Somewhere in the Massachusetts wilderness, 1710

The every sound of the forest was amplified a thousandfold in the fearful vigilance of Reverend Peter Blackmore. Wind through the leaves gave him terrible images of howling demons. The snapping of twigs reminded him of breaking bones and gnashing teeth. Peter silently thanked God that it was only partially cloudy, and the moon was full enough to provide soothing light.
Beside him, Reverend Matthews raised his lantern and straightened himself. “Tabitha Sloane!” he shouted in a commanding voice. “The Lord commands you to come forward, Witch!” The sounds of a hooting owl greeted him in response, but nothing more.
“With all due respect, Jeffery,” Peter said, “‘The Lord’ has commanded her to come forward ten times since we left Boston. I do not think she will be summoned like some dog.” Matthews shot him an annoyed look.
“I would give her a chance to turn herself in, Blackmore,” he responded. “But as you observed, she is not coming.” His mood seemed to soften a little. “We were fools not to see this sooner.”
Peter placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Do not worry over the past. Those children shall be avenged-The Lord shall bring Tabitha Sloane to justice.” Matthews smiled weakly, a half-hearted attempt to brighten the moment.
“Yes He shall, Blackmore. Yes He shall.” The trees around them creaked as an especially strong gust of wind blew through them. Leaves tumbled across the Reverends’ path like a small tornado. Shivering, Matthews wrapped his cloak tighter around him. “The biting cold of late November,” bemoaned the Reverend. “How fitting for a witch hunt.”
A witch hunt, thought Peter. That’s what this is. We’re on a witch hunt. A few months ago, had someone told him the city of Boston would be plagued by a witch, he would have laughed in their face. Now only Tabitha is laughing.
Another cold, biting wind shot through the air, freezing Peter’s very soul. The horses whinnied in distress and stamped their hooves into the damp earth. Something moved off to the right; a flash of darkness. Within seconds, before either of the Reverends could turn their heads, it was gone.
“You saw that?” Reverend Matthews asked.
“Yes. Any idea what it was?”
“I’d like to think it’s not what we’re looking for.” Another dark shape flew across the path, moving impossibly fast. The horses both raised up on their hind legs, as if to ward off some unseen attacker. After subduing his mount, Matthew’s dropped to the ground. “Then again,” he continued, “we can’t always get what we want, now can we?” Peter dismounted as well, shaking violently. Lord, give us strength, he prayed.  Allow us to beat this foe.
A dark shape appeared on the path before them. It was undoubtedly human-shaped, but no other features were discernable. Raising his lantern, Reverend Matthews illuminated it. Peter’s heart skipped twenty beats as he saw that it was Tabitha. Her dark, curly hair seemed silver in the moonlight. Peter realized she was actually quite beautiful. Then again, so was Lucifer.
“Welcome, Reverends,”she announced. “You have no idea how happy it makes me that you could join me.”
Reverend Matthews seemed unfazed by the turn of events. Either that, or he was expertly masking it. Raising a cross, he stared defiantly at Tabitha. “Tabitha Sloane. In the name of the Lord-” Tabitha hadn’t so much as turned her head when the cross burst into flame. With a shriek, Matthews dropped it, and only a pile of ash remained of the cross.
“Come now, Jeffery Matthews,” mocked the witch. “Let’s have none of that.” Peter found the courage to speak.
“The Lord will punish you, Sloane. Make no mistake of that.”
Tabitha turned on Peter. “Peter Blackmore,” she cooed. “How ignorant you are. You think your religion will save you? Your faith? I pity you for it.” She shot out her hands, and tendrils of black reached out at him.
Reacting faster than he would have thought possible, Peter found the Bible in his pocket. Raising it before him, he swung at the fast approaching darkness. To his surprise, it turned away. Tabitha hissed.
“Those who escape justice in this life will find it in the next,” Peter proclaimed. “Unfortunately for you, you will find it in both.” As quickly as he could, he pulled the silver chain out of his satchel, twirled it in the air, and launched it at Tabitha.
She barely flinched. Almost yawning, she flicked her wrist, and the chain landed harmlessly to her left. “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Blackmore.” Tree branches slithered through the air and coiled around the horses. Within seconds the animals were yanked into the woods, leaving only terrified neighing behind. Behind the two Reverends, a wall of flame sprang up. There was officially no way back.
Tabitha’s eyes gleamed with hatred. “Say hello to those children for me, Matthews.” With another flick of the wrist, a jagged piece of wood slammed into Reverend Matthews’s throat. A stream of blood erupted from Peter’s best friend, then he crumpled to the ground.
Feeling light-headed and horrified, Peter took a small step backwards. Help me, God, he pleaded as Tabitha smiled at him. The heat from the fire reminded him he couldn’t run.
Move into the fire, came the witch’s coercive voice, inside his head. Burn yourself.
Desperately, Peter tried to fight it. No, please… A pain worse than anything Peter had ever felt flared up inside his mind. Appropriately, it felt as if his head was melting. He fell to his knees.
Life holds nothing for you, Tabitha compelled. You will crawl into the flames…
“God,” moaned Peter.
Crawl into the flames!
Peter obeyed. He had no choice. On his hands and knees, weeping savagely, he began to drag himself to his death. Tabitha continued to urge him onward. The dancing and crackling of the fire seemed to beckon to him. Two feet from the flames. One foot. Inches. First his hands, then the rest of him. The flesh melting off his bones was the last sensation he knew. Tabitha’s insane laughing drowned out his screams-until even that faded away, and there was nothing.