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Chapter 1: What is the premise of 'The House of the Witch'?
No. This is Creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous, chilling, and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Hey, y'all.
Before we get to this week's stories, I just wanted to officially bid adieu to our longtime artist Dakota Miller, who's stepping away from the show to work on some new projects. Dakota's been a fixture on this show for the last eight years. All of the artwork you've seen from the regular episodes to Creepway Camp to the 31 Days of Horror Art, they're all the creation of Dakota.
We've loved having him a part of the team and wish him nothing but luck on all of his future projects. Meanwhile, the horror goes on. First up, from writer Stephen Howard and narrated by Alicia Atkins, Creepy presents The House of the Witch.
At first light, Ada enters the threshold of the forest, adjusting the strap of her heavy satchel to negate the weight digging into her shoulder. Birdsong cuts out. The smell of morning dew reminds her of happier springtimes. Crows erupt from their hiding places among the branches, cawing as they take to the sky.
On the ground, the air is thick and earthy, the darkness eased only by slashes of heavenly light. Already, Ada hears the padded footsteps of her assailant, It has stalked her through the night. She rubs at the shadows beneath her eyes, runs a finger and thumb over the locket hanging from a chain around her neck, and marches on. The trees are old and gnarled.
They whisper of Ada's arrival, carry messages through the forest onto expectant, excitable ears. This forest, so remote, with mountains cloaked in mist only faintly visible on the horizon… is a living, breathing entity, and its life is given by the one who lives here, has always lived here. Ada opens her satchel, takes out a slab of meat, and drops it on the floor. She marches on.
Beneath her feet snake roots, though Ada's converse-covered feet glide over them as if carried by tiny wings. She stops and bends down, runs her fingers through the dirt, breathes in its earthy taste. She smiles, though a tear escapes her hazel eye, and thinks of her sister,
thinks of her sister hopping from root to root among the trees of the woods near their home, insisting only the left foot can land on a root, else they writhe to life and pull you underground. Her sister lost to her, something Ada knows now for certain. She rises, and a sharp wind throws back her thick hair, nicks at her skin like hailstones. But she stands strong. Nothing will deter her.
Not those padded footsteps slinking between the trees, nor the wet, guttural breaths of her hungry stalker. The forest pushes her back, but the creature shepherds her forwards. She takes another slab of meat from her bag and tosses it between the silver birches to her right, then marches on.
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Chapter 2: What themes are explored in 'The House of the Witch'?
She holds it before her, looks past it, then back to the locket. Within the locket is a photo. In the photograph is Ada's lost sister, Marie. Smiling for the camera, Marie wears her favorite lilac scarf. Ada closes the locket and marches on. She pauses, caresses the lilac scarf tied to the stick directly before the door.
The crunching of leaves and the juddering of hungry breaths indicate the creature still follows her, but she does not turn to look upon it for the first time. Ada smiles, approaches the door, and knocks. The door swings open, though no hand acts upon it. The hinges squeak. Ada enters, the door closing behind her. Darkness. Ada closes her eyes, counts to five.
She remembers Marie teaching her this trick one night during a heavy storm. Eyes open. Hedges flank her, perhaps ten feet high. The path is narrow, like a maze. She switches her satchel to her other shoulder, rubs the tension from the other. She marches on. Ada takes each step without hesitation, listening to a tiny something on the air, a quiet voice whispering directions, support, and thanks.
The voice drowns among the sound of footsteps, fast footsteps, thudding and purposeful. Ada reaches into her satchel, brings out another slab of meat, and places it down on the ground before her. She steps past it and marches on, though the sound of teeth tearing into flesh snakes a wisp of cold down her neck.
She remembers Marie's giggles while feeding treats to their old cat, Waffles, who would snap and wrestle like a fiend from hell, and the wisp of cold recedes. Above, there is nothing, as if the imagination did not stretch so far as the sky. If she squints, Ada thinks she can see wooden beams and tightly bound straw. Lower, crows sit atop the hedges, watching her progress.
Ada understands it is not the crows who see through their eyes. The maze winds left and right, an impossible breeze shaking the leaves that line the way. Beneath her feet, roots disturb the earth, though no trees are in sight, as if the veins of this land are on show. Something courses beneath her. This house is alive. She marches on.
The path meanders until, finally, it opens out into a wide clearing. At the center of the clearing is a door, suspended in space, nothing holding it up, nothing seemingly behind it. Ada strides towards it, grabs the brass handle, turns and pushes. It is not the grass or the hedges she sees, but another room inside this spatially contorted house.
A room containing rows of dusty shelves holding books untouched in centuries. Ada steps into the room and the door closes. She doesn't glance over her shoulder, knowing the door is no longer there. The books are old, all wrinkles and faded colors. She peruses them, stopping here and there to rub dust from a spine with her finger, so as to read the titles more clearly.
She remembers Marie reading and reading, until sleep would drag her into its malevolent realm. But not before she read passages from Alice in Wonderland to the younger, bright-eyed Ada. She wonders if there's a copy of the Carol book here, but there are too many to look through and too little time. If she lingers, the creature will surely catch up.
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Chapter 3: How does Ada confront her past in 'The House of the Witch'?
A cleansing of spirits, an attempt at penance, though a failure. There is still some remorse here in the house of the witch. For the first time since setting out, Ada is surprised. But, adjusting her satchel on her shoulder, she moves towards a door that is growing in size between two of the bookshelves. Once large enough for her to fit through, Ada opens it and marches on. A dirt path.
The forest runs parallel to this path, and the crows line the trees. Above, far above, as if forgotten, the wooden beams and the tightly wound straw of the ceiling stretch on, yawning like the trees. Ada knows she remains inside the house of the witch. She marches on, staying within the borders of the path. Gorse and buttercups flank the way, Aromic and bright.
Among the trees, Beyond the grasping fingers of light, Well-fed, but ever wanting more, the creature saunters in step with Ada. Around it, the trees are indistinct, those formerly thudding paws soundless. Still, it prowls. Ada sees the trees curve around, forming a nook within which a single chair is placed upon the grass.
Roots entwine the arms and legs and back of the chair, like a giant kraken snaking around a hapless merchant ship. On this tremendous chair sits a girl, not much older than Ada. A girl who bears a striking resemblance to Ada, a similar posture and bearing, a similar aura. The chair dwarfs her, yet she does not seem small.
For the second time, Ada wavers, feels surprise, stopping short of the little nook. The darker grass of the nook swallows the end of the path, and Ada both wants to step from the path, but also not, remembering warnings about the ends of roads. She dare not approach, pass beyond the line, because a clearer view of the girl in the chair means confirming the thing she knows cannot be true.
Ada steps forward, her toe inches from the end of the path. "'Marie?' she whispers, covering her wide, hanging mouth with both hands. A low, guttural growl slips between the trees to her right." The girl in the chair speaks. Sister, do approach. I knew you of all people would find me here. She curls a seductive finger. We thought you were... Ada has never said it out loud.
Saying it out loud means speaking it into existence, confirming it as reality. Marie cackles, her overlong fingernails clicking little beats on the arms of the chair. But, as you can see, I'm perfectly fine, sister. I did not stumble into the territory of some mean old crone, as you so clearly thought. No, I sought out the keeper of this realm. I wanted this.
I've always been drawn to magic, just as magic has always been drawn to me. Ada remained standing on the periphery. Magic was always a part of our lives, you are correct. Do you remember hopping from tree root to tree root?
No.
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Chapter 4: What is the significance of the forest in 'The House of the Witch'?
Through the soles of her feet, Ada feels the reverberation of heavy footsteps. Ada shakes her head, refuses the request. Are you not cold in the shadow of the trees, Marie? Have you not your favorite yellow scarf? Marie lifts herself from the chair and, knees bent, she floats several yards forwards. There are leaves in her hair. ''The cold does not touch me so much these days.''
But I do miss that scarf, favorite of mine that it was. Ada shrugs the satchel strap over her head and holds it against her belly. I have with me a copy of your favorite book, she says. Marie cocks her head, scratches at a twitch beside her eye. Oh, really? Really?
The reverberations are shooting up to Ada's knees, up to her stomach, unsettling every organ and muscle it passes through, like a high-speed train rattling buildings. Something approaches. Yes, really. Some of my best memories are of you reading snippets of Don Quixote to me. Do you think you could do that for me again? Ada bends her knees and throws the satchel over to Marie, who catches it.
This bag smells wrong. Marie whispers, lifting open the satchel flap. You can assume her face, witch, but you cannot fake memories. Ada says, turning towards the darkness. A white blur shoots from between the trees. The creature's teeth shine yellow, chunks of red stuck between them. The tremendous, white-furred bulk beelines for Ada-
Two steps away it changes direction with easy grace, launching itself at the witch, crashing into her and tackling her onto the grass. The witch screeches and wails, and the sounds are all around Ada. The creature first attacks the bag, and then the witch. As her screams die away, so too does the forest, and the crows, and the path. Ada remembers her sister. Marie never forgot a thing.
She had a head for detail, a keen eye, and the spirit of a completionist. Forgetting to color in the sky is not something she would have done. Never. Ada knows this to be true. Between that and her questions, she knew something to be wrong. She's inside a small log cabin. The fireplace is empty. The furniture is moth-eaten and worn, except for the elaborately carved oak chair in the corner.
The chair is empty. Ada dallies. Finally, she turns from the chair and makes for the door. It hangs open behind her. Ada stands, staring at the real forest surroundings, and reaches for her locket. It's cold to the touch. She steps forward and unties the string attaching the lilac scarf to the long stick, then wraps the scarf around her neck.
Crows line the tree branches, staring expectantly at her. They know how these lineages work, are as old as the forest itself. But it is not a new, malign human hand this force requires. This realm can look after itself. It needs no custodian drawing from its power. Ada decides that when she gets home, she'll read Alice in Wonderland. With that, she marches on.
And next, from writer Michael Long and narrated by Michelle Kane, Creepy Presents, Fire Creek.
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