Barbara Devil smiled her terrible smile. “I’m not a witch,” she said, her voice a low hum that rattled the windows. “A witch still has a soul to save. I have nothing of the kind.”
She never confirmed nor denied it. When a journalist from the city came sniffing around, Barbara simply smiled. It was a terrible smile—thin lips pressed together, eyes as flat and black as her taxidermy specimens’ marble replacements. She offered him a cup of chamomile tea. He declined and left town that same afternoon, his recorder filled with nothing but the sound of a distant, rhythmic tapping. barbara devil
It was infinite. It was unbearable.
She reached out and touched his forehead with one cold, dry finger. Barbara Devil smiled her terrible smile