"My friends beware as you pass by
As you are now, so once was I
As I am now, so you must be
Prepare yourself to follow me."

Those words have been etched in stone, to stand testament throughout the ages. The stone in which they are engraved can not be found in any museum, and they are certainly not transcribed from an ancient hieroglyph. These words are etched into a cold grey tombstone in a cemetery in southern Minnesota. This place, now called Loon Lake, was once a township. The grave belongs to a young girl beheaded for witchcraft. My name is Mary Jane Twiliger, and I am that girl. The year was 1881; I was 18 years old and lived in a town called Petersburg. That year would bring on a terrible sickness, drive a town to madness, and bring an end to my life.

That fall was especially cold, winter had come two months early and we were unprepared for nature’s fury. A terrible flu had spread throughout town and many lie sick in their beds. Few of us were trained to care for the sick and many perished. Ironically, the two doctors we did possess were the first to become infected. One of whom was my father, Nathaniel. Over the years, I had picked up a little of his knowledge in medicine. At the time female doctors were unheard of, so naturally I was unable to learn the craft professionally. I spent most of my days doing laundry, cooking, and tending to the flocks. When the flu began spreading and my father passed, I was the only one left who knew anything about medicine. Most of the men were busy hunting deer and gathering firewood. Many of the women were sick, but those who weren’t stayed home to care for the children. A few of the younger girls assisted me in aiding to the sick. As weeks progressed conditions got worse, and I was unable to help many of the sick. The flu was spreading fast, and the only way to ensure that it didn’t spread any farther was to make sure the sick were kept separate from everyone else.

* * *

A warm summer breeze pushes through the fields of grain, golden and pure, as if touched by the hand of Midas himself. It continues its path through the fresh cut grass as it spirals up through the leaves of an apple tree. A soft creaking can be heard as its branches sway, waltzing with the wind. A lone apple swings back and forth near the top of the tree. Its sweet nectar is covered with a brilliant crimson hue, it is perfect in every way an apple can be: a white meaty center irrigated with a nectar as sweet as honey, skin so smooth, so clean, that it reflects the sunlight, with a body that is wider on the top and becomes thinner as it nears the base, containing four small humps on the bottom aligned in perfect symmetry, and finally a bright, green, football-shaped leaf that connects to its stem. Then with a crisp snap the apple falls from high atop the tree. Twisting in a clockwise motion it hurtles towards the earth. Falling, twisting faster and faster until finally…Thud. The once perfect apple bounces off the ground and splits as clear sweet blood trickles down the open wound. The blood falls softly to the dirt, and as the soil drinks its fill the liquid disappears into the earth.

On the other side of the farm a white family is gathered in a broken circle. Some are eating their fill of corn, others are chatting about corn, some are resting their corn-filled stomachs on the lawn, and the young ones are chasing each other in the grass. Suddenly a dark shadow moves across the land, blocking the sunlight. They all look with wide-eyes and mouths agape as the giver appears. The family stares in disbelief as the giver of all good things reaches his hand down from the heavens and grabs the grandfather. He who has built them shelter and blessed them with grain hoists the grandfather up high into the sky. Then when he has reached the pedestal of the almighty, the grandfather’s head is laid down softly upon the clouds. He looks in disbelief as he travels through a large metallic arch. As the family watches in silence as the giver pushes the arch down tightly around the grandfather’s neck. Something is wrong, terribly wrong, the grandfather cannot move at all. He struggles franticly as the giver reaches towards the ground. The family looks in horror as he produces a huge metal blade. Then with a swift downward stroke the blade descends upon the elder. First, the sharpened metal edge pierces the feathery skin, sending tufts of white into the air to be carried by the wind. Then the blade reaches the muscle as it cuts cleanly through the meaty flesh. The outer wall of the esophagus is breached, and a rush of air escapes from the tube as it is forcibly opened. Finally, the steel edge severs the backbone and spinal cord in one fell swoop as the axe bites into the wood cutting board. What seemed like an eternity to the family has happened in less than a second. Then, suddenly the silence is broken with a loud crack. What sounded like a dry branch being snapped in half was actually the sickening crunch of grandfather’s spine.

Grandfather’s corpse hits the grass with a lifeless thud as the family gathers around. Then grandfather’s headless body jumps to life as he begins to run in a circle. Blood squirts up from his severed neck like some sort of demonic water fountain. The family screams in horror as their white skin is covered in grandfather’s warm crimson blood. With his final breath, grandfather collapses, as the remainder of his blood oozes into a pool in the grass. As the family watches in horror, grandfather is again lifted up by the giver and hung by his feet from a wire in the sky. Then as the family stands awestruck, grandmother is grabbed. The family begins to scream and run wildly in all directions, but it is no use. More and more are grabbed, as fathers, mothers, aunts, and uncles are hoisted up one by one. Snap after snap, the now bloodstained blade severs head after head upon the chopping block. Headless bodies dance together on the bloody grass. They run in sync, as if the sprays of red liquid and lifeless corpses are all part of a choreographed dance number. Feathers and blood fill the air as the screams of the remaining family are heard as clucks and caws. Dozens of headless corpses hang from the wire, and as the slaughter draws to a close it begins to rain. The remaining family huddles together. All but the young children were slain, and they begin to cry as they stand in the rain. One turns his head as a dark crimson raindrop lands on his shoulder. The young chickens cluck and caw as they stand beneath the wire, covered in the blood of their ancestors.

* * *

Dear Reader,

The quarantine had to be strict; otherwise more people would become infected.

What could I do? I had no other choice, the medications weren’t working, we had run out of leeches long ago, and everyday more people died. I had to contain the sickness at all costs. The number of new cases had dropped, proving that the quarantine was effective, yet it seemed to go unnoticed. Rumors started to spread among the townspeople, slowly at first. Everyone was upset about the quarantine, as only a select few were allowed to visit the sick. Try as I might, I could not slow the illness. More people died each day, funerals soon became town meetings. Every able-bodied citizen would attend the funeral and then complain afterwards. Speculation soon began to grow; as my young assistants started looking at me with cautious eyes. Soon after, I was asked to watch over the sick while the others went to the funerals. Even my patients began to look upon me with a suspicious gaze. Then it happened that fateful October evening, it happened.

I was sitting in the corner of the room, stirring a mix of dried herbs together as my father once did. He had told me that the aroma calms the body, and puts weary minds to rest. Rest was of course the only thing these poor souls could do. Then as I turned around the wood door flew open. Snowflakes were pulled inside to the warmth where they melted instantly. The entire town had come, and leading the mob was the minister/mayor of the town, Ezekiel Wagner.

"I knew it! She has been poisoning the people with a satanic brew!" Ezekiel yelled.

"And she’s been keeping herself healthy with her magic!" cried someone. I recognized the voice, she was one of my assistants, and her name was Sue.

"Burn the witch! Burn the witch!" the chant began to grow. Cheers arose from the crowd as two burly men grabbed me by the arms. I tried to protest, but my screams were lost in the cold winter wind. Torches in hand they seized me and threw me into the center. They looked like dragons screaming and yelling as the winter air became white with steam. I tried to escape, but just as I wiggled free something hit my face and I sprawled backward.

"Try that again and I’ll use the other end wench," said a man holding a pitchfork. I was again apprehended by two men, and they began dragging me through the snow. My feet were frozen as my shoes had fallen off long ago. I could tell there was a gash in my forehead from the pitchfork, as warm streams of blood trickled down my face. The blood fell softly upon the white snow, staining earth’s blanket crimson. I watched each tiny droplet fall from my face, until my vision began to blur.

* * *

The woods lie in silence, devoid of all sound. A sheet composed of fallen angels blankets the forest floor. The sheet continues to grow as miniature white spirits float gracefully to their demise. The air is so heavy with silence that the snow angels become audible as they hit the ground. A lone figure emerges from behind a bush. The brown figure brushes against an evergreen as it moves towards a clearing. Snow particles are thrown into the crisp winter air as the branch recoils. The snow looks like pixie dust in the sky, as it reflects the winter sun like a thousand crushed diamonds. The four-legged creature examines its surroundings as it circles the clearing. It then discovers something hidden in the snow, a treat. The animal readily begins to lick the salty white block. Its tongue breaks the silence hanging in the cold air. A scraping sound similar to sandpaper fills the forest as the figure continues to salivate. The salt molecules bind to its tongue filling its mouth with the tingling taste, and every breath of winter air becomes colder. The figure stops licking as its tail become completely erect. It stands motionless, eyes wide and ears perked. A branch snaps and the animal’s head twists forcefully in the direction of the sound. It watches, not moving, not blinking, not even breathing. The animal sees nothing, but remains petrified. Inside its brain the creature’s primal node senses danger. Then, another sound becomes audible, it sounds like something being stretched. The figure’s heart begins to race, pumping blood ever faster. Its veins are throbbing as if each appendage has a heart of its own. An instinct is triggered, and as the message is sent through the nervous system the muscles react, but it is too late. A sound similar to a giant rubber band being released echoes through the trees. The figure can hear an object cutting through the frozen winter air. As the figure’s legs begin to leave the snow, the object strikes.

The hunter’s arrow pierces the deer’s winter coat. The razor sharp broad-head tears through its mid section as it breaches the outer layer of muscle tissue. Burrowing deep into the animal’s interior, each one of the three blades severs skin, artery, and muscle. Then with a final push the blades bite into the pink meaty exterior of the lungs. Threading the needle, the arrow shoots right between the bones of the ribcage. Rupturing the outer layer of the left lung, and continuing through into the right, the arrow grinds to a halt as it collides with a wall of ribs. The deer runs franticly as blood flows forth from its frozen muzzle. Blood and bits of pink frothy lung are strewn across the ground. As the animal runs, the arrow moves with the muscles cutting ever deeper into the venison. The deer approaches a fence, and as it makes what used to be an effortless leap, the barbed wire catches its leg. Tumbling end over end the deer lands face first into the snow. It kicks with fruitless rage as its hooves throw snow and chunks of frozen soil into the air. Then a dark figure emerges with a bow slung over his back. As the animal tries to escape its vision begins to fade. The hunter produces a serrated knife, and as he pulls its silver blade across the throat, the animal’s life fades to black.

* * *

The man wanders the island, trudging along with no emotion. He is carrying a handful of various sized sticks. He combs the beach in search of driftwood to stoke his fire. He sees something reflecting light on the far side of the beach. The man then drops the handful of sticks and heads towards the object. As he gets closer the object no longer reflects the sunlight, but he is close enough to see exactly where it is. The man bends over and he grabs the object from the sand. Sand pours off the object and as the dust settles, it comes into view. The shining object is an old colt .45, a six cylinder single-action army issued pistol. The man examines the pistol and discovers that this gun was manufactured in the year 1873. Despite the sand in the barrel, the beach seems to have preserved the weapon perfectly. The man admires the fine craftsmanship of the firearm. The handle was composed of fine steel, donned with an ivory grip, and the barrel was completely smooth, swirled in a blued hue. The man then holds the gun in his right hand, lifting the hammer carefully he spins the chamber. Despite being buried in the sand it rotates easily enough. As the chamber slows to a halt the man notices something incredible. There are two bullets left inside the pistol. The man slowly twists the chamber around until one bullet is locked in behind the hammer. He holds the pistol in front of him as his sandy finger begins to squeeze the trigger. As the hammer comes down on the rim of the bullet, the dry powder within is ignited, and the bullet is sent spiraling out of the barrel. Holding the gun loosely, not expecting it to fire, the man is caught off guard by the gun’s recoil. The thunderous shot echoes across the vast sea. The gun catches a piece of his ear as it flies back. He quickly drops the weapon as he tends to his damaged ear. After a short while the man picks up the pistol and his firewood, and heads back to his camp. As night comes, the man grabs his quill, and opens his book. As his life’s blood flows forth he begins to write.

Dear Reader,

* * *

My hearing was the first of my senses to return after I awoke. I could hear my former friends and neighbors arguing over the means of my execution.

"We have to burn her; it’s the only way we can be sure she’ll die."

"No, we can’t spare wood, and it’s too green it will take much too long to start."

"Then what shall we do?"

"Drown her!"

"No, the lake is frozen over." It was then that a voice rose above the crowd and was met with unanimous approval.

"Behead her then, and rid us of her evil." As my eyesight began to return, I could begin to see the faces of those who had persecuted me. My mouth was dry and caked in a thick layer of blood and mucus. I tried to speak, but the words would not come. It was then I was brought to the edge of the forest. I was thrown to the ground next to the base of an old tree. A stump was all that remained of the massive oak. The crowd grew silent as Ezekiel spoke to the people of Petersburg.

"It is through the order of the town court by a unanimous vote that Mary Jane Twiliger is found guilty of witchcraft. The punishment for this act of heresy against our god and our people can only be execution. If there are any among you who believe this woman to be innocent let their voices be heard." A silence, the likes of which I had never heard, or will ever again befell the crowd. It was then that my heart sank and my mind began to drift.

"Very well, then I Ezekiel Wagner, mayor and minister of Petersburg, sentence you Mary Jane Twiliger to death by the axe. Before your wicked soul is cast into the pit of torment, you may speak your last earthly words." I snapped out of my daydream as I looked across the crowd. I grew up in this town, and these are the people that I was raised with. How quickly they have forsaken me, to save the town from an evil they themselves conjured. My last words, my mind was blank, but then a voice inside my head began to speak, over and over, the same message. I spoke, my voice was crackled and hoarse, but the words echoed across the cold winter air.

"My friends beware as you pass by, as you are now so once was I. As I am now, so you shall be, prepare yourselves to follow me." As I spoke the last word I turned to Ezekiel and looked into his eyes. It was in that moment I saw a fear in him, a fear that chilled him to the soul. He couldn’t repent of his evil deed, for he had let it go too far. The people could not be swayed now, no, they wanted death, and it was all his doing. Before the burly men grabbed me again I looked Ezekiel in the eyes and whispered to him softly.

"You will soon play god Ezekiel. For you must know by now that you are to be my executioner. Know this, my lord, tonight you hold my life in your hands. I am the last of my bloodline, the only child left to bear my ancestor’s blood. If tonight you choose to sever my lineage, I shall one day do the same. This is my promise to you, oh holy one." With that my head was covered with a black sack, and I was placed upon the oak stump. Ezekiel was handed the axe and as he stood on the hill the people watched in silence. He raised the axe high in the air, and took his first swing at my bare neck. The blade had been dulled from cutting trees, and it took him three full swings to finish the deed. My spirit rose as I was set free of my earthly coil.

* * *

The spring air is full of life, as butterflies float gracefully through the wildflowers. The red-winged blackbird echoes its call across the fields searching for a mate. In the distance, his call is answered, and he takes flight in search of his mistress. He spreads his wings, as red and yellow decals paint racing-stripes across his body. Fish leap from a nearby stream to grab the first insects of the season. A long winter of minnows and dead shad has made them yearn for fresh meat. Their scales glisten in the sunlight, and as they re-enter the stream, water sprays across the banks. Young rabbits patrol the open groves, chasing each other and chewing on the fresh grass. The day is perfect, well almost so. A dark smell invades the crisp spring air. It is a horrible smell that chokes the lungs of the passers by. The smell originates from a concentration camp not far from the peaceful scene.

Inside the brick walls lay hundreds of unclothed bodies. Separated into various cells, the prisoners are left to lie in their own waste. An awful smell dominates the air, a smell of feces, urine, and death. Flies swarm within the cells, and each breath of air the prisoners take brings them closer to death. Guards patrol the halls, dressed in uniforms, marching methodically. The racist guards insult the prisoners with every step. Their leader is a maniacal man with a black moustache who is constantly yelling. He spends most of his time elsewhere, but does frequent the prison now and then. The prisoners are fed like animals as the food in slopped down in front of them. They fight each other over the food, and many lose ears and chunks of skin from fighting. Sleep comes from exhaustion and by no other means, only to awake to screams of horror and agony. Some prisoners are marked with a symbol to distinguish them from the others. These are the first ones to be taken. They are to be loaded onto the trucks, from which no prisoner returns. The weak and the sick are filtered from the others daily as they are brought into the hallway and shot in the head by the guards. They then drag the bodies outside and throw their corpses on a pile. The bodies of the fallen begin to bloat in the sun. Within a week they will eventually burst open, spewing putrid liquid and organs across the ground. The rest can only wait until it is their turn to face fate. The guards open the cells doors and sort the marked prisoners from the others. The marked ones are packed tightly onto trucks and shipped away. Families are torn apart; brothers, mothers, aunts, and cousins are sent to their doom.

It is a one day’s drive to the killing plant, where the genocidal plot is realized. The prisoners enter in single file onto the killing floors. It is a dark place where the smell of death floats ominously in the air. Figures in white cloaks surround the prisoners as some are electrocuted by the metal killing floor. Others are shot, point blank, with pistols, and still others have their throats slit with knives. The blood drains through the grates of the killing floor as thousands of prisoners are executed. Their screams are muted by the grinding of machines in the background. The dead are hung from steel hooks, as men with knives slice them down the middle. The organs fall from the corpses like candy from a perverted piñata. The machines grind away, some crushing bone and marrow to dust. The incinerators burn like hellfire, as they dispose of the unwanted materials. The smell is indescribable, like smelling the cloak of the reaper himself. The plant continues to run, as does the camp, they run every day of the year. The spring air is heavy with death, but it is also flowing with life. The irony of the season passes through the mind of the butcher as he lays out the fresh pork chops.

* * *

The man sits on a fallen tree as he looks out to sea. His face is barely recognizable, overgrown with facial hair. He watches the ocean’s waves as his mind slips into a trance. The man begins to close his eyes as a sheet of darkness covers his vision. His eyes rest beneath the blanket of darkness, weary from years of solitude. His eyes have not met the pupils of another since that fateful August afternoon. His mind plays a slideshow of random memories. The soft sound of the sea brushing against the sand echoes through his troubled mind. His right hand wraps tightly around an ivory handle, as his finger caresses the trigger. The man had played through this scenario many times in the last seven years. His hand softly cradles the pistol as he carefully places it on the log. He holds in his left hand the only thing that has kept him sane through the years. The tattered and worn book is a shadow of its former self. Its pages have been used for bandages, socks, fletching for arrows, and as fuel to start fire. Yet, perhaps its most important duty was in fact its original purpose. The man slowly opens the book as he handles his pen. As the blood begins to flow, so do his words.

Dear Reader,

* * *

Everyone remembers the final minutes of their life, for it is then, in those final precious seconds that we truly realize how fragile life really is. Those final moments last for hours it seems. Your senses are at their peak, and for the first time you realize your true purpose in life. I remember the crisp winter air that night, and exactly how it felt as I allowed it to slowly enter my lungs. My eyes were blinded by the black sack that was thrown over my head, but I could still see. I could see my past, my memories, almost as if I were reliving them. Running down the banks of the river on warm summer days, the wonderful banquets in the spring, playing with my friends in the winter snow, and watching the oak tree seeds float in the fall wind. Every memory was more beautiful, more pure, than the last. I saw my mother, whom I had never seen before, because she died in child birth. She was beautiful, more beautiful than my father had ever described her. I saw my father too, and for the first time since I was born we were reunited as a family. Then, as the years flew by, my memories began to recount the dark series of events leading to my death. I saw Ezekiel talking to the city council. They were blaming him for the downfall of our town, and he needed a scapegoat, an innocent to take the blame for his own misdeeds. I saw him meeting with Indians that fall. They warned Ezekiel about the winter, they even offered to help us prepare, but he would not be in debt to the heathen race. His faith had blinded him, he thought that his god would protect him, that because he was a servant of the lord that he was above his wrath. Ezekiel’s pride would cripple a once prosperous town, but his head was not laid upon the stump. Instead, it was the blood of an innocent that quenched the town’s thirst for vengeance. My memories faded to black as my soul left my body, I roamed the netherworld for 120 years. My body was at peace, but my soul could not rest. My rage grew as the decades flew by. A would have to endure a century’s worth of pain and suffering, but one day my chance would come. I had paid the price for reincarnation, and I was ready to sever the bloodline that had condemned me to the afterlife. Tomorrow I would feel the summer sun once more.

* * *

A cool breeze blows across the cloudy sky as the sheep begin to gather. The sheep come from all parts of the world, as if a great migration has brought them to this specific pasture. Their wool is black, faded, and lifeless. They are completely silent, as more and more join the flock. Silence remains as the last of the sheep join the herd. Slowly, the silence grows heavy, thicker, almost suffocating, as it chokes the life out of any audible sound. The foreboding silence sways ominously like a pendulum in the air above the sheep, yet they do not look up. Accustomed to the silence they remain still, they watch, they wait. The leader of the herd is enormous, at least twice the size of any other. He stands directly in the middle of the herd, as he can see above all the others. Ever vigilant, the leader’s eyes are in constant motion, scanning the horizon, protecting his herd. Suddenly, like a stone cast into a calm pond, tension spreads through the herd. Rippling through the black and huddling masses the tension grows. The leader’s eyes are like pin balls being tossed from bumper to bumper. Then the white wolf lunges forth, maddened by primal rage. His teeth sink in to the leader’s black wool, ripping flesh, tearing sinew. The wolf’s pack now strikes in full force from their hiding place in the shadows. The sheep are surrounded, and there is no where to run. One by one they are slaughtered, the white wolves digging deeper into the flesh. Legs are snapped as fragments of marrow and bone are strewn about the sky. Blood begins to pour from every carcass; dripping from the wool of the sheep, trickling from the jaws of the wolves. In one simultaneous action the sky erupts in a maelstrom of lightning and rain.

* * *

* * *

A man lies on an enormous king-sized bed, leaning back against two pillows squished between him and the headboard. A dreary picture of a lighthouse hangs on the wall, as it shines its beacon across a dark sea. The suite is lavishly decorated in fine leather upholstery and dark polished oak. The man’s eyes wander across the room, appreciating every detail, almost as if he is seeing things for the first time. His eyes connect with the 40’ flat-screen television. Vibrant hues are swirled across the crystal clear screen. All the colors of the spectrum are united within the magical box. Each solitary pixel is alive and breathing, screaming the message of the current channel. His eyes dance with the colors as he watches a story unfold in front of him. Pictures of various animals cross the screen as he continues to watch. He grabs the remote, handling it awkwardly; he pushes several of the buttons. He retires his fruitless search for the power button and tosses the remote. The remote slides across the silky comforter as it flies closer and closer towards the edge. The remote slows down as it nears the edge of the bed. It then slows to a halt as it looks over the massive cliff. It is teetering on the edge of the bed. Half of the remote lies safely grounded, as the other end hangs over the void. The man watches the remote as it slows its wobbling. It seems to be perfectly balanced, saved from certain doom. Then, with a grin, the man nudges the remote. Its delicate equilibrium is shattered as the object hurtles toward the carpet. The control collides with the carpet as it bounces to a halt. The man chuckles in a feminine tone as he grabs the remote from the floor. The man straightens his black suit as his feet tread delicately across the carpet, decorated with tiny blue dolphins. As he opens the door, the wind blows a salty scent through the room.