by Jacqueline Moran Meyer
Elspeth haunts me. At night, I hear her ankle chains scrape along the floorboards towards the bedroom I share with my new bride. She’s getting closer, with her bloated body now splattering water on the rug around our bed. Last night, I took to drink in the hope of not remembering her visit. This morning my new love lay dead beside me; wet footsteps led to her side of the bed. I may have married Elspeth for her money and not defended her when accused of sorcery, but never had I suspected her of truly being a witch—until now.
Jacqueline Moran Meyer