The wind, a mournful dirge, howled around the skeletal branches of ancient pines, whipping against the decrepit stone of the old bungalow. Perched precariously on the mountain top, it was less a home and more a tomb, a hulking silhouette against the bruised twilight sky. Three stories tall, its once grand windows were now gaping, vacant eyes, reflecting nothing but the encroaching darkness. Moss clung to the crumbling facade like a leprous skin, and the rusted iron gates, long since unhinged, lay half-buried in the overgrown path, a forgotten barrier against a world that had already judged it. This was the place they called cursed, the witch's den, the reason for every blight and misfortune that had ever befallen the valley below. And it was his home.
Inside, the chill was not just from the mountain air, but from the deep-seated fear that had begun to coalesce in his gut. He was a boy of twenty-one, slender and unassuming, his face pale even in the dim light filtering through the grime-streaked panes. His name, once spoken with a mother's love, was now a forgotten whisper in his own mind. He had lived here his entire life, a silent sentinel in a house that breathed loneliness, a constant target of the whispers and glares from the village below.
The distant murmur had grown into a roar, a guttural, angry sound that clawed its way up the winding mountain path. Torches, like angry, flickering eyes, bobbed in the darkness, growing steadily brighter. They were coming. He knew it. He had always known they would.
He stood by the shattered remnants of what was once a grand oak door, his worn clothes clinging to his trembling frame. His hair, long and unkempt, fell into his eyes, but he didn't brush it away. His gaze was fixed on the approaching mob, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He had no weapon, no defense, only the desperate hope that reason, however fragile, might still exist in their hate-filled eyes.
The villagers burst through the broken gate, a tide of raw, unbridled fury. Their faces, illuminated by the dancing flames of their torches, were contorted masks of fear and rage. They were farmers, laborers, shopkeepers – ordinary people transformed into a single, terrifying entity. Their crude tools of daily life had become instruments of terror: pitchforks, rusted scythes, heavy clubs, even stones clutched in calloused hands. Their eyes, wide and wild, burned with a righteous indignation that chilled him more than the mountain wind.
"Witch's spawn!" one man bellowed, his voice hoarse with hatred, spittle flying from his lips. He was a burly man, his face scarred from old farm accidents, now twisted into a grotesque caricature of fury. "You bring the blight! You bring the sickness! Your mother, that demon, she cursed us all!"
"Burn the house! Cleanse the mountain!" a woman shrieked, her voice shrill and piercing. Her eyes, usually kind, were now narrowed slits of pure malice. "The crops failed because of them! The children sicken! It's the curse of the witch!"
"He's cursed! Just like her!" another voice chimed in, a chorus of condemnation rising from the mob. "Get him! Drive him out! Or we'll all be lost!"
He recoiled, pressing himself against the cold stone doorframe. "No! Please!" he pleaded, his voice a reedy whisper against the cacophony. "My mother… she never harmed anyone! She was a good woman!"
His words were drowned out by the rising tide of their fury. They didn't want to hear. They didn't want reason. They wanted a scapegoat, a tangible evil to blame for their misfortunes. Their fear had festered, twisted by superstition and desperation, until it had consumed their humanity.
"Lies! Witchcraft!" a man lunged forward, his club swinging wildly. He dodged, stumbling back into the shadowy interior of the bungalow. The air filled with the stench of sweat, fear, and burning wood.
They swarmed him, a wave of bodies and crude weapons. He tried to evade, to duck, to find an escape, but there was nowhere to go in the cramped hallway. A pitchfork scraped against his arm, a dull pain blooming. Then, a sharp, searing agony erupted in his side.
He gasped, a choked sound, as a rough, calloused hand plunged a rusted knife deep into his flesh. It wasn't a clean thrust, but a brutal, tearing motion. The blade, dull and jagged, twisted as it withdrew, leaving a gaping, ragged wound. Blood, thick and warm, immediately welled up, soaking into his threadbare shirt, a dark, blossoming stain against the faded fabric.
The man who had stabbed him, a gaunt, hollow-eyed farmer, stared at the knife in his hand, then at the blood blooming on the boy's shirt. His eyes widened, a flicker of something akin to shock, then fear. He hadn't meant to kill him. Only to scare him. To make him leave. The mob had surged forward, a collective, unthinking beast, and in the chaos, a life had been extinguished. But in the frenzy, no one noticed the farmer's brief moment of horror. No one cared.
A guttural cry of triumph rose from the mob. "Into the well! Cleanse him! Cleanse the house!"
He crumpled, the world tilting violently. The pain was a white-hot fire, consuming his senses, yet a strange, detached awareness remained. He was still conscious, horrifyingly so. He felt rough hands seize him, dragging his limp, bleeding body across the gritty floorboards. Each jostle sent fresh waves of agony through his side, a torment that made his vision swim.
They hauled him through the back door, past the overgrown garden, towards the old stone well. Its mouth, dark and gaping, seemed to swallow the last vestiges of light. He tried to fight, to thrash, but his limbs were heavy, unresponsive. Blood pulsed from his wound, a rhythmic throb that echoed the frantic beat of his dying heart. He could feel it, warm and sticky, coating his side, seeping through his clothes. The metallic tang filled his nostrils.
With a final, brutal shove, he was airborne.
The fall was a dizzying, sickening plunge into absolute darkness. The air rushed past him, a cold, indifferent embrace. He hit the water with a splash that echoed hollowly in the confined space. The shock of the icy water was immediate, a cruel jolt that stole his breath and intensified the searing pain in his side. It was like falling into a liquid grave, the cold seeping into his bones, numbing his extremities even as his wound screamed. He flailed weakly, the water closing over his head, pulling him down into the crushing depths.
As he sank, the pain became a dull roar, the cold a pervasive numbness. His lungs burned, screaming for air, but there was only water, dark and suffocating. A single question, raw and desperate, echoed in the fading chambers of his mind: Why? What was his fault? Just because he lived in this house, this place considered cursed? Just because his mother, his loving, gentle mother, had been branded a witch?
Her image, soft and radiant, materialized in the blackness of the well. Her smile, the way she used to hum a lullaby as she stroked his hair, the warmth of her hand in his. She was not a witch. She was his mother, the only source of light in his shadowed life. The unfairness of it all, the sheer, brutal injustice, was a sharper agony than any knife wound. He had lived a life of quiet suffering, endured the scorn, worked himself to the bone for Mei, for his sister. He had no friends, no lovers, no life beyond the struggle. And for what? To die like this, discarded, unmourned, by a mob consumed by their own ignorance.
His vision blurred, the edges of his consciousness fraying. But through the haze, he saw it. Clutched tightly in his right hand, a small, round object. A coin. It was an old, tarnished coin, smooth with age, with an unfamiliar symbol etched into its surface. He had found it years ago, tucked away in one of his mother's old books, a strange, comforting weight in his palm. He had never lost grip of it, not through the long shifts, not through the lonely nights, not even when the knife had torn into his flesh. It was a small, secret comfort, a tangible link to his mother, a silent promise.
As the last vestiges of air left his lungs, and the darkness pressed in, he tightened his grip on the coin. A desperate, primal instinct, a final act of defiance against the encroaching void. A memory, sharp and clear, cut through the pain: his mother's voice, soft but firm, "You must save her, my son. Protect her."
Mei.
The name was a final, desperate prayer. He had to save her. He had promised. Even now, as life ebbed from him, that promise was the last, burning ember of his will. He squeezed the coin, his knuckles white, a final, convulsive effort.
Then, nothing.
The pain faded, the cold receded, the darkness became absolute. There was no sensation, no thought, no breath. Only an infinite, profound stillness.
He was dead.
The mob, satisfied with their act of cleansing, dispersed slowly, their torches casting long, dancing shadows as they retreated down the mountain path. No one lingered. No one cared to check. The bungalow stood silent once more, a dark sentinel against the night, its secrets swallowed by the mountain.
Deep within the cold, dark waters of the well, his hand, now limp and unmoving, slowly uncurled. The coin, that small, tarnished piece of metal he had clutched so desperately, was nowhere to be seen. It was gone. Dissolved into the water, or perhaps, into the very fabric of the darkness itself. It had simply vanished, leaving behind only the empty, pale palm of a boy who had died too young, for reasons he could never understand.