, pain builds in her head until she fears she may start screaming, or look away and give up.

I must not! I will not!

Still, she does not seem able to do what she needs to do. Still, nothing happens, except that the swirling mass of the witch’s ghost grows ever bigger and darker and spins ever faster. Just when she feels sure she will fail, something compels Tilda to take hold of the gold bracelet in her pocket. She grasps it, amazed to find it is not just warm, but actually hot. She holds on to it tightly, willing herself to ignore the pain as it begins to burn her palm.

And then it happens. The light she is staring at explodes, the bulb and glass bursting, sending shards and splinters showering down onto the snow beneath it. Dozens of lethally sharp slivers slice into the ground around her, but not a single piece touches Tilda. Before anyone else has a chance to react, the second light blows in the same way, and then almost immediately the third. There is sudden silence as the generator splutters and fails. The area is plunged into darkness. Twilight fell while the excavation was in progress, and the sudden contrast with the earlier artificial light has left everyone temporarily blinded. Shouts go up, as people scramble for torches, amid cries of warning to watch for pieces of glass and hot metal in the snow. The diggers in the trench have no option but to set the stone back down on the ground. It is not in its original position exactly, but it is back in the grave, covering the main part of the skeleton once more.

As Tilda watches, the pulsating form ceases to grow. Instead it quickly shrinks and pales until it is just a faint, misshapen ghost again, slowly sinking down, down, down toward the grave. The hideous face turns to Tilda as it passes, spitting unintelligible words filled with venom. As the last of it is pulled back beneath the stone, a movement to her left catches Tilda’s eye. The gantry holding the second floodlight is teetering.

It’s going over!

‘Look out! Dylan!’ she shouts, as the hefty metal tower lurches and then begins to fall. Everyone on the ground scatters as they glimpse movement and hear Tilda’s warning. Everyone except Dylan. He appears transfixed, staring up at the light as it hurtles through the half-darkness toward him. If he does not leap from its path it will hit him. Unless Tilda can stop it. From where she stands she is too far to reach him, so there is no possibility of her pushing him out of the way. With no real idea of what it is she is doing, she grips the bracelet in her hand, wrenching it from her pocket, even as the gold seems to sear into her skin, and holds it aloft. She focuses on the light as it topples over, keeping her glaze fixed upon it. In the seconds it takes to fall, she forces herself to will it to change direction. She conjures an image of it veering to one side, so that it will fall harmlessly beside Dylan instead of hitting him. She pictures it doing this, pictures it thudding into the snow with him standing, unharmed, next to it.